consume endless stimulants
anything to get through this

lifeless eyes with sunken souls
tucked away in hidden holes

the hands on the clock do a full rotation
returning then surpassing their first location

alternating breaks between coffee and bogies
i sit on the floor, my effort withholding

breathe in, breathe out, inhale deep
i know not about counting sheep

a few more bodies tough it out
"we are the champions," i want to shout

and i'm delusional, so i just might
tell this empty room about my sleepless night

Dedicated to you.
Fair Warning: a long road ahead*

MAJOR WARNING: Anything you say can and will be used...


Excited utterances,
Acerbic witticisms,
Utter stupidities,
Elegant inanities,
Can and assuredly will be used
Evidentially, eventually,
about you in the court of poetic justice,
as inspiration, original source material,
proofs of our collaboration
with the enemy,
whom Pogo fathomed long ago,
is us

A Vermeer-vectored light ray
will reveal with luminous clarity,
all that you have spoken,
been secret-thinking,
template of colors for future sketchers,
inspiration for future poets,
far, far better than me

this dishonorable, low repute,
poetic eavesdropper, poet-as-recorder:
revels in the smoke and ash of
absurd, common sensible trash,
the trite and tragic,
the pith and prissy,
the calm and hissy,
all your lovely revelations
of human frailty and asininity, most
adorable

that you n' I are blessed
to have combinated
in a manner most
curiously original,
now recorded in my
digital memory,
proving positive the unique,
discreet charms de notre
humanity

Even your silences are
most curious fodder,  
the sighs you sigh so hard
and yet again, even harder,
unfair game, mined as
veins of golden material
for my aquatic scribblings,
as I float downriver on
currents of compulsion
to promote vicariously,
our joint disjointedness,
our grade A, prime choice,
recombinant genetic,
absurdities

Rembrandt will honor us,
we, the Comedic Elders of the City,
paint us upright avec expressions
most suitably gravitas,
but see the poetic jester,
find him underneath the table,
in manner most levitas,
out-sticking his protubered tongue,
like a common geni-***,
a la maniere de
Einsteiny

When I cross over the Styx,
limbs turned to
potash, dust and trash,
my blush transferred to earth,
to color the good earth red,
my body eradicated yet,
our body of work extant
a written record of us,
our very own
Dead See Scrolls,
shall be an amuse bouche
for our loyal satrapped
retainers

Let the scholars
dicker and obfusicate,
delve and explicate,
each turn of phrase,
write tomes on the catacombs,
where in jar and cracked vessel discarded,
these Poems and Catechisms,
the collected processes of our mutualism,
your edicts, pronouncements and verdicts
captured as
dots and dashes,
zeroes and ones,
wait most patiently
for shepard boys to find  

You err most grievously,
if you relegate this note
to the dustbin of simple ditties.

Take these words at plain face,
and look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am but a tragic,
empty vessel for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet *poseur extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally, wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly,
unattended

Mock me not,
for anything you say to our chagrin,
will be fully attributed
and recorded on the Web
of long-lived embarrassments

A fevered dream you might say,
rumors and excuses of
visions of drug induced haze?
a theorem most plausible,
but the redacted versions will not conceal
that all my words were Indo-rooted in
a dialect called,
collaborative

This I pen
as apology, thank you note,
written notice, subpoena served,
for as long as you emote,
my fingertips will gleefully record
with love abundant in their artful device,
your mutterings, putterings,
and in cahooting,
right here, shall be,
wrought and wrote,
treasured and kept

Choking off people’s assumptions,
I’m not like the enigma.

I may look complicated;
Yet I’m just a small, arduous spec of the universe.
I may give catechisms;
Bet it’s painless to break, if you feel.
I might have a perplexing persona;
But honey, that’s the shadow of your ego.

I was drowning, in the basin of lies called fairy tales.
And I was drunk, in the virtual reality you made.
I let you choke me, with the wine so called love.

I’m awake;
After weeks of being high of your lies,
After months of being high of your manipulating acts,

Bet that’s why you’re making a great actor.

The masks finally ripped of the performer;
The lies, the bitter truth,
Leaving the ego, caught in the act.

Turns out that I can’t differentiate between reality and stage-play.
I can’t find the difference between when you truly do something,
Or when you’re doing your job on the stage.

I have myself questioning about things,
Do actors have feelings? Do actors always manipulate their acts?

I finally read the script;
The deceptive tears, the dishonest sweet words,
And how I’m just a puppet to your puppetry.

Then I realised a thing.
I was not a conundrum.
I was a slave to your ego,
In your stage-play,

And you did great on your show.

you are a complex circuitry of veins and arteries
a compendium of extremities and intimacies

you are either a trillion accidents or a single success
a whisper of life or a shattering of precedents

your structure is art
your conception a masterpiece
mechanically, you are beautiful

the core of this existence is uncertainty
does your rib cage shiver around the catechisms?

at your worst, you are
the part that can not be cut open
the part that can die before the body

your existence is a war
a perennial blooming and crumbling
your mind and body's slow destruction
flinging themselves together and apart

He lived within my normal
Without catechisms
One leg at a time
Pants and glory

He loved within my normal
Without judgment
A freedom to live
The freedom of happy

He lays within my Normal
With complete peace
a freedom to laugh
A kindness to smile

He loved my normal
And put me to sleep
He slept,  we sleep.
Then dreamt

My normalities became his freedom to be
His laughter Her Cadence
A rave of emotional dialect
Nothing to conquer
Nor ranks to achieve

He lived and loved within
Within my normal
Within the normalities.

The worlds collide—
We collaborate in time,
Countries connect;
Come together,
Creating harmony
In chaotic catechisms,
Unprecedented and powerful.
We chant and chime:
“We will survive”

Wistfully,
I wish I was watching the world from above
on a white flying fortress floating far away from the fauna
and the fickle fools who fight for nothing. Their efforts are fruitless.
Up on my cloud, my cleverness creates cloud-constructs.
These constructs convey to me knowledge both cerebral and celestial.
This sends me higher; to the cosmos.
There, I get caught up in catechisms which force convulsions.
The spinning Sun stares into my silly soul, saying “Such stupidity!”
Scowling, I scorn the stars.
Further still I ascend, astounding the astral plane.
I acquire it all.
And now I know it is
nothing.
Never have my nerves been so wracked.
I weep wildly wishing for when I was waging war
with a woman’s warmth.
Waking up with wet eyes and wounded heart, I stand and walk.
I no longer wonder why.

"As the old catechisms used to say, knowledge is a prerequisite for love."

Here’s to all poets that unite in the catechisms of a vellum page.
In the mountains of letters that beg for attention
In the sun and rain that radiate enhancing our gifts.

Here’s to all poets who feel the energies and write from heart.
Who go to places people dare not go planting seeds of light.
Who illuminate the world with their intention and sacred text.

Here’s to all poets that know their power to dance with words.
To share their visions with a world that waits.
To move in the magic of a thousand dreams.

Here’s to all poets that breath deep finding the riches buried within.
Finding they are anointed with divine phases to change the world.
Finding out that inside our jargon of phases we are one.


StarBG © 2017

Vermillion long before



and long before..
any of those invasions
like pain
or crashed windows
or lost hidden locked doors
from the steps of the diffused domestic clan..
which became my future memory
Listen:
she saw it all like through a train window
trained Catholic to be guilty in shame
beyond any proper tribal guilt and false
like gods of not-men; gain, loss pity
the envy of men to trees and smoke and beauty
when all she needed was a twenty-gage
or a hero like me-Da, with some Texaco-gas
to light flames of justice in the border-town
and the war-time foundations of clay
with no basements
and just let the blocks burn
to infinities. And the right kind of dreams
and metaphors
like a rough and tumble dog
to bite the thumb off of the scales
of some injustice
that had passed her on eventually
in proper form to heavens,
her birthplace of hope
and so add essence to the parish
and the saint of Guadeloupe
or maybe you and I like gods
could have been there to tie coteries to trees
or just hang them like curses
or take the kisses of betrayal to whom
and who knows where
and make weapons of separations
between the essences of fallen natures
and the gods who find comfort there
but mum and dad and the reality
of their both anxious desire
To make mustard seeds of faith
and turn mountains of desire like Vermillion fire
on their ***** into the nearby rivers and lakes
could have made new born beauty
of entire landscapes
and cancelled differences between earths
and skies to proper impressions
but so this is what really happened:
she got knocked down and down and finally
she cracked in perfect halves like love
like my eggs for long after and before
and wine became church, for the bluegrass
and dandelions that Dad missed at midnight
the only time he had leisure to prune
or those false impressions may have been lain down
like me and Mum on the same grass
in the backyard on Prado,
the place looking at the seasons
inside the stars and sky
and then holding hand in innocence
for her late learned lessons
and her saying philosophy to me
and the number pi-infinity
that when squared like perpetuity
will ??? separate
and my mass, later became my name
from the prophet and crazy blind love
like brail lines in sand’s particulates
available in the moment
created right there and then
from our substance
and like catechisms in tongues,
useless without someone to interpret
or love’s lessons come lately, too late in general
to cover anyone or any multitude of past,
and any and other’s sins
like love found, lost and acted to purpose
but the saint’s sins..
listen:
sometimes as through glass
the world darkens to focus, diffused passion
where light seems the enemy
like charity
and if outside
green from lawns
reflects blue to eyes
and to the free will of the beloved
WHEN THE LIGHT FORMS BEGAN
THE light WAS dim AND pleasant
And eyes were full of the essence sand
And comfortable

And all roads led home

the found way pleasant to the touch
found water, the water again
lovely from the great wonder
the wonder that formed the fireflies and wisdom
the fireflies are in formation again
and John died
dad. 1980
in my arms, like I said before
dangling like participles
to the end of his will
the information was remembered
i never had a mic, a deck a board
too bad,
to put the sweet music of him
to proper form
instead:
listen;

remember,
and if you can’t remember,
imagine.
memory is bone deep
likened to a dream forgotten

ok
I was already 21. All ready
to go back home. Josie
was not on the hood of the car
with Dad and me. She was
there for the funeral.
his will left that day
and saw the grand display
the fireflies.
I told you before, he loved Virginia
the mum who gets the high candle
the one who raised me by hand of will
synonymous with me
symmetrical to the doings that Dad did
that he lived, breathed in me
that was mum’s will too
one flesh remember, listen..
imagine
and you and I, if we listen with right ears
to what’s left
and Dad died
and made the fireflies be born

the setting:
me and dad sitting on the hood of his car
a cigarette dangling in the marsh
we were camping
smoking. Right to the end that one
and Dad told me that he had a pain
an ache that wouldn’t spend itself in age
and lie a death, to the obvious passions
dead long since any rage, and Virginia

my mum was a lot to look at
long
dark
like black and silk and
silver with light
upon a screen she was in me
and the dreams of men as boys
are always of pretty-mum, mine was mine
mine was Mum
I’m sure
when she worked
at Champion Spark Plug after the war
at her wits-end,
that when she visited the legion
and the live soldiers there
that many sons dreamed of her
beauty
attrition
wealth
want
and bundles of late formed dreams
from steel monsters
war ships on seas
Her face was like angels singing to angels
like the sound of the sight of a cherub
who watching the gates of the city
takes time to sigh
and absolve vows for five simple senses
like Vermillion long before..

Mum wasn’t there either. I
asked Dad like before.
I asked him, “Did you love her?”
He said, “Yes, I never stopped.”
the woman:
who stole his eyes at birth.
like from dreams of her.
(Dad did dream).
he was standing as near a new birth
ready to play some game there
in the larger ballpark near his yard
waiting for the rain to start
to delay the inning
and Virginia stood silent in his dream of her
his imaginings, want, and faith
too red faced to speak
little dimples sixteen to the day
and him thirteen in a cotton outfit
pinstripe, like the ‘yanks
and leather hand catching the ball
and the girl, standing five feet into the dream
and the whole game disappeared
and he loved The Epiphany of Her
and held her like proper-pride
his Virginia.

I’ll take the costume from the shelf
the garments I’m supposed to wear
put them on to match the role
play the stranger to my soul

cloaked in robes that conceal
the truer person underneath
this disguise does its job
with a price that destroys

I’m the master at this game
knowing what I’m to say
nod the head, evoke the phrase
spouting lies to fill the space

murmurs state the holy words
catechisms now perverse
when the whisper deep inside
denies the dogma as a lie

prisoner in this straight jacket
tailor made to fit the frame
by prior perception of the crowd
exacting wishes made to mold

I’ll genuflect in response
state the words masses want
while I wither deep inside
slipping further into the void.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180319.

and long before..
any of those invasions
like pain
or crashed windows
or lost hidden locked doors
from the steps of the diffused domestic clan..
which became my future memory
Listen:
she saw it all like through a train window
trained Catholic to be guilty in shame
beyond any proper tribal guilt and false
like gods of not-men; gain, loss pity
the envy of men to trees and smoke and beauty
when all she needed was a twenty-gage
or a hero like me-Da, with some Texaco-gas
to light flames of justice in the border-town
and the war-time foundations of clay
with no basements
and just let the blocks burn
to infinities.
And the right kind of dreams
and metaphors
like a rough and tumble dog
to bite the thumb off of the scales
of some injustice
that had passed her on eventually
in proper form to heavens,
her birthplace of hope
and so add essence to the parish
and the saint of Guadeloupe
or maybe you and I like gods
could have been there to tie coteries to trees
or just hang them like curses
or take the kisses of betrayal to whom
and who knows where
and make weapons of separations
between the essences of fallen natures
and the gods who find comfort there
but mum and dad and the reality
of their both anxious desire
To make mustard seeds of faith
and turn mountains of desire
like Vermillion fire
on their ***** into the nearby rivers and lakes
could have made new born beauty
of entire landscapes
and cancelled differences between earths
and skies to proper impressions
but so this is what really happened:
she got knocked down and down and finally
she cracked in perfect halves like love
like my eggs for long after and before
and wine became church, for the bluegrass
and dandelions that Dad missed at midnight
the only time he had leisure to prune
or those false impressions may have been lain down
like me and Mum on the same grass
in the backyard on Prado,
the place looking at the seasons
inside the stars and sky
and then holding hand in innocence
for her late learned lessons
and her saying philosophy to me
and the number pi-infinity
that when squared like perpetuity
will ᶰᵒᵗ separate
and my mass, later became my name
from the prophet and crazy blind love
like brail lines in sand’s particulates
available in the moment
created right there and then
from our substance
and like catechisms in tongues,
useless without someone to interpret
or love’s lessons come lately, too late in general
to cover anyone or any multitude of past,
and any and other’s sins
like love found, lost and acted to purpose
but the saint’s sins..
listen:
sometimes as through glass
the world darkens to focus, diffused passion
where light seems the enemy
like charity
and if outside
green from lawns
reflects blue to eyes
and to the free will of the beloved
WHEN THE LIGHT FORMS BEGAN
THE light WAS dim AND pleasant
And eyes were full of the essence sand
And comfortable
π
and all roads led home
π
the found way pleasant to the touch
found water, the water again
lovely from the great wonder
the wonder that formed the fireflies and wisdom
the fireflies are in formation again
and John died
dad. 1980
in my arms, like I said before
dangling like participles
to the end of his will
the information was remembered
i never had a mic, a deck a board
too bad,
to put the sweet music of him
to proper form
instead:
listen;
π remember,
and if you can’t remember,
imagine.
memory is bone deep
likened to a dream forgotten
π

ok
I was already 21. All ready
to go back home. Josie
was not on the hood of the car
with Dad and me. She was
there for the funeral.
his will left that day
and saw the grand display
the fireflies.
I told you before, he loved Virginia
the mum who gets the high candle
the one who raised me by hand of will
synonymous with me
symmetrical to the doings that Dad did
that he lived, breathed in me
that was mum’s will too
one flesh remember, listen..
imagine
and you and I, if we listen with right ears
to what’s left
and Dad died
and made the fireflies be born
π
the setting:
me and dad sitting on the hood of his car
a cigarette dangling in the marsh
we were camping
smoking. Right to the end that one
and Dad told me that he had a pain
an ache that wouldn’t spend itself in age
and lie a death, to the obvious passions
dead long since any rage, and Virginia
π
my mum was a lot to look at
long
dark
like black and silk and
silver with light
upon a screen she was in me
and the dreams of men as boys
are always of pretty-mum, mine was mine
mine was Mum
I’m sure
when she worked
at Champion Spark Plug after the war
at her wits-end,
that when she visited the legion
and the live soldiers there
that many sons dreamed of her
beauty
attrition
wealth
want
and bundles of late formed dreams
from steel monsters
war ships on seas
Her face was like angels singing to angels
like the sound of the sight of a cherub
who watching the gates of the city
takes time to sigh
and absolve vows for five simple senses
like Vermillion long before..
π
Mum wasn’t there either. I
asked Dad like before.
I asked him, “Did you love her?”
He said, “Yes, I never stopped.”
the woman:
who stole his eyes at birth.
like from dreams of her.
(Dad did dream).
he was standing as near a new birth
ready to play some game there
in the larger ballpark near his yard
waiting for the rain to start
to delay the inning
and Virginia stood silent in his dream of her
his imaginings, want, and faith
too red faced to speak
little dimples sixteen to the day
and him thirteen in a cotton outfit
pinstripe, like the ‘yanks
and leather hand catching the ball
and the girl, standing five feet into the dream
and the whole game disappeared
π
and he loved The Epiphany of Her
and held her like proper-pride
his Virginia.