1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.

The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.

The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.

Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.

The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.

The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.

The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.

The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.

Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.

In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.

As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.

I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.

The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.

First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.

The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.

Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.  

History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.

A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.

As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.

We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.

The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.

The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.

From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?  
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?

Was the illusive
article of liberty  
worth its weight in
the blood expended?

Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?

Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?

Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.

The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.  

Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.

Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered  from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.

I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.

2.

The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.

WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.

During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.

As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.

Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.

Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.

The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.

Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.

We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.

The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.

Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.

America desperately
needs a new narrative.

The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.

The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.

It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.

Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.

3.

During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.

Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.

The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.  

They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.

They will spare nothing.

Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.

The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.

From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing  
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.

The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.  

The capitol is
indeed burning
again.

Looters are
running riot.

The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.

Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.

MLK has lost
his humanity.

He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.  

MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.

Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument,  I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.

I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.

This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.

Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.

They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.

4.

A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.

The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.

Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.

Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.

To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.

5.

DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.

Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.

USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.

The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.

A crowd  
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.

I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.

DC is all surface.

It is full of walls
and mirrors.

Its primary hue
is obfuscation.

Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.

The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.

Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.  

Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.

Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.  

They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.

They are the children
of privilege.

They will never
alter their path.

You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.

These young ones
portray a countenance  
of benevolent rulers.  

They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.

They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.

6.

Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.

I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.

I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.

Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.

America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.

Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.  

I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.

I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”

The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.

The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.

I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.

The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.

7.

Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.

The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.

Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.  

The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.  

Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.

Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.

I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?

I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.  

In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.

The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.

As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.

They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.

I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.

If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.

8.

I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.

My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.

My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.

The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.

Yet they remain
inert.  

Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.

The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.  

They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.

They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.

America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.

Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.

I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th

Today the winter is not as chill, nor as gray.  An azure depth backdrops the "fade"-to-white and the eyes remember what to see beneath patterns that shift and flow.  You hear your footsteps and ...feel the silence leave your mind.

"Inside A Snowdrop..."

Driplets - droplets
pitter and pat
echo and float
...and the sun is here
its touching
tracing
edging patterns smooth and
flowing.

Feel the air
- its fingertips grasping
finding each bit of you all at once
...teasing and tickling your cheek,
nose THEN down the throat
filling and growing 'til
becoming an exhale
becoming you out and upon the world.

Feel as each hair lifts and spreads,
gathers and becomes waves eddying and rising free
freefalling and floating and rising again -
riding the unseen exhales as the world
- your world - flows by-and-by
grasping and tasting life
grasping and BEING life for all the other exhales
to find and feel and be felt in turn.

Reach - palm up...
wait
...wait
then
     catch a miracle!
- a world within worlds within -
a snowdrop
a single glass to gaze in-and-in
to focus - deep
deeper still
... 'til
I see you
...behind my eyes
and the shadows and shades
surround and enfold
tightening
tighter still...
holding me
gentling me
becoming ...me.

I am lavender ghosting in the air
the taste and sweetness of your skin
the softness of each lil hair flowing by
the lips that found their home on mine.

Breathing is one long purr
and life is gently kneading into the softness
...of you.

Chris

Lost to backdrops scrolling past,
She sits knitting
in the carriage of a train.
The vague needles
They scintillate and glimpse
With the cadence of the wheels –
Upbeating ceaselessly.

Strips of tiny loops
And eyelets like dewdrops
Of condensation
Grouped on the superior rim.

Once in a while,
She gives a heave
To loosen more yarn from the skein
Of Filipino-made wool,
brushed worsted weave.
Spun and carded
from the richest fleece,
Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.

The needles flash,
With ancient rhythms and attack
Of duellists in their chainmail coats.
With little hesitation she can tack
From plain to purl to blackberry.
Count back by rote or slip a stitch
While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.

All gather profusely in her lap,
As windfall trove, rich-patterned
And warm with peach-fuzz nap,
All crafted from a single line of yarn.
Marvels fall continuously from wise
Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.

(9/11/13 @xirlleelang)

As you progress through life and spend your days lustfully longing at the life of the strong and steady sunflower you come to realize that you - the clean and quiet wallflower, crawling around the corners - will always dull in comparison to the shining petals of a rare seasonal plant.

You will never know for certain if this is just the way things are - for you receive fleeting moments of worth when you are watered. You will never know for certain if the water truly loved you, if the rain that rejuvenated your purple skin and awakened you even in the most hidden of places really ever cared.

You will never know for certain if the water truly wanted you to blossom, or if the water was just lightly sprinkling you with enough life so that, when the spring came again, you could resume your dutiful place as the backdrop against which the sunflowers shine.

Nobody doubts that all flowers are beautiful, but nobody regards all flowers as equal. You will never be a sunflower, for that is just not the type of seed that you are. Whilst there is nothing outwardly wrong with not being a sunflower, their warm open leaves and their throne in the centre of the flowerbed seem to leave little room or sunlight for others to flourish.

You don't doubt that the water would miss you terribly if you disappeared into the ground, but you spend your shaded days wondering whether this is because you truly are important, or because their sunflower would not look so regal were it not for your purple misfortune.

As all the purple plants disappeared last winter, as the first frost drained their final ounces of water induced hope, I felt my heart dip in the knowledge that they'd be back again in spring, valiantly pushing themselves from the deep dark soil in vain and desperate hope. I chewed my lip on the thought that their frugal and consistent efforts would never be appreciated, for no matter how long they deigned to stay in the dark, there would never come a spring where they would transform into the sunflower.

And as I turned from the five by four foot flowerbed, I thought about all of the sunflowers I had met in my life, and all of the backdrops I had provided for them. I thought about how sore it was to be the sibling that made the other sibling shine brighter, the student that made the other students seem smarter, the girlfriend that made the other girls seem... yellow.

And I looked at myself, and I thought about how nobody's favourite colour is purple.

Manitoban Skies

Clouds are the mountains of the prairies
Towering cumulonimbus masses
Incredible backdrops across an otherwise plain blue sky
Warning call that rainstorms may approach
Vertical reminders of atmospheric instability
Jetted upwards into vast formations stretching miles and miles
Promises of unrelenting lighting and thunder
Cinematic sequences is country folk are lucky to view
Humidity in the summer, ah
What would we do without you?
Rolling clouds are a fair trade for the lack of rolling hills
Clouds are the mountains of the prairies.

What a perfect setting to tell this love story just like the land her heart was barren and Georgia O Keefe
Speaks of it perfectly “Such a beautiful untouched lonely feeling place such a far part of what I call the
Faraway” how many times had she dreamed of being able to lay her head beside another on the pillow
But still the years increased and no prince rode into view against the backdrop of what others saw
Just as weary empty barbarous land the artist O Keefe with fine acute sense ability blended contrasted
Harshness to bring forth exquisite beauty from bovine grazing herds to one individual that left only its
Whitened scull stared with empty eye sockets on the cruel reality of an unforgiving land but even this
Spoke an unequivocal announcement of beauty rugged startling severe the sun sky and earth told the
Story of quiet irreversible glory magnificence magnified multiplied would capture and enthrall even
Greater than when this creature lived and breathed as well her life would whisper the sweetest accord it
Was like a life time had forgot then with richest hues the flames leapt to daring and fulfilling life truly
She was driest tender what moisture there was derived from tears of regret and longing just a tender
Touch With feeling and passion it came to full expression when she stood at the end of this great field
The sun Dried weeds started to stir from the rising breeze she stood there beside a lone tree and as this
Picture Took full hold of her soul in the distant horizon her answer of a lifetime of longing arrived on the
Wind he dropped his biplane gently upon the face of the field a golden rush overtook her feelings like
A Flower without water she was in a state of drawn feebleness and want now her skies were filled with
The wonder clouds of rain they came in a fury after the long draught she didn’t know this clearly but she
Sensed it with womanly intuition two kindred spirits now would come to know fulfillment because at
The Center of everything love is predominate and it’s not just a feeling it’s a person he goes to the very
Core and center of existence he sees and truly knows when the sparrow falls he all so knows when we
Fall in love first because he arraigned it took it from the fragile frail wisp of thought gave it a birth place
In the heart and as it grows it ends up ruling a life of love and devotion but for misses Beal it was just a
Another day for Jon tungsten it was just a time to do a little barnstorming in Santa Fe the fall had been
Full and promising now it became even more gratifying and promising this land at first considered a
Tortuous place gleamed and was unalterably a dreamscape how tenderly wonder touched and wound it
Self around your emotional well being but for the moment our heroine returned to her job a quick
Telling of the hotel La Fonda where she worked “La Fonda is a Santa Fe landmark, just steps
Away from history and art museums, a variety of galleries and shops, historic churches and, of
Course, the Plaza. The historic inn’s Pueblo-style architecture features thick wood beams, latilla
Ceilings and carved corbels. Special touches such as hand-crafted chandeliers, tin and copper
Lighting fixtures and colorful tiles add character and charm. Beautiful hand-carved and hand-
Painted furniture and displays by local artists create a rich ambience. La Fonda has always been
A Local gathering spot and a hub of activity. World War II journalist Ernie Pyle wrote, “You
Could Go there any time of day and see a few artists in the bar…a goateed gentleman from
Austria or a Maharajah from India or a New York broker… You never met anyone anywhere
Except at La Fonda.” So as chance would have it the pilot adventurer and hotel manageress
Would also cross paths under favorable circumstances due to him having a slight mishap with his
Plane and without it this story wouldn’t have unfolded he was only slightly bruised the only
Evidence was a sling that held his right arm but it meant a delay and a stay so busy was her life
In doing for others little did she know the tables were about to be turned who could count the
times that she had watched the couples holding hands holding deep long glances going out on the
Floor to dance and longed for the same to be her life there is some who believe there is a
universal
Attunement and alignment at work in our lives it seems so here she the great tree that bare no
Fruit his life lived fully but at the center there was emptiness all it took was a cordial meeting out
On the patio dining section among trellises hanging flowers a full golden harvest moon and a
Sweet autumn breeze only a greeting was made but in the depths that only the soul knows a
Connection had occurred somewhere there was the smallest muffled sound a foundation had
Moved unseen but powerfully moving a new building stared to be built the next time a little
Longer conversation then a dinner was arraigned one was wowed with tales of the barnstormer
Life while at the same time a root had fastened itself to a wild ones heart the steady stability that
Showed out of her life was for some reason the most attractive thing he could imagine her life
Made his life take form and made a base where truth was undeniably lived grandly a love so
Great could only be told in the ski with barrel roles loops and dives clouds white and puffy and
Blue that is almost incomprehensible the days washed in to their lives like the land that told its
Secrets through beauty conjured against stark backdrops elegance pristine acute almost painful
Was the soft divergent quality revealed but before they could fly off into the western sunset fate
Would raise its heavy hand and an accident would claim her love as it did so many others of that
period so she donned the black widows apparel but rich beyond words was the man who had the
brightest blue eyes he was her guardian her keeper no longer did she long for love it had stepped
beyond the azure blue and every time a plane passed over head she was thrilled and amazed with
The life she had known when a heroic flyer took her far from her down to earth life spelled out
Heaven in such glorious terms like the gentle sound of a Spanish guitar drifting out on the plaza
Her life is filled with a haunting music that is the knowledge of all who love and have been loved

Such a shame to let loose
That I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing
But pretending seems to work so well;
You all claw at plasticine symbols
The letters deplored with a swish of the ink well.

Calligraphic self destructions mean something to somebody
Over an ocean with eyes so slight as to shine in the darkness,
Glinting in robes of black on the rooftops of rich dynastics
And the rhymes of yesterday creeping to the forefront,
Reminding me just of how hopeless hopelessness is--
The assonance of a retreating boxcar
Is steaming into the backdrops of consciousness.

Is it time to rewind somewhere?
The visages of paintings only mean so much
To the blind bats on cave walls in cavernous reaches
Of static television snow drifts.

It seems that you and I have come to the biggest of filamentous rifts:
Sifting between now and then we have mind-skips
Of epic proportion, a sickened distortion
Of all of the children left in their contortions
It's all leprosy in my eyes
Since the skies are burning down as we pinpoint abortion.

And we release that defeat, and try to find meaning in it all:

A lie of great size
Told from my lips yet it was--
You who believed me.

Together we made a chimera
A deception even worse than anything I've ever known
I said that some god had told me all the things that
that
that--

I can't begin to begin an apology
My mouth mummified by request next to Jeremy Bentham
I only wanted what's best for you--
But look at what you've done!
Oh, Crusades! Oh, Crusades!

Children don't lie with your eyes on the sunset
For Nietzsche is the ultimate navigator!

And you finally catch sight of the top of an alligator
floating in the oil, staring at you
slanted eyes smiling cruel.

It all makes sense now, what half believed lies
That explain how the darkness will come to rise
But the opposite side of our crystalline marble
Has known all along, they knew all along!

Facing the east, wasn't He?
Then even he knew
Perhaps what I said was not all untrue
And in fact
the fault lies with Him
Not me,
Not you.

Sincerely,
The Bible.

The Easel and the Tripod

She created from paints his capturing was done through a camera lens from the towering canyons of
New York to the windswept desert their love and fame grew proportionately how large can love grow

When it has such backdrops and talents fused together the height and strength of New York’s
Skyscrapers to the vastness and richness of New Mexico’s desert that is missed by most but through the

Eyes of Georgia O Keefe the dead items took on a vibrancy and life and through her husband Alfred
Stieglitz she was revealed as artist and beloved only as a man giving full vent to his heart and the

Emotions that were found there oh heart shine through this prism of painting and photography the
Lucid the albescence of pretext with brush and pallet and the keenness of eye to see into the depths

Give expression then adjust it in a minor way then capture on glass plates the indescribable desire that
Lies hidden but is the center of emotions intent none so inclined will ever weary this well tells of

Never ending depths a stranger will ever only be able to scratch the surface because the power of love
Truly is mysterious beyond compare to look upon another release all restrictions give command to

Decrement the probe will find only the enlightened exquisite inner and outer collusions that occur
Briefly but are ever after defined by that moment the merging of two into one by common interest

You have crossed the unknown unchartered waters but in them are found the most accomplished life
That can ever be found an easel and a tripod is a silent witness and a grounding point that energy is

Released across the span of the earth and touches the Cosmos and will call infinity home love started
Of truth will never be extinguished by time or eternity so therefore go into your own gallery of the mind

Stand at the headwaters of bliss it is time to celebrate undying love

Lights in the sky entertained me that night,
Lights in the sky felt like therapy to my eyes;
Overwhelming me - shining so brightly,
I felt a bittersweet love with the skies - yet it was true with you.

I cradled my thoughts wondering how much you would love me,
I cradled my thoughts afraid of how maybe, I could lose you.

Silky skylines let me feel hope,
Silky skylines recorded infinitely;
Yet I saw you perk up, curious about my words,
Warming my heart that you had felt the same.

I cradled my thoughts wondering how much you would love me,
I cradled my thoughts knowing you loved me too.

Light blue backdrops felt like a dream,
Light blue backdrops coated me in yellow streaks;
As sunlight carressed my face,
Healing my injuried heart of pessimism.

I cradled my thoughts wondering how much you would love me,
I cradled my thoughts in fear of what happens next.

Your words are so gentle and left me singing melodies,
Your words are so gentle that it soothed my head;
Responsibilities and rational feelings felt ridiculous today,
for once we can grab them adventurously.

I cradled my thoughts wondering how much you love me,
I cradled my thoughts knowing how much I love you too.

all in a trance--sweet fragrance, France
where we first met; predictable--love in Paris
backdrops of blushed pinks, blushed gold
fancy silver smiles
french slurs--painted across the city
and lights
pretty iron tangled street lights
a city, a romance.

Old mans hands Were charmed
Balancing as a bird on tree limbs
Flowing through a song as if he wrote this for her heart
Bellowing in deep decibels he begins to shatter
Trembling in site of broken faces
Pounding hammers on his once bright skyline
Casting black shadows against his walls and ***** floors


The world is a spinning canvas of articulate brushes
Partially to blame for backdrops of darkness
Well aware of colors hiding ,behind voices
Elbows on tables of sadness, rusted or splintered
Tacked down under the dock, of high tides of self pity
Lack there of compassionate crows
on heavy shoulders of Druids

I look down and see the shadow of a pelican
Flowing and gliding across the open water
I dare to look up in amazement at His Eyes
Staring at me
I trust he is flying for me, I start to believe
His Presence of strength  and Pressures to dream.
Something to fight for
For if not! Then this revolution I search for
is just a war ...

a poem written at 5 AM - no sleep that night*

seen too many faces
melting into backdrops,
concrete boxes
where gray air
paint lungs gay,
where diamonds
fall too ******
frequently
blurring the windows
of colorless rooms,
tiny rooms,
that suffocate,
garrote
and wash the trees
and the flowers
into frail state,
where the moon
is nothing,
just a ***** coin,
where the dogs
howl and howl,
cry and cry,
in agony,
where everyone
is lost,
them you and me,
lost

Advocate for the world around us,
We are the only things left,
to hear our voices heard,
but the throats of our souls left parched.
I can only sit back and bask in privilege,
while i'm encased in invisible shackles,
and the person to my right, chained to me as well but just blissfully unaware.

We are together in mind
a connection, but it is lost because there is no Wifi.
We are together physically
a presence, that is unseen because the daily zombie grind pushes on.
We are together spiritually,
a thread, that is closed because we don't see a human.

And as the veil stays while we sip our Starbucks latte,
could you imagine if the curtain fell?
The pain rushes forward, and a suffering of another is felt.
The world we have lived in isn't what we are living for,
but designed for us, and it hides the suffering in a department store.

The theatrics is over now,
It's time to close up the play, remove the backdrops and settings,
see each others life in a new way.
Pulling back the curtain to see more is a hard thing to grasp,
because you're pushed from your comfort zone,
to see who we truly are.

Through many moods and moons
I've felt the heart of your soul
moving me like clouds through the sky
A guiding wind to journey back and forth
Love me always through the bluest nights,
like stars shining in the desert.
Ever-long...Ever-lone....
Bright light backdrops the most immense gray as I dream
of you and you and only you forever among the cosmos

In his seasons passing words wither and fade with the sunsets reprise.
These images paint portraits with grey backdrops tattered, twisted throwing stones across the pond only to hear them vanish in the dark waters below.

All the pretty flowers fully in bloom untouched by earth and unsoiled in the dirt of corruption of an existence lived in regret.
Bitter pills and torn pages have we not traded are truths to be lies created for are own protective womb of deceit to fulfill our ego.

All the pretty flowers wither just the same.
As standing skeletons left only to haunt the backdrop of our thoughts decay.

Are we not monsters?, Who once stood as men with great views whose vices consumed them turning us into something we can barely recognize ourselves.

Soil once fertile now seems only scorched a barren square of emptiness once were all things did grow.
All the pretty flowers mourn springs passing this concrete idealism for which no direction seems to suit us best.

I stand where here no longer will anything grow.

the protons and the motions screaming through the air
against black backdrops, drop emotions off
in small care packages containing

fascinating sights contained in tiny bolts of light those that cause us to jump to catch it in our hands
and stuff it in our bags before it longs for the air again
this my friends
is pure

   energy

there's something about the lights that make every moment last forever
everyone a shoulder away you've known an eternity and you want to dance with them
and never sever grasped hands with them
their faces shine in ways you never could have imagined

it's the lights

but forever always ends and darkness brightens along with it
night gives way to day and you must see them in a new shine or they fade away
their footsteps move to a new rhythm, and follow no beat anymore
but the question is can you still move to the path that they walk in?

light is never a given, it's always chance
a lance thrown into the abyss
will always persist as a lance even if you can't see it
it will be illuminated again

They say there is a broke light for every heart on Broadway.
They say that life's a game then they take the Broadway.
They give you masks and costumes and an outline of the story.
Then leave you all to improvise their vicious cabaret.
In no longer pretty cities there are fingers in the kitties,
there are warrants, forms and ******* and a jackboot on the star.
There's *** and death and human grime in monochrome for one thin dime
and at least the trains all run on time but they don't go anywhere. 
Facing their responsibilities either on their backs or on their knees.
There are ladies who just simply freeze and dare not turn away
and the widows who refuse to cry will be dressed in garter and bow-tie
and be taught to kick their legs up high in this vicious cabaret. 
At last the 2014 show the ballet on the burning stage!
The documentary seen upon the fractured screen.
The dreadful poem scrawled upon the crumpled page! 
There's a police man with an honest soul that has seen whose head is on the pole
and he grunts and fills his briar bowl with a feeling of unease.
Then he briskly frisks the torn remains for a fingerprint or crimson stains
and endeavors to ignore the chains that he walks in to his knees. 
While his master in the dark nearby inspects the hands with brutal eye
that have never brushed a lovers thigh but have squeezed a nations throat.
And he hungers in his secret dreams for the harsh embrace of cruel machines,
but his lover is not what she seems and she will not leave a note. 
At last the 2014 show!
The situation tragedy!
Grand opera slick with soap!
Cliff-hangers with no hope!
The water color in the flooded gallery. 
There's a girl who'll push but will not shove
and she's desperate for her fathers love.
She believes the hand beneath that glove
may be one she needs to hold.
Though she doubts her host's moralities she decides
that she is more at ease in the land of Doing-As-You-Please,
than outside in the cold.
But the backdrops peel and the sets give way
and the cast get eaten by the play.
There's a murderer at the matinee
there are dead men in the aisles
and the patrons
and the actors too are uncertain if the show is through,
and with sidelong looks await their cue...
but the frozen mask just smiles. 
At last the 2014 show!
The torchlight song no one ever sings!
The curfew chorus line!
The comedy divine!
The bulging eyes of puppets, strangled by their strings!
There's thrills and chills and girls galore,
there's sing-songs and surprises!
There's something here for everyone reserve your seat today!
There's mischief and malarkey,
but no queers or yids or darkies within this ******* carnival...
THIS VICIOUS CABARET!

Let’s drink to memories of purpose.
        Let’s drink as a visible testament to our apathy and indifference. Raise our glasses because nothing we do matters in the end, does it. Let’s sit here wasting our time because nothing matters and those who think otherwise are blind and thoughtless.
        Can’t they see? Aren’t they too privy to the questions? Do the questions not haunt them in loud lucid thoughts come when breathing is slow and measured, half-studying white ceilings, minds anywhere but in our bodies, eyes open and unseeing, projecting visualized masses of shapeless forms, rendering the ceiling a makeshift screen. Not concrete, solid; ambiguous considerations, ideas swimming through my head, spilling out my mind on to the ceiling where I study them until they’re covered by new ideas and connections formed, fantastic or ordinary. I cease to associate myself with anything but my operating consciousness. Varying degrees of metanalysis and chains linking like sin waves. Tangents everywhere – can’t see the curves obscured by infinite straight lines pointing slightly different directions, solid black blindness forms another canvas onto which I vigorously splash my thoughts like paint or something more violent. Constant reset, overlapping images recycling canvases and backdrops sans intent. This is just what happens.
        Let’s drink to all this nonsense, let’s laugh at our impending doom, and cheer away the world’s worries, stave away the gloom.

Mimosa elders obscure the pink Azalea hillsides , timid Catbirds performing at behest of daybreak , vociferous followers of humid June traipse glistening Canola fields , swirling secrets of country brooks revealed in man-made clearings , Robin mothers boast of endearing Summer
privilege , of  Jasmine , Sugar Pine , Cattail tranquil late morning backdrops with whispering Hill Country breezes* ......

To think, a thousand worlds can collapse upon me in yet another day dream,
I believe I've imagined you so many times,
A mere silhouette, dancing and crying upon countless backdrops,
You have become an ever constant inspiration,
A butterfly, much more like a moth,
Eating away at the sheets that keep an unimportant sanity intact,
Will I ever come back to you?
A clock can say an infinite many things, and it can tell so many more,
So I listen, and your memories that I may barely touch,
Will always be in words touching a grey scale sunset,
The value in that, is however a thought makes it out to be,
Upon your dreams, I hope a moonlit sky might leave many footsteps,
So seeing, where they went, you'll see where they came from and where they got,
Follow dancing feet, and sing with lines that give root to ancient trees,
And beautiful fruit that make us all forget about the rest,
Will keep us in remembrance of you.

Painfully  the  heart  beats the  chest,  
Ember  of  lineal  segregation  will  come  out,  
And  the  ripping  blaze of fire  will  engulf,  
Communal  harmony  consummating  peaceful  coexistence  gulf,  
Executing  ethnicity,  caste, creed  and  religion  smithereens.  

Patriot’s  spirit  yields  serene  backdrops, 
Everyone  perman­ently  scribbling  down the  tales,  
And  if  we  don’t  improve  the  stories,  
Coming generations will  be  forced  to  clean up our mess,  
Ending  up  in  the  question  “what is  peace?”  

Peace  is  simply forgiveness,  
End  of  hate,  war  or  violence,  
Abstinence  of  using  violence  to  show  our  emotions,  
Calming  silence,  
Endeavor to  have  unity  in  diversity.  

Portrayal  of  Kenya’s flag  is  peace,  
Entailing  every  magic  spell  of  her  climate,  history  and ­ culture,  
Appraised  by  her  quick succession  of seasons,  
Culminated  by  the  gentle  sun  and  benign  rain  that softens  the  mind,  
Endorsing  peace  naturally.  





Wishing a peaceful 2017 General Elections in Kenya.

We
make
our own
destinies.
We hang our own stars;
imposters against the darkness,
hung on interstellar backdrops of infinite truth.

Satellites, perfumes, smartphones and other gizmos
Then they forget the giant stench among them
Dwelling with them and moving with them
A monster with an insatiable appetite
A work of art some would say
It overflows from households and factories
Into works of Philosophy and literature
The sages that attained Nirvana in the midst
Of adulterated syringes and gross excrement
The New Buddha under the Garbage mountain
The Prince among the generations to come
Abounding in dialectical wisdom from distant worlds
Embodied in an era of savage monstrosities
Where heads are pounded with information
And hearts won over by shallow myths
Take me away from the world into excesses
Ungroudning my wretched appetites into sheer freedom
Garbage freedom, serfdom unleashed
A new religion emerges suffocating Ecological gods
Radically excessive backdrops for new sciences
We sing new songs as we ascend into thrash
We thrash and we rejoice for our destiny
The destiny of life over nature’s laws

Stormy day , rising , pollen laced puddles
Obsidian , squally countryside backdrops -
with aromatic Wisteria infusions , humid , sunbeam fueled -
certain windstorm conclusions
Citywide , asphalt stained vehicles , rain engulfed curbside -
rivers at full pool , diesel fumes swallowing available air
at four-way intersections
Discarded paper , eastbound swayed hardwoods
Snapping flags cry out in brief , turbulent episodes
Evergreen needles at hours disposal
The mechanized voices of late afternoon
travel and corruption

Surrounding backgrounds, backdrops that empty glass eye
Ringing in your head; no means to pretend pretence
—always a means to an end. Like a long goodbye to an
old friend still one who owes you tens

A decade of friendship in these confused lines —you onced
slept with one of the guys. Not around, but a lot of times with
the same person, to say at least you've gone a few rounds
The only one to make you come out of a shell; fuelling up
the tank of a monthly desire. But you couldn't tell your friends; despite feeling sensations good as Heaven on earth— their preying
eye opinions would give you a lot of hell.

Still last night was one hell of a night, as he held you so
tight, a knight guarding you from those nightmares
As he tasted your lips, and tears while seeing all those
dark scars under your white night dress

Said, "you're too dark to be found by love," your usual
yellowbone cousins liked to make such comments.
You felt too ashamed to go play with the other kids on the
sunny beach. And it stained your heart; once trying yourself
to bleach

You just forgot your feet; a foot in your mouth kicking back
your words. Unlike the other girls, he liked you more
for trying to stick to your morals. Floral, a scented glow-
a light smell of tragic beauty caught under his nose
Some nights hoping you'd be court, but in your family regards,
you're breaking tradition's law.

Lore beliefs, feeling seven days kind of weak, and it felt
so stranger that you fell in love with him in a week
It took a trip on this crazy life journey, for you to be riding
this long love trip. But he was only meant to be a friend
still it benefited you knowing he had seen you as more than
that from back then

But those still living behind, say you and him don't mix
into a good kind. As to mean the dark can't kiss a light,
such mean judgments, regardless of it being a modern relationship.
It's an old mindset, and I know he won't mind keeping it in secret
But it will all stay stuck in your mind, along with him

Oh my friend,
how'd I ever give the best advice to your situation
But only say and imagination that Adam and Eve
we're black and white. So wouldn't we have been
interracial from our creation?

Handled in a manner if care. Legions rising and falling with the tides. A mean and standard deviation of 0.07% calculated for access to the colored butterfly bones.

No longer allowed access to greater plains, the majestic overview became a barren landscape. Gravity became non-existent and the field  collapsed into the skies every night until it no longer resembled itself.

In memory, the sad clown traded in his wig for a hat, his nose for a map, and his shoes for boots. He kept the jacket as a reminder. Greater laws existed that were at once unknown/unseen. The laughter he heard no longer included him, instead it was generated by the sorry figure he had become.

Grim outlook and cave outreach for shelter needed. This man walked among the many backdrops in a dogged manner hanging on to the last bit of survival instinct that remained.