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These pages aren’t all light and glory-
this is a terrible love story,
but it’s still some great *******.
It’s a tragedy smeared on the geography,
and it’s a comedy of cosmic calamity.
It’s the chanting of the trees,
and it’s the ramblings of insanity.
It’s a tirade told with fluttering hands,
like the last autumn leaves on a dying land.
It’s a careless musing, but so amusing;
a prophets dream we’re, by waking, losing.
It’s a mystery of misery;
it’s a history of divine impartiality.
It’s the animated hand of animosity,
filled with the fire of philosophy,
then faced with the fallacy
of reality.
Encased in basement shadows
where spiders hang from ceiling corners
like dead men hang upon the gallows,
stirs the ghost of a forgotten child-
his body rots in a shallow grave,
but still his eyes are glowing wild.

Sitting alone in harmless study,
I saw his eyes before me burning-
for what rage still held him home
like an arrow lodged inside his brain,
my stomach set to churning
in helpless wonder of his pain.

Sweating and frantic, I called out:
“what is this visitation about?
Begone, if you mean to do me harm!”
Fixed upon the air alone,
those emeralds held their bitter tone,
and from the dark there stretched an arm.

It held my shoulder, and in alarm
a scream bellowed from all around
that froze my body to the ground.
Then the eyes flew through the floor,
and the scream flew out the door-
and I don't go down there anymore.
A man stood up to pass me by,
and heading briskly for the door,
let loose an almost inaudible sigh-
what could he have been sighing for?

Could it have been for all the friends
who never call him anymore?
Or was it in woe of all of the ends
of happy times gone long before?

Or are his motives less self centered,
and he sighs for the human race?
Was he so solemn when he entered,
and did he walk at such a pace?

I wonder just how many sighs
contribute to our atmosphere-
if bottled up, how much it buys,
and does one ever disappear?

Could I have answered to this sigh
and brought a castaway to shore?
Could it have been a silent cry,
or just a sigh and nothing more?
As all of the planets pass me by,
I’ll often wonder- is it them, or I
holding the earth in this position?
We call this a stupid superstition;
I must point out how odd it feels
assuming that the eternal wheels
would pick just any empty fools
to mold into the vacuum's tools
before pulling the world away.
I know to them I couldn't say,
but if I did, I would explain
I’m more than just a brain-
I too am all the universe.
Now, to whisper a verse
in words so fit to bless
is a sin, but I digress.
Of all the woods I've wandered through,
the most surprising was one of bamboo-
within photographs I'd seen quite a few,
and so assumed they'd be a greener hue-
but this, it turned out, was highly untrue.
Bamboo, I have found, is a shade of blue-
with maybe some splashes of yellow too.
In communist wasteland
billboard show dictator-
says, "Work hard
or we make you miserable."
In America,
billboard show pearls-
says "Work hard
or you make you miserable."
In Borga Borga,
no billboard.
Island five miles wide.

In communist wasteland,
election is fixed.
In American election,
opinion is fixed.
In Borga Borga,
everyone broke.

TV in communist wasteland
blame America
for poor in Borga Borga.
TV in America
blame Borga Borga.
Borga Borga blame TV.

Nobody want to live in
beautiful Borga Borga
but me.
I see it in the bathroom mirror,
and on the horizon, coming nearer.
It’s dripping from a dollar bill-
I sell it off but touch some still.
I hear it dripping from my car,
I hear it comes from wells afar,
I see it seeping from a stone
(that monolith we call a phone),
and spilling from our eyes at night
while sirens dance in rays of light.
Now as I shower for an hour,
I feel it filling up a tower
all the way up to the moon.
This tower will come crashing soon.
It is the milk of death and strife,
yet some would say it's the stuff of life.
Some say that it will set you free-
in blood they tried to baptize me.
Its hard to see the plot
in the foreground of the fighting-
you’d understand your movie better
if it had better lighting.
Your body language sang to me
of what it's all about-
you tried disguises desperately,
but Hollywood sells out.

So you were a princess
prior to the revolution-
the soldiers saw you bow your head
over its bitter resolution.
Young wide eyes eclipsed in trust
of fiction stacked beside your bed-
reality though was a dagger ******
into youth, and disappointment slowly bled.

We both know that there's no place
for you in their election,
so draw the curtains and hide your face
from your own empty reflection.
This wasn't what the trailers promised,
but you're free now to be honest-
you're free to dream you crossed the stream,
escaped without the toll,
though its far too late to twist your fate
before the credits roll.
One fish, two fish,
I wish you were
in the sea so you
could swim with me.

Red star, blue star,
how far you are
from where it is
you need to be.

Flopping up upon the shore,
I wonder if you wore
your dancing dress
just for me to see.

Salt and pepper,
parsley flakes,
wear my smile
until it breaks

Or throw it all into the ***
and try it-
I like it a lot.
move over
we go
no one sleeps
easy weeks
keeps coming-
riding on the float bus
to Uluru
engine drumming
like a curious ghost
on nothing
but noodles, jellied toast,
and cheap beer.
Wake me when
we’re getting near
to where we’re going-
I fear though, here
the heat is growing.
Maybe we should steer
instead to where
the coast is clear
and glowing red
to end the day, and drive
and drive the heat away
by splashing in the tide.
Living free is easy
by the sea
where we’ll abide.
we want nothing to do
with nothing to do
grow up with me
and ill grow up with you.

my dear sweet childhood love
who loves me
left me

by no fault of ours
it just
one day

the fulcrum slipped
the world swayed
and slipped
from him

in opaque rage
and eyes wide open
and paranoid venom
and piercing humiliation
and hallucination

his ghost lingers
in thick cannabis fog
and i'm a buddhist, by god by god
god who
left me
Look at all those people going,
flowing down the street.
Like a river of corrosive mud,
they ***** whoever they meet.
So they never touch, never say hello-
just flow together down the hill
and collect at some new low.
Sleepy living in a ghost ship
sailing just above,
I'm leaning out my window-
dreaming about love.
This iridescent hull is hollow
save for you and I myself-
we remain a sticky dry,
and wallow on their bottom shelf.
I dreamt I jumped into this sea where
spotted splashing
someone saved me.
When I cried out loud enough
my tears would soak the sand
so reaching down to pull me out
I washed their ***** hands.
A ship tossed under a violent storm
is thought romantic, as blood is warm-
but waves are worse on the little lake,
and take an often darker form.

Here there is no triumphant splash,
or chance to choose to fight or dash-
there is no dawn on which to make
a promise that you will not crash.

Dawn will come, but it's only dawn,
and when it arrives, it's glory is gone.
There's no reward, for none's at stake;
no luck, for lots were never drawn.

So set your sails, and sail free,
and do not lament so readily
the life you're destined to forsake-
for you may get to see the sea,
and that's worth every wave you take.
Let the earth spin
While I lie awake.
I have morals (of tin)
Still, for only deaths sake.
God will save me tomorrow
But tonight I'm alive-
Daylights shame I nightly borrow
So to sin I shallow dive.
Nightly though showing more daring, go deeper,
Lightly I feel my soul growing cheaper.
This is one of the first poems that I remember writing. I think I might just post a few more of these oldies on here as well!
Somewhere far from the stars, I slept,
and dreamt a dream where I dug a hole
in the sand, which fell as pyramids wept-
I dug too deep; Earth swallowed me whole.
I freed myself finally from that lonely prison
in which I would witness the hour or minute,
while many long years were evading my vision
and spinning a world with no trace of me in it.
Now, I'm a spirit who sings this to every soul
that wishes to flee these waves of sorrow
by sipping some cyanide from a bowl:
Refuge which we take, we borrow
from the children of tomorrow.
Sitting by
my windowsill
my soul is still

my home

are many
talking fast
drinking coffee
coughing smoke

dying slowly
and horribly.
There is a room as old as war
without a window, or even a door.
This room is none but the smoky den
of too many torn and immortal men.

Through Brazen Bull they'd stay unslain
but men are strongly swayed by pain,
thus here are the most unholy tales-
for hidden within was a cat o' nine tails.

The man who found it holds it still,
whose morphing face appears at will
to mimic a president, parent, or pastor,
though his name is always, "Master".

No unarmed man was ever free
but they call this democracy
for everybody has a say
who walks their Master's way.

Most men fall to Master's feet
and swear; Declaring their defeat.
From his wrath they shall be saved
so long as they'll remain enslaved.

A few will wrestle and risk the knot-
most will fall, but some will not.
Just give the clock a little spin,
and Master's changed his face again.
A number of years ago when I was learning to drive
My dad would make me drive down to Ionia Michigan
because it could **** a full hour of driving practice
And because it was some other place to go.

Just recently I had to go back there and pay off a speeding ticket.
There are worse things than paying off a speeding ticket.

This town has gotten tired.
I walk by the city hall and eye the crumbling brick beside the road
and I think they must not be trying very hard to attract any visitors here.
But there I was-
suddenly insulted.

The city lights have gone out decades ago but they never died. They left their posts- abandoned. Now all that remains are the the dim and flickering street lamps that stand on sidewalks and bide their time watching or waiting for the final walls to crumble.

The city has a sleepy aura that one would feel seeing somebody's 70's childhood toy, like a jack in the box or a colorful plastic record player left outside. A lost innocence, and the smell of marijuana seeping from every upstairs window downtown or of a girl once beautiful who now waits alone and used to take off her clothes and reveal her tongue and love the universe as it appeared to love her.

I walk inside another second hand store and see nobody attending the counter. Stiff- funereal clothes and grey dresses. There is one rack of men's clothing, I accidentally take a whiff of the stale dusty air and it suddenly holds me from touching them. I quietly stare at my sobering realization that I am in the cities ashtray. They sell here what they can't burn but probably should, and every ten shirts in a row indicates one more rock in a row at one of the many churches of necessity and I decide to get out.
This place gives me the creeps.
"Wasn't that swell?",
She chirped as we surfaced.
"What a well to slip into!
All dark and deep and new!",
Wet and cold and young we sat
In the dirt which we made into mud.
Never a smile I'd had nor will have
Could make such soda of my blood.

Yesterday though is overrated
Just like everything else that's old.
Even the summertime wisdom is cold.
Now either that wisdom has made me jaded,
Or I'm just upset that the past never faded.
Here’s something to melt the snows
so you may bloom your compass rose-
Go far away without delay,
how dare you ever think to stay!
Just let me take some Kate to keep
in Michigan and weep
with joy as you grow
West without a doubt-
though I keep here, I'll figure out
just where to go-
maybe somewhere that doesn't snow!
If you can do it so can I,
So go! And I might also try!
Such a noble little poet,
who thinks the future is in your hands
when it's in your head; poetry is dead.
But age does bring wisdom (after the fall)
so what good is it screaming at the wall,
with still some good numbers to call?
Who's there? Who are you speaking to?
You're so cute. Nobody can hear you.
What good is it screaming at the wall
when our doors are never locked?
Come to me instead, you've never even knocked.
Every eye here is a whistle,
so keep your drugs locked up
and every seat contains a thistle
so you’ll have to sleep standing up.

Keep digging for bravery
between running from the hounds
always escaping slavery
and refraining from making sounds.

You'll soon find
that’s no way to live
the quarries here are all dug out-
So when you've got nothing left to give
and everything left to figure out
you have to pack up often
leave what you can’t keep
always take the long road
and always the most steep.

I really am just like you
except I tied myself to me
and roam around alone here
miserable and free.

What you need is what I need
but you’ll have to find me first.
I can keep you dry
and you can quench my thirst.
The search for escape from a cycle of perpetual separation.
Somehow this was inspired by a few hours listening to Bob Dylan.
Welcome to the zoo-
and who are you?
And is it true that you are free?
All the animals you see
are often coming up to me
and asking: “Which way to the door?”,
but I don’t answer anymore,
for I have lost my way as well.
I wonder then, if you can tell-
is this a zoo, or is this Hell?
“Does one who has gone mad know he has gone mad?”
asks aloud the old man,

"If one does know, then surely I am not mad for I do not know;
If one does not know, then surely I am mad for I too do not know."

The man ponders naked, a bathrobe turbaned around his wet hair and sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor. He faces directly away from the wall mirror and trips his handsome head off his bitter tongue.

Putting his chin up he resigns his thoughts, declaring
"If a sane man knows that he is sane than I surely must know too."
Let me breathe your smoke
and I'll tell you a joke:
I'll love you 'till I'm broke.
Love you 'till I croak.
Love you 'till you love me too
(but then I'll wish we never spoke).

I know how to get to hell:
by riding the crab with the pretty shell.
She's wondering how long I'll take;
I'm struggling to stay awake.
I wish the birch wouldn't fall when shook;
she gets jealous when I read a book.

Look before you bite the bait!
Don't hate because love couldn't wait.
Don't play the Game of Kings like me-
my focus fell from keeping free
and trading queen for rook right out the gate,
I sealed my fate for checkmate.
To you, the California King,
breathing fire when you sing-
know the power of your word
to stir the hearts of us who heard,
and let it give you every reason
(in what seems an endless season)
to bring this momentum to a head,
and tell the world what must be said.
Slim would have been proud to hear
you channeling such honest fear.

To the flea who leaves the ground-
listen how those notes resound
through head and heart,
and heat and beat,
into the artist on the street.
Even in the brightest light,
your true power hides from sight-
the truth is, you have been the tether
which has kept the band together.

To the bones of rock and roll
bearing resemblance to Will Ferrell,
barreling down like a crazy train-
tap like thunder, and pound like rain!
There's no mistake that you could make
but not to beat until you break.

To John, or Josh, or Slim, whoever-
You are now in the song forever.
Your cries were carried by the waves
across the seas and through the graves
to melt those souls encased in ice.
You've found the sound of paradise.
The radio is so obscene;
it has no soul on which to lean,
but you bring hope to fill the hole-
there is still strength in rock and roll.
You'd like to be just like anyone
who, held by wires, flew-
and you'll take anything
if they do too,
until one of you
takes a few too much.
It's always cool to play the fool
in the hot kitchen
'till the fool plays chicken.
I can’t wait to be seventy-five
and single again.
Oh, to feel alive.

I’ll come home
without washing my face
and feel the space
on my right bedside.

Ill get a dog
watch time go by
and wait around to die.

I cant wait to be seventy-five
and single again
because its hard to
remember that you're alive
until half of you is dead.

For now I'm young,
and I've not found the one I'll wed,
and I do hold a good store of years before that,
but that's just the point I'm getting at:

As we're made aware of life by death
and of sorrow made aware by bliss
love isn't made without loneliness
for both lie balanced on our breath.
Shooting stars fell in a line and danced across my eyes in quick succession
though the sun outshone them all
and who ever worshiped the stars anyway?

Then like fireflies flew north before broke,
and from the south I saw the great Diamond City
reach out above a jungle of metal concrete plastic plastic with lights
Oh! lights

Pinprick window TV stream style smiles selling streets projecting the moon for
advertising space; the population rises

Factory stormclouds only irritate umbrella stand footsteps who pretend
to hate the rain
and outshines dim sunlight baptizing all in electric glory

Candleflame prisons of light that honk through haze through
rainy Monday 6:30AM’s
choke on each others breath until we have nothing left but CO2;
dandelions inherit the earth.
Australia they say is filled
with all the things that get you killed-
snakes and spiders, birds and bats;
venomous dogs, and dog-sized rats.
But who in counting could forget
Australia's infamous national pet-

which is, of course, the Shoe fly.
Like rocks with wings, or drops of dry;
like drones of death, the scouts of hell,
the souls of all the men who fell
to thirst along this twisted track,
or like some angry god's attack,

they swarm in shapeless, shifting form!
A black mass like a violent storm
is aiming for our ears and eyes!
Swatting is hopeless, but still one tries
to ****- just one! To no avail-
it's easier to **** a whale.

Locked in sweep, or swoop, or swirl,
they'll never sleep- just loop and whirl,
cry like a hammer who drives a Hummer,
then clothe me like four coats in summer.
Thus cause is clear why we now cuss
like Australians- the flies finally got us.
Fields stretch, of paper white
And grey as day is losing light
Alone I rally muscles fight
So I be home before the night
Wind will chill me gill to gill
As ice will render muscles still
Sheltered not from cruel chill
So I will make my journey still
Long I jog, through howling clatter
Jaw wont move, unless to chatter
Hearing sweat drops frozen, shatter
Movement warms my sleepy matter
Locomotive losing speed
Juggernaut has lost the need
Lifeless muscles need to feed
Yet still i beg them, "forward heed!"
In the distance- lights are lit!
I call, but silenced in a fit
My throat is scratched by icy spit
As I collapse in snow,
that's it.
A glorfax found a bolloro
and hid it under some snanxa-
the snanxa groughed though,
and the bolloro was no more.
Alas, the glorfax could not glorf.
Culture Study: excerpt from a Zargoz sports radio broadcast:

"Holy Quambats!", bellows low-orbit sports announcer 33e also called Rick,
"The Zargoball's been switched! With a hopping Ugaroo!",

(An Ugaroo is an adorable jumping rodent from Vulky II, and a Quambat is the ten foot titanium pole typically used to hit a Zargoball across any particular preset playing perimeter- this for any listeners at home who are new to the sport.)

"Not to worry! It seems that Team Lime Green has gotten the Ugaroo caught in a snare- placed here in the ancient past for JUST such an occasion! Uh-oh! Here come the Iron Knights to try and steal their capture!"

(There are over 70,302 teams [exactly 70,303 teams] currently competing for possession of the Zargoball on planet Zargoz, partaking in the galaxies favorite interstellar pastime- a popular sport known also as Zargoz.  The current round began at an unknown date in the planets ancient history, and all that remain of its origins are a plethora of wildly conflicting and confusing myths. It seems here that Team Lime Green has passed down knowledge of their hidden snare for hundreds of generations through word of mouth before this incident today. Miraculously, their bizarre efforts appear to have payed off.)

"Oh, what a blast! The Zorodan Order has just dropped a neutron bomb over the site of the capture, eradicating all life within a fifty mile radius! All referees are currently contacting their lawyers! And now... The word is in! The new Zargoball has been placed in the Temple City, just outside the Zorodan Temple! Power move!"


"The timing however couldn't have been worse! It is now 29:29am of the third day of Rayah on the Zorodan Calendar! All Zorodan on Zargoz must now drop all clothing and physical possessions, sit on the ground, and spend the next 3 days in holy naked meditation! The Council of Crystals has now moved in and captured the temple, decapitating all naked Zorodan on sight! After burning down the temple, the Council will be transporting the Zargoball via Air Carrier to ninety-third base, where hoards of treasures await the recipient of this hard-earned point! It's a long journey though! Before they arrive, someone had better discover the secret location of ninety-third base! And quick!"

(The secret location of ninety-third base actually, out of sheer coincidence, is also inside the Zorodan Temple- however it will now likely be well over a hundred years before this is discovered, as the only living contestants with knowledge of its location have been recently decapitated and burned.)

"*Folks, I'd like to take this minute to promote our sponsor, Fizzwerz! A bubbly drink, sweeter than theropian glass-grass and recently determined to be more highly addictive than human crack, now cost you only 13.1 Gobi credits! These are- HOLY GOD!! Attention folks, I'd like to interrupt this interruption to announce a spectator of honor here in the low-orbit VIP section! Actually God himself! What a serious honor! And now we return to our broadcast! Oh here we go! Oh dear! It seems that the pilot of the Crystal Council Air Carrier was a Swamper spy all along! The carriers passengers have all been knocked unconscious by his thick perfume! What a show!"
In our fall we were wild and wise
And reason was worn to our childish eyes
But that season has quickly come to pass
And a bitter wind now shakes the grass.
I have a blanket to wrap you in
Let the sun sleep, and the world not spin
Place your heart now on my pillow
Wrapped in the roots of this weathered willow
Wonder up into its rustling leaves
And rest your head on times simpler than these.
My muse talked again, but of course not to me-
sitting still headphoned having just listened
to the entire Foxygen discography.
Something is never made from nothing
but some things are always never made-
I watch them pass by from my shut upstairs window
content with lukewarm lemonade.

Money will march to the beat of war drums,
passing through hard hands and chewing gum gums-
it takes what it makes, it gets what it gives
and progress is a prank found on fixed perspectives.
So if not for the cash, or to lend contribution,
why ever should I even step out my door?
Is it so my genes can offend evolution,
or just that my bedroom is such a bore?
As many men build mighty towers,
the Buddha child shakes his head.
He grants no time to a tower so tall-
for such a tower has too far to fall.

As men flee fast from falling hours,
the Buddha child will smile instead-
for like this tower, flat on the floor,
is any tower that falls no more.

We who stop and see the flowers
heed what the Buddha child said:
"From where do you take the fruit-
from the stem or from the root?

Short and sweet are earthly powers;
do not leave your dreams unfed,
but do not lose yourself in hunger-
for it cannot make you younger."
This room was dark and loud, everything glowing a soft yet piercing
shade of pink. The ceiling was abuzz with sinful distortion
of mind and body, the floor writhing and squirming in lustful torment,
and all in between was this dark ****** exchange of dreamy madness!
December screws those tightly into that packed basement, all but a few
puffs of cigarette smokers who huddle at the steps peaking over
and yakking, and though their bodies freeze, their eyes shift about
their edges, lingering fearful and sorrowful over the doorway as
it appears in some hellish biblical portrait depicting the absolute form
of lust and desire and jealous agony, sin and *** at its highest organic peak. Like hesitant lemmings, like grounded birds, like chickens
they dare never enter because they may never enter. Unwelcome
are the fearful and the human from that dark sinister ****** presence who came here for love and then found none,
but angelic girls in heavens twisted favor may come and go as they
  How angelic they were too- cold and alone, drunken and
undressed they open themselves up to heat of the floor and lose their
minds and manners to the pervasive rhythm pulsating like some heart
between the swirling psychedelic patterns that adorn the walls,
whatever a heart may be they shine, and the heart sways heavily
through the flames and the devilish young men, handsome!
Their smiles bring these girls to their knees again and
again they play them like harps and the girls are played such
a silky and shrouded lullaby in which they find brief silence
hidden between waves of fashioned euphoria,
silence comparable to the silence one finds sitting in the midst
of an elephant stampede while the whole earth trembles to the horizon,
and it is a silence found only when one is sure beyond all doubt that they are completely
Tonight the wolves are prowling;
I feel them in my blood-
and in my ears they're howling
in wild rage against the flood.
The moon is in my eye,
and in its glow I'm overflowing-
drowning in the starry sky,
and clawing madly for a thing
which moonlight isn't showing.
In naked wind I feel the sting
of sleeping decades in rotation:
I mark my plot, make darkness sing,
but summer, fall, winter, and spring
eclipse my shallow indentation.
What some called faith was only fear-
distraction was all that they held dear.
I tell you the truth will be hard to hear
if you've still got something in your ear.

I've got nothing, and nothing is mine.
I've got no god who gives me no sign.
I've got no church, which suits me fine-
at least I'm allowed to enjoy the wine.

At night I can sleep on solid ground,
and listen as nothing makes a sound.
In the daylight I can look all around-
finding delight where nothing is found.

I too have witnessed the ethereal glow,
not from above, nor from below,
but from moonlit footprints in the snow-
from nothing I came, so to nothing I'll go.
The ugly boy
saw the beautiful girl,
fell under her spell
and was lost in her swirl.
In whirling wind,
he fell into the sky-
but she was a storm,
and in passing, would die.
So then he would fall
and get caught in the trees,
to go back on loving
like the rats and the fleas.
I think
I am
the hand
will take
what it
has made
and I
will fade
the snow
I find
a place
to grow.
One million and one tiny houses span this city
where one million unsatisfied lovers sleep.
Does Romeos childish grin see more
than these unlit brick roads reveal?
In darkness lovers die alone.
Oh Romeo,
          what did you find in her eyes tonight?
What is still out there
that I am yet to cry for?
Lie for? **** or die for?
What treasure lies buried in the folds
of a shifting world, tossing me
like a baby in a blanket
in the sea of storms and creatures
of all creation?

Is love what calls the hero forth
into the battles of the giants
stomping on the soul
and beating the heart with hammers
in the desert where we lie waiting,
cold and wise and old
and in disguise as sheep?

Is love out there?
Or is it in the night, breaking
silent suffering scarecrows
with the brothers of time
and screaming from the open sunroof
of a car overtaking dead midnight traffic,
waking the pastures of a reckless
and restless youth?

Is love what we were chasing
when we were racing?
Or is it something far above,
and beyond what we have yet become
as children in the womb
of life and sorrow;
will love find me in tears
of a final breath for all that was
lost in seamless sleep and
So valiantly did he die upon a little hill
Of greenest grass and under sweetest air,
And he died grinning for his unfailing will,
And for what eternal glory met him there-

And his courageous heroism will be told
In song by each new coming generation
Who still sing those fighting songs of old
Within our proud and glorious nation-

What true sacrifice and supreme nobility
Lies in he who serves our shining vision
So that everyone here can grow up to be
Just like him, or better, on television-

Because he believed in his bleeding heart
What it means to die for where you live.
If he had one regret, and was let to restart-
It'd be that he hadn't another life to give!
I would not be so impressed
to hear a king had made a guest
of me in halls so lavishly dressed,
and blessed with every new feature;
I have known the smaller creature
to be the greater teacher.​

Yet nor would I be so relieved
to see that not a soul had grieved
when in the next he was conceived,
deceived as he was by mortal power;
despite our divide, we do yet cower
together from that final hour.
You are the love of my life, my dear,
a love that grows with each new year,
so please do be truly willing to hear
me confess: my love has left your rear.

I knew you'd find this news alarming,
and regret I couldn't be more disarming!
I know that I am no Prince Charming
but who in here is your health harming?

We used to dance beneath a burning sun,
and then when we felt like it, we'd run.
Remember how often the day was fun-
please don't tell me those days are done.

If you love me the way you say you do,
you'd love the song of the summer too.
You'd love what I love, the way I grew,
and more so still, you would love you.
Standing with friends on a nameless shore,
I feel somehow so grateful to be so unsure
what wonders and horrors destiny has in store.

I go in, and sit where the waves are breaking.
Repeating, rolling over my head, overtaking
all of the spirits- now shivering and awaking.

They did not sleep, yet also they did not stir-
for the land they loved was occupied by her.
Now she's gone, but they're not as they were.

The light is low; the day is coming to fiery end-
but there are certain things Apollo can't defend
and why should I not call the night my friend?
On this howling nightmare night,
wake together into darkness,
voodoo puppets pinned to pillows-
voices cancel out vibrations,
silence loses way in rattle,
village loses way in war,
metropolis shatters in the window,
Nightmare, I'm awake once more.
.          Design is flawless of the diamond city,
an organic stone equation spattered messy
green according to plan
and yes then red and then white and dead,
but would a single cloud churn the heavenly blue abyss
had it sparked against the steel will of mankind?
          So maybe the stars do play us for puppets
on threads of gentle gravity,
          And maybe the mountains move us
more than we ever wished to move them anyways,
          And maybe Gods thorny love spat you out
at exactly where you're just about to be.
          But what were the chances that still recovering our vision from the blinding eyes on the day of judgement, we couldn't yet see
that we had already made it to paradise.
          What better world have I to explore than this one
where every traffic light signals the endless passing
of the rhythmic energy of living,
and every passing soul reveals yet another bridge to cross or street to follow
behind their wild eyes where America was never short of lands uncharted; In the Diamond City I spoke to the warrior ****** masks
and recognized the voices of the restless spirits of the west.
          Their feet pitter patter between
colossal walls of natural and carnivorous symmetry and ponder the pillars of ancient Greece so everything feels so modern, as if its own existence were somehow premature, and it was.
          Young, in their claw
towards a concrete cocoon they sleep past these cement giants
who channel rivers of breath through hands and hairs
and endless leaves and lungs that rustle around above them awake,
all of them oblivious
of the showering accomplishment of now.
I flew too fast and found my fall
by Christmas shopping at the mall.
I ran though those rotating doors-
here men were doing silly chores,
polishing statues and waxing floors,
outside of those redundant stores
that line the air conditioned alleys,
ten foot poster sues and sallys,
and symmetry in pale valleys
beneath the ceiling of Elysium;
more marble than an art museum.
Just which god is this temple for?

I purchased some knick-knacks
I’m sure no one needed,
and then went for some snacks,
for shopping does leave one defeated
(and because I was so kindly greeted
by a woman whose head was beaded
where her eyes were meant to be).
I ordered a chocolate muffin, and chai tea-
extra shot espresso, and sugar free;
I’m already craving more.

I then stood up to take my leave,
and lock myself at home to grieve
for what prosperity had done;
our towers now eclipsed the sun.
My gentle stroll became a run,
for underneath fluorescent haze
the walls and marts became a maze-
some escalator Escher craze
which drown me after several days.
The secret, which I had not known,
was simply that the mall had grown
and stretched itself right out the door.

You are still free if you are poor,
in this prison I've grown sure-
whatever value I held before,
it was not worth what lies in store.

— The End —