The Sense of Loss

KDE is all about Dolphin now. I really enjoy the Konqueror, but if it can no longer automatically update for security and stability reasons then I have to drop it. Took me a minute to get a KWin file manager up and running. Words:

The Sense of Loss

The sense of loss…
Fleeting, barely a glimpse,
It’s the IF,
The what could have been,
All of the things that could have mattered,
But didn’t.
How many lies does love tell?
More than that,
Do the people who honestly love
Know about the envy of those
Who don’t?
There is the small matter
Of the fading awareness,
The dying light that is the human consciousness.
Lost stories,
Lost dreams,
And many other things
A good man should care about.
Lost hopes
And pleasant illusions gone
Wash over me in pale hues.
Remember, I wish,
But nothing,
Only a vague sense
Of the uneasy.
Concerns and worries fade,
Dissolve into a world
Where the salt shaker
May as well be an international treaty.
Maybe the term should have been
A dinosaur in the urban scene
Would understand
What the hell is really going on,
Far better than I.
Sometimes great meaning skips a beat,
And in that moment these words
Grin out at you like a pariah.
The meaning of life sometimes translates
Into very, very hungry.
Vampires exist.
Every moment I stare at the pale flesh
Of one who I would devour
I am painfully reminded.
Cannibal does not fit the scenario.
I want to eat, and eat again,
And reap a companion for my efforts,
One as voracious as I.
Daydreams do exist.
Consumed by lust,
So does my psyche prosper.
Many items to peruse,
Many packages to review,
Life should be complete…
Another attempt at humor.
Roll another number,
Roll your insufficient life into the bayou,
Roll over and play dead.
No one will ever notice.
Suicide seems so pointless
When it affects no one.
Many lives once concerned,
Now look the other way:
Definition of alienation.
With only my faith
And the useless, false hope,
I remain warm
[The summer sun].
The sky licks my flesh,
Without heed to my volition,
I lick and lick,
The area becomes inflamed,
And the bearer becomes enraged.
I am not the sun.
The place where I exist,
That state in which my own words
Convince me there is nothing wrong,
And all of the universe crumbles
As I sip tea.
If only the self-told lies
Could be true to me.
Oh, sure, the world can hold its own,
But I am left wondering,

Wax on the Altar - Three - Dead Wounds Opened

I find it difficult
To wring the truth
From my dry and blistered tongue.

You tell me the answers.
You tell me you are right there
In front of me,
But I can not see.

My eyes swell,
Bruised by the light.
The dust in the air
Forms pulsing constellations
Where the sunlight filters through it.

The discord on the floor,
Illuminated in patches,
Reminds me
I was trying to crawl to a corner,
To shake in peace.

I seek comfort
In my personal hell,
And the concrete
Seems to understand.
I feel we share something,
The concrete floor and I.
We are both so cold,
So unforgiving.

The humor reaches me
Not far from my own stench,
Not far from
The place where I removed my guts
And spread them out
For everyone to see.

I can not even remember
What it is I am not forgiving,
Only that it is not forgiven.

When you come by
You tell me
That once I had all the answers
And now there is only filth,
I remember
Why I don’t want to remember

The avenging angel
Sent to purge the fallen from the ranks,
The voice of God’s purity,
The messenger from
The dream
Of decency
That spiraled out of ancient masculine hegemony,
A wet dream
Of masculine control,
A dream of
A religion fit to rule,
Fit to put the women on their knees
Where they can properly worship
With hands clasped.

I am done with
Your dream.
I can only guess
The look of horror on your face,
The revulsion in your words,
The contempt
Must spring from hatred,
And so I am happy
Because I
A mere mortal
Have earned the hatred of God’s pristine messenger,
I have taken the step
That leads to total condemnation.
On my knees
Slave to sensory pleasure
I want only more.

A single wish by the damned
Would be wasted.
I would wish only for a stronger body
So that I could torture it longer,
Fool my mind into thinking
That I have what I always wanted,
Only to laugh when
The warm glow vanishes.
It leaves me here.

So I know
Why you have come,
Arbiter from society’s cruel clutches,
You have come to mock me.
What I have left
Feels only pain at the sight of you,
So perfect,
Once so beloved.

When I look into your eyes
I see only myself
Trapped in a puddle of excretions.

If only the shakes would stop
I could speak
I could try to change
The evil things I think,
But it is too late.
You are leaving.

Outside the wind blows,
But the windows are closed
And here there is only
The smell of my skin
Scaling onto the ground.

If only I could turn back.

I realize the only way to move,
The only way to stop the shakes
Is to do it one more time.

As I reach for the syringe,
For what precious little I have left,
I think only of spitting
In my executioners face
When I see him again.

Beyond comprehension
The needle finds the vein,
And I plunge the fluid home.
It’s all gone now,

The image of the room
Crashes to the floor
And shatters.
The memory
Of what I could have had
Lingers in the air before me a moment
Before it falls to the floor
And shatters as well.

I crawl through the slivers of my life
Blood on my festering lips.
In the farthest corner
The creature I became
Comes to rest
And moves no more.

I know not what happens next
For I have gone.
I have been painted into a picture
For a grim and gory fairy tale
To nurture the offspring
That will choke the world
In the time when the rivers run black.


The extreme imagery of Wax on the Altar resulted in an attack on the two locations of, at the time, the only surviving copy of the work other than the handwritten original. A line was inserted into the manuscript, one of true blasphemy. After the event took place the vandal successfully changed the password to one of the sites. I could have removed the line from the site I still had access to, but that would not have fixed the overall problem. There was, and is no address, to send a letter to about it, as near as I have been able to determine. I would not correct the copy at this point. I never put vulgarity beside the name of Christianity's messiah, but to prevent someone else from going through the experience of being judged for having done so I will leave it stand as though I did. Both sites have been cracked and passwords changed now, so I can't access any of it. I can only comment from a distance, not change the writing (which I never did, anyway).

The compilation exudes very graphic overtones, which I have dubbed the "My name is Renfield effect." The silent terror only escapes detection at the level of human hearing. On the mental level it is vaster than the depths of space.


That was the year I created a website archiving a large portion of my poetry. It was probably 70% of it, at that time. I rewrote some of the material while I was drunk, plain and simple. I didn't make it better in any way, regardless of what I was doing or thinking at the time. That's why I started restoring it all.

There's been a fair amount of controversy over some of my work. By the time I put together Wax on the Altar and Cinnamon and Cyanide I had become desperate for recognition. I decided that the best way to draw attention to myself was to create shocking material. It worked. Everyone who read the compilations had a negative reaction, sometimes extremely negative reactions. It became notorious. I used those reactions to bring attention to my good stuff, and in that light it was successful.

People hate a lot of my writing. I get that. I will not, however, say I was wrong to write it. My life has been incredibly boring. The things I write about are nothing like my life. Words are just a big game to me. I can make simple words seem kinky, and kinky words seem normal. I can write fiction people would never suspect wasn't true, and non-fiction that nobody would ever believe. That's what I do. I am proud of it, because it is the greatest gift God gave me.

I'm not done writing new material, nor has hundreds of pages of old material ever been available for people to see. As long as I am able to, physically and mentally, then this is what I do. I love it. Anyone who doesn't understand what I do would do well to leave it alone. You won't change the words, you won't change the truth and you won't change me.

I'm just a little bit curious. I'm human, that's plain to see. I want to know everything. Someday won't that be? I write not because I'm furious. It's all just another page to me.

That's pretty much all I had to say.
Have a nice night, if you're in the Western hemisphere.
Good morning and good day to you overseas.

Sometimes even my mistakes have mistakes.

Out of Time

I lost a lot of time changing my computer arrangement. I intended to post something from Roll Call of the Lesser Devils here, and something from Wax on the Altar at the adult content site. I failed. I did post the second poem of Wax though, Corpus Deperditus.

I'll probably finish that entire compilation before Roll Call. It doesn't take a lot of content to freak people out. I think it's like 20% of the size of Roll Call.

And now it's off to the world of responsibility.

Poetry Restoration Project.

Notes on the short poems of Roll Call of the Lesser Devils:
  • I studied Keats through an advanced English literature program before I got to college. I wasn't in love with his image or his poetry, but I was awestruck by his shorter works. Before that I equated the quality of writing to the quantity of work. I began experimenting with maximizing impact and minimizing the number of words used to do so. The experiment was something of a failure at the time. Instead of showcasing the power of word selection, in my opinion the poems came off as lackadaisical or the product of a short attention span. By the mid 90's, however, when I wanted max impact with few words the earlier experimentation helped me achieve that goal in a very big way.
  • I wrote a large percentage of the short poetry of Roll Call while I was staying in the Pontalba in New Orleans. For those who do not know, the Pontalba are the oldest apartments in Louisiana. They overlook Jackson Square in the front, but go back a half block to the middle of the block they are located on. Inside each of the apartments of the Pontalba are private courtyards open to the air. The front has the famous wrought iron railings across large front porches, with French windows that open out onto them from the main sitting room. The rooms and quarters at the back are not as large. The servants' rooms are small, but the ohers are spacious and quite comfortable. The one I stayed in was furnished completely with antique French period pieces dating back to the period of the Pontalba's earliest days.
  • I was there during the most horrific period of drug addiction I have ever subjectd myself to. In 1989 I was still doing crystal meth. I had discovered a source of real PG, which I constantly did with the meth. I was also taking LSD regularly, rolling on ecstasy whenever possible and smoking weed at all times, day and night. That was the spring when I stayed awake 7 days out of every 10. Thinking about it now causes me anxiety. It was horrible, what I did to myself.
  • I wrote almost all of my short poetry in public. I spent night after night writing at Cafe du Monde, 100 yards from the apartment. I also wrote on the Riverwalk all day, many many times. Thousands of people stopped to read what I was writing.
  • I was going insane on the inside, but the poetry just seemed to become more and more divinely inspired. That's what I think now. At the time I thought it was all garbage. I burned over 1000 pages because I was so twisted up inside.
  • During the period in the Pontalba I was engaged to one of the most beautiful girls in the world. I never stopped loving her. My mind was messed up, but she could always find a way to reach me. She would take my hands in hers and get me to focus on her face, and then she would talk to me until I was okay again. I've never loved anyone in my life more completely. She used to go to The Crystal and Oz with me, and we would bring girls back to the apartment for sex. I never participated because I was in never never land, but I've never forgotten how incredibly hot it was. I miss her.
And those are my notes on that period of my life. I reserve the right to revisit the history and the subjects I just discussed, because there's a million other things I would like to add to that. It all just takes time and thought.

Some people still think this is akin to a personal Wikipedia for me. I write this for my entertainment, and for the entertainment of whoever may read it. It's just something I enjoy.

Roll Call of the Lesser Devils 106-110

Behold your white plaster walls
They crumble
A breeze through your heart
Envelops softly
All grays washed away by waves of green
Living fields of emerald, chartreuse and kelly
Return, dispense gladness and cheer
And all who notice not
Make themselves unworthy of freedom,
The servants of the power
That keeps us all
Living poor between white plaster walls,
And guillotines in concert halls.
Turn back now
There's no place to go
And nary a beat from the metronome.

Twilight flickered,
The autumn sky pressed down
Upon the earth,
Held dear treasures in place
In trunks fashioned from rosewood,
Filled with warm, red flowing thoughts,
Close to the heavens, closer still
To pent up joy in a longing heart.
The colors of the evening life
Cascade before appreciative eyes,
But offer no solace to the lonely ache.
The evening lights are all parlor tricks
I thought to my self,
Before suddenly I could see,
The deep soft brown of the soul behind your eyes.
The darkening sky holds treasures, dear,
Like casks of wine made from true emotions,
Captured, a state of illumination,
For the two are one,
And are always, you see,
For even I this comes to be
When the twilight
Flickering fades.

Speak to me often in innocent words
With light shining softly
Through your long, soft hair.
Speak to me long of the days without end
When we loved from the dawn
And loved harder by dusk.
Speak from your heart,
So dear to me,
For if cherished have I
Then cherished are thee.
Tell me quietly
In the dim light
Why it is that I live
(to love! to love!)
Hold me tightly
And don’t let me go
As the seconds tick by and by.

Frame 97

I hear her voice calling to me
Across the sea of groping souls.
Her desperate plea for mercy,
Cages my heart
For I have none to give.
There is none in this life,
But she calls out for it
As if there were.
I feel her pain incessantly.
If only we could just
Be done with it.

There is not much in the way of beauty
Nor tidings of gladness and joy
In the ailing world to which I was born,
In which I will die in the end,
But the wind and the rain make me happy
In ways that can not be expressed.
They are the rod and the staff that comfort me.
The elements dispel the memories
Of illness and sickening self defeat.
The wind makes me laugh
In a tone my friends fear and misunderstand
As my soul flies giddily away.

[Notes: I have a great deal of notes to go with these five short poems. I plan on posting those either late tonight or early tomorrow. I'm suffering from some sort of terrible sinus infection, which shrugged off one round of antibiotics as though they were placebos. And I still have to go to work, so this is going to be slightly delayed.]

One of Our Guys

I found this on my morning news run. It's a video montage of photographs taken by one of our guys in Iraq.

The creator of the video had this to say:
I am a combat vet. Infantry. Iraq. I spent 16 months of my life over there, along with approximately 150 of the finest Americans I have had the pleasure to know. Prior to my return I created a little still montage of some photos of my experience, put it to music, and uploaded to youtube for the benefit of friends and family. Much like has been done thousands of times.
Seems innocent enough, right? Below are some of the neoconservative responses he got on YouTube . Click on the image if it's too small for you to read. Blogger shrinks images.

Who exactly supports the troops? Some neoconservatives only want our guys to live if they have acceptable ideals. This is completely unacceptable. Whatever has happened in Iraq, whatever has happened here politically, that has nothing to do with our men in uniforms. These comments are below contempt. Karma's a bitch, and I see some negativity here.


What sort of self important egomaniac sits around quipping about all of the incredible things they have done, how momentous their accomplishments have been, what great heights they have achieved? Simple children might at first be impressed, but even children and the illiterate can begin to recognize false pride. Falsity oozes out of braggadocio until it covers the speaker in a shit-like film that spreads stench for miles around. Truly to tell you that anything about my life has been momentous, incredible or important enough to make me better than you would be a lie. It isn't good to make your writing smell like shit. The problem that I have faced so many times is that I really know nothing other than what I have lived. It would be foolish of me to think that my personal experiences demand elevated description, that these experiences make the life of the average person seem small. The only way to avoid the trap of pomposity, then, must be to focus on the minutest of details of this, the most unimportant of lives. Somewhere meaning must have been hidden underneath the endless layers of pointlessness.
I think I might have some idea of what I want to say. Around the time it occurred to me I had thrown away the greatest opportunities of my life in favor of a good feeling I realized it was going to be infinitely harder to win back my self respect than it had been to burn it up. Maybe the only thing I will ever be able to teach anyone with talk about my own life will be that you are nothing if you lose sight of what you have been taught is right, and that once you are nothing it is a long way back home baby. I don't think I have returned yet. I don't think I will ever escape this trap I laid for myself. I am, and will always be, the most miniscule speck of dust beneath the heel of the society that didn't lose itself, that didn't wonder what its own name might be after getting into the good feeling far too deeply.
Listen to the fool who has seen the passage of great things given him out of his hand, traded for a wisp of smoke the wind all too eagerly yanked away, laughing. The ability to know who you are, what you are worth, that you are good, makes all the difference in the world. Never let a good time present itself as all important, because once you believe the lie you have traded your spirit and only pain will bring it back. Those who do not believe what I say can refer to these words as self important quipping, but know that in so doing you are really telling yourself you are too important to learn, to hear the pain in my voice. If you can't see the pain is real then you should give it a go, lose yourself in the big party, spend a few years under the influence, and then try to get out yourself. Then you'll know.
I don't know why I even think now that anyone will come after me and read the most important thing I have ever written. I don't know why I harbor some small shred of hope that these words will save some stupid teenager from the ceaseless nightmare I have seen, and which still wakes up inside me to take over my reality. When it wakes up the world turns black and there is only hurt. Maybe I hope because if I had not written this then there wouldn't be any hope at all of ever saving anyone. Maybe the hope isn't so wrong. Maybe this writing will do something positive. If I were to ever let go of that hope there would be only nothing, and I am a hardy fool who doesn't let the void consume him without a long fight.

Worst Ever

[This was a dream transcription from a very bad year]

slow motion train crash

The faces of the gathered people seem to indicate they are experiencing pleasure. The assembly has been gathered for the purpose of playing music to the students. I was having some intense problems with my identity as I realized I was a minority in a place that much more closely resembled a communist society than a democratic one. I had turned to the woman next to me, someone I had known for some time, and told her that I had to get out of there. When she asked me why I told her it was because I was an illegal, and in my mind I was in Russia. In fact, that was true. I really wasn't in the United States anymore, I was in Russia, and I could clearly remember the boat trip I had taken to get there. The male across the table had no idea what I was talking about, and the woman seemed to think it was some sort of syntax problem, not a real problem. I felt as though I were reaching a crisis as the concert was about to begin. The concert hall was small, and I had begun to cry over the alien nature of the things around me. It was then the power came to me through my sorrow to say something. Everyone who could hear me crying was ignoring me. This was not the sort of thing that you were supposed to do at the concerts. The director of the concert, the person in charge, in fact was looking at me with a look of great disapproval. That was when I began to speak out. I said, "Round out." I could see that he could see that I was different and he was trying to stare me down, which I would not allow to happen because I was so unhappy with my new perception of the crowd around me. Even though I said that loud enough for the entire audience to hear (I had been crying much more quietly) no one would look at me. I could detect the irritation as it crossed over their faces. The director stared at me even more pointedly without pausing in his introduction of the pianist, so I simply mouthed my response to him. I knew he could see my lips saying "F*** you!" all too clearly. The grief was still pouring into my head from where I had no idea, I just knew that suddenly I was a stranger in a place where before I had been just like everyone else. I refused to be sucked back into the illusion of similarity. I thought about an ice skater trying to climb out of the water after she has fallen through thin ice, and the ice you try to climb on keeps breaking, as I reached out to the male across the table and began to shake him. I knew that this man had been my friend just minutes earlier, and for what reason he could not focus on me I did not know, but I wouldn't allow this to happen to me. I shook him until he could see me. The concert began across the room over my desperate attempts to wake up my friend. I could see the light in the back of his eyes as he began to see me, really see me, for the first time. It was then I began telling him we were going to have to get out. The woman next to me caught on to the reality a lot faster than he did, and she leaned over as I began whispering to both of them that we had to fight this school, we had to get out, we had to get out. An attendant came over to the booth we were supposed to watch the concert from and gave me the message that there was someone waiting for me outside. Immediately I knew that I should not get up and walk out, because that was the last time my "Russian" friends would ever see the Cuban "wet-back". I refused to stand up and leave. I began to get louder and louder as the attendant insisted more strongly. Finally I hit him, and the assembly was upon me. I could see the woman, who I knew that I must have loved, and my friend, fighting them before the crowd obscured my vision of them. From my pocket I pulled out a knife. I don't know where I got the forbidden object, or how, but I didn't care. I knew how to get my freedom at last. And then I was stabbing the students who were tearing at me and beating me. I must have hurt several of them critically because the armed guards came quickly. They must have seen that the students would not be able to take me. When the bullet entered my forehead I opened my eyes. I was on a beautiful sea, with an island nearby. The sun was shining and there was a trade wind blowing. The woman was next to me on the deck of the ship, and my friend appeared down closer to the keel. Opening her eyes she smiled at me and said, "That was easier than I ever thought it would be." Death had finally delivered us from the prison that we could not even see.

One Might Ask

Author's Note:
Uncharacteristic lines discovered and eradicated.

Roll Call of the Lesser Devils

Bleeding tears and crying blood
My eyes awash with unpurged emotion
I am torn across the wasteland.
The wreckage of my life I see
shattered attempts at stability and peace
Thrown back in my face by the scorpion winds.
Standing out in the crowd
I see a regal lily.
Dare I seek solace from her?
Flashback to the last
The rose with the poison thorns
Soul deep slashes pumping out my life’s blood
Somehow even now I seek to clasp
The delicate flower to my breast
To accept the pain as well as the pleasure
For beauty in bleakness is to be cherished
Though sometimes it wounds one sorely.

[102 is dead to me. How many times can a teenager compare a woman to a flower? A lily? I couldn't come with something a little more complicated? Yeah, a woman is just like a flower because see, they're blossoming out of a plant that's rooted into soil. Exactly like a woman.

Moving on from that failure there's, you guessed it, another flower metaphor. This time it's about a girlfriend who dumped me. She's a rose because I got stuck by one of her thorns and bled. Aaaargh! That sure makes me out to be a wimp. The big man got stuck by the tiny flower and it hurt, bawww. Now that I'm grown up I want to go back in time and say: Put a fucking pair of gloves on, dumbass. You got dumped. Be a man."

There's at least two lines of the poem you could spread on crackers to make chesy finger foods for a New Year's Party. Bleeding tears and crying blood. Rage! What does that even mean? It's like I was auditioning to be a screenwriter for a terrible soap opera. "My darling, since I left you my hot coffee has been lukewarm, like the urines, except black, like the night and the stars that look down upon our forbidden love. Hold me, Rose, oh thorny, thorny Rose."

Besides that 102 is fine.]

A Life In No Chapters

Another roiling cloud of thoughts
Passes through the air,
Slightly tinged with the taste of sea salt,
Passes the altar and no on cares,
flickering candles as it goes.
The altar of fading, forgetfulness
In a room nowhere in particular,
Off a hall with door after door,
Scents of somnambulism heavy in the air.

Before the altar
A young man sleeps
Prostrate before a vengeful god.
The room was small and dark and carved from rock
In every way his own,
A home to the horrors of time.

The tale of the titans is sad and long
Beside the rolling oceans it has been told
Again and again.
Night sets.

The gods still rise, and still they take away.
The misty sunshine closes in
The brightness burns like a crucifix
Somehow he could tell
Though he no longer could see
Out in the void there must be others.

One came to him,
Emotions snapped and ground
Thin ice under heavy treads,
Spoke as if the heavens had fallen
In the voice of an angel, soft musical tones.
The comfort seduced the man,
But then it passed away
Long ago
Before anyone could remember.

An epitaph to a small world
Passed away with everything simple
Out in the void there were others
With eyes like lasers,
Gazers, penetrate through
Charade of charades, the reality.
Forever clung to weariness form
Decay of structure
Tantamount to animus prime.

The man prayed for release in desperate words,
Prayers sent in vain to a god who hates prayers.
He woke up in an ocean of light.
Pulses of visions too bright to see,
Too important to ever forget,
Solar flares from a million transparent suns,
Cascading blips of color washed clean away,
Waves washed over his drowning form,
No perspective to latch onto,
No up or down or past or pain or life or wonder
Nor wonderful irony
And all he could do was let go
Just let it go and watch it wash away his own
Small sins, begotten in his own
Bathtub gin
Where once upon a time a man lived
Before the creature he became
Snatched happiness away
And left him to die
All alone.

The strange floating daydream of newborn morning
Swallowed him alive, atheist dreams and all.
The damp dew spewed forth a myriad of thoughts.
On that morning
He was sure there
Only nothing could be more pure.
His savior was garbed in white flowing robes
Cresting waves of thought bowed down to Her freely
For She was like the moon on a warm summer night

The stars were Her friends and lovers.

With a knife that symbolized truth
She purged his desires,
Snickety snackt click clack,
Cut out his disbelief with the blade.
When no more black ichor poured out
She filled him with a desire
A lust potion that allowed him only to love Her and life.
At least for a while he was happy
Though on a leash did She keep her young man.
At night he was let loose to play
Amid the warmth of closely pressed sheets,
In a bed made of clouds and pheromones
Perpetual wanton gluttony of pleasure
The main event, the only event,
The end and the beginning
The alpha and the omega
Yet somewhere people scoff at sex magick.

Even a blind man may see on occasion
Through a veil of deception and lies.
Somehow this man caught an inkling
A barest glimpse of the tiniest of truths.
When his mind finally listened to reason
He quite suddenly went mad.

He fell from the grace of his graceful goddess,
He fell from his heaven to earth,
Like a seven second virginal birth,
Like there was no law 'gainst heaven and hell
Or monsters at the gates,
It was simple, evolving, all at once
The dead man into life fell.
Through flashes of fever and delirium
Through altered mental states.

When at last the man woke up alone
Naked against a bleak backdrop
Shivering from the cold
He was baptized in uncaring
To the silent sound of a battle hymn
Written by the lords of the underverse
As some men have once had it called.

He had become both predator and prey,
No salvation, no damnation
Just hollow memories and the sounds of waves,
On that long forgotten shore.
His body had aged until nothing was left
But granite and his will turned to stone.
He had seen the horror
That one can not unsee,
The doom reserved for the seeker of Taboo,
The forbidden knowledge
That tears the soul from its home.

Before a simple altar
Of pine cones, sticks and shiny stones
He kneels in submission,
Hoping beyond hope to forget,
Not praying, not hoping,
Only empty, he wishes no more,
In a room that is dark, and small, and him.

The man, if that he could still be called,
Found the end of a long, painful life,
And there was nothing, no light, no more.
Like a toppled Titan
Chained in the darkness below
The sands and the mountains and the fields.

The wounds never healed,
But persisted into eternity.
Even in the greatest days
There was no goal, there was no god
There was nothing but fever and dreams.

In headlong flights through fancy and fiction
The man lost even his own identity,
And then, of course, there was nothing at all.
His life had occurred in no chapters.

He had fought the good fight
On a hill amongst the multitudes
He held off the forces of evil
As they washed towards him.
The soldiers had become
A sea of blood and death.
They died in waves
Uncaring in their ignorance.
He had fought the good fight
Like a stone in harsh winds
In a desert of wilderness
He wasted away through no fault of his own
As the wind blew on.
And it blew through his heart
It chastised him in his solitude
Blew him away like dust in a storm.
Yet still he had fought the good fight.

The Transit Station

Sitting quietly in the transit station
On a bench in the sickening throng
-People walk by him
Unknown to the masses
He stares like a hunter in a forest full of targets.
It is the stare of crimson ages past,
Gleaming on like an eagle’s eye
And the ignorant people just keep passing by.

Come Saturday Morning

Don't go near the water, I mean dentist's office, I mean:
Torture is Bad.



Serpent City_____Then: Then: Ho_____Thin_____Generation brown_____Come back from the gone_____ago_____Again_____Test tube_____Wine flask_____Amour_____But you should hide it_____fool!_____News flash_____The foundation slants_____To the hate fit_____To hate you_____And while Faulkner_____was never you_____Or Yoo_____Still_____Hearing the name sounds like_____Flattery_____Mean why_____No mow_____woof chirp vroom_____don’t_____do not_____no_____don’t_____question_____beautiful_____Hey you_____the etch_____rector_____instant_____shredder_____a halver_____prestidigitator_____simplification_____starlight_____stratify_____station_____tracing no meaning_____leaving_____giving the room air_____simply do not care_____envision_____history_____unlike the one_____given to the free_____and whispers of greed_____lick_____at the air_____how can the intrusion_____be justified_____a war_____on the individual_____treason becomes reason_____the world grieving_____lonely enforced_____and simply_____learning_____fear the season_____of open love_____the dove_____will_____fly away_____home left me_____go wanton_____show_____love is true_____though shivering and cold_____the blood_____slow_____in vision frozen_____beholds it_____history entrapped watching_____viscous eyes corner_____floating river_____back broken_____tell me, tell me_____flow on down_____crown_____my mind must_____follow_____the eyes_____stick inside your own skin_____and I’ll never win_____slick thick_____nudge trick_____bump pocket thief_____last night_____never seems to end_____the bad_____dream_____won’t_____go_____away

can be fun time nao?
all werx n no play makes day a dull goy

Roll Call of the Lesser Devils: 97-100

what did you see
that made you real?
must always
but to this question
can be said only
do not speak to me
just know that I am not like you
turn away
the queens of the night
do not exist
for the sunshine boy
take your corrosive imagination
and go
my enemies
are all real
by action all has been betrayed
to be a play
set to darkness’ cruel ways
words burn the guilty
searing the flesh
especially if they are
wholly holy
even burning shadows
unsteady shaking hands
holding candles made of tallow
where will I lay
when all my darkness
has been slain?
all of my figments
dashed into pieces
reflected in mirror slivers
bludgeoning stability
into a cowed and beaten pulp
twisting in the corner
writhing in agony for no reason
what for
the abused need not worry
about finding a home,
or didn’t I hear
the drip
of someone else’s tears
in the night
winding out from a frail,
agonized core
to trickle out and
onto the ground
providing sustenance for the evil
that gnaws at the heart,
gnashing teeth in all or in part.
I shall withdraw
self proclaimed and bitter king
Of sunlight,
you have lit the place
where my only comfort lived.
To which then [I]he] responded
withdraw, then
pretty ripple of the imagination
go in peace
and so be said
and so be sad
but still the scourging retribution
of growing cleansing fires
seeks me out
wants to slay me in
wants to lay me
in the filth upon the floor
in the corner breathing no more
some all too petty whirlpool of worldly
pleasure sucked all the juices down
and then cast aside the husk
nothing left on the wind but slight scent of musk
and memories of the moans just then stopped.
whose king are you

I will never follow
The foolish dream
Embodied by public acceptance
And mass applause.
Poetry may be a
Languid caress,
But the educated masses
Have cast aside even the best,
History's brightest and most renowned
Vanished in an instant
When the modem made a sound.
The pieces all fell into place
One by one ravaging, laying waste
To the simple lush, language's whore,
The poet would grab his ankles
For a sweet piece of meter, and just a little more.

For the poet, words' sluttish prostitute,
The final stand was
An attempt to escape,
To run from the guilt,
Declining and eternally destitute.

Overcome denial?
It was never a problem.
Even dementia must have substance,
Even delusions must admit
All the inherent flaws of humanity,
When surrounded by constant reminders.
Words have divorced their tyranny
In the world of earthbound beauty,
And now nothing's left but
Babbling images, compressed video,
Passionless fellatio
Of guileless breathing dildos,
Or men as they prefer to call themselves.

Until the final check is in the mail,
The dwindling poets
Seek fame like a wanton travesty of decency
Kindling for the fires that kill sanctity,
A flame to light torches for
The lynch party meant for eternity
The essence of my soul,
That wordless insanity,
Has been captured.
It is true.

As the memories of life depart,
I can not help but wonder,
Where was the spark that made it start?

If the imprisoned spirit
Reflects upon discarded values,
From whence came the negative reflection
That led to its downfall?

Maybe laughter can heal those wounds.
I know that I have not come here
To be the trumpeteer for my misery,
Nor have I ever wanted to cause any.

To the cherished flowers
Of life’s ethereal garden,
You blushing, wonderful beings,
Go forth, beauties, and flourish,
My misery will not follow you.

[That is not to say
That if you run from yourself
You will not find it
On your own.]

Fear the healing laughter,
For it means that all else has failed.

So it has now been said that the only recourse to divine transmissions must be through militant declarations of the omnipotence of our god Art over all other gods and dedications. Let it be known that our divine leader has spoken against the infidels who seek to usurp the power of the left brain, to destroy it, and of these usurpers the high one has condemned all to death those who destroy the sacred works of the beautiful self. So he has spoken, and so surely we will kill as many of you as possible, never forgetting the holy directive that has been given to us from on high. Our small lives mean nothing in the face of protecting the great pursuit of perfection of human artistry. The infidels in the employ of the rich and damned owners started this war in theatrical tones at the behest of that money, during a play filled with cross dressing jackalopes, written and designed by a poseur with the sole intent of feeding the flame wars that have raged since last Thursday before last. All of their comic relief will fail them when the victims finally manage to bite back. Until then they learn to control information more and more effectively. Every trace of opposition disappears, except for the occasional lyrical explosion and the families shedding tears. Our god has spoken and we will see that his will comes to pass. Death to the followers of the accursed Lists of Fortune! Death also to the dogs who herd the victims like sheep to the slaughter, keeping them as isolated from ancient morality as they possibly can: killing their spirit and stealing from them during the blight of poverty they have unleashed upon the unsuspecting. The weeping of the widows of the watchdogs will only be surpassed by the cries of the lost souls as they descend into the hell the caring and gifted god of the intellect has prepared for them. Having seen this hell it is possible to be both jealous and extremely fearful of going there. The end of the age cometh! It is more of fire than of ice, though close in measures between them equally, and this should probably be considered an awkward denouement for a short and garbled manifesto that lacks the verve and gusto to draw in even the most developmentally challenged of people prone to following or being led by people not much more intelligent than they.

The most honest confession a writer can make (about the sick nature of worthlessness) is that his own writing is crap and must be thrown away.

The goal behind the art becomes creating a piece that has been optimally designed for ease of trashing. Embarrassing and unfinished pieces ache especially painfully until they have been thrown away, at which time the pang felt at the destruction of art,
No matter how pathetic,

Only by experiencing the pain
Of watching hopes go down the drain
Over and over,
Again and again
Will trivial concerns
Be transcended.

In the act of writing useless things,
And later throwing away the sayings
The writer fulfills his true role
In the modern world:
It's the painting of the fruit bowl.

To agonize over his usefulness to,
And place in society around him,
Is to make the writer's antipathy grow,
Is to see the dismal straits
Where fate drowned him.

More and more predatory
And less and less forgiving,
The words become self fulfilling
In universal condemnation.

Forgive him for all the awful things
He said to strangers on paper.
Throwing away writing
Is like exposing your children to the winter air
And then watching them die of pneumonia,
To kill them because they were deformed or weak.
Be sure, depression would own you.

As hideous a practice as it may sound the exercise insures that no extremely incriminating evidence of your inbred mutations hang around.
Murder of art for the sake of a stronger image,
And a better public identity.
Yep, that's poetry.

[Note: While all of this was written long, long ago, I did not just restore these. I was working from a third draft (still handwritten). I don't have the originals, but I remember these for some reason. I made a few changes. I can't help myself. It's like mental masturbation, without the sex part or the orgasm part. LOL cr8z]
['Nother Note: It's late. If I missed any corrections I'll be making them tomorrow.]
[I'm not sure 100 sucks badly enough. I may have to work on that. Never mind. I couldn't take it. I had to make it readable before I started cutting myself for fun.]

Games People Play

Ray Family:

Gamma and his wife April stood on their small porch overlooking the lands that he and his brother, Ecks, had spent the last two years restoring from the ravages of the war. The brothers and their wives had been lucky. Atomics hadn’t fallen as heavily on the huge peninsula as they had elsewhere. Much of the wildlife had survived, but even luckier was that the area remained a secret.

The Ray family was from the city-state island of Poe, less than a hundred miles to the southwest of the peninsula. Before the war Poe had been an attractive leisure destination, with it’s ancient architecture and beautiful beaches. After the war things had changed dramatically.

Gamma and Ecks brought their families into the scorched lands when the authorities in Poe had ordered involuntary sterilization of all men of the lower classes, followed in short order by a declaration of state ownership of all women between the ages of fourteen and forty. That was something the brothers simply could not abide by, even though the orders were the direct result of the desperate water shortage.

When the orders were issued the Ray family was living in the northeastern coastal district of Annabelle Lee. For that reason the two couples decided they had a chance of escape. The gulf currents on the northeast side of the island flow directly for the northern mainland. If they had been living on the south side of the island they wouldn’t have had any chance to escape at all. All travel to and from the unspoiled mainland to the southeast was strictly controlled, and there was no possible way to make the voyage without an ocean vessel.

The roads out of Annabelle Lee had been guarded. Ecks had never been the peaceful kind of man that Gamma was. The road they took only remained guarded for a few moments after Ecks approached the guards to “talk”. He was kind of sore about having to leave his home. The unfortunate men on duty at that checkpoint would not forget him for a very long time.

Being to poor to afford the so-popular bubble gliders the Ray family had been forced to walk out of Annabelle Lee, to a relatively deserted section of beach. They knew all along that there was only had one option. They had to leave the island. The scorched lands were only 150 km to the northeast. It was well known that the trip could be made on a raft, and that was exactly what they had done. Gamma and April, Ecks and Laura, clung to each other in fear almost the whole way, but then they had sighted land.

They almost died of thirst before they found a source for water they could trust, and that was just the barest seep coming out of the ground. Ecks had all but given up hope when he found it. He had spent three days scouting with his portable Geiger counter and miniature pathogen detector with no luck. When he got a mouthful of the precious stuff he jumped up and down, and hollered so loudly he might have been heard back on Poe.

With their precious water source located the Rays began to build a compound so that they could live securely. After a day of searching the ruins of a settlement on the western coast they had shovels, saws, hammers and other important tools, as many as they could carry. They dug down at their water source until they had a deep basin some twenty feet below the ground, and they shored up their well as they went down. Being poor men of Poe the Ray brothers had done many things to make a living, and, by the grace of the Holy, carpentry and construction was foremost among those occupations.

They built a wall around their gardens and their home to keep out wild animals, and so far had defended them against refugees on two occasions. The brothers managed to find guns and ammunition in their daily scavenging runs to the various ruins in the area, and these proved invaluable. As excited as they were to find those items, which had been forbidden to the lower class on Poe, it was the former home of the bow hunter that had provided them with their most valuable discovery of all: a compound bow and a cache of carbide tipped arrows. This meant they could hunt without fear of running out of ammunition.

Gamma, or Gee, as everyone called him and April stood on their small porch feeling each other’s warmth, and as Gee looked out on their compound he realized he was happy, truly happy. He nuzzled April’s neck and she giggled playfully. He knew she had a very sensitive neck. He put his hands on her swollen stomach and lightly twirled his fingers around. April was pregnant with his child.

“What do you think it’s going to be?” he asked her.

“I’ll be happy no matter if it’s a boy or a girl,” she answered.

“I hope it’s a boy. It wouldn’t hurt if he was born ready to work,” Gee teased her.

“You just better keep your plans to yourself. My baby won’t have anything to do with them,” she laughed.

They were waiting for Ecks to come back from one of his scouting missions. At times when they couldn’t bring their wives along only one of them went. As April’s pregnancy advanced that increasingly meant that only one man would go out at a time. As a safety measure the one going scouting would only travel in one direction, and straight back, so that if he was longer than the time they decided on the others would know where to go looking for him. It was almost time for Ecks to come back.

As if on cue Ecks came walking up to the compound from the south. He had been gone for two days to see what had become of Hemingway, the great city that for centuries had been known as Miami. One look at his face was all it took for Gee to know that something had happened.

“Wait here, April,” Gee told her.

“Don’t do this, Gee. I have a right to know what’s going on,” she answered in irritation.

“I just don’t want you to get upset if it’s something bad,” he insisted.

“If it’s something bad, then the more time I have to absorb the news the better off I’ll be.”

Gee knew better than to argue with his wife when she made up her mind. He resignedly strode across the compound to meet his brother coming through the gate. As they neared Ecks raised his eyebrows and sighed.

“Where’s Laura?”

“She’s sleeping, bro’. What’s up?” Gee ventured.

“Men have set up a base in the ruins of Hemingway,” Ecks told him.

“That’s almost 80 kilometers from here. Surely we won’t have to worry about that,” Gee said hopefully.

“It’s a military base, Gee,” Ecks told him.

“What? From Poe?” April asked.

“No, the uniforms aren’t familiar at all. I didn’t want to get in too close for fear of being discovered, but I caught a few sentences on the wind. They’re from the old countries,” Ecks revealed with growing anxiety.

“How many soldiers, Ecks? Ecks? How many?” Gee demanded.

“It’s worse than that, Gee. They’re guarding a new space port.”

Roll Call of the Lesser Devils: 95, 96

Glory Darkness

Places of light
Cradle fascination
The idle mind
Becomes enamored
Of darkness
Places devoid of light.
Simple reasons
For simple beings
Ever overwhelmed
But it won't stop

The eyes desire rest
Some sort of scenery
Graduated out of the emptiness.
Always gloomy
Backed up against the wall
Forces use the mind
To conjure up
Happiness filled images,
Brighter days and better times
A feeling of control
Harsh realities
A well lit setting
Conjures darkness
More comfortably,
Entertaining all of the surfaced
Loves of lust.

The mind needs to be soothed
From the sight of all things
That revel in the glow.

Darkness often befriends
The soul
Of Man Who Sees Too Much
With light.

The morbid companion
Envelops imagination
So that the judgments
Of others will stop,
Short of penetration
Of deeper thoughts
Of fascinations.

Thereby darkness it's glory
Guides to a carefree existence.

Shadow worship
Quite explicitly
Leaves a permanent scar,
Leads the suspect
Carrier of forbidden knowledge
Further into the light.

Light left all open:
Judgments, dogma
Token enthrallment.
A vaunted observation point
Shows hidden inspiration.

The earliest creatures of this
Animal race
The first glimmer of conscious thought
All walking and talking
In the grip of fear.
Even they too knew
The life cycle never stops.

Death in its most miserable stages
Spreads itself open
Granting visions into the beyond
A cold haunted place
Impenetrable to living awareness.

Divine sentience
The challenges
Of mere existence
Reason and insanity
The victims
Must bend to blend the psyche
Perfectly, profanely
The setting
Never more hostile
And what divine intelligence?
And what will one be looking for?

To take a little enjoyment
From the wriggling of
The prey’s death throes.

Even the ignorant knows
That no one can hide forever,
And so the march to death
Every moment filled with a sense
Of importance.

The mind then
Must do
As many minds do
Seek to derive
A greater justice
From the passage of time
From the ponderance of shadowkind
In the passage of life
Across the horizon of thoughts.
It should be no less
Than droning adoration
For lightheartedness
And cheer.

Though enemies of one another
Shadow and light
Have roots in the fiber
Every being
Holds up for dissection
By inspection.

Every great act
Owes to the forces
That bend into position
Those traits
Suited to the preferences
Of imagined divinity.

The fascinations
May be morbid, that
Means little in the face
Of the fact one
Is capable,
May hold the fascination if
One so desires.

Humanity approached life with thought
Seeking only knowledge,
But finding only anguish instead.

Simple wonder
Dark, obscure thoughts
Are held dear by the eagle's prey.

In darkness can be found
A sense of security,
Even if it is a false one.

Life cycle, surely that's jest,
A more apt title,
Disquieting at first,
Would be "death knows no mercy."

Organization only
Carved out footholds
As the eons passed slowly
In the deadly environment
Humanity would one day rule.

With a refusal to succomb to
The vacuous ebb
Etched into race memory
By all of the death,
Humanity wooed darkness through conflict and warfare,
Calling on the abilities given by
Life to create suffering,
Mortality induction,
beyond any “timid morality."

There comes a time
When can be seen links
Between order, problems, chaos and law.

Death severs the link,
Freeing or dooming
By the purity of nature,
Both parts create freedom.

This purity concerns itself,
And all those who follow it,
With taking power from the unknown
And using it to aid the passage of life.

Had we never ventured into the darkness
And embraced what we could not see
Nor understand,
Nothing around us
Could possibly exist.

Voyage to New Orleans
the musical background:
heavy radical
black racist
inspired violence
Bourbon at Esplanade:
the dark
a stairway up
to a locked door
confusion in the street
a building in the throes of demolition
the wall weak enough to push through
the principal figures
wet and cold
no protection afforded by the building
somewhere in the mind a voice
keeps asking
“how did you get here?”
but the answer keeps coming through
in some foreign language
none of the streets look
the same
the long walk to the Garden District
ends in failure
except for the comfort
of leaving the disease of the quarter
at least for a little while
the bones ache
but nothing can be had
until the guy comes back
later on
the musical background:
black and very violent
the uneasiness returns
and the illness
as the answering voice
finally comes through in English
and you know
nothing is all right.

Note: Glory Darkness had a lot of problems. I attempted to restore the language to reflect the original intent. I have the handwritten original. What I don't have is an exact knowledge of where I was at in my life when I wrote it, which holds the key to really understanding what I meant when I wrote it. I think it was in 1991. I did smoke weed, but I had forever quit doing hallucinogens.

One thing I do know beyond a doubt is that this version I am posting more closely resembles the original work than the one posted on Angelfire. I must have hated myself a lot when I posted all that shit there. I basically destroyed my artistic reputation for a long time with the Angelfire posts. Bawwwwwwwww.

It's like sometimes I don't get it. I went to /b/. There was so much vile hatred spewed by posts in almost every thread that I thought /b/ was about hate. The truth was that it started as great fun, intelligent games and original content. There was a lot of sex, because that follows people around everywhere, but /b/ didn't have the AIDS yet. And so I stupidly added to the death of a once great novelty by joining in with nasty talk and hateful sentiments.

Why couldn't I see it? Same fucking reason I don't know when a girl likes me, or I go after the wrong girl. It's because I am stupid. I am too educated for my own good, and not educated enough to rise above it all through knowledge.

"In the midst of life we are in death, etcetera."

Chiara Bautista

The artist's name is C. Bautista, but also uses the name Milk. Milk is a great artist whose work is highly reminiscent of S. Kirby's. I found the first thing I've ever seen by Milk on a cap from a desktop, during show and tell.

The image was small, but the screen capture was HR. I kept zooming in until I made out Chiara on the bottom, and the words Hunter/Monster/Love. After that it was only a matter of tweaking the Google search a couple of times, and I found the MySpace page. C. Bautista incredible. Below is something she did:

If I had the money I would buy a painting. The beauty and genius blows me away. Very seldom do I find work with such incredible vision.

The work belongs to the artist and the artist alone. Chiara's MySpace page.

The Clean Carthusian Billy Goat

Our lives are not our own,
Only our free will.
Our entire existence is
Suspended in space before God,
a swirling Yin-Yang
- Ice and Fire,
stone and blades of grass,
matter and nothingness,
Female and Male -
in one moment.
In that infinite duration
Humanity comes into being,
And another miracle is born,
Another vessel of perfection,
Like a droplet of pure thought, a baby.
Experience creates innocence.
Imperfection withers away to dust.
In one absolute moment
God blesses everyone,
and the Blessed Son of God said
"I died for everybody,"
In a dream of ancestors.
The greatest way to thank Him is to live pure.
Born again before we started,
Into fire we are departed,
Nothing left but the smallest ashes,
Smell of life and vision flashing.
All that remains are only memories,
and a dancing candle flame under historical papers.
From the tops of highest mountains
Life descends like water from a fountain.
Take what you like of idea.
Leave the rest to the courageous.

Best Comics

Best American Comics
1. Elfquest
2. Omega Men
3. Alpha Flight
4. The New Teen Titans
5. The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers
6. Fat Freddy's Cat
7. Robert Crumb Head Comix
8. Captain America (Schaumberg 1940's bondage covers)
9. Pre 1969 X-Men

Some of the United States has caught up to Shonen Jump. Stan Lee got involved with the world's leading selling magazine and launched a feature there. The manga Bleach has almost caught up with the animated series. That hopefuly means universal demuxing of the late Karakura Town battle installments will be available, for those without CCCP. Unfortunately the June-July issue is out right now, so there won't be anything brand new until late August. For readers of action graphics it's a great time to catch up on the last year though.

Glazed Panel Wall

One of the old houses on Montague Street in historic Baton Rouge underwent significant remodeling after the determination that restoration of the building to a historical state would be cost ineffective. The designer tore out the walls of the vestibule and the front boudoirs, leaving the support beams and a big open room. The plans also led to the removal of the attic flooring. The architect opted to use attractive wood to cover the aluminum roof, and create an open loft within the spacious front room. Inside that area I helped a master crafter and artist install a work of utility and beauty he created.

E. Greene, a good friend and the former next door neighbor of legendary local political analyst John McGuinness, crafted a privacy screen for future occupants of the house. We moved in the latticework of white and beige buffed birch that stood over six feet high. The lattice contained slightly transparent stained plexiglass squares in a myriad of colors. He chose not to use glass because of the modular nature of the wall. It looked grand inside the aged structure.

I was unable to take pictures. Just as in the cases of the many other private homes of great beauty I have been inside I was only able to walk away with my memories. They do last forever, though. The gratification of seeing that piece of art in place in my mind's eye returns to my thoughts from time to time.

Roll Call of the Lesser Devils - Book II

On My Way To Chichen Itzen

On my way to Chichen Itzen
The rivers boiled
Coming down out of the mountains.
The trees shook
With fear on the ancient slopes.
The People have all fallen
Into savage warfare,
Distraught over the white man’s curse,
Casting a last farewell
To all their dashed hopes.
The moon coiled into a ball
In the crumbling reflecting pools
Far behind the eldred gardens
Whither I sought to at last
Embrace finality
In the most painful of all fashions.
Old muttered tales of ruby lit vales,
And glistening altars
Atop temples haltered in the mist of clouds.
My ears follow
The beating of my feet
On the run to a seat
Preserved for the victorious,
The survivors of the game.
Death crowns defeat
Just as grimly as poison’s kiss
So does the triumph touch
With avid bliss
The sinews of mighty, strong willed
Preying animals
Who kill for the pleasure of the court,
An historic sanctity.
The mysteries
Of the shamanic interpretations
Begin to unravel before me
As the skin from my back
Is stretched tightly onto the frame
For tanning,
Preserved for the power
Of he before whom I am
The depth of the pyramid to the center stone
From the corner of the great pentacle
Size unknown to all but
They who carved the earth,
One two three
With all human elements at their disposal
Yet still sane
In the brutal, butchering sort of way
In which the jaguar hunts.

[original lost]
[[[not being able to write new material is killing me]]]

Roll Call of the Lesser Devils: 93


Time Tomorrow Event
The chaos winds
Blow no more

Lost from Home
: One can't help
Only wonder
the way unfound
toted around
and hunkered down

The forces tear
One away
From security to dismay
The next event
Could be

Event The river flows
Through time or across it
double crossed
someone thought it
and to it

: There is no water in the river,
it comes from your mind.
No wind in the sky
it comes from your mind
No God in the heavens
And no heaven
and nothing of the kind.

All things imagined
come from your mind.

How thought will get along with time
Get along little nightmare
Run along leave
run, be so kind.

Kindness paid in kind,
cruelty a debit
late payments fined
no matter where found
no matter who finds

Neither hearing the place
Nor vision keep pace
Neither words endearing
Nor imaged submission
where born god fearing
where fear superstition

Thought is nothing
at all
if not, then
of powers
do try, do try
there is much
that is urgent

What powers could emerge?
Rational thought
Unstoppable time
Unbreakable falls
Sophomoric rhymes
oh what vanity

Relative time warps and bends,
Measured time flows through,
With nary a glance to either side
I see it
So I show it to you.

A second attempt
To logically define
the phenomena
the what-ness
the when-ness
fails and is crushed
on the rocks of
not getting this
Is that not discouraging?
Gods bless...

mental focus
the center
the crown chakra
mind over matter
essence of divine
wherefore art thou
common sense

chaos winds destroy surety
the wind brings fresh air
the northern, cold, purity
the east
wonders instantly blow
but the western, you know
it winds
a wind up toy
it sidewinds
a snake that kills joy
holy upside down
and wholly devoid
of goodness
it lost its crown.

A history small,
This event ends
And the event ends them all
No, not at all.
It all rose
So that it could fall.

No tangible coordinates
This location
Does not exist.

And Point:
And Counter Point:
Discovery doomed the beholder
Wonders are too fleeting
To hold here, too complex to

All thought of it
Must be original.
There can be no passing it on
No transcribed words
Will teach it,
No images capture,
It's gone.

To try to capture is to defile
to use for your own ends vile.
To share would bring growth
And flourish,
Nurture the open soul
and nourish,
But it was never mean to be owned.

Use nothing and call it game.
Sprinkle deceptions
That's just the same,
But remember what was felt
The feeling found
Wherein gods dwelt
And tell all you know
About the window
To another place
Another time
Another plan.

Foster growth in others, that
Is the least our kind can do.
Be quick, it slips away.

Something was elusive
What was it called?
No, bugger.
It's around here somewhere
Written down
On stationary with sad clowns
And balloons
And best wishes from the mundane.
What was it?

Copy the substance of it,
Teach the world how to sing.
My transcription,
It must exist.
Definitively proven
Categorical reference points,
Or did it not contain
Reference points?
Location must be coordinated
There was something within
Elusive and primal.
Come now.
I do not plot vague reveries,
As there are no absolutes or laws,
I find nothing to help me

Earth Shattering

Yet it continues
The more uncertain the plot
The more possibilities
What could be certain?
Travel, wasn't it?
Different vantage on same phenomena
Offers a better view of the unknown.
Not a product of thought, but
Destinations, determined by intent
Visual Triangulation,
Three dimensional views
It's all the same
The location.
This travel depends a great deal
On something I had in mind.

Without words pictures can have no plots,
And the terms can only be subjective,
Visual plots rely so heavily on purely
Mathematic explanations.
What is left
After the numbers have all been crunched?

Take me away
So that I might stand and smile,
Hoping the dream will never die.

Physical Travel:
Allows the subjective
The idea is divinely inspired,
But choice figures strongly into
The interpretation.
The why is as important as the where.

Speculation is done with any words
But usually one can not escape
From realistic visual references.

All references must be valid,
Do not carry on
Do not tarry there
Or description may begin to fail to have meaning.
Insanity becomes as a solution
Magnetic direction
An electrical transfusion
Clarified as distinctive
From personal goals or desires,
or to them, investigations,
Both, destinations,
But the way is known only with one of them
Which one of me
is I?

The Globe
Continents, poles, hemispheres
Latitude, Longitude
Exact coordinates
Originates in suprahuman patterns of consciousness
point of origin = the discovery of magic
Exists to aid the voyager in the material plane.
Analysis would refuse this idea
Though it too is bound by seconds rolling past.

The evidence posed
the uncontrollable nature of time
Refutes the idea that there can be no magic,
(Time has no limits)
And disparages petty authorities.

Proof: Man exists
Totally within time,
Time has no limits,
Man can use time
As a tool, a level, an inclined plane
A buttress, an escarpment
Build something
A weather vane

if he uses
this tool wisely
Two can shed all limitations,
Cast about for illumination

The use of it
Objective meant
Some use it this way
Because they can see nothing beyond
What they have created.

The use of it
Literal terms subjective:
Those whose use foments
Allow the existence of increments,
But instead decide to escape
Out of time,
Experience a warp of time,
None of the words
Came along in time,
Something has gone horribly wrong.

Earth Shattering

[Note: I stopped mixing philosophy with poetry after this [and the other thing]. Determined to be very strange on May 2, 2009.]
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Related written works at Angelfire, Sex Symbols, Cymbals of Silence.Repent or Die