Walk to the fun-house
Mad-house n’ sad-house
Arrive a minute too soon.
Judge gavel wire barb
Tortured 12 hours past noon.
Serial laugh scare
White faced with green hair
Schizoid with no idea.
Plan for the worst one
The first one, you thirst some
The rats are feverish and calm.
Scurry for the front door
To see day just one more-
A maze, caught in Lucifer’s palm.
After such we shall never lie down and surrender
As the heart shall become stronger
even after loss of what one considers a " much needed tender.."
The battle ends.. but never the war.
As life brings us many tolls and trying fights
To remind us of who we truly are
teaching us when to stay or take peaceful flight.
To another land and another day.
Even past the losses of those we wish with us to stay.
A sun pops forth in the morning hours
Marking our blessings with every passing nightfall
Fields bless our tainted and sorrowful view along the way.
After the war is over, the victor is niether side.
It is the understanding between enemies, peoples, and lands
which are strengthened by having "Nothing to hide."
With no earnings to be made
No blood to be lost
Peace and unity are marked as victors
Past the grave sights of those who helped to lead us
to what truly needed to be the cost..
To the questions of who we are
who we need to be
Past mirrors of the fun-house that lead us to become shallow and scared.
When we lie down arms to be "the best" or the "most in need of an answer.."
The true power is true care and visions of what we truly are.
Entities which shall share a living space
only needing to reach out a helpful hand
To make a once blackened and hateful place a "New Earth"
We are reborn
to a more welcoming and warmed up place.
I don’t mean to be insulting
To all you devout Blisstians
But I am not, and won’t be
Any kind of American Christian.
I have studied long and hard
Over a half century of years
And thus, I shall leave you all
To your hopes and your fears.
I find your religion
A strange philosophy.
It doesn’t quite work,
Or so seems to me.
Your god will have
An End Of Days mess
You do what you want
And then you confess.
You can be a right prick
Until you are ninety three
And then confess to Jesus
And you’re home free.
So, tell me again, please
How does this thing go
That there are things that your
Omnipotent god doesn’t know?
It doesn’t seem to be
Well thought out to me.
After thousands of years
Of sainted holy history.
It sounds more like it’s
A money-making scheme;
A deferred payment plan,
A fun-house ride of screams.
Looking back on the stories,
Two thousand years of war;
Of persecution and burning
And horrendously much more.
And who wrote what and when,
And more importantly why,
This mythological poem here
Could make a grown scholar cry.
So, I shall reserve my judgment
About your Judgment Day
I’ll go on and live my life
In a kind and considerate way.
I won’t put on your robes
And make your sacrifices.
I will thank you all to leave me
To my own Un-Christian devices.
The crystallization of thought
leaves behind tiny granules,
like diamonds, reflective and
geometric to fit together.
Sand to glass
for a window or
Brain grains made of waiting,
Recognition of patterns recorded.
Faces in old photographs,
"Look! That's me!"
The big picture, stitched individual pixels,
light thru the film
projected on a wall,
fuzz of dust on the vinyl.
Motes of knowing
but tough under pressure,
and in the liquid of pure,
Your childhood dream
Your teenage dream
Your 20s dream
Your 30s dream
Your 40s dream
Your 50s dream
Measure them in decades
Transfixed before a distorted hall of mirrors
A cycling fun-house
While presidents come and go
Parachute pants, bomber jackets, bangs
When you’re drifting off to sleep
What feeling awakens in your heart?
What small feet run across your translucent landscapes
Cubists blocks of what might have been
Twisting , reforming…, parallax
Like Etcher in motion, Inception
Dark cities floating overhead while eclipses burn red
Do your hands tremble with rage or with despair?
Or do you lie perfectly still, resigned
Practicing for your casket
Selfies of your head sinking into starched pillows
You’re responsible now
Clerks and coroners pat you on the back
The least you can be is responsible
Hunting down dreams in dreary forests
With bow knives and bandanas
Better to fill out your W2s
Calculate your interest and help with homework
Don’t be selfish
Let others burning with madness, desire and discontent
Dream for you
Shape the future for you
Preferable to be content
An anti-pioneer To Nest in paperclips and razors
Satisfied with consolation prizes, Ms. Congeniality
To sink silently down the toilet of trivialities
Floating listlessly like a turd
Flushed out into the polluted ocean of time
But let us not dwell on dreams
Let us drill, let us dance, let us down
Korean BBQ and snap-shot sunsets
Never mind the shadows swirling
Through you, deepening with every tock
Civilization calls - You must be integrated.
Not like days of yore
On the hunt
But wrenched into a mechanical maelstrom
Input into a coded vision
An alien incubator zooming through metallic tubes
You are an app
Of Aborted dreams
Of pragmatic passiveness
Fingered by millions of strangers
To kill time and hope
The bullets did no harm.
Wet by the storm,
but never did he drown.
Until then, the rocking chair makes its sound.
Beyond the event horizon
the soul realizes its own redshift
as the eyes can only look.
The observer as the primary mover
can listen to the siren gain distance
as the bullet leaves the barrel
and the rain-forest turns to sand.
Life is unkillable.
It floats without a name
in absentia from a host
the staticghost swims
furiously from the
coast of the darkest
hole in the universe.
The bullet put this all in motion
and left a trail called time.
The celestial field a substance;
the soul of the earth.
Like driftwood we travel.
Lambda cold dark matter engulfed
on the future horizon we project.
Nuclear and outwards, our love
keeps us in check.
Gravity is both
a mystery and
an unquestioned force.
The situation is not good
as the theory of everything
absolves itself in front
of carnival shotgun.
The world is a fun-house
and we're bound to disappear.
The spirit is unkillable.
The Will to Power is real.
The primary mover put it all into motion
some 13.7 billion years ago.
Now it's here to stay.
Now it never dies.
Even when in war,
rather, especially in war.
When there is challenge
on the event horizon
The will is a spirit that can assume a human host
for its own means and objectives.
Only discipline is required.
Try thinking of it as invincible: this will that can never die.
It started with Archaea and anaerobic prima materia.
Now it fills the milky skies with with projects of man.
All individuated, the souls do rise and shake
the hand of the unmoved mover
that rocked the world so heavily
The spirit of those things is unmovable
as it is born of the light that tore through
The light is unkillable as is the will.
Life is brittle but the forces that coerce choices
is forever bright.
Even to an untrained eye
One can spot layers of foundation
Caked into her face
Is she a victim
Of some historical imperative?
Is she caged
In some arbitrary matrix?
Some fun-house of mirrors
While a mustachioed ringleader
“Come one, come all, bedazzled spectator
Behold, the distorted woman
Transmogrifying before your eyes!”
Or maybe she’s just vain
Or betwixt the two
Somewhere, a boy drops a sixpence
It rattles in the dusky jar
As he enters the dark show
Fake news indeed:
Is this a fox in the hen-house or a hoax in the fun-house ?
It’s news to them that it’s views from us. Weaning ourselves tit-for-tat while we wet-nurse the networks net-worth, they pull the wool over their own press-cards, spinning yarns fit to knit a seamless weave of tailored narrative (free alterations post-laundering, free press with dry-cleaning). Ironing out the irony, the ship of state suddenly mixes metaphors: a freak gyre of Greek fire, leak-proof talking points for caulking joints on a sinking vessel, a showboat floating fake liars, gloating, into lakes of fire. Let us light a naked fuse to the faked news until their networks ignite like an information overload. Fake news indeed. News to me…
now watch them form a phalanx as we farm the faux links.