Tilted on this harmonic spindle
Gazing up through a cellar window
God and song, money for rockstar car pinto
Sick kind of hint though
Glimmer shrieking bravados
Do tell more oh Ye heavenly staccato
Brovo, to tenor gasing hopes old motto
Promise always soprano in tomorrow
Lack lumine mustered frustration
Baritone mute sung upon this;
Digital paper, fishing for vapor
Continue ones lust, this to trust, and a must.

My dear friend,

There's no answer in those bottles
Or those false bravados
There's truth in cliche mottos
But those answers are hollow
Unlike those pills you swallow
Because you're chronically suicidal
With no contrary to guide you
And no lover to confide to
So you'll just cram it all in a note in the hotel room they find you
Now you're only living through all the strangers you were kind to
The family that stood beside you
The hell you dragged their mind through
The lovers you had lied to
The crafts that you had fine tuned
The dark past behind you
And whatever state your mind looms now

I have the honor to be your obedient servant,
M. Whit

The home of impressionnists
skirts the perinent point.
Jagged sarecrows dance amongst silhouettes
fields scoff in ribboned light
moves  banks from their justled perch.
I sense something wrong
bravados movement always sways,
yet wider strokes almost monumental
allow the grey to merge into the  still night..

Look!
now they sleep      bloodless warriors
pandemonium stilled      agony slain tranquil
death sanctified in rigid cartesian rows
honored for their sacrifice and selfless valiance
laid to rest beneath mourning grasses

Ask!
where was the higher honor due them      before war
are sacred vows      to be profaned      to be misemployed
                            
Why!
do once verdurous lives lay cold and pulseless
as spatters of red petals      tearfully fall
families breathing wistful flowers
distilling rue      with lulling scents

Adjudge!
all men      who enact lies
dishonoring crossed graves
greed calibrating scales of injustice
bodies tilted high by tonnages of gold
Aurelian kisses      vaulting wars riches

Do Not!
dishonor a warrior’s willingness to die
for bravados mouth is a soldier’s tomb
do not forsake truth and honor    our only faithful ally
ask ten-thousand whys      before one soldier dies
before the bugler's breath      sounds death's lamenting cries

Think!
Contemplate war’s fiery womb
hatred    born inextinguishable
good & evil     indistinguishable

Look, what stillborn bones lie locked in battle
this fleshless monster      we mis-named peace        


gv.2014


Matthew 6:13 . . . deliver us from “evil”
Evil as translated in 6:13 is "Poneros" A name also attributed to Satan
Which means:  "he is not content unless drawing others into the same destruction as himself"
(From Lexicon to the New Testament by Spiros Zodhiates, TH.D

"Soon
the world
won’t have a rib intact.
And its soul will be pulled out."

A line from Vladimir Mayakovsky's 1917 poem , Call To Account

“They made a wasteland and called it peace” Publius Cornelius Tacitus

a piano quartet
opposed an orchestra
on a stage
somewhere in
Prague
along the lines of a battle of the stars
I watched
glistening composed

as the pianos chorded on
the violas and flutes bass drums
clarinets
resounded back
their answers
as I heard the crescendos the tête–à–tête's
the bravados
the claims made by the piano strings
almost immediately
came a retort from the
bold deep cellos
on stage

and shrill the pianos all four resounded in
questioning and the orchestra
became all hinged in
higher and higher
spine tingling notes
and the bass resounded
deep within
and the conductor danced

the hall became a rave
the tuxedo'd dude
jumped headlong into the crowd
on arms was sent to the back of the crowd
and forward again
then silence as he mounted the stage in triumph
raised his arms

and the whole ****** stage enlivened
the audience cheered
lighters were lit
and champagne busted
everyone got wet
I experienced a glimpse
of
Symphonic gorgeousness
and piano men
conjoin
to
make heaven

As the language aids in communicating our similarities
Duplicating these unique isolated experiences
Detailing the nuance crevices in the porcelain blur
Moralizing Gods and reflecting design flaws
Finding a mortal prevalence

You attempt to un-speak your empathy
Cuffing your wild uncultured flares
Taking shade in poorly structured bravados
You drum your chest and imitate your father’s voice
Fear starts to take form, as intimacy starts to rust
You are not without love, it’s just peaceful in the void

You replay the conversations
nitpicking the words and intonations
Editing out your rogue sways
Caging the child between a rock and a hard place…
And you go “who says that”
You in your unrefined glory
Your cello-taped memory
You and your poor choice of words
You uncultured swine