I don’t know how it happens
but every nut job you meet in a bar
has a story they’d like to share with you
about their wild days of youth
or about how things and people were
decades ago without the usage
of what we have now.
they seem to be unstoppable,
their mouths are like pistons
running on an everlasting engine
pumping out these useless words,
these agonizing words that don’t
amount to anything
and the crazy part that blows my mind is
I continue to listen with great anguish
I am their ear, their therapy
I am the light to a handful of moths,
an oddity freely roving amongst them
these people were once people
a long time ago
fulfilling fantasies
they could never imagine
and now they have found me and latched on
as if anything had to do with anything
but I need them though, I need their agony
I need their glory and their damnation
because without their uselessness
how would I ever continue pumping out
these meaningless poems?

The years are running cold
Like sand through your finger holes
Like cents in your old jacket getting lost in the pocket folds
Stilling hemmed to the edge of a jaded crown
To get praise from a faded crowd
Trading being right for the right to be loud
Tell me where are all your glories now
Just a clown with an open mouth
In a house where the lights are out

D Vanlandingham

Death only has power  when entwined with flesh;
as it is the pathological.. and its need to be propped up
--which is all there is   to embrace the illusion.
Yet, no flesh can stand  before the Face
and so  is burned-off  in an instant.

Now, with nowhere left to hide--  
the hidden..  becomes, fully known.
                   (the illusion,  and it's deception)

And so  separated,  (but not really)
all things  known
will eventually be brought  back home--


A boat, now empty of its captives~
the last to step off;  

                shining  as  bright

                         as the Morning Star