Trees

The Trees came to me with the knowledge

And straightened my back,

Made ropes of my muscles,

Twisted from cipó, hemp,

Woven bamboo,

The threads of webs in my sinews.

When the strong wind blows

Cower not indoors or low ground

But up on high,

Spread your branches,

They told me,

You are the leaf

The roots

The bark

The solid fiber spine,

Where psychic serpents,

Simians, and birds of all eras

Of all time,

Still call home.

 

You are the forest,

My child,

The world is your home.

Metaphysics 500

Self-expression 

is not insubordination.

There is no regime,

they say.

There is no invisible

ruling class,

there is no face

and there is no mask.

There are strings that are pulled

which make us dance

the farce of freedom,

a hallucination of being,

our imperfect kingdoms

haloed by the Real Thing.

By dancing we make it real,

we give it life in movement

in action,

we spill our guts

we cross the line

we break things

and fuck things

in the heat of passion

in the abyss of 

confounding contemplations

regarding the world and

purpose and self

and meaning and 

the existence of some

True North,

a guiding light

of infallible righteousness.

Yet the sharper grow our minds

the more we cut up the world

and believe ever more

in the divide,

and these chasms will swallow men whole,

many will fall

who were not taught to fly,

the leap of faith

will seem a complete and utter lie.

Why, I would set the sky

aflame as well,

I would terrorize the villain

as I perceived him

and not change my perception

for that would be to sacrifice

the heart and foundation

of what I believe in.

Ay the conundrum. 

We all live in sin,

and then we kill in the name

of our personal or collective 

version of perfection.

Ay, this twisted version

of living and loving and life.

It is the blade of the page

the claws and thorn-teeth

of creatures that prey.

Odyssey I

Have you grown tired

of human being?

Did you vomit

when forced to face it,

the world, as you saw it?

Did you agree to a lie?

 

Did this cause a change?

Did you mind rearrange?

Did nature take her course

through you,

through your wounds?

 

Did you sing

“sail me away,

do it soon”?

 

Did you feel

“there is just nothing

I can do”?

 

Was outer space

within you, too?

 

Why don't you and me

swim through

 

Why don't we

love better?

Did the whole sun burn within you?

 

I can't take the lead

we must go there dancing

we must go hand-in-hand

 

and I will drag you there

and you will carry me then

we will fall and die

so many times

before we get there

but when we do

oh, my love,

when we do

we will see!

and we will explode

into a nebulae of gold,

 

 

Somewhere distant

beyond the stars

don't you cry,

don't you worry,

we're all hungry,

we're all starved,

we're all slaves,

we'll all perish,

 

this is the way,

though it hurts

we still sing,

 

we'll find a way,

it's what we do,

those who believe

can do anything.

Mania the Seed

Episodic grandeur

the “I” can not only perceive

but withstand and

thus claim testimony

to truths we would rather not believe.

Indeed, a mania it might be;

at the beginning, indeed.

Without a master to show one

how to turn mania into

something one can use to peek into

the self, the places others

would rather not look,

then mania is less than a stone,

impossibly a seed.

When the Dust Settles

"The Revolutionary

...

Man your kingdom;

a wicked wind is coming

the screens of dust will blind

with hidden ominous howls

and the whistles of your destruction,

until it all sneaks up on all of us.

So, ladies, gentlemen,

man your kingdoms,

if you have a flag,

raise it high,

pierce thy clouds of pain

let that rain fill your fruit

and let your laughter be

as angels to awaken one

from any dream

bless us know,

take my men and make them strong,

give unto their minds

all the wisdom buried in their hearts

and let us see better

when the dust settles.

Of Those Who Dance in the Rain

She told me baby

          take it slow

          so I took off my socks

put down my beer

and went    

                    naked outside

because I had been saying 

that Nature is alive and real

and calling us to save her, man!

             but I got too excited about it.

 I danced in that warm tropical rain.

My mother had secretly warned her

about what she called my manias

but which both my wife and I

considered to be more like

spiritual experiences and

sometimes divinations.  That

is a chasm that reaches deep into history

and continues to fracture

modern western society.

These very digressions in logic

were signs of clinical crazy.

Nonetheless,

I danced in the rain and

It was as if her veins were made of

rusted roads,

          there was dust

that blew through

         there was mud

without shoes

and when you're literally

                dancing         in the rain you're shivering

    at the beginning of it

and then you adjust

and take a deep breath

and, Christ, that feeling is

                           more than just the body

it's like           you are the chill that goes

                  all   the   way            into that dark

and the air is like something thick

and invisible

palpably pregnant with, quite literally,

all possibilities.

And we can by seeing them

and moving them

make them real.

And so I danced in the rain.

Sometimes it all shifts and feels as if

                  it is organic in ways

that are metric, tantric, serpentine scales

unfolding always, everywhere like fast flowers,

mathematically abstractable molecules

of logical modules of the mind, man.

 

                  And that is the rain at night, in the summer,

when it is warm it is better,

in my opinion, for dancing in the rain,

but the weather always seems

to have              a feeling of it's own

if you go

into the yard and forget where you are

and remember you're never not here

            you might hear that rain

sing,

you might

                  hear a bird within

and the two might dance

like a breeze pushing forth

           the more vague components

                               of the moment

and then violá:

you have          gone and       come back again

you have        been all and         there you are,

dancing, like a fool or a shaman,

who is to say, 

dancing like either one

in the rain.

And if if you didn't see it, one can imagine,

and just by still-imagining,

imagining without action,

one feels as if one travels,

so just imagine when

dancing in the rain

and the whole beautiful myth

being real for a spell.

If that is not freedom,

innocent, harmless freedom,

then I don't know what is.

 

when the rain melts and bleeds

and sings and signals

the lines of shifts in the winds

of time for minute

the cat is in the box

and in the next

we are the ones

scratching at the walls

we ourselves built.

 

Meditation

New days are only

a glance away

from your head position.

Turn both ears

toward your chest

and listen.

Take your wallet

our of your pocket

when you sit

and when your hips

are straight

pay all of your attention.

 

There will be an attraction

to a form where your spine

is aligned and feeling ideal

not provoked like some serpent

but prepared for life's ordeals

and prepared to build,

from what sometimes seems nothing at all,

a life worth living

worth avoiding the dangers

and pitfalls.

 

One wonders because he

recognizes the truth, so

one wonders how far

does he, in fact, wander

from the truth

and thus

his wondering is

for forgiveness.

 

And this is when

the face of Jesus shapes

in the clouds on

one's way running to stay healthy

alone in a street

so perfect the moment

for the Lord to sneak me

a peak of his boutique of

unique possibilities

for those who believe

Caveman (song idea)

I don't want to shake the

fragile ground you walk on

but I'm in the clouds right now

 

You make me think of old days

when what you said

didn't make me lonely,

 

I know times change,

we grow and we try,

lord knows we try to stay the same

 

the flame alive,

fire in our lair,

I'm a caveman,

though I haven't been lately

go lay your body

and I'll meet you there

bohemia

She decides to never iron

looking very serious

in the doorway.

You have never ironed

since I've known you

I thought to myself

and then out loud she moaned,

I turn again to the canvass

and she carried on

saying we'll go out in public

with our underpants

all in creases

And we both laughed

in a way 

I will never forget.

"Woman asleep"

My queen sleeps naked

with too many sheets, she

cannot breathe 

without me,

We dream together,

and then we sleep;

love is the secret

that we keep,

look here, we weave

into the breeze,

a single lifeline when we sleep

and hold each other

through the calm

and most confounding of times

something sacred

pushes our dreams further on

and the light of you

glows upon me

and mine upon yours

yes

we are the dream

where love is indeed

an eternal thing.

Migration Reasons

These fair-weather feathers

blew south for a spell,

this was before the

morning chimes sang through us

sending kings to the floor

and fools to the post,

I could smell those days a´coming,

like fire in the wind

upstream, blowing back at us

as we fished and lived in bliss.

Tides rise and fall, I suppose

and we shan't be scared,

but we do scare,

we run home from the crook,

wet shoed and broken twigs

behind,

the hot breath of safety

in which we lay low for a moment

gust away in an atomic wind

the worst of outcomes

for we'd have starved to the end

if that is what He'd asked of us.

Man, take away your bellicose tin,

your toys of cataclysm,

potent bombs like balls hanging

before a greedy, hungry slut.

Ah, the forrest and the creatures

through which God sees.

To take them is to gouge out an eye,

to dismember the bread

to undo the risen flesh

upon which we omnivors feed,

to do so is the cast away belief

like a ghost mistakenly made sacred

after millenia of men,

and now who are we

say the ancients who never slept,

who are we to claim to know,

to be beyond belief?

Ay, how men self deceive

and in such deception render

every solider of love weeping,

the day of an impossible surrender

has come to pass,

they cry, they gasp,

the clasp at their own finger tips,

the gnaw out their own hearts,

they bleed for you and me,

and we will all die

and you may come back.

So while here, learn love from

hard to tender, from solid to mist,

from slave to savior, from addict

to prophet, from pulpits and upon graves

songs sang and words writ,

but none like that which

silence tells us all,

speaking in riddles and confounding dreams,

tangled into life like all the things nobody sees.

Love Story

The yellows slip out from my head

onto things

and I think its strange

and I tell my doctor

and he gives me medicine

and I'm still not better.

I see things that they don't say

I hear things that

they don't show.

I feel my shadow, more than most,

I feel like some sort of creature

upon a host.

I want to be good

and do my best.

I don't want other people to hate me

but then again

I want to be friends,

so I stay to myself,

I talk to the Earth,

throw my coins

in her well.

I'm just a boy

whose passed through

a bunch of time

but nothings really changed, of mine.

I'm still going to take it

smell it, taste it, and wonder

what it is all about.

I'm still going to speak

to things like your thoughts

and thunder,

I'm going to dive off

where your fears won't wander

I'm going to cycle through

the whole damn thing

and tumble down

like everything

that ever was,

No, I haven't

had enough.

Give me your love,

long and slow,

you impossible, buoyant thing.

I slip when you touch me

and then time rolls back again

from that moaning ocean

to my strong emotions,

to the celestial bars in motion

spinning our love

into the timing

and fine lines between things.

My love has once punctured

the moon,

those dark marks of hers

are where many before

have shot at her.

Not all hit their mark

and supposedly they are

those who fall in the stars

but the moon

is much closer

like you

your gravitational groove

your magic

I'll sip your brew

we'll be two

in one.

Untitled

While denying what is divine

and what

the sacred says

curious minds do

go to rest

lay and dream

and if they wake

they do not know

there difference

until what seems

becomes a bright light

and living becomes a dream.

Only then,

said a sage

on the internet, back in the day,

does your soul

have the lightness of being

required for the

escape.

There is no way out, though,

Camus prays still,

in his eternal afterlife

for the dharma to birth him

into that zen darkness

that fundamental taboo

which his heart

saw the waning nirvana

and queens in the maria

spreading the clouds

with their song of lament.

Finally embracing the magnificence

he saw not the light

but all that is light

existing in its way.

As red blue green and so forth

come from which

so, too, does everything living

or otherwise

soon come to live, as it were,

once its buoyance is felt

and the melody jiggles

the floor from your feet

and it feels

you are walking on air.

"Woman in Doorway"

Age like sunshine

rest your weight here

lay your darkness

on the ground,

let the light

press it there, down.

Rise up again

like a qi flowing

from the ground

like a flower

up into a lotus mind

blazing an eternal light

my love,

rest with me here

tell me stories

and I'll tell you mine.

Untitled

Don't worry if your steps are

2, 5, 7, 3, 1, 9 and not in line.

What keeps the sea breathing

as it does is the moon,

but she does not describe

every wave.

In a cove

of a buddhist relic

in Laos

or a maze of

underground schoolteachers

watching kids predict

the future like fractals

without math,

the moonlight behaves

in mathematical paths

and the waters always reach

as far as they can.

FAKE MEDITATION? (take one):

What I will tell cannot be imagined, it is not fiction, but it is put into words, and words, themselves, are a fiction, an agreement of sorts.  Because when one writes words, one expects that the reader understand the meaning of those words.  For without that, one cannot understand the bigger picture the writer endeavors to display.  And the writer, if he is writing, is better off saying nothing at all.  “Time, itself, they say, will tell, and the light will reach the eyes of every man, before he falls, and love will take you back here again if you have not known it, and this is fact, and this is the life that you have.”  A writer truly at the act, not the business of, but the act, in time immemorial, of recording and testifying to worlds ignored...all of this requires a fundamental belief that the world being perceived is one that is worth the path one must walk to put it to words.

Frankly, we live in a world where many wordsmiths manage their way into positions where they can put their mastery on display, and this is great and grand and freedom, by some definition.  It is also an outrageous spray upon the canvass of time, by more individuals than ever, testifying, in their attempts to make it big by identifying with the personal worlds of others through their art, that ought be chronicled, organized, and compilated for what it is, which is a collection of testimonies regarding the struggle of the identity to release itself, and all of the shared imaginations involved in that process.  Indeed, when we reach to language, and at the same time to, in fact, communicate, we borrow from the heaviest words, the most known ones, those that have the weight of meaning and can thus pass a message...so the messenger desires and believes, perhaps even with all his heart.  But his own conviction betrays him, as I betray my own now by writing these very words.  For, in truth, in the absolute truth where feathers and stones fall at the same rate, hit the ground at the same time, there truly is no need to say anything or to even inflict a quote unquote “free” act upon the world or the universe.  The only act I should endeavor to know and carry out with my life is that of surrendering my so-called powers, if I ever should, indeed, acquire them, and give them to the greatest power there is.  For to do so is to endow my acts with the momentum and power of those which are always acting, regardless of what man does.  And this is not a perfection, but simply a different pursuit. It is a different landscape.  Man as I, I daresay, do not wish to conquer the material or the ideas or any of that.  We wish to be here now in the fullest most complete way.  And this requires slaughtering so much of what you know, and even more so, that by which you define yourself.  That great nobility, that saintly shame, whatever it may be, is nothing, absolute vanity, if nothing else.  It is the cloak of the narrative in which you envelop and involve yourself in this world.  But you do not see the world as Paradise.  You do not see and experiences the world as you, extended, expanded, and at the same time minimized to nothing.  Not because you are a fool, but in part because education does not promote this manner of thinking.  It may be that education does not conscientiously guide the evolution of thought and understanding as much as it does the evolution of content and retelling.  But I digress.  The great woe of the artist and the great man is that it seems you cannot be who you want to be.  Society is constantly urging you to be someone else, to be someone that fits in a little better.  And if you are righteous and proud, you will say fuck all that, I am me and I will tear this bitch down if I have to, etc.  And you might act that out for a while, but ultimately you will need to look forward and see if this path leads to anywhere at all.  And here you decide if you want to, indeed and fact martyr yourself for some cause with which your identity is so attached, you actually think it is worth the loss of your life.  This can be great, and this can be utterly foolish.

Who is to say what it is.  Certainly not I.  For I cannot see the whole narrative of life, I cannot predict the unfolding of events, even if I presume them to be guided by a hand or force or being or anything, for that matter. I can only know that I am here and I instinctually want to continue to be here.  And so my world should be a place where I would want to continue to be, no matter who I was on Earth.  If I were not me, I should still want to be, want to exist, want to know God, for our privileges permit.

Billboards

I'm fucking Mike Tyson

when it comes to gnats:

I fucking hate'em, 

wanna kill'em all,

eat their children,

and so forth.

Quite disagreeable, indeed,

and I tell Jesus

"ayo Jesus, forgive me,

nah mean?"

Sometimes I call him

"hey-soos" and imagine him

to be ethnic brown

and bearded,

like God.

"Fuck that", my homies tell me,

"get that quid"

they call it in England,

but it's also called "paper"

"cash" and clear-as-a-bell

"cash-money".

"Mafaquer", my mother says,

"get with the program

and materialize your big business, then"

and I'm like,

"damn world has no compassion

for dudes like me,

but I'ma show them."

And I imagine all that

walking down the street about to do something

and this dude walks by

coincidentally

wearing a shirt saying "gansta"

and he's the messenger from God,

that stupid billboard mafaquer.

Abandoning the Tao to Speak

I'll go ahead and try

but I told you before

that to say anything

to try in any way

is to deviate,

to fail.

To be, my love,

to be in love,

and completely be that.

I've looked at Nature

and seen you in her,

Her in you;

and art and music

even in time,

moments in which I dive

into you.

"I am you"?

I wouldn't say all that,

but I can pass through,

there is a road

we both knew

and we took it

and here we are

you are the air

the trees the stars

the path

the laughs

the companion

the object,

if I may confess my sin here,

the object

of my love

of all my real and imagined affections.

How I love you has no gaze

no particular look which,

in and of itself can say a word

or even dare turn the page.

There we are in the book

the babbling Ganjis making silt

of even those of faith,

the Chrenobyl of the totem

cold scroll, ocean black with gold,

the future upon the podium.

A slip into the blacknesss,

like a duck, my sympathies to the fish,

and to man,

my love must rise above these

laments.

And so I sit beside the window, open, 

write with the time of my sacred and short life,

that one might hear, I have abandoned that 

and no longer try,

That is when you and l lay

and I say nothing

and you say nothing

but the sun is burning there

keeping our bodies warm a millions times

in each cell, in each moment,

and we drown into sleep

a watery joy from which we leap

and slip around in the tides

of the winds and 

and

and

well,

I love you,

and you take me there,

round and about,

deep to the sweat of the Earth

where the seas still squalk

with gulls

and the honesty

of a heart thrown there.

No More (Canticle from the Fields) Song Notes

Blues song idea:

Things got strange, yeah

That compass

Flipped on us all

Well i aint saying that

we were fools

'less we insist

We weren't wrong

Regarding change, well

It takes a fam

No single man

Is that strong

Bridge:

Deaf to our prayers

Feeling alone

Fearing that we

Are destroying our home

Chorus

Well i can't take it

Not no more

I can just let you

Carry on doing wrong

Extra lyrics:

The crown

Has been stolen

The aftermath yet to come

Yeah we can change it

But it'll take everyone

The king sits there, naked

But he's not in a throne

He's within you waiting

Saying the future

Is yours

But you can't take it

You're dust to the bone

You barely made it

Through the day

Faith near broke.

The cattle on pavement

For the forests we burn

We laugh and get paid

A blind eye

Makes us one.

Well, i can't take it

Not no more.

a moment

An ominous cascade of notes

Transgressing his abominable rage

Gods furry barely touching the leaves yet, the chariots of lightning neighing like celestial monsters in that nearly black gray. The birds sang into the rain, a poetic moments towards which no one's attention was paid, and to the hawk upon high, on his way home, his heart felt a fire, and it was the burn of pain, which nearly broke his wing, sent him to be quils for awful poets preaching as if there was s coming if a new age effervescing from their very words. The rain never came, the turkey cackles, the chainsaw was perfectly tireless in it's task but there, the higher pitches chirped as that woodfall silently chipped, as the bricklayer worked l, too, silently un that barely visible distance. Across the field if coes honey white black brown horses too, that fight and run thumping neighing upon the wet fecund moaning world which they hear in the birdsong, in the things they have no mind to break up into parts and dilute the truth of. The have no fingers and need no quils, no history, no self control or machinery to live and know the way.