Lucid dreaming is the doorway
        to the unconscious.
So dream.
Do not stay closed
        behind cement barricades
        blocking the moon
        from shining.
Live.
Each second is for you.
The tumbling of life
         does not promise
            anything.
In one breath
you can have
        a time table
        handed to you.
A distinct framework
        of how much
        longer you shall be.
Stay in illusion.
Keep in mind
that very little
is worthy of
being screamed about.
Politics
        and
people games
        are not
         the substance
        of existing.
Picture colourful images
         that flutter
          playfully
            across the
           mental horizon.
A traffic light
      will
       blink
red, yellow, green.
A noise
        will dominate
         the shading sky.
These mean nothing.
Moments of distraction
        soon
         gone away.
Focus on fantasy.
Allow yourself
the freedom to
         celebrate
        the essence
        of harmony.
When you die,
       it will be
         your dreams
         that are
          remembered.
Breathe.
It's just
      a bad day,
      not a bad life.

A man who cannot dream
is a man without a woman,
like someone thinking of a tractor,
the loss of a limb, the bequest
of a brass bed, a rundown plantation,
a large white house with a black
dinner bell but no supper,
a wayfarer going nowhere,
a vanished explorer
sometimes lost in his own room.

We lived
In our Goodwill bathing suits
During our arduous summer isolation
From school and friends.
They were shiny, silk-like.
The scrotums were always
A size too big,
And so, sagged,
Exposing us like water snakes
Raising heads from darkness.
We sat in the back seat of the Rambler
Like three monkeys,
Towels wrapped sarong-like.
The heated air rose from the hood
As visible reminders.
This was Mammy's idea,
Hoping he would feel obliged
After many hours of hoeing and weeding.
Just an hour at the Beach.
I longed for the sound of slowly crushed stone
Beneath the tires as we backed out.
He emerged from the house,
Walked to the garage,
Never glancing our way,
A half hour later we got out.
But I saw, I heard, and now I speak.
Some fathers are never Dads.

The road hissed under balding black
punched staccato rhythms up your back
Wind whining through the window crack
but you knew:
You knew where you were
Felt the dark spaces between
Here and there

You didn't see the car that swerved
in and out of traffic as if threading
The eyes of unseen needles.
But you knew all about needles

The car pitched upward slowly gaining
like a rollercoaster just before the drop
fighting inertia, trying to build momentum
You knew you'd never use, like your body

You didn't see the man outside the waiting room
sitting silent, motionless
Studying the ceiling with an anguished look
A prayer of supplication written on his still lips

The air was still as we suddenly felt heavy
Lifted through a concrete column in a metal box
you felt the ding as much as heard it
The doors slid open, then cool air and a new smell
Somehow more metallic than the elevator

You didn't see me close my eyes the whole way up
Didn't see the expressions I could not hide from me
Or shift my hands in my pockets, uselessly
Or my face when they told you two months, maybe three
My voice you knew all too well when
A month ago I sang in G, but all I could say now
was in a minor key, we both tired of being weary

The corridor was bright, obscenely lit in false light
not unlike the perfume of the week old roses passed
and in a moment they were threading needles in you
a perfect traffic jam of hopes choked and left
to die on the blacktop

You didn't see the church where we held the service
Or your sister and mother who, though she could barely stand
Stood by you one last time.
And I could not think of anything to say.
Had you been there you would have teased
"But you were always so good with words"
And all I could muster? "I wish you'd stay"

That wall man hits as a child
Would still on the floor,
Anger,
Which breaks men into pieces
And scatters him among those he loves,
The anger which held down
Can turn into an explosion.

That same anger which calls
Men to become something else,
And that something else becomes
Regret, that regret becomes a plea
Of forgiveness, which to himself
He cannot give.

Anger, which triggers paranoia,
And that paranoia into rage
And men are sent to early tombstones;
This anger is that of a poor man
Who has the world to suffer.

Anger which tears the man apart
And makes the soul cry for help,
And the soul breaks down into
A corridor of sorrow,
This anger that stains the man
And consumes like fire,
An internal burning.

a spanish rose, she lingers in the corner
with some french sailor who is
just a breathing caricature
illustrated in ink and animated by alcohol
his four letter word vocabulary with deluxe cardboard delivery
but its his eyes that capture you
swimming in hundred proof they are
wise with miles of years
and wicked in a smoky dark room way
but she is too busy to notice
flirting with the stranger across the room
a traveling salesman with boxes
of rusty trinkets for crafty sale

meanwhile old jack is swinging on the gibbet
talking away the hours with his old flame and friends
he is a threadbare imitation of me
and that suits you fine
long as its three meals and a slice of pie
the essentials of easy living wrapped up in a lace hanky
its a little ***** and on the down low
but the whole digging in some
rich kids ***** laundry for loose change
never appealed to you all that much
so attached to old jack come to make your stand
both barrels smoking hot and ready to let loose
should any fool step to the line

we all watched with amusements
as the magician open his show with a shock and awe
that sputtered and fell
but we all loved his punch lines so much that we
cheered him on all night
the chorus girls got us all up and dancing little past three
and the suave singer had us cheek to cheek by dawn
it was another night to remember to be sure
memorable as stumpy swimming with the gators
we all shuffle barefoot in the sand
to our dusty beds
and dream sweetly of fiveash romance novella endings
and the beauties of dawn
we will be up to no good once more
all loud and proud
young and full'a *****
as a spring moon crests over seaside town

there in the imperfect silence of night
searching for embers of hope among the
burned bridges of your life
the driftwood theology of a wandering soul
wherever the tides take you
trying to find some token of salvation in
the star filled heavens
trying to find meanings in a grain of sand
as with any driftwood soul spend your days
searching for a shore to call your own
trying to find embers of hope in the
burning bridges of your life....
there in the imperfect silence of night
while you await sleep to overcome your busy busy mind
while you wait for the solace of letting go
drifting and dreaming
lost in the beautiful places that dreams take you
you find that the driftwood theology is a wonderful thing
carve your own inner beauty into the wood of the world
take the love i know you have in your heart
and give it as a gift to the world around you
and you will find that you are no longer driftwood
cast on the worlds stormy sea's
you will find you have always been home
right here in my heart

Hail to Thee, Immortal Three
Knowledge we sing on laud
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates
Philosophy, to be human awed
Teach through time, consciously
Nod not, what others fraud

Socrates taught, Divine Being
God not of brutal Athens’ passions
Entity of Beauty, Truth Seeing
Goodness unseen in day’s fashions
Soul for unalloyed agreeing
Lessons humanities’ compassion

Talk eternal justice, everlasting life
Socrates’ Sovereign Right of Reason
Clearly mind deceived sense’s strife
Invincible perfection be God’s season
Thus, our key to knowledge ever rife
Priests who find this, absolute treason

No church or Socratic school
A barefoot man roamed to teach
Socrates mocked for looking a fool
His speech not one to simply preach
Plato witnesses a martyr’s drool
Cruel hemlock, words did so breach

Handsome aristocratic youth Plato
Followed Socrates’ Eternal Wisdom
But soon to find his own credo
In Medara to find Euclid and freedom
Egyptian geometry to provide dado
To Plato life, expression; not a system

Eternally an artist, Plato did develop
Philosophic circle in Academus groves
Bring Athens, world knowledge envelop
Discretions of sensations, be not oaths
What man may be, an animal jealous
Plato’s allegorical cave found in droves

As Plato once be Socrates’ disciple
So too, to Plato would Aristotle be
Passing comprehension archetypal
Successions of genius’ visions do see
Aristotle taking it step further, as vital
To science of hands-on discovery

And this is where we see a parting
Of two distinctly opposing philosophies
Plato being at odds, with science starting
Aristotle’s truth, finding no apologies
Things not happening by chance imparting
Frivolity of duopoly, dichotomy to Socrates

But a new era has surely now dawned
Science exploring an invisible atom
And the seen and unseen correspond
So to Aristotle’s, Plato’s, Socrates’ datum
Brilliant new philosophies have spawned
An abstract notion of conceived stratum