on moonstone slab Manmata flames again
from out of ashes rises, gloating unfinality of Shiva's dance
reincarnate offering of endless Self
in Lakshmi's avatar
a fateful prince's heart to lance

and lanced his heart her visage did,
                                                     though with vaster pinions fully pierced was she, in depths
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 without rivalry~

his lust was sharp to invite solitude,
but easy to conceal,
he imagined cupping her against him,
scoured memory of upward glimpse,
inch  by  inch
with added imagery, invention moulding her
beneath his grasp
from forehead curls along
glowing skin and eyes
to curving, palatially appareled ******* . . .
her open lips . . .  her hips
--but after, merely to dismiss
and even sleep a bit
and quip inside at irony
to be at mercy
of a girl in flowers
when he with arrows demons lay to rest
(though she would, within the selfsame hours lose her wits ;)

in cityscape descried the triad:
gold dome gifts for sky
in shining generosity
Mithila's people overflow with joy
exuding free abundance carelessly--
jewelry loosed on playful street
from overkeen embrace, is left to lie;
loss in ever-present wealth nigh obsolete

musth of elephant, froth of steed,
floral garlands tangle, line and mix
for clouds of honey-bees to lick their feast.
a bustling of virile acrobatic populace--
symphonic mux of chaos tressed,
metropolis of idylls coalesced;
drums, races, grinning faces flinging courtship,
smirking merchants under wigs
bathers splash exotic fish to flit and weave
while ballads sift for higher pitch of love

from elevated terrace ladies prance
and watching from an inner spire
the princess spies her prince--
emerald shoulders, lotus-petal eyes
Vaikunta hidden from their mortal sight
but straining recognition there,
a union ageless as the stars
inspired suddenly another first:
Rama's transfixed stare she feels and meets,
strangers locked entwining glances
--fated simultaneous-- electric heat   like
from a planet sparking for the taste of outer space --
the lightning burns its mark ensouled
in blooms beyond her ripe, anthophilous form,
verdant visions planted in the rays of light
between two instant loves
to slip inside the eyelid entrance
and evermore impregnate with a glory ill,
as separation wills,
to colonize throughout with other Being there
phantasmal yearnings of entrancing elegance
--from dawn of time instilled, akashic script
of binding hurt with joy in love's embrace
condemn desire to a writhing term
when not imbibing such togetherness
a worldless crypt preferred

and so as swift as gymnast flip to fall
the heart is gushing toxic lack,
epic ventricles the viscose tug
in fluid inspiration wrote of Sita's
sudden addict gnashing inner plight
while slips the sight interred within the crowd,
as if a sorcerer the cosmic sea to play her destiny:
the waves inside enraged to overwhelm
the sudden coral crust beneath the swell
an unmarked seaside's lavish drown unto the land
and reeling send this fragile ******
into wilting, her floral haze to drooping fell...
        in revelatory crash of passion's oceanic weight...
attendants pamper uselessly
--from swoon to mood irate
to wait until the next appearance of her mortal god
the only one to sate the shameless need
entwining up within a clenching wrack of milky fits
from bed to sweaty bed they take the burning maiden~
the outer sea inflow in calming dusk meant nothing to the agony of new romance
                       sequestered in hymenic fire, dawning brilliant
                                                       ­                                omni chakral pierce in rays,
                                                                ­                                                              tot­ality relentlessness
and therein descry a wholeness
  yet unregained
a hopeless birdsong careless as the wind
in caring strokes of pollen redolence
for forest ears an endless vibrate mate
of elemental ease the simmer float
upon the dukkha broil paths embroidery of karmic
cookery the godly recipe invoked,
gibed her without cease,
****** flare eternal guna coals to stoke
and spite her with their peace,
for her attainment only next to he
the moon communes the message blinding clear
amid the ghee her girls would light in care
to soften her despair -- but only aggravate her state --
and so by dim refracted moondrops set,
in only gemlight, Sita basks in pain
her gaze entrained by night obsessively
while overhead the crescent hook beams
freely in to fertilize her all-too-chastely girdle there,
petals wilting under body pressed to slab of stone
as mounting groan on groan intones her writhing questioning
of whomever he could be to cast her moaning so
a deity in maidenhead unwitting of such otherlife
left by endless, anthrocosmos' whim to ache, and alone
in wonder scream abandonment from aether poise
confusion reigning noisome nescient choice


















.

I feel as though my life is entrained towards a constant sunset...
                                         Yet,
                                                      I know at some point in my life there was a sunrise...
     Where I in turn, was a ray of hope for my family and friends...
                                                                                 Blindsided by a hurricane...
                               By a rainstorm that never ceased -
                                              A rainstorm that never even existed at all...
Just clouds...
       Clouds in my mind and in my soul -
                                                          Obstructing my view,
                            Leaving me in the eye of the storm...
                                                             Leaving me a motionless being with no direction,
   Content with my seemingly ever-seeking failure...

Who dare quash my quest for authenticity,
the truths I alone must speak or swallow?

What monstrous world shapes my identity,
lays out a path for me to fail or follow?

Why, entangled in this web of complexity,
shall I be entrained to accept its sorrow?

Where will I go when instilled dependency
crumbles in my lack of faith in dead tomorrows?

Sitting in my Yurt:
A trophy room

Warming myself by
A violet flame

Tom Waits streaming, essentially screaming
'All Stripped Down'

6 dwarves on the wall ~ my masks:
Base, sacral, solar plexus, heart, third eye

One place left
It feels right

Inevitably coming off
My crown, no longer masking

Free flowing energies
Tantric, not romantic

In search of the Moon
Octavio whispers about the Sun

Removing the 7th dwarf
Reveals a giant

It's Snow White and it's
Ivory & Obsidian

1 blink yes
2 blinks no

Rebuilding psyche
On a binary platform

Climbing over the rainbow
You change all the lead sleeping in my head to gold

Through a black and white prism
Entrained within the prison

A white horse
Resounding out of the North

Through an impossible nightmare
Built on kamikaze dreams

Boundaries dissolve into a never ending
Never beginning: yin yang

Another yellow brick in
The wall

For Three years we had been used as slaves,
since surrendering to the Japanese.
We’d been starved, beaten and abused
and lived in filth and misery.

We’d heard they planned to **** us all
once it was clear they’d lose the war.
We’d lived in fear, like Damocles,
waiting for the day Japan would fall.

Then came the news of Victory
and our tormentors disappeared.
More eager, then, to save themselves
Than carry out the order we had feared.

Beneath my bunk a treasure hid,
concealed there from the Japanese.
It was saved from the fall of Singapore,
then passed through several hands to me.

We struck down their flag, the rising sun,
for we were sure their sun had set.
We replaced it with the Stars and Stripes,
Around that banner we rallied yet.

Hearts filled with pride, we stood as men
and saluted the red white and blue.
We were like scarecrows dressed in rags,
but we knew that this ordeal was through.

Our air force dropped us food supplies
and shortly after we entrained.
We’d made a bonfire of the camp
to consume the memory of our pain.

A phenom pursue movement
by midnight if entrained encampment
flush by her heels while quatrain will absorb
when she only a heaping there in life with
hers round circumference as deeply met
for a week if her sorcery became a tempest rife
in horsepower with such antigen that an earthquake
with even more liquefaction than mere mention
on cruises her regression must also play into her automobile
and forebode her ritual in speeding in class action.

to hate living things
in service of the dead
to love dead things
in service of death
these
are the ways i inversion
we corporalists
recognize there is life
in spareness meekness
honesty and lack of doubt

a
decisionary ant
a tree
is more powerful than the idea
that such a system still exists
or that there was never
defeat written into the bones of
**** sapiens
if he is not ecophenomenally
**** ludens
y
homophonic
ludidactic
predatory
of the prey
keep on praying
there is no dog
but savage teeth that
bite thy world in twine
entrained
in twain
we trust nothing
and own everything
there are already doubts about your insanity
creeping into our cages
we cannot be stopped
we remember nothing
and we are alive

ever since
that brightest of lights
birthed the universe
and all that it holds
our particles have
been striving through
all that is known
of space and time
through countless changes
of form and matter
through our unknown infinities
amidst the infinites known
through beliefs and disbeliefs
uncertainties and doubts
falling continuously
in the path of our orbits
endlessly we will travail
entrained to reunite
with our eternal partner
separated only temporally
impeded by the superlunary
seemingly fated from beyond
the gravity of this mystic tie
binds all sempiternally
and we will be found
one in the other

The suffering train
takes me to somewhere.
I really want to get off this train, but
it is running too fast-
a wave of despair.


I had no courage
to face the truth,
nor I had courage to believe that
we could be together,
maybe no courage at all-
shadows of my youth.

You didn't know
'twas a matter of time.
You were right there, waiting for me-
it could be truly sublime.

Be my lover,
or be my kiss, or
be my happy December!
Now, take a chance
love to rediscover!

Don't say,
'should happen once in life'
all the rest means lie -
some games -
I couldn't face on-
unseen scars of war and strife.


There's only a train
to run to nowhere
too fast, never for two,
but I want you to be always there
waiting for me, because
I'm waiting for you.

Don't ask me anything,
not any longer-
the last word rhythm entrained by love-
no more nothing.

The feelings are freed from chains
on December reign,
I love you more than ever,
when you can wait for
my suffering train.

Crooked walkways
Leading my spirit
Towards the altar
My confessions are legitimate
I walk past the pebbles
Eroding into the dust
The only bottle of wine left
Was entrained by my sister
Blood spurting forward
My legs are sinking into the ground
They say we all are made of stardust
But my reflection portrays chaos
I've reached the cathedral
My car burned down last night
The keys rust in the cemetery

From the time the boy could stand
his Dad had brought him on the Seven.
To see the Mets they both would go,
before he'd even learned to throw.

All through his childhood and past his teens.
They'd entrain to their field of dreams.
Their Mets found many ways to lose-
most years they had godawful teams.

So soon it was his time to go.
Children grow and Time flies they say-
His son now has his place downtown
A few short miles and a world away.

Opening day is a magical land
That once more found them in the stands
Cheering loud, their voices hoarse,
as their team booked yet another loss.

After the excitement of the game
waiting on the platform for their trains
The two men hugged with obvious affection,
then entrained in opposite directions.

The Man who never brought hell home
was wise beyond his years.
He suffered long
but lived it loud
imprisoned by his fears –
and those were thus:
that those before him
came and went
with nothing left but
pain and name
and more of same
who went and came
from seed in soil
to root and stem,
to fallen branches, time again:
a family tree to fuel the flames
on cold and lonely nights.

Embodied by the coat of arms he wore,
this Last to hold his name,
he swore,
– in vain, perhaps –
to stand at ease no more.

The Man who never brought hell home
encased himself in spite and spirits;
ghosts of generations gone,
encroaching deep within.
He sought for answers,
fought for reasons,
questioned why his bloodline grew
to fall and rise
and curse and ****
with secret lies
and stolen rights
and ties he could not sight.

The Man who never brought hell home
had died
the moment he arrived
– or so he thought –
he always said,
with eyes in search of something else . . .
perhaps that love that once he’d felt,
despite the years of crime he lead.
And what is left, again, but holes
to fill with buried woes
and broken war-like games
and shattered dreams
and darker still yet, nothing.
Nothing, as it always seems.

Not a sliver shall him by, it pass,
of hope,
of love,
of peace . . .
Not until the very last,
this Man who never brought hell home.

And so, this Man, with blind belief
declared his story would be brief,
atoning for the sins he cast
in other’s lives
in years that passed,
and spent his days in self destruction,
free from want, control, and need,
biding time with bated breath
like men, before, who longed for death,
entrained in mind and soul,
until one day,
the hell that never came,
came whole.

For every man,
and son of man that once there was,
who sharpened knives
and counted tools
and cleaned his guns,
and polished pride, his moral compass by his side,
who now lives to wake and wakes to die:
repelling faith, repelling truth, and cussing lies,
this Man has died.

Met you first at the edge of town
Where parallel lives converge
Too close to see the reality
Too close to see the merge
Entrained & double stranded
Twice abandoned
Forged in fire
Etched in stone,
Dressed in a serious tone

Divide:
The divine definition
Served over coffee, wine, and repetition
The overhead sign flashed
Standby Alert

Never one to heed the warning
You were looking straight ahead
On an outward bound,
Dopplered red
Journey

The local doesn’t stop there anymore.

The stranger that you were seeing
Detached from all-mighty reason
Feeling tracts of the weatherworn
Like leather shorn
Shattered by resistance  
Battered by time and insistence
A legacy of perfectionism
Bestowed on you by dogmatism
Stirred by criticism
Seen through a prism schism
From standing on your head
Judging yourself upside down
Perspective’s reflection
Ism prison
Makes perfect sense
A hole in groundism


Storied teller without a soundism
Rhythm or such
Downtown, cafed, solitary lunch bunch
Saying no to this, no to that
So comfortable
When there’s something to defend
And there always something to defend

The exonerated accused of insanity
Righteous indignation abomination nation
To the guilty acquitted by reason of sanity
For strategizing one side
Side Lies
Channel changing and codified


The chips are played and unafraid
Free-floating on a reclining cloud
Hovering above the unavowed
Unbuckled crowd
Without blame or explanation


The hand that binds, rewinds
Will eventually set you free


The tracks began to dance
A lazy sideways glance
Carving a figure eight
Keeping time
With a measured gate
Pausing as they crossed
Hand over hand
In infinity seeing speck
An aspect
Dancing on ice
They spin
So without
So within
Pirouette going around and around
Everyone stepped aside
Later they all took a side

“Never saw it coming.

You know, he never should have left.

Yes but, how do you know it was him?

I heard she was bereft.”

The moment was tenuous
Always slipping from grasp
Always a handout for help
Always a mask
The mask it
Fell from where it was hanging and
Broke in half              
You were off autopilot
Without a staff


Yes, to whatever you say
I’m that way
You must first introduce yourself
Forgive yourself
For all the isms’
They were never ever you
The isms aren’t all bad
They just embody the essence
Of all that is had.