Party Like It’s Armageddon

The Devil is due any day.

He may come calling for His payment,

penurious mortgage of future existence.

May as well be merry,

cutting up carelessly without regard

for life or limb.

Might as well throw all riotous sins a celebration

like apocalypse is near.

Fear of approach to each potential moment

when suddenly a price must be paid,

so hoped to avoid —

Abrupt devaluation of dear bought skills,

once certified as worthy trade for authorized continuation.

No ardent wife nor devastated child to cry upon my grave,

or pray for my salvation.

No cause for pride to reveal

a noble station in which

my qualifications are uniquely required.

Merely these paltry hours

of breathing free

that I might waste in pleading

my wretched case.

Much more wise to spin through this last act,

grab a  final chance

to loose awareness as mad and joyful dance,

allow fate’s fire to consume completely.

Leave Satan waiting well past statutory expiration.

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terminally unique

How unique am I?

When the product dissatisfies

When the project just up and dies

When the object of my desires

tells me my time has expired

When the last of my stash is nothing but ash

When I’ve set all my bridges on fire

When I haven’t a hand or a plan

When I’m lost in a strange, hostile land

When I no longer believe that I can

understand how to try

How unique am I?

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Star Stuff

Potential sensitivity.

Fragile. Slippery.

Encased in floppy, opalescent shell.

Aeons accrete, minutely by moment.

Coalesce, increase enfoldment.

More solidly sure dynamic fluidity.

Gestation, vast conductivity

slowly, instinctively

deepens.

Sensory input explored,

assimilates into expanding core.

Briefly crackling magnetic touch,

unconscious triggering

neural structures,

synaptic interchange.

Madly, groping, grasping.

Letting go.

Process accedes to SOP,

encoded, translated empathically.

Organs, systems

evolve successively.

Self-adjusting blueprint,

rooms malleable to adaptation.

Cosmic dust travels as waveforms,

acquires subtle entanglements.

Exquisite fulfillment

a habit of spontaneous resilience.

Transmuting themes inherently implied

need only whisper,

hum flickers of familiar tunes.

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Scryed from my mind, upon this cyber page

It’s not that everything old is new again;

or that nothing unique arises under obdurate Sun.

Creative designers derive and develop impressions,

ideations from within humanity’s psychic maze.

Meanwhile, unfazed, unasked reality evolves

its erratic, merry way.

Revised maps appear each day.

Most of us just fall in with  the crowd,

focus caught up in our current task.

Limited by what tools come to hand,

what we’ve been taught.

 *

(Badmouth the disorderly man — the message lost,

never usefully discussed.)

We want to believe in stability,

in natural laws that are fair and follow sense.

Kind destiny to float in a halcyon bubble

outside of duration,

insured against consequence

of change.

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Of the People

 

 

There’s always steel-eyed trepidation. 

Especially when yer poor, automatically suspect,

not in vogue with fashion or manners expected. 

Though there’s plenty of blame to go around,

it gets stuck right here.

 *

Adversity happens pervasively. 

Tragic heroes get special prayers,

funds raised through makeshift fairs,

helping hands clapped across their back. 

Except cast offs across the sacred track,

proffers of papers that don’t quite pass inspection.

 *

Of course, we reap treatment we deserve. 

If we live beyond the pale,

whatever be our tale,

it’s our rightful place to serve in silent awe. 

Our cross to bear, because we’re born impure. 

Damned lovely that source can be so sure.  Insurrection

 *

never condoned, nor endured. 

Suffer contrition for sad condition,

failed dreams, unseemly scraping by. 

‘Tis not an Imperial I who makes these rules. 

Thus it’s ever been, will be, unless at last we choose

honor, admit reality of human institutions

as negotiations for solutions,

until we can agree the power of fusion

surpasses perceived utility of mutilation.

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state of intent

Streaming in and out of consciousness.

I don’t know what I know. I feel,

but fleetingly. I feel exhilaration and fear.

I feel so abysmally sad, so

ecstatically unbound, so small and insignificant,

so rebellious and angry,

so tired,

so endlessly used up,

so guilty, so abused, so resigned, so itchy

to be free, so overwhelmed,

so stagnant, so magickal, so impossible,

so

dangerously close to the edge yet happy to be here

dancing on the head of a

pin too small to do other than hover.

There is magic.

There is the ability to send out energy and have it return

as your heart’s desire.

There is a magical path that will take us there

once we have the courage and grace to find it.

Like the end of the rainbow

with its pot of gold,

tied up in koans, hidden between

dimensions.

The only thing I know to do is listen.

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Snowy Sunday

Trying to remember fall

        — tumbling through mad memories.

    My life revolves with the seasons.

    Now is the time for mulling, assessing.

        Sitting in dark cafes on snowy Sundays

        and listening to sad, dark tunes 

        while remembering

        yesterdays’ frenzies, desperate remorse.

    I have decided to learn happiness.

    I have decided to learn your essence 

        to keep with me.

    Happiness is not as costly as despair.

    Love is easier than ire of yearning.

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art as I as we as you as they appreciate

 

Brilliant strokes.

Magnificent moves.

Beautiful pictures enthrall, enshrine.

Uplifting notes,

affecting themes,

track social rhythm, mark liminal time.

Lyric, simple sweeps of tone and cue,

never meant to trip up but evoke true

meaning.

In unknown dark,

shadow hosts

deep thought to lark and lounge.

Dawning form seeps toward reward,

to speak out what’s been found.

To astound or be roundly overruled.

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Grey Sky

People I became over ages.

Foolish sages.

Slave to wages.

Humble servant to whomever

gave a glance.

Always ready for a game with chance,

burning bridges to

swim in fate’s brave waves.

Summer days, bare of larder,

footloose, daring perils

over zealous ardor.

Winter nights, warm in fantasies’

strong embrace, kept safe from waking.

Betrayal trills a theme distance can’t quell.

These stories, myths for believing,

self-cast spells to conjure meaning. 

Selling candles to pay that piper, fear.

What is the price of surrender? 

Gauze white, ghost quiet.

Flock and lost agree:  all born to die.

Years dissipate. I wander under roving sky,

breathe greying air.

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Sustained Adaptation

Any self-organizing system is limited by the confines of environment

within which it must find sustenance to survive.

I am no good at flinging darling anecdotes from pithy trunks of

collected gems, street stoop wisdom, chit and chat on

an evening breeze.

It’s not like when the lines come prearranged ready to sustain visual fantasy;

or jagged, crazy waves obscurely accent sounds we hear only by reflection.

Cracked glass from which all energy has seeped.

Empty, fragile, without purpose.

High on the kill-endorphin ecstasy,

orgy of war against all who are not me.

After firework fog clears and faint light becomes tomorrow.

Nothing left to confess;

cleansed, hale lungs assimilate new suggestions.

Appreciation, cooperation imbued as art.

True beauty trumps

exhilaration of destruction.

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