Next day there's no gaze, -----.
We never met except our irises
I caught like butterflies in some
Cosmic net of sorts. Watchers.
That bus stop holds something
Now you might not even know
It holds Momentary weight.
Maybe the road crushed under
The weight of locked windows.
Stained glass cracks though,
you and I are ----- so here's
A 'nice to have seen you so
Many times' I hope you -----.

Designs and Equations

Was it the Virgin Void filling
or Pandora's box opening?
Was it Victoria's secret
or was it the intellect of victors?
Was it the prowess of Hector/Hercules was it?
Was it the influence of Arthur or Har-Thor was it?
What shapes this world?
Ancient Egypt, Pyramids and the Sphinx?
Stonhenge and oblelisks?
Mystery Schools and occultism scrolls?
Crystal technology shifting poles?

Perhaps the hips and curves of a voluptuous African Queen
Perhaps the fall of Atlantis
or the secrets of the Bermuda Triangle
Perhaps the enthralling dynamics of the Photon Belt
Perhaps the mystery of Shamballa
or maybe underground bases where vortex points are
Perhaps the missing Eyepods
Maybe ancient and present advanced civilizations
Maybe it was the fall of Mars or the destruction of Maldek
Maybe the hope of Terra par DOMA
Or a design from distant super universes
or the amphibian watchers of myths
Maybe you, maybe me, maybe we
The I I I I I's of this world
however our eyes blind for we ruin this world
If we looked long enough at the light would we burn out?
If we truly listened could we hear the music of the verses unison - universes created by the Divine Creator?
would we join it/him/ness? Would  we hear then Sophia being played as a harp and worlds conceived

Would we see a billion pictures as the cosmos are breathed?
and Karma come to be...
Would we learn of all life forms? Would we learn that there is more structural design than form? Would we learn that there are other mediums of activity apart from life?
Would we learn that structure is part of a larger paradigm of concentrated design?
Would we learn that universes are gardens and that there are worlds beyond the multiverse based on a hill and mountain orientation not dependant on planes?

Who shapes the world?

Our Souls from the ocean of love reincarnating?
The keepers of sacred knowledge at the temples of Golden Wisdom?
Walk-ins and starseeds? Cryptids and hybrids?
Wars or the Sun? The Peoples of the Moon or the base in Venus? The underground bases of Mars or The Order of The Phoenix?
Maybe royal and mob families?
Maybe government with all its true lies
Maybe the networks sustained by the simple minds of you and I
Whoever or whatever is responsible, either through sonic beams and energy manipulation, it is not so much the power of the Empire but rather the power we surrender.

This is pathetic,
you are pathetic,
I've counted seconds around you, felt them (they are glassy),
I've done rude things to nice people when nobody admits this,
my poise is tense,
by tense I mean elastic in a non-wooden way, i mean potentially,
it snaps because I've met you in a universe and thats real enough,
theres lots of reasoning going on,
nobody agrees with me because they know ill take myself down on this one, those watchers.
sometimes doors open for charm, other times for lepracy
so I have said what I came to say, your an arsehole.

There was once an artist and a poet.

The artist was renowned throughout the land for his sublime skill with the brush, his superb eye for colour, his ability to define the truth of nature with each stroke, bringing the canvas to life in a glorious cacophony of colour. People looked on in awe as he painted, watching the scene come alive as each moment passed. When he put the brush down, there was a hushed silence and many watchers shed a tear at the beauty of his creation.

The poet was also held in the highest esteem. He could captivate an audience with his magical use of words, his lilting rhythms, his passion that created a vivid tapestry in the mind’s eyes of his enthralled listeners. He transported them to wondrous places far beyond the imagination. And when he spoke the last word of the last verse, his audience were silent in their admiration of what they had heard, overcome with the emotion of his words.

Then one day it came to pass that the artist, now grey and of rheumy eye, realised he could no longer paint the vibrant beauty of all that he saw around him. He was distraught at his loss and resigned to die as his very reason for being was lost to him.

The poet too, after these many years, now old and grey succumbed to deafness, no longer able to hear his own voice, so felt no longer able to speak in his rich lilting rhythms to create the wonderful soundscapes and journeys of the imagination his words had done. He too was distraught at his loss and resigned to die as his very reason for being was lost to him.

And it happened that the artist and the poet were in the same town, sitting side by side by the oldest tree, neither aware of who the other was.

A small boy saw them there and with the innocence of a child spoke to them. He spoke first to the artist: “Why do you look so sad?” The artist, hearing the child’s voice but not seeing him, reached out a hand and asked, “Who is that?” The boy replied, “I am but a boy but I know you are sad. Tell me why.” The artist turned his head toward the sound of the boy’s voice and said, “I was a great artist but now my sight is gone and I can no longer paint the beauty of all that there is around me.” The boy then asked him, “What are you doing here?” to which the artist replied, “I am waiting to die as I have no reason to continue living.”

This puzzled the boy. He turned to the poet and asked him, “I am but a boy but I know you are sad. Tell me why.” The poet did not respond because he could not hear the boy speak. The boy tapped the poet on the arm and he looked towards him and the boy repeated his question. The poet could see the boy’s lips move but for him, no sound came out. Yet he discovered he could understand the boy’s words. With huge effort, he spoke although the words were no more than a rasping whisper to the artist and the boy for the poet could not hear his own voice: “I was a great poet but now my hearing is gone and I can no longer hear my voice, I am unable to use the magic of my words to create wonderful worlds of the imagination.” The boy then asked, “What are you doing here?”, to which the poet replied, “I am waiting to die as I have no reason to continue living.”

The boy thought about this for a moment and then a wonderful idea came to him. To the artist he said, “The poet can still see and he has discovered his voice again although he can no longer hear the words he speaks, but you can. His words can describe the wonders of nature that is all around us. Let him use his words and you can paint the images he puts in your mind’s eye.”

And so it was that the artist and the poet worked together as one; the poet speaking aloud, describing the beauty that was all about, and the artist, painting by touch the wondrous scenes from his imagination.

The crowds stood in rapt delight at the poet's words as they were transformed into wondrous images on the artist’s canvas. And the boy stood amongst the throng and smiled.

The darkness wraps my hands in a hungry embrace that reminds me of the yearning that had once burned too deep in my heart. I smirk, somehow that fire still had embers, unlike the ashes in my pipe. I grab a pack of cigarettes and step out into the hallway. Walking down the stairs silently I surprise a tenant fumbling with her keys; she freezes (usually when someone is silent others fill that silence with their own fantasies but Death is so strong within me that there is no space for them to fill), I placate her uneasiness with a smile and keep walking. As I pass by her, I realize that her apartment is right beneath mine. I glance back and realize that she’s watching me too; I almost stop but the fluid molasses in my bones smoothes out the jerk of my heart and continues my path, unaltered.

Later, under the swollen clouds, I catch the last glimpse of sunlight before it yields to the crushing horizons of storm and sea. Standing in the lush green of the coast, I find it difficult to remember why I gave up. The grey fog rises up in me; I shake my head and plant my feet. Staring stoically into the horizon where that last beam had emanated from, I push my mind outwards, into the trees, into the soil, into the sea. I stand for ten minutes, reaching into the magnetic fields piercing us all, until my mind purifies into soul and I leave my body standing there. My consciousness dives deep into the sea, unknown channels of awareness feeding me information about the lives below. I freeze at the continental shelf. The whispered rumblings that lay beyond spoke of ancient souls possessing a knowledge that threatened to consume my existence; I fade back into myself. Another failure.

I forget the world around me as I walk back to the streets and humanity, diving into a different sea, a sea of memories. First, the image of a free-diver, poised confidently at the edge of that darkly blue abyss, spreading his arms and falling then swimming into the depths; a true warrior. Then comes the remembrance of a dream, a story of adventure.

I wake up to the sound of gulls screeching at each other, fighting over everything by the sound. I open my eyes; the sharp light of autumn comes through the leaves of trees that flank the path on both sides. I turn over and push myself to my feet. Dichotomies surround, to my right is the open sea, calm for now; on my left is an artificial lake bordered on the opposite side by a serene forest filled with yellows and oranges, light made solid. Behind me is an expanse of fog that stretches as far as I can see, its lack of motion is unnerving. Ahead, the path, seven meters wide, has no apparent end or juncture with the land. I consider crossing the lake but as I step to the edge of the gravel and place my foot on the first rock down, I see a dark shadow approach from beneath. A snake of enormous size glides past, the glint of his silver scales is accentuated by the ruby red stripes that lead to his eyes. An eye, almost the size of my fist, meets mine and I understand. He is the keeper of the water, he knows his place and he knows mine; I ask him for my place, he dismisses the question, it is for me to discover and not his to give.

I walk onward. For hours I walk beneath the soothing light of a loving sun and know no hunger or thirst. Time becomes meaningless in a place where only the sun and moon travel. Eternity embraces me.

Then, a shift.

Clouds form across the ocean, and suddenly my body reels in pain. Throat parched and belly pinched, I crawl to the edge of the lake to drink. I reach towards the water and suddenly it breaks apart as the spread jaws of the Snake rush towards me. I snatch my hand back and the fangs stop inches from my face. He lowers his head to look me evenly in the eyes. I stare into his soul and he contemplates mine. I see endless eternities wrapped up into a torus made of fire and water; their eternal conflict wrapping the ends of time into a seamless knot of light and darks. He says to me, “Face your trials.”

I stand up straight and say goodbye to him. Back on the path I keep walking, hunger and thirst eating away at my bones. In the failing light, I catch an unbelievable sight, the path veers at a right angle to the left, into the forest. Stunned, I almost stop walking, but my feet know their job too well. As I approach the end of the path I realize there is more to be known here. A choice to be made. The path does not entirely end, it becomes a pier that stretches thirty meters out into the black sea. More intriguing is the concrete structure that lies between the new path and the pier. It’s trapezoidal faces penetrate the sand to an unknown depth. I walk around, there is only one opening, a square window that faces out to sea. The steel shutter for the window is open and oddly unweathered. There is graffiti on the structure, most of it worn away by time and the sea. I look back at the shutter suspiciously then glance back at the faded letters. One message is still legible, it reads ‘The Way is silent’. Ominous. I step back and consider the structure. I decide to leave it. I notice suddenly how dark the sky has become, heavy clouds block out the sun. The possibility of a storm frightens me and I run towards the forest. A flash blinds me and a hot blast of air throws me against the structure. I lay there barely breathing, waiting for my sight to return, if it will return. Rain begins to fall and I remember His words. Face your trials. I open my eyes and see the shadowy outlines of the path; it’s too dark to tell if my eyes are damaged. I stand straight once more and climb through the window, and then… a shift.

I find myself standing in the rain, waiting for a light on a post to let me through the street. The dream always fades away there. That old black hole is tiptoed around until it violently reasserts its enduring presence. I get to the apartments and stay outside the door, an overhang shields me from the rain. I light up and watch the droplets splash against the world. There’s some sort of metaphor in that, I think as I take a large drag. Holding it in, I feel my nerves sink into the ground as the nicotine fills my body. As I let it out, peace washes over me. I stand there awhile longer to finish my cigarette until I notice a figure crossing the street towards me. My mild surprise dissipates as I remember where I’m standing, social awkwardness takes its place and I dissipate it by opening the door for the person. The light from inside spreads to the ground in front of them, and they look up. It’s the girl from below, her eyes were filled with some sort of hope but as recognition spread across her face, the hope faded away. Something stabbed at my heart and I smiled to cover it. She smiled back, a friendly smile, but there was another message in her eyes, something I couldn’t read. She thanked me and passed on. Utterly perplexed, I held the door open longer than necessary and let it go with a start. The last few drags were fitful and unpleasant; I stamped out the butt and threw it away.

I could’ve sworn I never saw her before today and yet she seemed so familiar. I walked upstairs angrily. I know I have a terrible social memory, but it can’t be that bad. I haven’t been to party in this town so it was very unlikely that I’ve ever met her before and forgot. I stopped at her hallway. The door was right there, I could just knock and talk to her, what was the harm in that? But no, what if I’m just imagining things? Maybe the correlation between her recognition and the fading of hope was accidental, she was just disappointed that I wasn’t who she expected.  What if she does know me and expects me to be something other than I am? Paranoia. I shook my head and turned to the stairs.

...

  I woke with the disgusting feel of sweat soaked into the sheets. I rose quickly and was surprised by the droplets running down my face. What the hell happened? I raced around the apartment. Nothing was out of place, all the locks were closed. That left the internal world as the cause. I sat down and tried to remember. There was nothing left but fire and that damned laughter.

    you’re weak, boy

    The fuck? I opened my eyes and looked around. Nothing. Thoroughly convinced that I was near the breaking point, I grabbed a hat and a coat and ran to the door. I took a deep breath, slowed my heart, reset my face to neutral and stepped out. A casual smile flickered across my lips as an overly friendly neighbor walked passed with his laundry.
   
 “How’s it hangin’ bro?”

  “Deep and blue.” I replied enigmatically with a smile that allowed him to accept it as humor.
    He laughed and said, “Might want to get that checked out, most girls won’t appreciate that kind of snake.”
  “Indeed.” I walked upstairs so I wouldn’t have to deal with him all the way down. After he passed to the second floor, I went back down. I stopped at her door  again, but only to regard it as a curiosity, my decision had been made last night.

  I nearly jumped as the knob turned. I froze and watched the sliver of light expand into a halo spread over her dark red hair. How did I notice her before? The luminous blue eyes in front of me had a questioning look. “Sorry, ma’am, you caught me by surprise.”

  “I’s okay, you returned the favor. You look like a deer caught in headlights, though, so I guess you had it worse.”

  Or better.
   “As long as you don’t run me over, I’ll be fine.” A genuine smile came to my lips.

  “That depends on whether you want to be.” The tone in her voice changed dramatically. All playfulness was gone. I realized suddenly that her eyes hadn’t left mine, she wasn’t making a sexual overture at all, somehow she had glimpsed my will to Death.

  Stunned, once again, I simply stared for a few moments and then murmured, “So the eyes really are the window to the soul.”

  “Indeed.” Her eyes left mine and she walked downstairs without another word. I watched her as she descended, an elegant figure who flowed down the steps with a grace that reminded me of a willow bending in the wind. She stopped at the landing and looked at me once more. There was no revulsion in her eyes, either she did not mind being checked out or she knew that my gaze meant something more than the twisting of my loins. There was a certain steadiness in there that contained a familiar message. Face your trials. As I heard it in my mind, her gaze dropped and she continued on. I stood there with my hands on the rails awhile longer, contemplating. I suddenly wished that I had a friend, someone I could trust and who could confirm that this woman existed.

  I looked down at my coat and decided it was unnecessary, I wasn’t going to be stumbling drunk through the city today. I went up to my apartment and changed into lighter fare, I even shaved. feeling better-looking, I opened my laptop and looked up events in the city. I found a photography exhibition that would open tonight, nothing formal, it was a local exhibition. More likely to be focused on the art instead of prestige, which made it very palatable to me. That a left a whole day to burn, correction, use. I paused. That was correction I hadn’t made in a long, long time. Come to think of it, how long has it been since I’ve used a day? She gets one smile out of me and suddenly I’m reborn? Bullshit, can’t be that easy. Either way, it’d be good to produce.

    I grabbed a sketchpad and headed out to the park. I sat between three trees off the path, where I could be alone. Pencil in hand, I crafted the image of lightning descending from the sky with explosive force onto the crown of great dragon, one leg back bracing against the force of the storm. The electricity illuminated him from the inside and spread out through his wings, savagely striking through body into earth.

    When it was done, my mind returned to the surface and I wondered at the lack of self in it, at least, the self I commanded. It made sense that the part of me which heeds no command or restraint would be the most eloquently creative. I laid back in the grass and watched the ghostlike traces of vapor in the sky above drift calmly past from one tree’s embrace to another’s. The tension in the grass beneath was comforting. They shall not falter. Comforted, I drifted away into the skies above.

    I awoke at sunset and ventured back into the lives of others. I walked around the park for awhile until I found some teenagers whose awkward outbursts of expression told me of their lack of understanding. They did not know Death and so of course He would tempt them. I approached, silently as always.

    “Which of you would like a genuine message from God?” I declared in a parody of frightful conviction.

    They considered me with confused glances until one broke from her stupor, “You a priest?”

    “Yes, and I follow the word of Art.” I smiled and raised the drawing. “2.99 is the exclusive offer for this prescient piece of work.”

    “I’ll give you a dollar to leave us alone.” the one with muscles and tight pants said.

    “Any other takers?”

    “I’ll buy you food man, I won’t feed your drug habit.”

    I laughed long and hard. “Don’t concern yourself with me! I am the very model of a modern major general, the ideal of a self-sufficient man. My request for trade is not for my benefit, it is solely to remove the guilt of the unearned from your hearts. Thus, I shall sell this to you for as much as your heart desires.”

    “So if I gave you a hundred dollars would that burden you?” the girl asked. I noticed the perceptive light of her eyes.

    “Not at all, dear madam, money is an idea and all ideas are open to those who are willing to work to understand them.” My grin turned revolutionarily dark.

    “So what would burden you?”

    “A kiss would break my back.” My grin faltered, how the fuck did that confession escape? Something’s wrong, or at the very least, changed. Their guarded expressions opened a little as my mask cracked. Slightly angry at my lack of control, I became dramatic. “In fact, I shall give to the Earth, for she has given me everything.” I dropped it at their feet and walked away. I was only a few steps away when I heard her say to her friends, “Don’t wait up.” I kept walking and smiled at the sound of her rushed steps to catch up with me. As she caught up I noticed a rolled piece of paper in her left hand. I almost smiled again but withheld it. “I guess rambling idiots don’t scare you.”

    “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

    “Oh, and why is that?”

    “Lying about yourself is the same as hating yourself. It’s worse when you’re destroying something that could be good.” Two sentences and she’s already striking my heart. Why is it so easy for them?

    “So you think you know me.”

    She stopped walking. I almost keep walking but for once, I find myself stopping. I turn around and look her in the eyes. Dazzling green. Like jewels. I stop myself and begin reassembling my armor but she speaks too soon. “I know enough about the world to know that when a man approaches strangers as intensely as you just did, it means that he has a story to tell. And storytellers always respect truth, if they have any love left in them.”

    “My stories are too dark to share, the world’s got enough problems without sharing mine.”

    “If you can’t let go of your hatred, you won’t be able to find anything else.”

    I lower my eyes, “Not even death?”

    “If you wanted it, you’d have it.”

    I raise my eyes to hers once again. “How do you people keep finding me?”

    She pauses, confidence shaken. Her clear image of the man before her warped. “Are you a schizo?”

    I consider saying yes in order to escape her but then I realize the grasping claws of pity would just trade places with her eyes. “I was talking about your soul. You and other Watchers keep finding me, pulling me back to my purpose but I don’t want it.” My voice has fallen to a harsh whisper. “My gaze is poison. Let me remove it!”

    Somehow the denial reaffirms her suspicion but the different approach results in her becoming scared rather than piteous. She looks around and I realize there is no one in sight and the sun is gone. The unknown bears down on us and I have a vision of her on her knees, bound before me. She looks into my eyes and finds only darkness; she steps back.

    “You see? Poison.” My voice cracks on the last syllable.

    Fear fades from eyes but before she says anything more I step off the path into darkness where she won’t follow.

    In a few hours I’m back on Mulberry, almost home, if anyplace can be considered my home. My hands feel clammy from the cigarette I’m smoking and I lose myself in the unclean fire at its tip. My reverie is broken by the awareness of someone sitting at the front of the door. She raises her eyes, a memory of a bright blue sky. A smile comes, unbidden. “Hey there, why are you sitting out in the cold?”

    She laughs ashamedly, “I think I left my key in the apartment.”

    “Couldn’t buzz anybody to let you in?”

    A hardness enters her eyes, “I can’t stand speaking to people through a box.” I decide not to push the matter and open the door. We climb up the stairs silently, side by side. We stop on the second floor, her apartment door only a few steps away. She’s about to say something but I interject before the first sound is made. “I guess I’ll see you around. Have a good night!”

    She doesn’t respond right away, apparently wondering whether to continue with this tract or return to hers. I suddenly wish I hadn’t blocked her, the familiar guilt of a missed opportunity courses through me and I gladly give her my parting words and turn away before she even has her hand on the doorknob.

    Once upstairs I turn on the music to drown out any sounds from below. I grab the pipe and hotbox my bathroom. Thirty minutes later I’ve forgotten her as I guide my avatar through wartorn battlefields that mercifully require every fiber of my awareness to navigate. When it begins to wear off, I keep smoking until I pass out.

  Eternities pass beneath a solemn moon, reflections of the wasted past and hopeless future spent in a netherworld where time and distance have no meaning. Eventually my soul drifts back to the brain and I find myself in front of the cement bunker once more. The storm is in full rage now, the waves smash against the rocks, slowly loosening their hold on each other. Lightning flashes across the sky and stinging rain slashes my skin. I look down at that frightening message once more, the concrete remains untouched by the force of the wind and sea. I climb through the black hole once more and drop down into the darkness. The way is silent. The steel cover falls behind me and cuts me off from all remnants of light and sound. Even the screaming winds have no power in this eternal place. I desperately attempt to lift it but the seam that should've existed between the steel and concrete simply did no exist, fused through some unknown process. Despair overtook me long ago and I'd learned to keep walking in spite of the lack of inner light but how much longer can I go on?

  The ground is hard and cold, I try to lay down but it steals my heat with an unbearable hunger. I am forced to walk on. I grope with stuttering hands and steps, unable to discern any manner of form within that hollow blackness. I turn back and find the wall, I follow it on the right hand side starting from the square cut that borders the implacable steel. The wall turns soon but not nearly quick enough to make sense within the context of it's supposed dimensions. Suddenly I am aware that I am within a dream but for once, I do not awake instantly. Instead harsh vibrations begin to coarse through my body and I fall silently to the floor as hole opens in the roof above. The full moon mocks me from above, the storm has moved within. A magnetic force draws my hands into prayer over my chest and a sinister cloud of black dust rises out of my belly. Red eyes open within it and savage energies burn my nerves and rip my muscles. I stand slowly, silently screaming in fear and rage, but I cannot extend my spine. I roll around in tormentous pain, slamming my fists, my shoulders, my knees, my body against the stone floor. I taste death and a subtle, purple tinge grows within the dark cloud, resolving into the shape of a winged serpent. The black scales encase the glowing essence and its eyes become a deep purple, promising a fire that could consume me in total finality. Its maw opens wide and silver teeth bathe in demonic fire that reaches for my body, my soul. It never hits me. A golden dragon bursts from my heart and swallows the dark flames. Hope burns suddenly and fiercely in my heart but not for long. The dragons curl side by side and their teeth shine in the blue moonlight. It takes me a moment to realize that they are smiling at me. The golden one speaks, "Did you imagine it was easy as all that?" His sinister grin quenches the fire within me and my shoulders go slack as I watch them vaporize and fade into the moonrays. The hole closes and darkness embraces me once more. Mercifully, I awake.

Sitting in labyrinths of cobblestone intestines
I’m learning to eat the entrails of sacrifice
only domestic, never hunted.
pick up spoon. put down
put down. put-down.
pick up. um . spoon.
um… putdown.
there are motions for eating and I do them.

soothsayer, look down
pay attention to positions, shapes
knife. butter. um…
bread. no. breadth.
better. no. butter-better.  focus.
knife. better. bread.
knife, knife of haruspex. knife breadth.
okay… deep breath.

I have divided the livers
and the watchers of victims.
I have written on
the anomalies in my bronze living,
what I should look for,
what they should allow for.
my protruding viscera,
my ancient autopsy of starving.

Starving made me easier to tie.
easier to lift. made me feel
gutted out like finished
ice-cream containers
but, starving made me
full of household gods.
made me divine. made sheeps fly.
made days disappear and made cold cold cold seem like
simmering. made staying out of sight a piece of cake.
cake. starving made me rich when I found little
boys betting quarters for eating bowels of
goats. made me small enough to fit through
playground gates so I could swing
swing in earthquakes, and portents.

now, I listen to Memor, a man
who knows nothing of starving
talk about how starving I am.
tomorrow I have to advise
tomorrow I have to weigh
tomorrow I have to swallow
tomorrow I have to
tomorrow I have
tomorrow I am half

and starving made me whole.

On a hilltop in the darkness,
In the shadows by the sea
Under a cloak of silence;
Hiding in the trees

There wait the silent heroes;
The watchers in the sky,
The darkest of all angels
That guard us day and night

There wait the cold; cloaked warriors;
The ones that hide their fear
The most quiet of the suffering;
The bravest far and near

They’re men that were once living
And men that, one time, cared
About the safety of the breathing;
The hungry, thirsty and the scared

Don’t be fooled, they have no love for us,
The ones who let them die
They love to watch our suffering;
They laugh to see us cry

They kill the ones who cheat;
Take the ones who lay beneath the graveyard floor,
They give no warning but their shadows,
And their whispers at the door

They hide in their stone castles
And lurk among the clouds
They train their golden eyes on us
And their screams drift slowly down…

From a hilltop in the darkness,
In the shadows by the sea,
Beneath a cloak of silence,
Hiding in the trees,

There wait the silent heroes,
The watchers in the sky,
The dead, the done; the dying
Who laugh to see us cry.  

But someday they won’t guard us,
And their hate will wriggle through
The honor of their living days-
The days their hearts beat true

And someday, when that time arrives
You better hide damn well,
Because the warriors fear nothing;
They were born and bred in hell

They will come down from their castles,
And cast darkness through the clouds,
They will spread their rage like fire,
And no mercy will be found

So next time you lay restless,
And shadows creep around your bed,
Watch out for the Fearless Ones,
With eyes so cold and red,

Watch out for the warriors
That guarded you before,
And listen for the tap of feet,
And the whispers at the door.

Long ago there were the Watchers, the Talkers and the Doers. These three families lived in perfect harmony until the Talkers told the Watchers the secrets of the Doers. Criticism, jealousy and witchcraft were born. Along with this came indoctrination and codes of ethics where the order of the day was simply going about one's business in a creative and harmonious environment. The Watchers began plotting conspiracies of sabotage against the Doers, with the help of the Talkers. The Talkers and the Watchers interbred and this created a hierarchy; the Doers being at the top. The Doers endured several attacks and contempt, from these labels were born whores, thieves, adulterers and liars. As the generations passed the Doers gained a status of mediocrity; however they remained rich for they hustled and never rested until they achieved all their goals. Envy was born from the Watchers-Talkers offspring and soon they began doing, only whenever they did they wanted the whole village to know and notice. These offshoots watched what everyone was doing and spread gossip and were responsible for designing the public image of individuals. This caused segregation. However The Doers responded by running Self-Awareness and Transparency campaigns, which sought justice and objective scrutiny of the downtrodden members of the village. The campaign was a success and the Doers gave up some of their fortune to improve the welfare of the village people. The Watchers-Talkers dynasty fled East toward the mountains where they planned the downfall of the Doers. They practised witchcraft and ministered the negative energies of the atmosphere and designed perfectly calculated belief systems that would be imposed upon the village. From this came abductions, when people of the village went missing and came back brainwashed. They returned to the village witnessing only faults and incessantly sought to enforce their opinions and beliefs upon the people of the village. This put the leaders in a compromising position for they had to now evict these victims who were poisoning the people with confusing dogma. Needless to say that in the time of the Doers, all truth and transparency were flawless. Reasoning was but the base of sense. The occurrences led to the village and the Watchers-Talkers colony going to war. After the war amends were made, however chaos infiltrated the village and families were segregated according to demographics. Witchcraft was legalized and planned war became law. Justice died. The leaders of the Doers dynasty were infected with disease and hypnotized. Numerous divisions existed, each division with its doctrine, however inferior to the official doctrine of the "state". Volunteering and trade became replaced with money. Love was replaced with infatuation. Laws of Engagement were passed by the newly formed council of the village. The peoples lost the truth over the generations and have since become prisoners - where they are told it's home and the "norms" the way. This became the world of people who watch what other people are doing and talk about it so that the Authority does something about it. A pilgrim once foresaw that there would come a day of nothingness and silence where there would be nothing to watch and nothing to talk about and thus have nothing done about it. It is believed by scholars of these visions that this will be the Age of Love, Peace, Calm and Creation. This will be the day when those who say how one should think and what the eyes best watch; to talk about it creating a sync network, pleasing the authorities, Will have come to an end and the conscience will be freed from confinement. And the elders and the children thereby will no longer preach "they say" but rather "WE SAY". Where the watchers will truly see, the talkers actually listen and hear and the doers witness due compensation for the work they do and its intent revealed. And that day begins today.

“Yes,” is the sound I make
At this crossroads, barren,
And cold.
A clean-cut cringe, hoarse
Noise of boisterous old men
Sitting, playing.
Slapping hands, applause
Of slight defeat to one man,
Atop the tower of cards.
The power lines watch him
From above. Critters of the sky,
Perch with worms and bugs,
Even babies in their bellies.
Harboring the coming
Change.
My bare nudity catches
The attention of watchers,
Voyeurs, timid learners,
Who all like the examples
But seldom skid any stones
Themselves.
I’ve put down the kin,
I’ve put down the knife,
I’ve put down the selfish night
Owl, eyes teeming now,
With respect,
Dilated, humbly begetting,
Stealing with sight.