What lines,
Scope and everbirth,
dwell within
corkscrewed graves
Of my ancestors'
passion projects?

It happened because we let it happen.

It was made to happen and it did.

Because it happened to happen

we have to have more things happen

in order for the sum of all these
  
        happenings to be
                       advantageous to us.

Bottom line,

it happened, and now we happen to be what's happening.

It's an ongoing process,
   what's happening, and it can't cease now. Not for any reason.

Now is not the time
for anything else
       to happen but what
is happening.

What's happening now is unable
to not-happen because of all the happenings
    leading up to this
          unfortunate happenstance. Here
we, logically, happen.

If a hospital happened to be
    obliterated  
    as a result, it was only an

insignificant,

concurrent happening,

not our primary intention,

but it was necessary to happen.

If the children happened to get slaughtered, it was necessary to happen.

We have a right to have it happen and
                                  have it
keep happening,

   even if we made it happen
                          
                                   first.

Creative Destruction
When I asked why the poem was deadly
Nobody could pick up my sign,
But they did their best to remain pretty friendly
even if they so clearly hid what's on their mind.
And I looked for a while at the pages
claimed by a man long ago
Who grew darkness like a king grows cages
and I knew right away this was Poe.

He wrote about the guilty heart and secret dreams,
and I know I have both of those in spades.
The first is due to my borrowed time,
and the second happens every time I get paid.
With no qualms about leaving behind the quiet life
like an old blanket that no longer keeps out the cold,
I push ahead knowing I'm headed for much more strife
than I even know how to handle or to hold.

On my mind these creations work in strange ways
and I'm feeling just a little bit drained;
when the sunlight and heat are still hours away
they flame up and demand to be tamed.
But tell that to the people I need to see tomorrow
and they look at me like I'm insane.
All the more reason not to feel any sorrow
When I escape from this fluorescent light domain.

I might wind up dead on the side of the road
and be remembered by a lonesome song.
But when the daylight glints off of my eyes
I know I don't feel I've gone so wrong.

On the road beneath my feet my boots are tattered,
and I still have many crossroads to get passed
I hope, for once, all my illusions are shattered
and I find just what I'm looking for at last.
There's no destiny like for those who seek
everything but what's in front of their face.
Poe's haunting words are still at work
when I decided I need to keep up the chase

I cast nothing out when I pick it up,
All my memories make a home inside my brain.
I might not try to see if some are corrupt,
to be honest it all seems much the same.
They're all just tools for the Muses's fool
who tries to serve Her each and every day.
Always struggling with futility
can make even the most jaded one want to pray.

Some times I think I'm on a fool's errand
trying to blaze a trail where no one cares to stray
At the same time I can't see why I shouldn't
make some use of my dwindling days
The road I'm on was well traveled once
and, if it still is, then I just don't know,
but it's hard to see too far ahead
With a cloud of visions constantly in tow.

Yes, I might wind up dead on the side of the road
and be forgotten before too long,
But when the daylight glints off of my eyes
I see a place where I might belong.

My pockets have holes, but are still useful.
My shoes have them too but feel great.
It's not like the gravel is all that painful
when you've been living on it for thousands of days.
The Sun is almost down now, and I have to leave
before the Muse calls me to Her.
She's never been one to wait that long,
She keeps a long list of those She might prefer.

The first of Her flames rise behind my eyes
when the dawn and dusk stand perfectly opposed.
The moon shines down through clouds as I write my lines
and my poorly guarded thoughts become exposed.
And when it's clear She's totally used me up,
and left me with nothing to call my own,
a seed appears, subtle and abrupt.
Could be brilliant, but She's just throwing me a bone.

The essence of Her preachers who lived and spoke
to the gathered crowds from days long ago
was spilt upon my growing restless mind
and it never washed off or lost its glow.
I know these words all came from Her
when She was feeling merciful instead of carefree.
Her image-less face always in the air
wherever my eyes try to see.

Yes, I might wind up dead on the side of the road
and be hated, loved, or ignored.
But every time the daylight hits my eyes
My ears ring with that same phantom chord.

When those highest priests died before their time
it was clear Her potency wasn't just for show.
When they signed their deals to work for Her
She would never allow them to let it go.
The gifts She gave in their very first days,
just samples of Her endless dreams,
contaminated their all their futures
and made them eager to leave the main stream.

I know I have to die eventually
so why not end up on the side of the road,
having lived my life always for Her,
and for those who need a glimpse of Her code?

The moon shines down with a crooked smile
onto the streets below
The Drunken crowds, the smokey haze
The empty stores, the neon blaze
All awash in a blue-white glow
The clouds gather in the darkness
The ships reinforce their hull
The sky above is starless
In the Kingdoms of the skull

You're driving home on the same road
You've taken every day before
You curse the truck that cut you off
With an American flag pasted to its door
At a glance you know the driver, inside and out.
A fool, no doubt...hateful, witless, and dull...
You're judge, jury and executioner
In the Kingdoms of the skull

What's known is known, what's not is not
What's happening to you is real,
where you are is where you're caught
But in the Kingdoms of the skull...
you are lord of all the land
every man must kneel to you
every heart is yours to command
Oh, In the Kingdoms of the skull...
the sun orbits me,
My view of things is clear and right,
It all happened because of me

I've hit rock bottom
Once or twice
Been to the moon and back
Lived on the thinnest ice
I've gathered some scars
And I've talked to the stars
Spent some time behind bars

I have paid a due or two

I ran for my life
From an angry Moose
I looked up the proper number of
Twists in a noose
I turned the tables on a hungry bear
I've climbed the mountains and breathed the rarefied air

I have paid a due or two

I've had my long dark nights of the soul
I've seen the pieces, and I've seen the whole
I've pushed a boulder up the same hill many times
Just to watch it roll back down, so, once again,
I make that climb
I've written riddles, hymns(riffs) , blog entries, and rhymes

I have paid a due or two

If you don't Think
It's a Con
You're Dead
wrong!

If you don't Think
It's a Con
You're Dead
wrong!

If you don't Think
It's a Con
You're Dead
wrong!

If you don't Think
It's a Con
You're Dead
wrong!


                                NOW
                   Only

One
                      question remains:
                  
                            What is It?

                                       ...

If you don't Think
It's a Con
You're Dead
wrong!
            
                                      ...
Bu­t what is It?

My love only goes where the green grass grows,
always on the other side,

   Well, yeah I'm jaded! What do you want me to do?

            I'll jump around...

Through the shadow and the deep dark sea
through the blinding light of insanity
through the webs and the lies of mine
through the filiments of shattered time
through the categories of abstract space
through the waters of unearned grace
through the vortex and through the hoop
through the cortex and through the ****
through the ediface of a house of cards
through the door of a room full of bards

     And when I finally find
     what I'm jumping around for,
     then I'll make me a pallet
     upon the grassy floor

Share my water, and share my bread
Share the wine, share the

                                                  kind

Aaaannd­ share the pain inside my mind...

My love only goes where the green grass grows,
always on the other side...

The president has to tell himself things
To keep himself from drowning
he says that he has fins
To keep himself from falling
he says that he has wings
To keep himself from hurting
he says he's immune to all stings
To keep himself happy
he says he always wins
To keep himself going
it's to these, and more, which he clings
The president has to tell himself things,
so he's not that unlike me

Some evil walks alone
with a cold heart beat
and a face of bone.
Some evil walks in threes
with a trembling laugh
and with eyes full of glee.
Some evil wears a kindly face
in the street-light chaos
it tempts your full embrace.
Some evil rings a hollow bell
in the whirlwind alleys
on the roads to hell.
Some evil keeps a cool head,
some evil lies in your bed.
Some evil is a ticking clock
lulling you to sleep
with your mind unlocked,
and, while you rest amid
its Mercury lies,
it spreads its wings
and drowns your cries.
Some evil walks alone
with a cold heart beat
and a face of bone.

Unlike Michelangelo, whose marble slab
contains an entangled entirety of a crystalline vision of love,
    life,
        and loss,
the desolation of souls,
    the rending of divinity,
the forlorn sacrifice,
only seen by him
   until
the sweaty glistening stone,
     hewn and chiseled,
          sculpted and slashed,
  for tedious eons
    painstakingly marked by time
  and life force sacrificed,
revealed its secret gift,

I attempt to recreate the Pietà
      by adding on material to the medium,

rather than by carving it away.

Beyond the reach of rage and rhyme
outside the scope of solid time
between the phases of a waxing mind
inside the seeds of chaos.

Within the grasp of you or me
between two rivers that reach no sea
under the shade of the burning tree
along the bridge you walk across.

No word of comfort
was given as he and she
said one more goodbye

Like a microbiologist, studious.
He cranes his neck and gaze,
and sifts through a garbage can

Full and misshapen bags clank after him.
His emergency fund
is lighter than it looks

The toilet, rebellious in my apartment today.
It's far too soon
to find this funny

Alert and darting eyes look past the drunken crowd
towards the swinging door,
and towards his phone, which remained still

The empty light shined on
pavement, but it didn't shine
on that for which I waited.

She batted her eyes and lied to me seductively.
Excited to pretend to believe her,
Alcohol and the dim light helps.

The midnight dew on this street glistens,
and the subway's winds mutely hum.
A girl scurries with her silent keys

I carved my name
in her wooden leg.
She didn't forgive me later.

With his endless arrows
Cupid amuses his narrow mind.
He's having his fun shooting blind.

My good mind is in the basement
lost amid the rocks
Buried under skeletons
and ******* in 13 knots

To compose the fractured consciousness like a million-piece mirror with something greater than glue, The Galaxy of thoughts and their accompanying peopledness swirls fresh and new this morning, propping me up instead of weighing me down.

I have the footprints of some road signs that I ran over one day, the car ploughed through them all going off the shoulder of the highway and up the muddied neck of creation.

If the world has fallen, where does one lie down at night other than under the rubble or under the stars?

There hollers a man, soul searing, guts thoroughly wrenched, but he Blocks the doorway of parties with hidden interests, all of them equally Drunk, though sober, Boredom is a clever disguise.

The man who moulds his breath into that violent Release also works on the artistry of his face. For a man with nothing to hide your face can never have too many lines, and he's carving out a clay masterpiece though his life is a kiln of grief, the Cold Furnace carries on around him, Robbing itself of the simple beauty it produced long ago.

With my head on straight,
I hear the trees falling
with no one around,
for I am no one.
They do, in fact, make a sound.

With my eyes seeing clear,
Just another choice
just another day
just another voice
just another play.
Not enough time, not enough love,
not of enough of a reason
to keep trekking through the mud.
Not enough words to nail down what
you're thinking of the sinking
and the rising of the flood.
Too much silence, too much disguise,
too much of nothing, too many sweet little lies,
too much of something I can't recognize,
too many angles of mysterious intent.
Too much to wrangle, all my patience spent.

And yet...?