Pounding bass.
Sub-sonic strobes.
Synthetic smoke.
Alone on the dance-floor
I was glad to see another
clubbers curves move in rhythm;
Uninhibited by the foot tapping brigade
who watched with intensity.

You edged ever closer
Till our smiles became infectious.
An uncertain bond of understanding,
amid an endless rush of acidic bleeps.
Uncluttered.
Uncrowded.
Mystically shrouded in transient beats,
we strangers come together in unity

Your hips move to the pneumatic bass
as transient hardhouse and
tribal breakbeats embrace,
The foot tappers again resume,
Spontaneous rushes
and some sulphur that is sour to taste.

We may have unzipped and consumed
to electronic tunes,
but the tune remains the same -
Beautiful stranger dream a dream for me
because now all we have between us is
Rain.

bees

fleas

keys

bleeps

heaps

of dead children

holocaust

Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,

partial strangers,
networked communications,

keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,

system failures,
nicotine meditations

smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,

computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,

brightening windows,
verbose inflections,

silks ties,
limited reverberations,

exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,

pointless days,
power imitations,

numeric values.
insurmountable situations,

digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation

a cyclical road map to nothingness
littered with fragments of do not enter signs
swimming through a sea of crumpled paper
my ink stained hands ***** walls of judgment
the ever rasping door scrapes open with hesitation
hello fear, I’ve been expecting you.

no time for formalities
fingers bent back
mouth taped shut
mind strapped down

and in the distance, the monitor bleeps its disapproval,
“sorry, we’re not interested in your work at this time"

Crash
Over me
This wave of emotions
Comes to crash
Over me
Comes to drown me in tears and screams
And the fear of insanity
All around me the people, they scurry
All around me, they move around me
They might as well go right through me
I’m not here, don’t you know?
I don’t exist, don’t you know?
Am I real? I’m not sure
It’s confusing to think about
Why I am and what I’ll be
Whowhatwhenwherewhyhow
It all spins around so I can’t sleep
When I do sleep, the conflicts chase me
I see in technicolor
A kiss from my love
And a love letter from a gay
Gay boys don’t write love letters to straight girls
A confusion, sparkling prom dress
Left in shreds behind my closet door
What’s happened? I don’t know why
My silver shoes are turned red
Why are my nails crusted with red?
Wake up, sleep again
Wake up again, now sleep
Alarm bleeps, but I’m not awake
**** it all, I’m not awake
Fix a smile to my face
Tell the world I’m okay
Then yearn for the end of a long day
Inhale the breath of my love
He distracts me from
The tidal wave looming over my head
The faces under the water titter
As I kiss him hard, he kisses harder,
Heart rates speed up in sync
And around us, the noises try to send me
Scurrying under a desk, into a corner
Quick, hide under your jacket!
And when I look into his eyes,
Those warm brown eyes,
I see his fear and it scares me
It’s good to know someone cares,
But I hate to cause him pain
The look in his eyes as
he gently pulls me out from under the desk:
Concern, fear, a swirl of stress and anxiety
I don’t want to be the cause of someone else’s anxiety
Yes, it’s nice to be loved
But it hurts to know that my emotions cause them pain
These emotions which I cannot control,
These impulses to eat and eat
To bang my fist, then my head, against the wall
Standing in the shower,
Burning hot water,
I look up into the spray
I see myself with lungs full of water
Gasp, pull away, squeeze my eyes shut
Open them again, there’s the silver cord
The link between the main showerhead and the detachable one
The loops glitters
See it hanging around my neck
God, oh, god, why do I see this?
I do not wish for death, I fear it
So why do these visions come to me?

There’s a name for this, all of this
This insanity which is mine
The first word is borderline.
*(Borderline Personality Disorder)

break ups do **** a little
it's mostly the silence that gets to me
i like having someone to tell all the funny little things that i think of
during the day
my phone is very quiet without you
no musical little bleeps or blinking lights

but i can take the silence this time around.
and for that i like it
even relish it
the long gaps between my replies to you
if i reply at all

this time i am powerful
it is nice
but it is also frightening

Hideous static,
dreams orbiting,
a dark planet,
granular daydreams,
gasps of conversation,
footfall drowns out conscience,
layered chatter to infinity,
that which is not man
......bleeps.............
a regret rimmed thought,
............afternoon's perpetual zombies.........
plucking at a keyboard's harp strings,
evaluated,
numerical data streams
no contemplation will set you free,
from 8 hours dragging on,

Half Life
by Ryan P. Kinney

Welcome to the digital age.
Where man’s best friend is Internet ****
And a woman’s only friend is her *******.

We’ve traded a heartbeat for an electronic pulse.
Blips and bleeps in an imagined humanity.
Forgetting that living means leaving the house.
And that sandals and boxer shorts are not formal wear.

We live in the information age
Full disclosure is no longer optional
We are sharing information.
We are contributing to the death of the self.
Or are we finally mastering intelligence?

There is an epidemic of inaction
Entropied Progress
The mobius sloth slides down into its own gluttony
And I just want to have *** with someone who is still alive

Have you seen the latest episode of Walking Dead or Breaking Bad?
Have you looked in the mirror?
Reality shows?
Who’s reality?

We are social creatures
And social control is how you keep the pigs in their pen
Until it’s time to offer us up as sacrifice at the altar of decadence

We willingly give them our intelligence
Our spirit
For another video game
Another TV show
That promises a better reality
See it all in HD
While we dubstep to our doom
Up Jacob’s Ladder
Built out of the 15 minute prophets

Sell me another artificially derived addiction
Masquerading as sustenance
Trading them like baseball cards
Tell me how much I need it
Need you
Preach it with the fear of the unorthodox on Fox News
While everyone’s getting high on your life

Televangelist CEOs
Sell us the next salvation
The anarchists are screaming,
“Legalize it.”
And the stoners aren’t helping

The half-life of modernization guarantees that if enough of our individuality decays
There ceases to be anything worth calling human

swollen mudflap dreams
  voice of sinew street
the
     wooden flakes     clap the wind

terra-cotta creaks muffle
choir kiss velvet thin in
  empty mountain air, sinai drift
( peace be with you, peace be )

         a long year        here's to another

–


  gotta visit the family in an hour
coffee and cake,
  brother and i will argue 'bout politics
he runs some business, i've never worked in my life
he uses productivity to hide his loneliness
i use social grace to hide my emptiness

we probably understand each other perfectly
       but will never steep to sympathy


–

big canary
best in school
sing your
lelujah for the gulls

break your wings in
crumbs and sandwich tins

burrow down to a
                     maize of glass
    build a temple of sleet
   and have a cry in it

–

bed lump, bed lump   lump
lump

  fight your frozen toes

  last week a lily bush grew in our drain,
pools of **** and tissue clogged and sputtered out
  the flowers were real pretty tho

–

it's like that feeling, you know, when you wonder, if    you
  left the gas cooker on, with the children still sleeping
an anxious terror overruns you, but you gotta get to work
too late to turn back now,
  you can't just stop everything every \
time you realize how easy it would be to loose it all

so you keep on,   determined resigned comfort
   despite an unshakable certainty
                                 it all burnt away long ago

–

go for a walk to calm
            rolling cloud
valley glut
                       last light's wet custard haze
  a solitary bird tries to mate with its echo

  branches tear
cut weave through silence
            effervescent haze
  the
dust road hill the valley fall the blur below


i dreamt last night  an old crush held me
and pulled my teeth out one by one
i really miss her

–

and so you lie, there, thin cotton down, gunked up on the drip,
   i read you a story,
                                  you don't want me to
               tired and disorientated, falling into sleep, among the
            bleeps and light,                 smell   of alcohol and saccharine
                                        you can't handle the leech of words right now,
but you insist i continue anyway.
i need this,  i
to prove i was there   by your side,
  for your sake,
and you are too polite to refuse me this narcissism,
too scared to shatter it all
          and turn away at the last

–

oh, hey! sorry i haven't
  yeah
       yeah no,
it's been years, hasn't it?
i- i know i know, i was the one who insisted-
and then never made the effort
what's up?
uh, nothing new, really
  still haven't fixed the wiring
still just
        flickering
anxious feeling
ambling along a
                           longing

that paradoxical redemption,  that

           impossible unity
    of innocence and forgiveness

…

yeah, no,
    nah

–

and so you float up, out of the vents, above the roof
  into the clouds, the rain sets in,   oh - the
       drier's broken, you can't afford to get these clothes wet -  but
the  pattering feels good on your blistering skin

  so you drift
      melt

and
       far below
you 
             hear
                                                  the bell's pale ring
   sunday murmur bubble and gather
       muffle ***** wring shoelace voices
              river wiped bored communal toes
          mudfleck shoes and patchwork rags

  a turn, another, then,
                                worn timber creak


the church doors open

They stand with their hands in their pockets.
One man adjusts his mesh cap, an excuse.
Something tiny, precious, real bleeps furiously through cargo khakis.
He types expertly with one finger and smiles chapped lips to himself.
Leaning against the uneven coffee counter, he reaches for his latte
and walks out the door with his fashion twin and best work friend:
grown men who assimilate in substandard choices to fit-in
years past high school.

Loads of bubble wrap piled behind

and it crackles like how a stomach

gets twisted on itself after

eons of sleep

decoding it's diaphragm to follow

the blips and beeps and bleeps

encrusted on trusting

a tight gut reaction to

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



Loads of suds creep up

forming in cysts or scabs

upon stomach encasings

all slimy and orange inside

with a stretchy cover all

deep royal purple with

dark pink veins coursing

through it encoding the

rapture of film recording while

the lining inside gets all clammy

with arousal secretly clenching

this yearning and aching just

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



It's a difficult, messy procedure that leaves the body exposed if it comes in contact to actual skin and flush and heat and mucus but



it is a necessary step to

colloquial banter within

the clustering of organs all

internally arguing while the

overwhelmed brain tries to keep order and the genitalia hums

all quiet in the corner

because she knows she runs



the show.



And it's funny because the brain knows he'll have to give in to

the actual world of living folks

and climb out of his bundled

fabulous fantasies in order to

make reality plausible.



And in wanting you



and in waiting



I've found myself in visceral shock

to the point where I panic and

all that's jumbled up and bound inside me seems to clench tighter.



And I fear that in waiting for your mutual touch



and I fear that in wanting to be with you so much



I'll collapse under the weight

and never get up.



Loads of words hide beneath me

resting in tubes that resemble

the small intestines in looping

nests of unbridled questions.

Will it be enough to see you

and not touch you?

Will it be enough to talk

with you and not kiss you?

Will it be enough to be chaste

and respectful when all my brain needs to do is test you?

When all my brain wants to do

is clobber you whole, chew, then swallow, spitting out bones?

SHAKESPEARE – SAVIOUR OF THE WORLD

Nothing but
a bauble

in the firmament
a nebula

far beyond Orion

light years
from here

from this
blob of blue.

The alien's elation
at our perfect planet

perfect for
plucking

like a blueberry
picked from the stem

held
in the palm

savoured.

The rest
gone to making

Auntie's jam.

Auntie Blob
as we called her

( never to her
face of course )

nibbling at her Bible
searching for the perfect quote

clipping her toenails
on yesterday's front page

kicking Shakespeare
"Outta de way!"

That hound
nothing but bones

reminds her of her
second husband

that's why she's so
mean to him.

Shakespeare decides to
"Beat it!"

knows her quickness
to anger

hunts along the lake
shore shingle

whereupon he's beamed up
for alien analysis.

"Strange being!"
they intone

mystified
at his four legs

they only
having one.

Alien language
unknown to us

nothing but
tones and bleeps and high pitched notes

piped
with great elan

but Shakespeare gets the jist
of everything they're saying.
Shakes ***** a leg
****** on

their controls

the master board
nothing but smoke...flames!

Old Shakes
decides to hunt out that flea

in his left
rear.

Aliens don't take so well
to fleas

tear themselves
apart

flee to the far side
lock themselves into pressurised suits.

Shakes howls
homesick

even for Auntie Blob's
bad hearted kicks.

Alien ears explode.

Survivors beam down
Shakes as fast as they can.

"Earth creatures
can not be overcome!"

runs the report
in capital bleeps and tones.

"Shakespeare...Shakespeare
you come here!"

"Now!"

"Bad dog...bad dog!"

He crawls on his belly
dodges an ill-timed blow.

"Where in the world
you been?"

A kick gets him
in the privates.

He cowers
underneath his chair.

"Lord...Lord
what a night!"

"That blue!
it's outta this world!"

She catches a falling star
out of the corner of her eye.

She isn't superstitious.
She makes no wishes.

"Lord God...where's that
**** dog!"

Shakespeare whines
softly to him self

the Dog star
reflected in his right eye.

Shakespeare the saviour
of the world.

obnubilate

They say women are moody creatures
But I think men are still worse
The only difference between the two
Men don’t get the monthly curse
They’re moody when they get hungry
When they haven’t got their beauty sleep
In fact they don’t seem to need a reason
To turn into complete bleep bleeps.

few and far
undetected from the radar
as it sweeps and bleeps
but out of sight is out of mind,
disconnected
out of place,
wires crossed
intent misplaced the elusive days
insanity takes,
eluding all for falsity's sake
to make some sense
in a senseless state.

In the place of bright dust
We ransack the sun
Back from her bed
We stretch high/baseball bat/wood
Crack in earthen shower
You are there behind the fence
Holding the baby
On easter sunday
We walk in wedding circles
Discuss the tropics, somewhere
On your back I write
Sixteen dances/crickets in tall grass/waves melting shore rocks
I pour you coffee as you squeeze the yolk in deviled eggs
And I fumble with the crepes
Halfmoon/full/french peninsula/the photograph of your riding a merry-go-round
Full, wordless smile
I search for the soothing leak that
Sleeps with frankincense
First, nameless day/nameless, silent bowl
You place the fruit in stained glass
Watch the skins reflect blurred jet-plane/kind sky
What’s left is my burning muscles
Aching for you in tiny flint
Your lips
Your thing that bleeps with breath
With the empty canteen
I leave it in the car
Reset
Cigarette kiss to your bird,
My best friend
Cuddled in croissant
You  make rain a baker’s dozen
Awake
The body inhales

Blue skies.
White clouds.
Yellow sun.

Warm eyes.
Warm smile.
Warm heart.

Charged phone.
Loading app.
Message sent.

Shining eyes.
Happy smile.
Fluttering heart.

Long wait.
Shrugging shoulders.
No response.

Sad eyes.
Wane smile.
Fragile heart.

Phone bleeps.
Short reply.
Wrong response.

Teary eyes.
Missing smile.
Broken heart.

Blue skies.
Empty promise.

White clouds.
Hide feelings.

Yellow sun.
Go away.

Words on the wall.
Go with Paul.
So profound.
Like a crystal ball.
Okay, all coming back.
Should have read.
Julie, will you go with Paul.
But it didn’t.
Surely a message.
A deeper meaning.
Check the celestial phone.
A message awaits.
You ***** lying scummbag, drop dead.
Should I tell her there's only one M in scumbag.
Could this be another message.
I enlighten her.
The other M is for *******.
But is it.
Is there an even deeper meaning.
The celestial phone bleeps.
I peruse the heavenly text.
Actually there should be an extra B with the extra M, *******.
I see pain in her text.
I feel it myself.
There is a wanting.
Flowers and chocolates.
I feel comfort walking through the graveyard.
Knowing random people are helping me in the pursuit of love.
I throw a pebble up to her window.
Holding my mixed bunch of flowers.
Old Mrs Jones looks down, smiling.
If I was seventy, I’d do, I digress.
I bade her in, throwing the pebble up to my true love.
Who opened the window maybe a tad too early.
She screams my name.
Which was comforting in a strange way.
Old Mrs Jones looked out, recoiling in horror, knocking herself out in the process.
I realised I had forgotten the chocolates.
Darling, could you borrow me ten pounds.
Something in her one good eye told me no.
The paramedics told me to go.
The Police read me my rights.
Putting me up for the day, and the night.
Still, as the Councilman said as I was scrubbing the wall.
It’s not like you’re Banksy, is it Paul.
I felt a deeper meaning.
A thought had occurred
It would take a lot of paint.
But would be worth the pain.
I worked through the night.
Such a delight.
I threw a pebble up to her window.
Old Mrs Jones looked down at the naked mural of me, and dropped down dead.
Julie sort of squinted in dread.
But the gun in her hand.
Well, enough said.
The Police charged me with indecent exposure.
Though the court said that wasn’t quite true.
Still, the Councilman said.
I’m really impressed.
I mean, it's different.
Maybe you should have added a verse.
He stopped me scrubbing.
We bowed our heads.
As old Mrs Jones passed by in the hearse.

I talked with a poet friend
On the phone today
Can't say I didn't find it all
More than a little strange

The conversation went quite naturally
No bleeps, burps, or dead air
Funny she should call me
Me being here, her being there

I understood her English accent
Her, me my Southern draw
We both got a good laugh in
Isn't that why she called after all

This is something I have dreamed of
By chance to one day meet
Some of the special friends
That I have made through poetry

So this day I will remember
In my diary, pencil it in
That poets have real voices
They don't all just talk with pens

by Ryan P. Kinney

Assembled from works by J.M. Romig and Ryan P. Kinney

Once you log into The Network, you can't log off.
Once you're plugged in, you can't opt out.
That's the way things are.
Your life becomes your Channel.
Your world becomes your Show.
Have you seen the latest episode of Walking Dead or Breaking Bad?
Have you looked in the mirror?
Reality shows?
Who’s reality?

We live in the information age
Full disclosure is no longer optional
We are sharing information.
We are contributing to the death of the self.
Or are we finally mastering intelligence?
We know how to play the system
how to get followers,
when to drop a hashtag,
when to upsell a sponsor,
We are social creatures
And social control is how you keep the pigs in their pen
Until it’s time to offer us up as sacrifice at the altar of decadence
The Rich are locked up
in their floating wi-fi enabled panic rooms,
High above all of the pollution.
Living vicariously through the shows
broadcast by The Network.
Sell me another artificially derived addiction
Masquerading as sustenance
Tell me how much I need it
Need you
Preach it with the fear of the unorthodox on Fox News

Meanwhile on the ground,
people are caricatures of themselves -
the byproduct of generations
of narcissism as survival mechanism.
Nostalgia, and criticism
as a means to pay the bills.
Unless you choose to never log in.
Choose to ignore the cameras
following everyone everywhere
You can always get a real job -
If you can find one.
Most people don't.
It's the new economy.
In exchange for our data, and privacy,
we get ad-revenue and a chance at stardom.
We willingly give them our intelligence
Our spirit
For another video game
Another TV show
That promises a better reality
See it all in HD
While we dubstep to our doom
Up Jacob’s Ladder
Built out of the 15 minute prophets

We’ve traded a heartbeat for an electronic pulse.
Blips and bleeps in an imagined humanity.
Forgetting that living means leaving the house.
When the feed is quiet -
we take the occasional moment
to breathe – cough -
and look up to where all the stars used to be.

Created at the Winter Writing Workshop (Dec. 27, 2015),
HEYMAN! Productions

Of what weight does love hold?
Cosmic gigantic love
Streatching from star to star,
from time to time,
Leaping all barriers,
In an insane hurtle race
Run by rabid contenders,
Frothing at the mouth,
Colidicopes in their eyes
Swirling,

As they clear fence after fence
Hardly catching themselves
As their sloppy foot falls land,
All ankles, knees, wobblingly
catching themselves
Their brains decifering
the confused code
Of signals beamed
from legs heart and stomach
All culminating in this
Borderline
Purposeful looking
Yet unintentional
Floppy mess
 
For in the sake of their love
, Of some thing that they hope
will make them immortal,
or at least super,
That temporary and basic seemingly
Irrefutable good that one feels in his pit
Expanding them and inflating them till they float

High enough above others
To squintingly look down, into the eyes of those unable to bouey bob above the rest.
Lights flicking on their foreheads so
Even if they don't talk people know
Where they are and how splendid
Their bobbing is.

And let's not kid ourselfs
Look at those two
Out in the dark and deep
The 2 hrtz signal allowing them each
To be sure the other exists
Flashes reveal the hidden expressions
Those times of clarity so sparce
When all you want to do is look at them
For a good long time
Take in the other completely
for in those nights
When all thoughts clump
Turning colours to brownish purple.
An you cannot see the other
to have them help as they so enjoy.
Two distant bleeps of light
Red but none the less visible
To all around

After all I guess they will be serving as warner's, out their on thier own.
What rocks and reefs the will they arbrais
What swells will the brave,
And what will we learn from
watching From shore,
Whishing them luck as the sun rests on the other side, as the white caps tumble, as the clouds roll on overhead.
Its a very wet scenario.

Raw thoughts, yeah?
Nah, not today, man
Too bad, I was expecting them
You'll get them, just shut up
It's just noise
They all want me and my noise
But it's all just noise
It scratches
It creaks
It beeps
It boops
It bleeps
It beams
It beckons
It goes on for oh so, so, so, so, so, so, so long
Why do you want it, you disgusting *****?
shhhhh
khhhh
tshhhhh
krrrrr
bhhhhh
ssssss
trrrrr
But it doesn't make sense
None of it does
It's me
It just goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on
Why do you want it, tell me that
Who are you to ask my why I want it if I do
I'm tired of this can I just make peace with me
Yes you can
No you can't
Yes you can't
No you can
Yes you are
No we aren't
No I can't can
.......
.......
.......
-------
-------
-------
ooooooo
Who are you?

Hospital coffee
hopeful light
mixed strong with wanting dark
a bitter longing blend
which burns the mind
but does not seek to fill an empty cup
stirred with memory
amid the bleeps and whines
of a machinery heart
truly a mocha morning

"AHHHHH...MEN!"

Mary's mobile
bleeps.

Text.
( First 3 notes of SHAFT ).

It was the angel
Gabriel.

"Yo Mary babeeee!
Guess who's gonna be

the mother of God!"

She's all fingers
and thumbs.

Can't get used to
this new technology.

Preferred the blinding
flash of light

floaty dudes
who were a bit of alright.

She just sends
a "?" back.

Quick as a flash
Gabe texts her back.

"Hey girllll
it's you!"

She texts a curt
!!!NO WAY!!!

Mary panics: " Jesus Christ
I'm way too young to be

having the Son of God!"

She smothers her mobile
under a pillow.

Hoping that it will
just go away.

"BleepbleepbloodyBLEEP!"
it muffles messages.

When she dares to look next
there are like. . .!

69 unread
texts.

"I swear to God!"
she tells herself.
"I'm not having it!"

She deletes
the lot.

Un-friends Gabe & God>

Uses a word that isn't
nice!

"Good riddance to a bad lot!"
she convinces herself.

"I want to be my own
woman!"

Puts on the scarletest lippy.
Cleopatra's her eyes.

Hits the town.
Paints it red.

Ends up in a seedy
karaoke joint

G&T; in one hand
mike in the other

belting out:

"Once I was afraid...
I was petrified. . !"

Click,
Slick,
The whir of Jenny,
Tinny Jenny on ball bearing wheels.

A slick *****,
Clicks his fingers,
Jenny glides to his side,
Pen and paper in hand.

Jenny purrs,
LEDs wink under false lashes,
Mechanoid pretence at femine,
Tips a wink and lifts a steel leg under tin foil skirt.

“Your order Sir”, she chirps,
As Slick **** ***** an eye at aluminium thigh.

“Chips, silicone chips”, he replies,
Jenny’s circuits fry,
Dumb waitress cry’s light oil from glass eye.

Slick *****,
Rick,
Laughs as Jenny’s electronic whine murmurs incoherent bleeps,
Systems down,
Fuses blown,
Jenny’s memory erased.

It is not somewhere over the rainbow
beyond Mother's breath or
in the devices of ancient
or modern hands bereft

we touch it in our pathos
and empathy from
time to time
through a shallow fading
gravel bed
filtering a bitter water table perhaps

whilst the tender leaf of spring feels it
in the autumn of unconditional
acceptance of the inevitable
morning frost
cold relentless rains
and colourful leaves
falling to their death
in beauty

so far removed from our bipedal posturing
and upright positioning at the computer
desk knowing there is no mystery here
no wild cry in the night
only electronic and organic
bleeps and drones and

aw! there… I heard it again

a lost chord
a missing link
that the wild
creatures understand
of what we sometimes feel nearer in our shared limbic
brain seldom penetrated through
our domineering eyes planted firmly in front
of the gray dross from an eternal fire

we spend our given time on
this planet trying to douse when the rest
of creation knows the need for its
purification and leaps willingly into its
all-consuming heart as we
live in fear of the unknown
and of fear itself

keeping us estranged from the cosmic mysterium which provokes us to awaken
to the wondrous eternal
which will
alter our deluded consciousness
to see what has been seen through the
unknown eons to help us take to the fire

we only catch a whiff of in the twilight
of our hopes and selfless dreams
so we will rise through the
dry brown leaves of our once tender
green vision of an ever-changing universe
which whispers louder and louder in our darkness
until we cease our chatter and
learn to listen to the serene silence
of an eternal vibration heightening

morphing less organic much more
ethereal spiritual crawling further and further
from the pulse of the earth
as we shed thickened skin which
once replaced thin soft unprotected flesh
needing protection from extraneous
sources to cover what should have been

eternally naked bare to the elements
not limited to a frail carcass which
will ultimately be left behind as we
transform into our individual eternal temples to
join in worship with the rest of creation
to be the living offering
at the foot of the
eternal voice ineffable
not waiting to be obeyed
in mass procession but

as individual as one spark igniting
a plot of trees newly released as mystery
revealed ever so slightly in the wake of
the burial of earthbound mind steeped in
temporal ancient tradition fermented in
oak casks which were made to remain
and grow in their ****** state

as we hear distant yet distinct whispers of
the origin of our human calling above and beyond
Thoreau's distant drummer’s near silent tremors of the
most ancient rhythms now mostly echoes as we
march to
and follow our own drummer
leading the way back home

as we at times seem to distinctly
hear original rhythm's calling
as we try so earnestly to
respond like a dying sea
longing to once again sway
to the beckoning moon

often keeping in step
with our
own inner drummer who
is always trying to keep
time by asking

"are we prepared to give
in to what we will
inevitably meet in the end?"

always right
before dawn
I am
young again

worrying that
I can't physically
see my face

this feeling
like a riptide

the more I fight
the farther I'm
pulled from shore

what always
saves me
an old television

wooden case
hissing remote

it's analog
so nothing other
then dots of snow
blips bleeps and

other delta
and divine waves

that never fail
to gift me years
and wisdom

that put me
right to sleep

© Whit Howland 2019

Steeping sleep is creeping deep, reaping steep leaping bleeps