Back to the country,
To the careful hills,
Gentle ponds and weeping clouds.
Where trees tell tales,
Saturated with knowledge and wisdom,
And the lilies grow bright there too.
Back where time has little consequence,
Where hours melt and obliterate,
Where it does not matter.
There is a stream,
With brush skirting the banks,
So tall it stoops over,
And drinks from the cool water.
There are birds that chant,
Rhythmically, beautifully,
Beckoning to unfound lovers,
A dream in motion and song.
There, in the country,
Great Gods rumble below the earth,
Rearranging the mighty furniture of the landscape,
So carefully that it is hard to notice,
Yet so dramatically that only a fool could not tell.
In this country, one may find peace,
Through the washing of the water,
The knowledge of the trees,
And the love of the birds,
Tender yet unrelenting.

Welcome! The great abyss,
The depth of sub-feeling, Despair
Has nary a ceiling,
The space that quells light,
The great beast that lurks in
Corners, timid but growing steady,
Ready to lunge at your swollen throat,
Welcome you, most humbly.
Plenty of good fun to be had, yes,
No need to quiver, nor shiver nor shriek,
Won't you reply? Listen well, Heathen,
Then speak!

"I haven't a way to reply,
As it seems my mouth has gone,
Perhaps you could help me, sir?
I have travelled through the long dark,
Tarried little and fought hard, though
I know not where I am,
For all that I see is bleak, colourless,
And without life.
Without shape in fact, even
You, who speaks in dark riddles,
Seemingly a bearer of poor news,
Have no shape whatsoever.
Perhaps you could help me, sir?"

Lo! You do not know?
Oh! This is good fun,
To be the bearer,
The carrier eternal, of
This so-called poor news.
Many similar passages I have borne,
In ages past. Time has wrought,
Anguish ridden, crestfallen,
Severe souls,
And they are delivered!
Like a crane to a chimney,
Time brings great gifts to my halls.
Listen here now, heathen,
And listen well,
For your everlasting fate,
That which you deserve, Is here
In the depths of hell.

What stories hide beneath the skin?
What rich knowledge?
What puzzles to solve, doors to unlock?
What landscapes to explore?
Oceans undiscovered,
Ripe with creatures beyond comprehension.
Lands of mysterious hues,
Shaded, bright, and beautiful.
Layer upon layer,
Row upon row,
Floor atop floor,
It is seemingly impossible to see it all.
Our minds fold at the thought of ourselves.

Fresh, sour,
Cowardly and brave,
All lives within.
Tales of fear and valour,
Novels that turn into trilogies that turn into mysteries.
None shall tell the tale.
Not mind,
Nor face,
Nor body.
I am life,
And I am a mystery.

How can I make you feel my love?
My love, that swings through the dense jungle of my mind,
And swims circles in the oceans of my chest.
The love that thrives in me,
That cries and dives deep.
Maybe I can send it in a letter,
Better yet I'll send myself.
Let's just lay down awhile,
And watch the ceiling.
Let the fly on the wall know,
What it means to fall,
Into the folds of another

Not the one of flesh and bone.
The one whose steel legs pick the world clean,
Clean as American washing machines
The one whose banks are fortresses of power
With all the rats orbiting around them
With the best rat home you'd imagine

The one who made good and evil your brother and sister,
Manifest dragons biting each other's necks
Scales flashing like neighbors and corporate logos

Mindful man trapped in a cultural cell,
Vicious man with reins in both hands.

Not just the world cascaded from them,
But the actual cave inscriptions and fossilized love of generations,
Their ***** deeds and misgivings,
Evil experiments and slave-drivings
Their war-mongering and capless greed
Their style and their flicking tongues.

Don't be so mesmerized by the screen.
Don't be so naive.
Know your mother well,
You won't always be so green.

There is life outside my window.
Fresh winds blow from the east,
Bringing with them crisp ocean air.
Creeks and rivers are washing,
Whisking away the last remnants of winter.
Through my window, I see the sun,
The sky so blue and a world anew.
In my room, through my window,
I observe, with experiences few.

Within my room, through my window,
You may see me, trapped,
As if bound by iron rings.
The trees are ready,
And I too, am
Ready to shake hands with spring.