Disdain for
Traditional forms,

A sense of
Detached irony,

Self-reflexivity,
Expressed as a

Flagrant,
Meta-textual
Awareness,
                                        ­        

                                          adventurous
                                          typography,
                                              

                ­                                                     that defies
                                                                ­     the common
                                                          ­           relational schemes
                                                         ­            between text
                                                                ­     and margin



The juxtaposition
Of words
Governed by
Syllabic content,

and
       freed
                from
                         the
                               burden
                                            of
                                               syntactical
                                                     ­             strictures

Meanings
Changed
Through
Inversion

(now read it upside down)

                                                         ­  
                                                             ­       the
                                                                ­    poem
                                                                ­    recites
                                                                ­    itself

Paralyzed truth
Mimics brave fear,
Abdicating censure, and
Redressing allusion,
                                                       ­       

                                                               Liberation
                                                                abounds
                                                                in the trough
                                                                of a sine wave

Enamored of the possible, and racing,
  Through a winding maze of endless choices,  
  Daunted by the obstacles we're facing, and 
  Dizzied by the clamor's many voices,

Shackled by a heavy chain of causes,
  Binding us to all we've ever known,
  The many paths before us give us pause, as
  We struggle to define which are our own,

Within a world that's not of our own making
    We anxiously await the day we'll find,
    A journey worthy of our undertaking, so
    That purpose in our lives may be defined, but
    
Perhaps our fate condemns us all to wander, and
       Our lives are merely mysteries to ponder

I've just reached 10,000 page views. A small milestone, granted.  Nonetheless, it is a welcoming reassurance that my work has not fallen on deaf ears, and a warm encouragement to continue onward. I offer you a bounty of my unyielding gratitude, for not only your support, but also for the luminous community you have all created here and allowed me to be a part of. This place is truly a wonder. It's a rarity that I don't find my self astonished and surprised multiple times per day by some of the outpourings of unbridled creativity that turn up in my feed.

With that, I thank you once more, and bid you adieu.

"The unexamined life is not worth living" -Socrates

"KNOW THYSELF" -- Socrates

"Wise is he who knows that he knows nothing." - Socrates

"Do not seek to have events happen as you want them to, but instead want them to happen as they do happen, and your life will go well." -- Epictetus

"No pleasure is a bad thing in itself, but things which produce certain pleasures bring troubles many times greater than the pleasures." -- Epicurus

"Natural wealth is both limited and easy to attain, but wealth, as defined by groundless opinions, extends without limits." - Epicurus

Spike every leader's cup of tea,
With mescaline and LSD, add
Just a pinch of ecstasy, and
Soon the world will be more free.

We are but a fleeting plume of dust,
We are but a withered patch of rust,
We are but an aimless wind, whose gust
Is drifting, through the dreary twilight's must,

Awaiting, the new rising of the dawn,
Awaiting, the dewdrops which glaze the lawn
Awaiting, the quick prancing of the faun,
Whose dancing through the fields might lead us on

Through streams and forests, far from where we've strayed
Through pastures, where the lilies rock and sway
Through clearings, where the sunbeams pierce the gray
Of the foreboding clouds, to light the day.

Yet, here we wait, with eagerness and zeal,
Yet, here we lick these wounds, which never heal,
Yet, here we churn the spinning water wheel,
Which drips a fatal poison in our meal.

He retreats into his home, and
Now his ritual's begun,
He briefly questions his decisions, and
The person he's become.

Now he brings to birth, an orange flame
Beneath a tarnished silver spoon.
His eyes fixate on glints of light,
Which penetrate his living room, and
Flood into his windows, from the
Autumn evening's harvest moon, and

He looks down into the spoon, he
Smiles, and gives a simple nod, and
Now with unremitting reverence, he is
Praying to his God, and begging:

"Sanctify me, rectify me,
"Tranquilize, mesmerize me,
"Pacify me, O' great master, so
"That I might know thy peace, and
"Fill me with intrigue, pon which,
"My famished soul might feast!"

"Won't you please..."

"Light my darkness?
"Stoke my flame?
"Calm my mind and
"Heal my pain?

"Dry my weary,
"Weeping eyes, and
"Grant my heart, to
"Feel again?"

"If only for a moment,
"Let me know that
"I'm still live! and

"Fill me with your beauty,
"That of which, I'm so deprived!"

Now, he draws up with his needle,
The cold steel then tears a hole,
He feels relief, that within seconds,
He will once again be whole.

Back he pulls, as crimson stains the walls
He pushes in, and back he falls,
Into the velvet wonderland, of
Blankets on his bed.

His prayer indeed, was not refused
He feels fulfilled, he is renewed,
Well, at least until tomorrow's
Vicious cycle starts anew.

For truth, and
For meaning,
We plead, and
We question, and
Reason gives birth,
Just to pregnant
Suggestions.

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
’Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked bananas –– which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin in Coca–Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate–chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was ****** looked like **** in the morning light.
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And ******* Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried *** and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and ***** just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
"But hell," says Roy, "I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly,
But I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high."
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
Then sits –– and cries –– and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow–blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes –– sits the godlike Baba Fats.

"What’s happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I’ve come to state my biz.
I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I’m about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"
"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here’s one more burnt–out soul,
Who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf.
Son, if you would seek the perfect high –– find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive *******!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I’ve climbed through rain and sleet,
I’ve lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of **** is this?
My ears ’fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap,
But I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll **** your guru ***!"

"Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you’re forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu–Tzu tree.
And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzu–Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers–by.
And you must slay the red–eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
There’s a blood–drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu–Tzu tree."
"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu–Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his snow–blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it’s always the same, old men or bright–eyed youth,
It’s always easier to sell them some **** than it is to give them the truth."

I feel myself slipping,
I fear that my grip
Has come loose, as I
Look at my life, and
I see it confined,
By a noose,

That prevents me, from,
Being the one that I am, as
I'm swept 'round by forces,
I can't see, and don't understand,

Where is love?
Where is truth, or
That wonder
We find
In our youth?
Can you tell me.
Where days go,
What life is, and
What is your proof?
Do we die, with
That question,
That burns
On our lips,
Is it clear,
Who we are,
Where we're going, and
What it is, that
We hold dear?

Can I live, for one day,
That these notions of,
Status will not interfere?
Or when men, do not
Drown all their sorrows,
In whiskey and beer?

Won't you,
Feed me
Your dreams, and
We'll bathe
In the essence
Of love, as
We soar peaks majestic, and
Ride on the wings of
White doves
Through space, and
Through time,
Without pennies,
or dimes
We'll sing songs, and
Write rhymes of
The wealth,
That we
Find in
The health of
Our minds.

This terse verse was not
coerced or rehearsed,
the characters dispersed,
automatically, erratically,
forming statically cohering
patterns emphatically stating
my state of mind unwinding,
binding to the page,
for my pen is but a player and
this paper is its stage.
So now these thoughts have autonomy
despite their bond with me,
they're free to be a part apart from the
constraints of my mind, and now without
restraint they find their way to yours
as you perceive them.
I emit, the pen transmits,
now you receive them.
Adopt the words with
your optic nerves.
But be warned that these forms
Do not appease norms.

These swine you elected
Will starve your sick parents
And ******* your children with debt,
They'll torture and ******
Pillage and plunder,
Cheat and steal,
Lie and conspire, and
All in the name
Of a tenuous 'freedom'
But you don't care,
Because your flag
Is bigger than
Your conscience,
And your **** is longer
Than your attention span.
You drank the Kool-Aid and  
Bought the snake oil, and
Now, you can't be wrong,
Reason eludes any attempt
To persuade you.
You make me sick,
You complacent *******.
I've got no more patience
To waste on you.
******* and everyone
Who looks like you.

In a distant dystopia, it towers above all.
It radiates a dim blue glow, that
Transfixes eyes and minds alike.
Pulling with the gravity of 20,000 suns,
Its force cannot be rivaled.
An irresistible, iridescent abomination, and
An admonition unto the autonomy of thought.
Weaving tapestries of illusory illustrations,
Into the indigent intellect of its unsuspecticng viewers.
It's images penetrate the psyche like magic, as
Minds are manipulated into the madness, of
Mass consumption of manufactured "needs."
Its reporters replace reason with rhetoric, for
Objectivity is no obeject in an age of sound bites.
It demonizes difference, distracts, and desensitizes.
Apathy becomes queen, and facile pleasures become king.

Remember your vigilance.

The tree is a greater artist
Than any man or woman.
Could ever hope to be,
For whereas we sit and strain
Over our words and phrases,
Shaping and revising,
Writing and rewriting,
Ever conscious and ever
Apprehensive of the affects
Which they may bestow
Upon our readers, and
What they mean to us;
The tree simply exists, and
Without judgment, effort
Intention, or pretension
It creates countless patterns of
Incomparable beauty
With the veins of its leaves  and
The grains of its wood that
Even a Shakespeare or Goethe
Could only ever attempt
To describe, however
Brilliantly they may have,
In their tomes.

If I start to write a poem, will I finish it this time
Or will I give up midway through, because there aren't enough rhymes
In this old dreadful, awful language born of brutal feudal swine
Wearing wigs and pantaloons, and saying words like 'thee' and 'thine'?

If I have a hazy thought, will I succeed in making clear,
That murky bit of intuition felt, or will it disappear,
The minute I put ink to paper and begin to toy around
With all the scattered bits of insight that implicitly abound?

If I find myself inspired all the sudden by a muse,
Will she hastily retire before I can spread the news
Of all her wondrous gifts to me, that I so luckily did capture
In a transcendental state of exaltation, joy, and rapture?

If I have a vivid vision, flowing freer than the stream
Of a river, clear as crystal, and as dazzling as a dream
Will my will be of such power that I'll succeed to convey
It, or just fall flat in defeat and then retreat into dismay?

If I see sumptuous fruits that hang atop the mighty tree
That's down the road of human intellect and creativity
Will my reach extend sufficiently to gather them and bring
Them back into...into... oh, **** it! I can't think of anything.

                                                (╯°□°）­╯︵ ┻━┻

This is but a test, one for
A mind in need of rest,
And though it's surely not his best,
It still is nothing to detest
He's drifting in a sea of intuition,
His expression is abreast
He's seeking for a resolution
He hopes not in vain to jest
He seeks the further involution
Of this sense felt in his chest
As he is wand'ring
Through his contemplation,
Pondering his expectations
Seeking his elucidations; but
Just where might these be found?
Within the lines upon the page
Or their enunciated sound?

I don't have the answers
to these questions...

Guide us into our perdition,
Let your mighty will be wrought,  
Purge our souls of their sedition,
Free us from the bane of thought, and
Quell us with your superstition,
We'll act out your splendid plot, so
Empty us of our volition,
Bury dreams that we forgot,
Fill our hearts to make us brave, and
Give us strength, to persevere,
Help us live as gleeful slaves,
Until we fade and disappear,
Never laughter, ever after,
Wither still, and turn to dust,
The final chapter's violent rapture,
What was iron, now is rust

I write poetry often, but it never writes me back.

Just take a step back, and
It's easy to see, that WE,
In this easily distracted,
Abused, and amused
Land of the free, are
Enslaved by TV, and
WE don't need this
Shameful circus,
Media frenzy,
Attempting to
Fill our spirits up,
With envy, contempt,  and greed
Sell us fear, tell us
"Here, have a beer!"
Lull us into submission, but
In addition, if you take another
Step back, and just listen,
It's not too terribly difficult,
For you to see what your missin'
Imagine, that underneath the
Terrorist attacks, and the plastic,
The trends, and the fashion,
The crime, and the police lights flashin,
There lies one basic human element:
PASSION, the passion to build,
With skilled hands, and demand,
To take a stand whether
Boy, girl, woman or man, and
Fight day and night, till
WE become free, and see
A change in this deranged society.

So just,

Take a step back, and it's easy to see:
I am you, you are me, and as one
WE ARE FREE!

She told me I was funny,
I told her she was depraved,
She asked me what I meant.
I asked "are train wrecks funny?
She laughed.
I guess they are.

I don't even

How do people go to sleep at night?
   I've never understood, I must confess
   for only once the dawn exudes its light,
   does my fatigue subdue me with duress,

But when the sun is hid behind the clouds,
  or buried in the snowy mountain tops,
  my thoughts are racing, and they're very loud,
  and seldom is it that they ever stop,

For, something in my brain, I do suspect,
  is wired in a way that is amiss,
  so, I take evening hours to reflect,
  instead of diving into sleep's abyss
  
  But, oh! If only ****** grew on trees,
    perhaps, a night of rest would come with ease.

I write, but why write? Well,
because it's my rite; and
to spare you my tears,
I'll make sure to be clear:
It's not rite as in 'right'
as opposed to a wrong,

like a discordant note
that's misplaced in a song
or a 'right' so bestowed in
divinity's throng, handed down
by a deity mighty and strong, but

a rite, like a ritual, rather habitual.
This you will gather, and
this you'll process, and
with deepening fervor,
we'll further progress: It's

addiction to diction,
to poems, to fiction
where syllables,
fill up whole pages.
The friction, of
pen against paper, just
gives me the vapors. The

clacking of keys, makes
me weak at the knees.
Some may call it disease and
express their disgust, but
my lust for these words
I just cannot appease.

So with all of my might, and
from morning to night,
I equip with my tools, and
I write and I write.

Whoever wrote "all men are created equal" never saw ****.

My jokes are like broken change machines - they don't make cents.

My jokes are like old air fresheners - they don't make scents.