By the tedious twists of fury,
the miserables love to scurry

But in their dance, a farce by chance
In love am I, with the miserables
merry.

The world is not
worth mentioning while
12 disciples shy away
heavy in the night-
By glowing embers, the savior
has fallen, surely fallen,
and placed beside those
in ****-recovery; dying men
reborn, but not by innocence.

The world is not
reconciled by waves of motion,
when action speaks
only by way of eruption.

The hardening word.
It is not spoken
with adoration,
causation without correlation!
One would say
and says it

only to find
himself alone in the night,
burying his mother, that
thickening flesh, solidity
in hatred for a breast
forever filling his mouth
with curdled milk.

What sorrow there is
for Man!
What pity grinds in his bones,
if only to penetrate
that hardening word?

He is lost by volition
and baffled by silence,
and so becomes
a disciple
burning in the night.

The world is not
as merciful
as memory is forgetful,

I am
all
that I am.

They say the world will end in peaceful chaos,
and nonsense will reign
all because of one split earlobe.
And in all anxiety of separateness,
there is, and will be found, something,
someone subdued.
A vague calm, awaiting the fury
when all is cold, lingering by the light
with four screeching magpies
talk, talk, talk.
A noisy chatter
that somehow is subdued-- Not subdued!
But fades away
into a constant hum
of static.
And that is the answer, always received.

The last word.  
"I have won!" They will say.
And to be conquered, oh, to be
something subdued.

And one morning, you will rise,
drowning in an ocean of light, always
reminding you
of  that daunting, waking presence
of degradation and evolution--
of the devils squawking from shoulder to shoulder,
fighting for a constant ear, pierced by all that noise--
That was always you.

They don't exist, but the boredom of living,
and the tedium of anxiety over one
healed earlobe, still split, of course, does.
But all is well.
It doesn't need to be apathy, this spinning
contradiction of existence and thought:

We need answers for everything,
so we make them, and we find them.
Never there,
and yet, always there too.
They say everything can be broken down
into smaller pieces and that makes for easy examination.
Easy observation.
They say everything exists at once, times one-thousand,
maybe more, neither here nor there.
Something simultaneous, someone everywhere.
The omnipotent mind, twisting himself
in and around, infinitely and  constantly,
and that makes all the difference.

It is meaningless.  And what will you do with all these
actions of resurrected futility?
Create a codependency, no doubt, on the magic of science and the ease
of technological advancements.  Continuing this evasive circle of modern life
and meaningless distraction-- Who can afford to live
and who cannot?
Surely, there is no winner.

We all get to the same place in the end, and knowledge,
unlike currency, through meaningless chatter,
may perhaps outlive you.

Betray
what you will, when
will is free

when arms cast down
a multitude of shadows,
weaving a soul

dancing naked
before the sun.

Away betrays
the warrior, the only
one
still mocking his
conscience, by folly
begotten.

Away, away
you, a heart made of stone
left bitter and coddled
by the soil,
You wear a skin

one
that time
does not remember,
a flesh
tarnished

by the deluge of
pity
before the tempest,
by the bone-white
knuckles
of defiant sands.

Betray
such might, a
might made strong
by forgiveness,

Mercy
lays with judgment
as a child
lays with wonder

And in his wandering, Man
finds himself
lost before two rivers:

one he fears
and one he must
tread,

not knowing
the two are
but streams of saliva,
quickly escaping the
same mouth.

And when the tide
pulls him under,
bleak by satisfaction

and by the wisdom
of mortality,
he whispers softly:

Oh, Mother.

If I cut off
my hands, my desperation
would learn
another route:

a way to harm
the outside in
acts of self-defiance

justified
by acts of self-
defense.

Bright as the menace, Man
brings gallant shadows
for the golden idol.

We give a wicked turn for the fire,
and jonquils for the Essenes,
pillories for nay-sayers,
squawking and gawking, bronze
bottoms for the whip:

perched piety, an angel
and a demon,
I forget their names
as they whisper petty
prayers into my ears.

Countless and listless are
the eyes that beam, Heaven-
sent and Heaven-forward,
the wanderlust leaving
Paradise in shambles.

Bright as Venus, acid rain
beckons all the saints
left dim, a shadow
bursting in the stratum.

We give wicked lies to the worrier:
One night, near to waking, he tore
the Devil's wings
and traded them for daylight,
bright as the
gallant  menace.

and the God laughed,
and then he cried.

Sometimes I wonder if jealousy
will lay with empathy, equal
halves to the other.

And I forget my name.

Forgetting piety, forgetting blame,
leaving the vagabond,
the lowlier child,
to weep alone
in his nakedness.

Countless and listless are
the prayers of children,
caught by the reign
of night, gleaming silently,
lonely
and together in the stratum.

This night,
man winks
with his universe, a pulse
ever-folding, buried
in his throat

This night,
man nods, coupled
by the sounds of emptiness
and the palsied glitter
of waning epochs:

and he is forever
in query
to the spark emitted,
that gorge of deviance
toward his own existence.