Since our political system has been laid bare, after RumputiN was installed
in the Blackhouse, it's beautiful complex of lack of complexity, in a word,
conspiracy of conspiracies, has moved me and "...we(e),..." to have as a few
of my favorite things be far more reaching questions, out of necessity. Like,
without acknowledging, and demanding others do the same, that it's been
purposely engineered to be a criminal injustice system instead, how can one
even have a real conversation that would lead to potential for real change
of it taking place in reality, if you don't know who you were, where you've
been, how on God's green Earth can you expect to know who..., where you are
and what's going on, necessary to start thinking about changing anything,
even yourself, as well as directing who you will be and where you will
be going, etc.?  Swine slaughtering lower-middle-class to poor men en masse,
mostly of color, instead of just doing the usual liquidation of their ases
and assets, are just serial murderers masquerading as cops, and what goes
around comes around, no?  If you're not taking bullets you're making them.  
Also, people are fed up with felonious RumputiN and his rootin' tootin'
organized crime family spree from the Blackhouse, which should be prosecuted
using the RICO Statute instead of just being elaborately covered up by Mueller
for he's not using it and he's handing out immunities like soldiers candy to
Iraqi kids, duh.  I would add some salient pointless points, beyond the 'empty
boat' of Zen, and 'useless tree' of the Tao, we can understand the burden
placed on our shoulders by our ancestry not exercising their responsibilities
as they should have, and thereby it's Siamese twin sisters, their freedoms,
Withered like unused muscles as well, as a panultimate challenge, saving
humanity, literally. Also, understanding Jung's "80 % of all actions, thoughts,
feelings we have, that we acknowledge, or don't, perceive or don't, are
compensatory towards our pasts", necessitates an integral understanding of
Satre's existentialism' meaning of angst, as experience integral to life, not
opposed to it, but, rather, central to it, and a nexus of it.  This is more
than an embracing of gestalt's, Perls', moment, now. Moving away from sophist
perspective, we also experience the meaning of life is struggle, which comes
through all our meaningful work, succinctly. Further, what is life beyond that
foci is also, the where, when, who, how, and sometimes why too (but never Y2K)
of life; beyond our masks and ego fulfilling stories, schtick, lines, etc..
Do we struggle, not just as lifelong students, with the impossible, not just
the improbable.  Yet, it's actually more layered than that in a much larger
dimensional paradigm than 4 dimensions.  Yes, the effects of our causes in any
action usually have effects that undo our causes as we act them out, intend,
present them, etc..  Yet, those more superficial, linear, first conclusion
layers are not less effective, per se, as the complexity of Karma, Dharma are
beyond our normal comprehension. What is the root of thought, feeling, the root
of feeling, being, the root of being, the extent to which we struggle with what
it is, no?  For, as the following twig of poetree gleans: Soul//
As my breath
is the one, prana,/
And the life's pulse, pala,/
Reaching angelic source, sura,/

So is this mind, manas, a
/  Flowering unfoldment,
/ Unendingly touching
/ The eye
that would it see,/  
Unbeckoning unto thee./
As well, this Bodhi, a temple,/

Of the four and fifth, nur,/  
So entered by atma, a ray of thy sun,/  
Thus being
winged, and
/  As such with wind,/
Flying only in dharma's dance,/
Is returning
to, Brahma, you./  For, there yet, by thy grace, go I./  
We are not who we think
we are, we are, rather, the extent to which we struggle to evolve to be some-
things, spirit, soul, Bodhi, etc., on the path of study that could and should
be one, you, me, forever asked and never answered.  Yet, even if we lived as
prayer, our light only adding to the well of light, our every step in grace,
leaving no footprints that followed none, echoing in all ways, always,
sometimes, like pulling teeth, "...we(e),...", must stalk our words from our
insides 'til we wrangle them, like cats, to the tip of our tongues, no?  For,
"Words weren't meant for cowards..." and we must "be brave...", Happy Rhodes.
We can't allow ourselves the luxury of taking our supposedly 'golden silence'
all the way to the bank, as your average bear does.  These are the end times,
we successfully struggle, to abolish global defacto-slavery by the non-renew-
able energies' corporate structure's machine and it's convolution, against
the global oligarchy's premeditated mass-****** of 7.5 billion people, or
humanity's extinct.  Gandhi, "(supposed) science is the root of all opression"
and, "...we(e),..." must be the change we want in the world".  Is not life
relation, are we not responsible for one another, are not all threads in
the fabric of life needed, as is the evoliutionary ones' mendings, for we
can't allow it to be torn asunder?  If not here, then where, if not now, when,
not you, who? Viva la evolucion.  Indivisible, illimitable you, GOTV.

The light coming from the crooked paper lanterns
that stand in my bedroom
floats around me on my bed that has so quickly become an island.

Paper thin walls echo the sounds like paper thin lamp shades diffuse the light.

Tiny notes in piano arpeggios ****** from my computer as the dryer rolls along like the most familiar sound i’ll ever know.

The slight shake of a beautiful voice as it lays down its soul, the flutter of a heart that recognizes the plight of another.

With the door closed i am in only this world.

Until my favorite friend pulls me away again, in wait i lie holding my breath for the cacophony that awaits.

Sliding in the gray smoke of sleep
He seemed to see another version of the night

Where does this pain come from?
The broken concrete caskets of the innocents
Crawling toward the light
Poisoned by their own frightened governments
Who are cheering for their deaths.

Why does my heart hurt?
Brutal men in smug suits
Confident with closed faces
All they know is power
All they know is contempt
They know what is best for us
And will never answer
Why they hurt us so much.

In the throbbing of their brutal drums
The cacaphony of cowardice
They move

I see the Dragon lady come
Her face is tilted up
Eyes shining with the tears
Of many losses

She is not afraid
With her smiles of wise innocence
She still holds flowers
And stops to comfort an animal in pain

They are confused by her eyes
And her voice
Telling them to stop the lies

So she shows a different power
Like a matador
She directs their blind and massive charge
Into the stony walls

In the last vision before waking
I see her standing  
There are birds singing
And the sun is breaking through a cloud

SARASVATI


You fly upon the wings of a swan
Sarasvati where have you been
We're living in a din
Sarasvati where have you been?

Cacaphony surrounding me,
Explains the state I'm in
Sarasvati, goddess of Poetry
Eloquence, and ear-truffle Artistry
Flying on a swan
Carressing  strings
Entertaining,  
Explaining,
Singing
Sarasvati, where've you been

Where have you been?
We're living in a din....
A dissonant cacaphony
A world without harmony,
Silly little love songs,
Sounding Oh so wrong
Oh Sarasvati, where've you been?


We love your eloquence,
And poetic elegance
You speak beautiful truth,
You do!
Sarasvati, where have you been?

Maiden of Manjushri,
Mother of Minstrels

A sad state of affairs,
For my mind and for my ears
Now I wouldn't mind if I went deaf,
For the rest of my years

You have the roundest head I've
ever seen,
Defensive,
It looks like a baldspot but it isn't,
The soft pulsing of the room,
Sit sweet,
melodious,
cacaphony via 80 dollar
made in Indonesia,
Staring deep within the wooden casket,
to find out,
just where it came from,
There are people that
treat this world as if
they lived in a prison,
those that are not,
conscious of the concept, realism
they'll never truly understand,
that it is all a prison and ****,
a cacophony of rightness
and wrongness.

The light ever draped,
over shadow's shoulder,
the comforting caress,
of wonderful abandonment,
wrought for not,
want less.

pile of blankets--vaguely human shaped bed lump
white curtains, snake skin bundle
crepuscular lit window opposed wall
cranky cellphone sounds
slither-hand. blind pat.
that old song and dance.
11:17 am
self medicated coma
consciousness  comes too soon
post alcohol lubricated dry throat
dryer tumbled bones
dehydrated nectarine shrunken head ache
body floats to surface
ice on road out of control alligator death spinning head
body floating too fast car crash at bed foot
hand eye coordinates aim for dresser
slow foot movement high speed camera precision-every frame counts
reflective closet door shows thick skull and hollow skin, too translucent for comfort. blue veins battling to breathe
squemish rattling breath shuts up
let the stomach talk.
blurted burps stomach acid cacaphony
rorshach stained carpet matches drapes
depression is a thick milkshake

Growth when perceiving reduction of this
Subjective reality

Proportionate somehow
This fraction of interest
doubled over, delighted expression,
This pain, It's strange, gaining more daily, gradually making it safely now seeing these states of gluttonous need faked I'm convinced at times, just enough to slake this need to rake my teeming heart that never falters in initiating every question posed to the legions of potential mates inevitably lost to leave for alternate reasons, and this I hate, when I held high my honest hope, mistaken, they take their leave, aggreiving the instant infatuation with promises honestly got me weak. I think these signs we keep seeing probably lead to an intimate need to ache and breathe, shake and feed, take and dream, play and she may relay the same objective, seeking each other, perhaps others, but now it's late, each thinking this meeting be fated and a moment is traded to thank whomever it was that took interest enough in training them up to stay up later still waiting to feel this hour of love.
And I hate it. Calmly. I take my bait, self-made inspired by naive aspirations that break apart the deluded frame containing the film of fabricated promises and convincing arguments continuing incessant untill I agre and stitch a phrase to fit the stage that I would raise the question. Time drags with flirtatious passes until a consice and clever cacaphony of my creation suits the situation. I glowed with vanity, shades of possibility danced round the vial that contained this daring question sleeping ragged, beating haggard at my breath screeching at the little caution briefly holding back this ******* secret. This one last moment I needed to just enjoy the sound we weaved together laughing, speaking, secrets. I have known, for hours now, since we chanced along the streets, a crashing cliche that callously created the juncture of our meeting. Since she her eyes agreed with mine to enjoy the others company. I fortold my hopeful nature would incite my thoughts to somehow agree tonight the longest streak of recieved rejections in history, believed to be held by Mr. Perry, ten years now and SHE might be the key to leaving this sea of seeking, I must be drinking, but no, I speak to her my saliscious line, visciously timed and know  the circumstances still provide the newest addition to the bottomless list.
I take heart I can still feel new wounds.
Hope has ran, and this plan ends like the rest,
With his children, Pain and Melancholy, to visit me in the drain, and laugh, and sing, and talk of many things. Pain insists she see's my heart is one which strains to bear this tyrants cruel command to supply him 'care' unending, unblemished, pure. Unheard of amounts comparable to the stars, sea particles, ****.
Carelessly caring too much without any reason, without explanation, expectation, or thinking is a pleasant reprieve to those who need help and those would be thieves.
You're careless in caring, which is a great way to practice exploring this life and developing habits. It will not help when you're faced with choices that require you know the depths of importance.

Melancholy hummed this quietly, a somber sweet melody that trickled down with  wisdom pain brings. Together we three sat aside the doubt that infects all the newly rejected courageous freaks with hopeful hearts discarded like heartfelt high school letters, or ghosts that haunt my messages. If they give their word to be assured they feel nothing by her answer, they will lie to numb themselves and save face and and race find the shelf that held the help of hell and helmed a night of excitement and debauchery, swept through the thoughtless black sea did he forget the answer she gave to he, and so his shoes took him three miles across to repeat the previous procession he planned and then forgot. She said yes that time, and kept the forgotten memory secret.

too quickly respect, or thank, or hear the drifting voice  

I will cling to my belief it will be worth it


For I will bleed for my love.
Tough mutts sputter and gates shut up discreetly along the pavement I travel.
Bending screaming dark and hollow seems unneeding to creeps who feed on that kind of thing.
You know the type.
You know I know how you like to play them. Create the clones to discard after rehearsal. probable reactive laughing mad at tragic accidents sadistic mastiffs attack and ravage and tear and
Sadness.
The fictitious movies play out onto the skyscape of this mind we share, and attempt accepting the last thing you truly fear.

it all comes down to volume
you find some people
who are turned up so loud
you cant hear anything else
and you find others
who have all but muted themselves

the melodies all go together
harmonies in symphonies
everyday parts of life.
but you'll find that some parts
drown out others.

the cacaphony:
screams of agony
as more than one falls
to the horrid beating of anxiety
our ribcages exploding and
the subsequent explosions
a chain reaction between
past and future
me and you
it booms

drowned out:
the soft tinkling of the rain
so delicate in its falling
that you cant help but smile
the laughs of children,
innocence pouring out of their mouths
the locking of eyes
from across the room
the simple sound
of me and you

barely heard:
the thrilling trill of adventure
that sings in the hearts of everybody
the minute buzz of a city
heard from a distance,
as light flows into the open sky
creating a masterpiece

and if you listen real close:
the soft utterances
of those with souls brave enough
to live one more sunrise
to live through the night
and the breath
of the world.

Let me start from the beginning

It is an awful feeling to have to plug your ears and drown out the ocean of noises choking you to have a good meal.

When I say that I can't stand it when I hear you eat
What I really mean is that when you drink
I imagine slugs slopping their way down your gullet
And the sigh of refreshment means the acid has successfully shriveled them to death

The sound of carrots being pulzerized is akin to bones
Every time it is a cacaphony of dinner knives screeching against ribs
It may sound silly but when the saliva transfers with the gum you insist on smacking
Every ounce of fluid in my body wishes it could jump through my skin to the floor

I can't ask you to quit swallowing food
Though every drop that doesn't make it down
Is a reminder that humans are animals
Consuming flesh and constructed chemicals

No, I know you won't take me seriously
But spoons and knives are toys of the glutton
And poison to the one that shed tears
When they hear the dinner bell ring

The lure of gold brought Fifty-Niner’s in droves
     to the Kansas-Nebraska territory
laden with packs, picks, pans and shovels -
      hell-bound for adventure and facile wealth.

Placer miners squatted beside frigid streams,
    dipping their pans and filling their sacks
with nuggets bound for the assayer's verdict.

Mine towns sprang up where the veins were strong.
    In ******* Creek, Leadville, Independence and Central City,
the valleys rang with the strident cacaphony of
     drills and explosives - burrowing shafts deep
into the ore-rich valleys and mountain slopes.

Headlamps lit and shadowed mazes of timbered tunnels
     where men piled rock high into mine cars
headed for the mammoth crushers at Idaho Springs.

Whiskey freely flowed in saloons and hotels
     where raucous miners let off steam with
every mode and cast of ***** talk pleasures

In time, the veins were spent and profits dwindled.
     When the drama ended and the curtain fell,
the miners vanished - leaving only ghost towns behind
      and a new state named for its reddish river – Colorado.

sometimes i wake in fear
to the sound of anguished cries
to the bleating of war drums and the
rumble and thud of bombs

i awake already sobbing
our tears, all running together,
tiny rivulets in the mud until they reach
that place where fires,
debris and strongly held opinions
stand stoically like the hoover dam
a counter-insurgency against
the natural course of our suffering

the resounding roar of empire
mangy hawks across the way shrieking where
a brittle statue of a dull and angry man
rears it's ugly head each morning

sometimes i wake to this abhorrent cacaphony
and then i feel powerless

everyone is saying that they are waging these wars
for freedom
while all our lives and dreams are crushed every moment

will someone ask that man
on the tv with strong opinions and facts
about people he's never met
if he, in his infinite wisdom, knows
how many more bombs it will take until
the seething violence of humanity
cracks open the
forlorn and solemn soul of the earth?

Surround sound silence after a freshly fallen frost, no footprints
Pressure building in ears
Cacaphony of heaviness
The single goose gasping for recognition as his flock ***** away, no forgiveness
The slug victim to its own slow speed, oozing and leaking onto the sidewalk
And every passerby indifferent, no exceptions
The plump squirrel wastes away in the midst of freezing damp grass but the sky is clear and bright, no reflections
Pause it all
Float those leaves back from whence they came
No exemptions
And grant me the pleasure
Of one last lifetime
Before the sun bleeds away without inflection.

Lamb of God, my ears are thirsting for the healing Word.
Patient listening carefully Thy voice is not yet heard
amidst the world's cacaphony
and all competing dins.
Sacred Heart of Jesus, mercy, please forgive my sins.

Each day begins with

The type of thoughts that

I’d rather not disclose because

You may think i’m ****** or

Just kind of indisposed

I read somewhere the gene for

Artistry carries a Foe

A higher predisposition for these

Thoughts that make me groan and

Some say this disordered thinking simply

Means I’m contemplative even

Intelligent or

Just closed off to the thought of being

Content

Aint that a word

The idea to be content to be

Ok with all the things i’ve done

Satisfied with my work enough to

Say it’s good enough?

No not something i can do

As an Artist I spend my days lying in

Contempt of my own mind

Brilliantly undefined to the point of

Madness

Painting for hours on end

Looking up when the suns gone down

Massaging numbness from cold fingers

Writing pages by lamplight

Tearing papers in frustration

Whitewashing paintings in a fit of

Inadequacy

As an Artist

Nothing you do will ever be the best

Not even your best

A constant crushing cacaphony of all the potential and possibilities

If youre like me you know

Every second you’re betraying your own potential to do better

Every moment not improving is a moment disrespecting

What you were given

But every moment working to improve is hellish

Scrapping line after line of useless poetry and

Smudged up paintings

I shudder to think, for your poem decries "being under anothers power".
Yet, are we not born by the power of another, grace, and that of our mother?
Is it not our solutioning with the Earth becoming more concentrated,
The power of another, that realizes us becoming, potentially, you, me?
And when the vitality, rigors of youth are supposedly betrayed by the wisdom
Of middle-age, are we not also more so for that, our doings not more real?
And when old age seemimgly takes our senses, not the sixth, our muscles,
But ..., the sinew, our bones strength, but the marrow's, do we not still be
More so, alival instead of survival, outstretching an arm to lend a hand,
By the power of another, betwixt an Earth, Sky, with a Sun, a Universe?
Aren't we also to cherish life no matter what, strive to be alive, thrive?
And after we, "Do not go gentle into that good night, and rage, rage against
The dying of the light" (Dylan Thomas), will we not finally, again, join in
The Cosmos' eternal 'dance of spheres', it's cacaphony, symphony, as stardust
Sprinkled from above or petals dancing on the breeze, by the power of another?

As an oak will not grow in another's shadow,
so too our struggles, solutioning with reality
while as one and three, a couple in harmony,
must also be independent to whatever degree.

Thus, being as water, yin, and as air, yang, we
find a dance gestured by seasons of romance.
The choreographer's mind's path undefined,
like last moment's awe makes way for this one's.

A canvas with frameless frame and reality
as the brush painting us, even it's shadows
speak of light.  Beingness as gleaned meanings
for all to share, seen through, if we were there.

A cacaphony, symphony heralding
song of the Universe, Earth and spheres.
From adagio, staccato, through to avante-garde.
Life sung accompanying the abundance of joy's Spring.

As poetry's music fathoms the depths of our heart,
heights of our intellect and imagination,
breadth of our spirit, well of our soul,
alluding to the unknown saliently.

Also, climate crisis demands a bond of Earthlings
stronger than ever before, and he or she
must be at the fore', if they want their progeny
community, partner, humanity to even live.

Listen to the sounds of life all around
The constant babbling of energies
Overlapping and layering
Ebbs and flows without end
The rushing sound of watering that has no beginning
Just one continuous flow to the horizon
Slip into the quiet of the stream
Let the noise of all that motion
Lap around your hips
Feel the tugging of the ever changing movement
Put your head back and hear the deafening silence
That point where hearing reaches such a cacaphony that nothing can be heard
And sink into the still waters at the centre of the river
Watch the refracting light spiral and sway
Feel the heavy sleep of ages loop around your eyelids
And let go

I need a Bleh Book

Somewhere to dump the random cacaphony of **** ricocheting against
the thinning vault of my skull like a prison yard handball

Nowhere to go but in perpetual motion nonetheless

Drolly counting a cadence without the revelry of enlightenment or the hope of release

What should be pearls of wisdom precipitously condensed by the weight of time within an elegant carapace formed under the irradescent glow of a witches moon are just chili seeds gathering dust
in an old septic tank rusting under a dimming streetlight in an Albuquerque back alley

Hard kernel remnants of rellenos long since evacuated

Maybe this is it
My book

So
Bleh *******

You
are
welcome

Some thoughts flow melodically
like one eloquently orchestrated masterpiece
Or a well-woven tapestry.
Other thoughts erratic and staccato.
Pauses.
Discordant.
Confusing.
A cacaphony of noises.

Some thoughts are soft and comforting
Like floating clouds of pink, golden sunsets
Over calm, and glistening waters.
Other thoughts are as sharp as pointed ice.
Cutting.
Jarring.
Deceptive.
Malice spoken from evil tongues.

Streams of thoughts can be elusive.
They run
They jump
They swirl in a whirlpool
Unable to steady.
They ​branch
From one thought to another
Shifting like quicksand
Melting into nothing
Forgotten.

Other thoughts can seem iridescent
Changing hue by the light's movement.
Some sparkle, some are bright,
others a dull, faded colour
Turning blank as the light morphs into darkness.
A train of thought now stopped to a halt.
With its own mind
With its own heartbeat.