III. TO APOLLO (546 lines)

TO DELIAN APOLLO --

(ll. 1-18) I will remember and not be unmindful of Apollo who
shoots afar.  As he goes through the house of Zeus, the gods
tremble before him and all spring up from their seats when he
draws near, as he bends his bright bow.  But Leto alone stays by
the side of Zeus who delights in thunder; and then she unstrings
his bow, and closes his quiver, and takes his archery from his
strong shoulders in her hands and hangs them on a golden peg
against a pillar of his father's house.  Then she leads him to a
seat and makes him sit: and the Father gives him nectar in a
golden cup welcoming his dear son, while the other gods make him
sit down there, and queenly Leto rejoices because she bare a
mighty son and an archer.  Rejoice, blessed Leto, for you bare
glorious children, the lord Apollo and Artemis who delights in
arrows; her in Ortygia, and him in rocky Delos, as you rested
against the great mass of the Cynthian hill hard by a palm-tree
by the streams of Inopus.

(ll. 19-29) How, then, shall I sing of you who in all ways are a
worthy theme of song?  For everywhere, O Phoebus, the whole range
of song is fallen to you, both over the mainland that rears
heifers and over the isles.  All mountain-peaks and high
headlands of lofty hills and rivers flowing out to the deep and
beaches sloping seawards and havens of the sea are your delight.
Shall I sing how at the first Leto bare you to be the joy of men,
as she rested against Mount Cynthus in that rocky isle, in sea-
girt Delos -- while on either hand a dark wave rolled on
landwards driven by shrill winds -- whence arising you rule over
all mortal men?

(ll. 30-50) Among those who are in Crete, and in the township of
Athens, and in the isle of Aegina and Euboea, famous for ships,
in Aegae and Eiresiae and Peparethus near the sea, in Thracian
Athos and Pelion's towering heights and Thracian Samos and the
shady hills of Ida, in Scyros and Phocaea and the high hill of
Autocane and fair-lying Imbros and smouldering Lemnos and rich
******, home of Macar, the son of ******, and Chios, brightest of
all the isles that lie in the sea, and craggy Mimas and the
heights of Corycus and gleaming Claros and the sheer hill of
Aesagea and watered Samos and the steep heights of Mycale, in
Miletus and Cos, the city of Meropian men, and steep Cnidos and
windy Carpathos, in Naxos and Paros and rocky Rhenaea -- so far
roamed Leto in travail with the god who shoots afar, to see if
any land would be willing to make a dwelling for her son.  But
they greatly trembled and feared, and none, not even the richest
of them, dared receive Phoebus, until queenly Leto set foot on
Delos and uttered winged words and asked her:

(ll. 51-61) 'Delos, if you would be willing to be the abode of my
son "Phoebus Apollo and make him a rich temple --; for no other
will touch you, as you will find: and I think you will never be
rich in oxen and sheep, nor bear vintage nor yet produce plants
abundantly.  But if you have the temple of far-shooting Apollo,
all men will bring you hecatombs and gather here, and incessant
savour of rich sacrifice will always arise, and you will feed
those who dwell in you from the hand of strangers; for truly your
own soil is not rich.'

(ll. 62-82) So spake Leto.  And Delos rejoiced and answered and
said:  'Leto, most glorious daughter of great Coeus, joyfully
would I receive your child the far-shooting lord; for it is all
too true that I am ill-spoken of among men, whereas thus I should
become very greatly honoured.  But this saying I fear, and I will
not hide it from you, Leto.  They say that Apollo will be one
that is very haughty and will greatly lord it among gods and men
all over the fruitful earth.  Therefore, I greatly fear in heart
and spirit that as soon as he sets the light of the sun, he will
scorn this island -- for truly I have but a hard, rocky soil --
and overturn me and ****** me down with his feet in the depths of
the sea; then will the great ocean wash deep above my head for
ever, and he will go to another land such as will please him,
there to make his temple and wooded groves.  So, many-footed
creatures of the sea will make their lairs in me and black seals
their dwellings undisturbed, because I lack people.  Yet if you
will but dare to sware a great oath, goddess, that here first he
will build a glorious temple to be an oracle for men, then let
him afterwards make temples and wooded groves amongst all men;
for surely he will be greatly renowned.

(ll. 83-88) So said Delos.  And Leto sware the great oath of the
gods: 'Now hear this, Earth and wide Heaven above, and dropping
water of Styx (this is the strongest and most awful oath for the
blessed gods), surely Phoebus shall have here his fragrant altar
and precinct, and you he shall honour above all.'

(ll. 89-101) Now when Leto had sworn and ended her oath, Delos
was very glad at the birth of the far-shooting lord.  But Leto
was racked nine days and nine nights with pangs beyond wont.  And
there were with her all the chiefest of the goddesses, Dione and
Rhea and Ichnaea and Themis and loud-moaning Amphitrite and the
other deathless goddesses save white-armed Hera, who sat in the
halls of cloud-gathering Zeus.  Only Eilithyia, goddess of sore
travail, had not heard of Leto's trouble, for she sat on the top
of Olympus beneath golden clouds by white-armed Hera's
contriving, who kept her close through envy, because Leto with
the lovely tresses was soon to bear a son faultless and strong.

(ll. 102-114) But the goddesses sent out Iris from the well-set
isle to bring Eilithyia, promising her a great necklace strung
with golden threads, nine cubits long.  And they bade Iris call
her aside from white-armed Hera, lest she might afterwards turn
her from coming with her words.  When swift Iris, fleet of foot
as the wind, had heard all this, she set to run; and quickly
finishing all the distance she came to the home of the gods,
sheer Olympus, and forthwith called Eilithyia out from the hall
to the door and spoke winged words to her, telling her all as the
goddesses who dwell on Olympus had bidden her.  So she moved the
heart of Eilithyia in her dear breast; and they went their way,
like shy wild-doves in their going.

(ll. 115-122) And as soon as Eilithyia the goddess of sore
travail set foot on Delos, the pains of birth seized Leto, and
she longed to bring forth; so she cast her arms about a palm tree
and kneeled on the soft meadow while the earth laughed for joy
beneath.  Then the child leaped forth to the light, and all the
goddesses washed you purely and cleanly with sweet water, and
swathed you in a white garment of fine texture, new-woven, and
fastened a golden band about you.

(ll. 123-130) Now Leto did not give Apollo, bearer of the golden
blade, her breast; but Themis duly poured nectar and ambrosia
with her divine hands: and Leto was glad because she had borne a
strong son and an archer.  But as soon as you had tasted that
divine heavenly food, O Phoebus, you could no longer then be held
by golden cords nor confined with bands, but all their ends were
undone.  Forthwith Phoebus Apollo spoke out among the deathless
goddesses:

(ll. 131-132) 'The lyre and the curved bow shall ever be dear to
me, and I will declare to men the unfailing will of Zeus.'

(ll. 133-139) So said Phoebus, the long-haired god who shoots
afar and began to walk upon the wide-pathed earth; and all
goddesses were amazed at him.  Then with gold all Delos was
laden, beholding the child of Zeus and Leto, for joy because the
god chose her above the islands and shore to make his dwelling in
her: and she loved him yet more in her heart, and blossomed as
does a mountain-top with woodland flowers.

(ll. 140-164) And you, O lord Apollo, god of the silver bow,
shooting afar, now walked on craggy Cynthus, and now kept
wandering about the island and the people in them.  Many are your
temples and wooded groves, and all peaks and towering bluffs of
lofty mountains and rivers flowing to the sea are dear to you,
Phoebus, yet in Delos do you most delight your heart; for there
the long robed Ionians gather in your honour with their children
and shy wives: mindful, they delight you with boxing and dancing
and song, so often as they hold their gathering.  A man would say
that they were deathless and unageing if he should then come upon
the Ionians so met together.  For he would see the graces of them
all, and would be pleased in heart gazing at the men and well-
girded women with their swift ships and great wealth.  And there
is this great wonder besides -- and its renown shall never perish
-- the girls of Delos, hand-maidens of the Far-shooter; for when
they have praised Apollo first, and also Leto and Artemis who
delights in arrows, they sing a strain-telling of men and women
of past days, and charm the tribes of men.  Also they can imitate
the tongues of all men and their clattering speech: each would
say that he himself were singing, so close to truth is their
sweet song.

(ll. 165-178) And now may Apollo be favourable and Artemis; and
farewell all you maidens.  Remember me in after time whenever any
one of men on earth, a stranger who has seen and suffered much,
comes here and asks of you: 'Whom think ye, girls, is the
sweetest singer that comes here, and in whom do you most
delight?'  Then answer, each and all, with one voice: 'He is a
blind man, and dwells in rocky Chios: his lays are evermore
supreme.'  As for me, I will carry your renown as far as I roam
over the earth to the well-placed this thing is true.  And I will
never cease to praise far-shooting Apollo, god of the silver bow,
whom rich-haired Leto bare.

TO PYTHIAN APOLLO --

(ll. 179-181) O Lord, Lycia is yours and lovely Maeonia and
Miletus, charming city by the sea, but over wave-girt Delos you
greatly reign your own self.

(ll. 182-206) Leto's all-glorious son goes to rocky Pytho,
playing upon his hollow lyre, clad in divine, perfumed garments;
and at the touch of the golden key his lyre sings sweet.  Thence,
swift as thought, he speeds from earth to Olympus, to the house
of Zeus, to join the gathering of the other gods: then
straightway the undying gods think only of the lyre and song, and
all the Muses together, voice sweetly answering voice, hymn the
unending gifts the gods enjoy and the sufferings of men, all that
they endure at the hands of the deathless gods, and how they live
witless and helpless and cannot find healing for death or defence
against old age.  Meanwhile the rich-tressed Graces and cheerful
Seasons dance with Harmonia and **** and Aphrodite, daughter of
Zeus, holding each other by the wrist.  And among them sings one,
not mean nor puny, but tall to look upon and enviable in mien,
Artemis who delights in arrows, sister of Apollo.  Among them
sport Ares and the keen-eyed Slayer of Argus, while Apollo plays
his lyre stepping high and featly and a radiance shines around
him, the gleaming of his feet and close-woven vest.  And they,
even gold-tressed Leto and wise Zeus, rejoice in their great
hearts as they watch their dear son playing among the undying
gods.

(ll. 207-228) How then shall I sing of you -- though in all ways
you are a worthy theme for song?  Shall I sing of you as wooer
and in the fields of love, how you went wooing the daughter of
Azan along with god-like Ischys the son of well-horsed Elatius,
or with Phorbas sprung from Triops, or with Ereutheus, or with
Leucippus and the wife of Leucippus....
((LACUNA))
....you on foot, he with his chariot, yet he fell not short of
Triops.  Or shall I sing how at the first you went about the
earth seeking a place of oracle for men, O far-shooting Apollo?
To Pieria first you went down from Olympus and passed by sandy
Lectus and Enienae and through the land of the Perrhaebi.  Soon
you came to Iolcus and set foot on Cenaeum in Euboea, famed for
ships: you stood in the Lelantine plain, but it pleased not your
heart to make a temple there and wooded groves.  From there you
crossed the Euripus, far-shooting Apollo, and went up the green,
holy hills, going on to Mycalessus and grassy-bedded Teumessus,
and so came to the wood-clad abode of Thebe; for as yet no man
lived in holy Thebe, nor were there tracks or ways about Thebe's
wheat-bearing plain as yet.

(ll. 229-238) And further still you went, O far-shooting Apollo,
and came to Onchestus, Poseidon's bright grove: there the new-
broken cold distressed with drawing the trim chariot gets spirit
again, and the skilled driver springs from his car and goes on
his way.  Then the horses for a while rattle the empty car, being
rid of guidance; and if they break the chariot in the woody
grove, men look after the horses, but tilt the chariot and leave
it there; for this was the rite from the very first.  And the
drivers pray to the lord of the shrine; but the chariot falls to
the lot of the god.

(ll. 239-243) Further yet you went, O far-shooting Apollo, and
reached next Cephissus' sweet stream which pours forth its sweet-
flowing water from Lilaea, and crossing over it, O worker from
afar, you passed many-towered Ocalea and reached grassy
Haliartus.

(ll. 244-253) Then you went towards Telphusa: and there the
pleasant place seemed fit for making a temple and wooded grove.
You came very near and spoke to her: 'Telphusa, here I am minded
to make a glorious temple, an oracle for men, and hither they
will always bring perfect hecatombs, both those who live in rich
Peloponnesus and those of Europe and all the wave-washed isles,
coming to seek oracles.  And I will deliver to them all counsel
that cannot fail, giving answer in my rich temple.'

(ll. 254-276) So said Phoebus Apollo, and laid out all the
foundations throughout, wide and very long.  But when Telphusa
saw this, she was angry in heart and spoke, saying: 'Lord
Phoebus, worker from afar, I will speak a word of counsel to your
heart, since you are minded to make here a glorious temple to be
an oracle for men who will always bring hither perfect hecatombs
for you; yet I will speak out, and do you lay up my words in your
heart.  The trampling of swift horses and the sound of mules
watering at my sacred springs will always irk you, and men will
like better to gaze at the well-made chariots and stamping,
swift-footed horses than at your great temple and the many
treasures that are within.  But if you will be moved by me -- for
you, lord, are stronger and mightier than I, and your strength is
very great -- build at Crisa below the glades of Parnassus: there
no bright chariot will clash, and there will be no noise of
swift-footed horses near your well-built altar.  But so the
glorious tribes of men will bring gifts to you as Iepaeon ('Hail-
Healer'), and you will receive with delight rich sacrifices from
the people dwelling round about.'  So said Telphusa, that she
alone, and not the Far-Shooter, should have renown there; and she
persuaded the Far-Shooter.

(ll. 277-286) Further yet you went, far-shooting Apollo, until
you came to the town of the presumptuous Phlegyae who dwell on
this earth in a lovely glade near the Cephisian lake, caring not
for Zeus.  And thence you went speeding swiftly to the mountain
ridge, and came to Crisa beneath snowy Parnassus, a foothill
turned towards the west: a cliff hangs over if from above, and a
hollow, rugged glade runs under.  There the lord Phoebus Apollo
resolved to make his lovely temple, and thus he said:

(ll. 287-293) 'In this place I am minded to build a glorious
temple to be an oracle for men, and here they will always bring
perfect hecatombs, both they who dwell in rich Peloponnesus and
the men of Europe and from all the wave-washed isles, coming to
question me.  And I will deliver to them all counsel that cannot
fail, answering them in my rich temple.'

(ll. 294-299) When h

He had a red raised bump from writing too long
Now, I feel a proud resistance from my 36 ‘o clock shadow’s frill
Summer cicadas, on Cranfield Road, always sang their song
and the sun set behind our blue Appalachian foothill

Now, I feel a proud resistance from my 36 ‘o clock shadow’s frill
I got to shoot Dad’s 30/30 rifle when I was fourteen
and the sun set behind our blue Appalachian foothill
No other Bayless has ever seen Peru’s countryside eaten in fire and morphine

I got to shoot Dad’s 30/30 rifle when I was fourteen
but Mom has always been a vegetarian (except for some fish)
No other Bayless has ever seen Peru’s countryside eaten in fire and morphine
Cheese, fruit, and silence is our favorite family dish

But mom has always been a vegetarian (except for some fish)
Mimi and Leiron love cats and Pops and I on ink relied
Cheese, fruit, and silence is our favorite family dish
Mimi’s glasses, shaken by sobs and laughter, fell off when he died

Mimi and Leiron love cats and Pops and I on ink relied
his dead lips were painted a shade too red, inexcusably
Mimi’s glasses, shaken by sobs and laughter, fell off when he died
The trashcan in my room was filled with murdered versions of his eulogy

his dead lips were painted a shade too pink, inexcusably
Summer cicadas, on Cranfield Road, always sang their song
The trashcan in my room was filled with murdered versions of his eulogy
He has a red raised bump from writing too long.

In nature
speaking
lotus tea
((All Him))
coffee
((All Her))
Messaging
Texting
Managing
Breathtaking
Massaging
Palm read
guessing
Ancient footprints
reader
confessing
He needed to see her
Feet walk this earth
Meet talk Bliss Worth

Infused me

We speak the
highest form
of feet lecture

To bring love
closer
Movie feet feature
Invincible but
lovable
But the lover of

It's her lightness
guiltless
Her weight felt
like a
Hippopotamus
Her feet were
heavy duty
Rhinoceros
bag of dirt grime
That foot scrub
Love cant wait
***** Himalayas
Speak of  him 
 hearted
He started to  love
Her he stirred to be
shaved

Like the hub slaved
over candy relish

We became the
creatures
All unwanted hair
Finger waves
with flair
His baby blue eyes
wearing a bib
Women's love rib
Hand tip foot
lip to lip
The night owl
bait
like foot robbed
Please no
Tarantula
On my tip
Penisula
Her recital
In her mighty
jungle
((Coca-Cola))
Christmas foot
jingle
Paw Prints fax
me hints

Inside him
those love stunts
Viola
The best blueberry
bundt cake

Her foot pedal
all fueled
The mysterious
environment
She felt haunted by
the beast
ruled
The child
wildflowers
Arabian sea
Lovers tent Bea
Himalayas
broad-minded

"Mountain man"

Doing footsy
Tootsy
Her expedition
narrow-minded
Seeing her
marriage hand
Open loaded
Reproduction
From her feet
Pulp fiction
"Godly Holyland"
The footprint Yeti
the "Lochness"
monster swamps
(Loveland lizard)

Geico mountain
Insured foothill
Roco
Milestones the hills
whistle
Meeting the French
monsieur
Rivers of the heart
glaciers

The bear rocky crystal
The stars like
a movie
Billy Crystal
Beyond life
Above eternity
Below our love sanity

The natural estate holds

tight like a magnet

The Himalayas
needing a
craving so fit for
laughing like
Hyenas
Stepped dainty
Ballerina's
The relationship
Biggest-foot heights
The Himalayas Oh!
What a
night garden
of gardenias
What will forever
Bee
Petunia's
Do Wire the call
Your foot said
Climb but don't
Fall foothill
In my mouth

Charmed by
ankle bracelet
The sunset bare feet
all naked
Amazon jungle
my foot massage
Southern belle mirage
Having a hell twin feet
ball laughing like
hyenas
the moment in time
The sun going down
Sunset how it hit
my face waken lit
So like something
I never felt
Two heart's of the
finest soil
Starting over
indescribable
heat

We start  over
feet to feet
We were difficult but
we met
We were so ready like
Tight fitting Moms hairnet

But yet like no other
foot from the
left to her right foot
The rabbit foot
Head over someone else's
Heels of a foot  
Didn't catch her heart to the
right beat
Something in the way she knows
Whether human or creature type
We are all in heat_

I

A Genesis! The Exodus, the Exodus!
A departure from all terrestiality
Always immoral and depraved, bathed in filth, in self-loathing
Abattoir of our souls, it entrenches us

Also, we too must be of the same make
And bear with our corpses the same proceedings, the same caliber
Allowed to their subversive candor,
All that broke the Carthaginians upon their own passage
Across the peninsular pathways

S'il in our conquest we find, however, that the pachyderms have run aground,
Vous must aggregate our conscious thought
Plaitcate the ravenousness within the heart of victory.

II

Bring victory, the winged harbinger of the conquest,
Beg for tyrannical proclamations: the end of man, the end of men,
By now, the greater of the concepts is lost to its own devices, devices,
Belching out smoke, that bend the corpses upon their backs.
By wrenching from their life a sense of purpose,
Byproductively, they feed heroic romanticisms of combat.

Brought yet upon these fields, there lies no stranger enemy
But that of the tide
Being self-effacing, masochistic,
Belittling, She breaks herself upon the shore, ravaging the bodies of
Both, Playing as ******* and as subservient

III

Come! Wave upon Wave upon Frothing
Crest, to shores of golden enfrenzied ******
Calmed by the liquid of our ***** *****
Charging forth as we
Charge forth armies upon the field of slaughter
Callously, for you, our gilded monarch
Can you see? They cannot see, and we hope to elucidate your presence, they
Cannot comprehend or fathom what they
Cannot see.

IV

Ceaseless now the charges
Come further upon the front
Crashing 'gainst the openings of each
Clangor and madness
Coalesce to form death

Dripping anew with sanguine libations
Drawn fresh from naked lambs, freshly cut for their country
Dionysian warriors return,
Desire forming their mental undulations

Effortlessly they overtake their feminine fortunes
Effacing their identities, removing from them with their clothing, the
Entirety of their selves.

V

From carnal conquest they rejoice,
Flaunting the destruction they wrought
Flinging husks of women about the room,
Foisting these shells on other patriarchs

Given no choice, they return to fields of battle
Godspeed, gods' will, and god-granted
Gaian soil is retreaded by their sodden flesh.

VI

Hellish, infernal is their presence
Having lost no measure to revelry or rest, neither
Halting nor slowed, the march quickens in time with their lustful bellows
Hastened to madness by infinity
Harkened back to prisons of mental anguish by their creators
How proud they are, the Old Gods,
Hacking away the pounds of flesh to reveal the
Haphazard construction to their instruments of torture.

VII

Into the bloodshed, into the fiery cavernous opening of the crusade
Ignited by righteous scraps of cloth and metal
Ignobly formed into crudely significant, textured shapes
Iconoclasts to their own ideals
Idyllic in their self-mockery.

Jabbering like hellbeasts, the warriors drive into the flesh of the conflict
Jettisoning armaments in the process, their
Joie de vivre having been lessened by mechanical limits.
Jocular slaughter synthesized with demonic cries.

Kapellmeisters to the symphony of death,
Keeping in the rhythm of mutilation, counterpoints of steel clashing against breastplates, giving shape to a
Kleptocracy of life.

VIII

Languishing now in the refuse of the struggle,
Laden with corpses, the warriors remain restrained by fatigue
Lurching through the mud, calling out feebly with voices
Long since bellowed to pulpy masses of throat tissue.

Masses of flesh crawling across the fields of strife,
Macerated ground, weak and shifting, struggles to support the
Multitude of half-corpses now in eternal respite upon the bloodied pasture.

IX

Now broken with regret and shame they collapse
Nestled into the marrow of the fallow earth,
Needing only rest in the cooling tendrils of dirt and blood that trickle across them.
Né de nouveau, their trek leads them towards the grave
Necrosis having taken hold in their limbs,
Nascent corpses, they subside with grave finality into a dead collective.

X

Opaque irises await those who uncover the un-burial mound
Oafish sockets containing them like marbles
Open to the elements, decaying with their corporeal encasement, shaded by
Oaken leaves that remain unfallen, while
Obsequious maggots go about their task of cleansing the remains

Paralyzed in the final moments of their mortal coil, the bodies lay stagnant,
Pacified only by the removal of sentience.
Pagan rituals surround such corpses, and the intrepid discovers
Patiently await the arrival of some necromantic spirit.

Quasi-instinctively, the pioneers of the superterranean mausoleum
Quell their fears and remove the bodies from their conclusive locale,
Quantifying their deaths by the armaments and metal carapaces upon them.

XI

Reeling across the path, weighted by the bodies,
Returning, the archaeological presence brings a pall over society, which
Remained reticent despite the presence of such suffocating solemnity
Repressed by its own intent

Solitude is given no quarter, and the bodies
Strung up like scattered marionettes
Silently serenade the town with a deafening cacophony.

XII

To Hell their souls desperately charge, frothing about the shackles of undeath
Torn from corporeal existence, yet unable to
Transgress the mortal plane
Torturous paradox!
Torment the fallen of Carthage's vestigal might no more
Traducer of the human condition
Tragedy is loosed at thy whim
Try not the patience of demi-gods of wrath and bloodshed.

XIII

Undulating by the beckoning of the wind,
Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins
Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets
Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak
Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms

Visceral is the movement of the procession,
Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill
Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is
Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero.

Warlike, the battle up the ***** claims the lives of those already claimed
Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict,
Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.

XIV

Xenophobes of the Inferno fear the inevitable presence of these
Xoana, false representations of humanity.
Xanthic is their fear, for inside the malebolges themselves
Xanadu is sought for those of the fallen soldiery.

Yet funerary proceedings dictate descent for these souls, and the coffins
Yaw slightly in the wind, disturbed by the
Yanks of the ****** rabble who bear their weight.

XV

Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls,
Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand,

Yet slowly it turns its back upon them,
Xenophanes mocks from his post,
Wailing, they fall
Velocity increasing infinitely,
Until they see no more the lustrous light
Trapped eternally in dark
Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls
Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish
Questioning existence.
Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is
Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise
Now to them denied for eternity.
Mephisto remains, their only companion,
Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once
Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now
Jabbed and pummeled to death.
In this state of perpetual umbra
Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment,
Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once
Forgotten but now reattained, and
En masse, the group instantly
Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again
Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return
Before the open sun, to bear themselves
Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:

Aspen, stands by river,
Shouting out the noonday sun,
Dwarfed by foothill mountains.

[It's]
Something like
4 a.m. on the third day of Autumn,
riding about a fifth of a gram of some ****-ing fire Sass,
drinking Lagunitas Maximus IPA from an ornate glass goblet
with two batches of homemade chocolate chunk cookies
and Gunpowder/White Peone tea steeping,
jamming some killer music with rather passionate and talented friends;
when, suddenly, a voice of reason:

"Dude, you have work at noon."

And then, it came to me:
"Everything is as it needs to be:
this and every moment is a cosmic joke
and I am laughing through it
and I am laughing with it
and I am laughing as it."

I'll just drink a fuckton of coffee (or maybe just take a nap),
and/or another tenthish of a gram at about 11, regardless;
and bust some serious ***
and confine most of my obvious ******-up-ed-ness to my head
all the while dishwashing to ******* some bomb-*** music
on some ******-*** speakers, backstage,
at a super chill restaurant in my fairly chill foothill Berg
one calm, otherwise ordinary, Autumn lunch;
and it will be so much fun,
so mercilessly ******* amazing
after this
MDA "inspired" all-nighter:

Work
at noon on Wednesday
and then
Band Practice
after work
for a show
in Sacramento
this coming Friday
(Fun Fact: my third live performance ever, second with this band).

This is a form of coping, I suppose.
Some dope-*** ******* cope.

The things I do
to make me happy:
Life is ******* amazing.
Life makes me crazy.

I do this to myself;
this is the Life.

I do this to myself;
willingly and knowingly
and I don't much care;
that is,
I certainly recognize the concept of consequence,
but I give it the one-finger salute from time to time
when the only thing it's really gunna hurt
is poor, mortal, otherwise temporary
me.

This is not self-destructive, though,
it is constructive as ****;
a means of letting go
and moving on:
Empathic, introspective, enlightening;
not to mention a shitload of fun!
Evermore, let it be known:
that in terms of Ecstasy;
moderation
truly is
key.

Don't you see?
The only way to ever know
is to ride it out and to simply be.

All in all,
what a way
to close the ******* book on this Summer
and begin afresh a new one for Autumn;

Autumn's where my Heart is.

I'd say
all that
plus change to spare and share,
is fifty bucks **** well spent,
especially now-a-days
in a place like this
and, moreover;
with friends like these.

Aspen, stands by river,
Shouting out the noonday sun,
Dwarfed by foothill mountains.

Aspen, stands by river,
Shouting out the noonday sun,
Dwarfed by foothill mountains.

Aspen, stands by river,
Shouting out the noonday sun,
Dwarfed by foothill mountains.

On this side of the bridge,
Between time and eternity,
A foothill to the Necropolis,
Rises the cathedral.
The remains of St. Kentigern
Maintain it, the founding Father.
The spire tops the cruciform
Pointing the way to Glorify.
Within, walls are embedded
With plagues, standards and swords,
Praising foreign campaigns
And distant expeditions
Of long lost brave hearts.
Pilgrims stand silently;
Tourists nod quietly,
Pointing at remarkable achievements
Of Empire, and the young,
Beatified on distant lands.
The fading banners protest:
For this I gave my all, my best.
The stones are cold,
The windows stained:
In the crypt, St. Mungo lies,
The foundation of all
That died.

So much of that night rode with the wind
Swirling and tumbling fatefully on my back
The sky as black as the bleak void above
The lights below illuminated her as she grinned

And while we stood at the precipice there
Though I stood on air, she was what caught my glare
And I felt a sense of dread that this feeling might end
So I look her in the eye and my hand I extend

And her eyes bled that entrancing ardent love
That which drew me to the cliff above
And she knew right then that I loved her so
So she rammed into my chest– down we go

And the whole fall down she kept her eye on me
And through the wind, cried, “You’re the last thing I’ll see!”
And I pressed her face into my chest
For in my heart I knew — this fate was best.

All my friends they smoke this things
And handed me a Chesterfield King- Jawbreaker from Bivouac

Lyrics I tried to memorize
with my friends, while *******
on the syrup crusted
mouths of  glass coke bottles.
Singing loud and off key.
On the side of a Ralphs in the stagnant summer swelter.

The soundtrack song when being a punk skater
was a profitable venture,
and landing a kick flip was an achievable
*******.

When we could play Lane’s boom box
just loud enough to drown out the whimpering
from our sprained ankles
and scraped up knees
that left the sidewalks on Foothill blvd. so ******.

The music we were hearing now,
was way beyond Sunday school.
It was the sound of the sixth period bell,
and rushing to Jeff’s backyard
to smoke his dads cigarettes.

As we got older
We tried to quit the smokes
and forget the lyrics. But sometimes
we’d still  proposition people
on the side of that Ralphs
to buy us cigarettes.
When we succeeded
We’d sing that old song coughing, hissing, and wheezing.

-Kevin Theal

My father walked on the roof
at night alone.

He used to come to his son’s home
seeking summer’s relief
from his nine month’s home alone
at the Himalayas foothill.

But he couldn’t leave the chill out.

His seven decades of mind
defied his frail frame
as he hugged the plain’s winter
without a woolen
painting summer on my roof.

Rarely I would be with him
but when he came down
he would speak animatedly
the constellations he had seen
the milky way
about the quarreling owls.

Wish I were there with him
all his nights on the roof
making four wandering eyes
looking at constellations
marveling at the milky way.

Now on some winter nights
I go to the roof alone
without my son
remember father
my heart aching in the thought

One day my son too would come

**Alone

On a humid mid-summer night
We traveled so far, yet so near
To a place of extravagant revelry
We had no idea what was to come that evening

It was an old-fashion party
Everything and everyone was illuminated
And why not?
It was the night of our celebration of freedom

Everyone was dancing and laughing
The sweat, the dilated pupils of the jubilant guests

I saw everything standing on the top of the wooden foothill

These stairs tested your level of intoxication
You could trip on them sober, they were so spread apart, numerous and inconsistent
And if you were drunk to the highest extent, you’d surely die trying to conquer them

We were swept away with a cold beer in each of our hands

A bearded man with a bottle of whiskey pored us shots
We downed them
And then another
In honor of the moment
And to the chance that our whiskey toting woman chaser would get laid that night

The evening was miraculous
Alcohol flowing like cool crystal rapids
*** being burned like drift wood on an unmapped deserted beach
And a vibe of comrodery between all in attendance

Digital pixilated snapshots to save this moment for nostalgic posterity

Beer pong seemed like an Olympic event

Kings
Flip cup
Thumper
Quarters

I took no part for I was too far gone by that point
I was a mere spectator
I was more interested in the various airborne angels floating in the ozone of ecstasy

I staggered up to each one individually trying to swipe a kiss or maybe even more

“Hi”
Kiss
SMACK

“Hi”
Kiss
SMACK

“Hi”
Kiss
SMACK

“Hi”
Kis­s
Kiss back

Whoa
Who
Was
This?

A familiar face

A gaping hole of pleasant surprise opened on my face
A look of false anger on hers appeared

SMACK!

We laughed and said hello then did a shot
***!

Then another

And talked
Our chuckles were reminiscent of an orchestral arrangement

The mother of our seemingly invisible host stood up and herded the whole party into a unanimous silent yield

“TEQUILA!” she shouted

And the whole backyard of sweaty, out of it, ***** young faces cheered and tapped the thumping music back on and formed a line

The bottles flew open like flimsy shutters during a maelstrom of wind

Limes and salt were being passed around like ten cent ******

After the last drop of tequila was guzzled down the party seemed to be swaying to and fro
And all of us had the same heavy eyed toothy smirk on us that says “yeah…I’m done”

The glorious angel that I had plucked from the heavens and I wandered to the corner of the commotion and perched ourselves in a high tree and kissed

And right below us two of our friends began to make indiscrete inebriated love to each other on a rusty swing set

Nice

But our passionate, fearless kiss blocked that out
It was so pure and shameless
Even though we both knew we were betraying the trust of our then insignificant others

The sound of bachata
The knocking of red solo cups  
Ping pong *****
And the ******* sounding voices of those trying to locate them
Were a loud soundtrack to our lustful voyage into each other’s comfort zone

We talked for what seemed like hours about how we were attracted to each other for so long
And how our relationships at the time left us unhappy and unfulfilled

We had a mindful understanding of one another
Neither of us had that before

But all of a sudden
The beer
The ***
The whiskey
And the tequila
All came back to say hello
Then goodbye as they flushed themselves out of my system and into our host’s garden

No one noticed
So I continued to relieve myself on the tomatoes and basil

The angel rubbed my back and let me go

And when it was done
She kissed me

Then and there I knew she was mine
And I was hers

Nothing mattered

Not my infinite bile projections
Not my unfit partner
Not my scarring past
Just her
Only her
Right there
Right then

We walked back to the epicenter of the soiree to see people leaving to go make their own myths of ****** endeavors
And the good friends sober enough to help their blacked out pals get home safely

So, my friend and I bid our goodbyes and thank yous to our friends and our host and their family and wobbled home
With a flaming heart and an empty stomach
Also a bladder full of bad decisions that I unleashed upon a parked dump truck on my journey home back to my bed

I sleep with the window open
The air, now chilled with autumn, rushes in to sap away my resolve
Waking me from troubled sleep
Covered with only the thin blue cotton sheet from my college days
Comforting, though it’s hard to gauge when last the warmth of another supplanted the foothill of blankets amassed beside me
The loneliness of night:
When only cars pass below
Sounding like freight trains as they clamor over the slab of steel prostrate on the ground
Protecting the suspensions from the pockmarked face of asphalt
Each a brutish chime filling my apartment
The stark vulgarity lashing out
A garbled cry, anguished and dejected
Dragging from my subconscious
Memories of a different time
Now free
Jostling for position and attention, as though I am the jester king
Holding ghostly court
Clad in the stark regalia of bitterness years in the making
Pour me a glass of that vintage and to what shall we all toast?

My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties
dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate
barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves
right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother—
their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting
monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave
a landslide takes four people and a child

that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates
grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks

My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall.

after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages
peering through the smoke
gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads
black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit
My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan—
visas for my mother and grandma,
His best friend disappears,

writes my grandpa
an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes

light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board,
dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water
and later, while gnawing down,
he pretends they are oranges for once

Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail
waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes
chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats
peering through palm leaves
a viridescent river of silk and pale honey
my small three year arms grab a hand full
sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed
in a blue flowered ceramic bowl
years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until
English becomes a second language again
and in my twenties, I grab a hand full
sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket
made of reinforced bamboo
I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave
in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town.
The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog,
I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland,
a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees

i have spent sentences like
cheap trade-offs,
decreasing their worth
in the currency-exchange where your lips meet.
it is not my fault you cannot afford
a single letter.

i have spent time like
hour-hands are suggestions,
as if pride made the minutes move faster
so i pushed it in the drawers of my chest
and threw away the key
pretending my love does not move mountains.
it is not my fault
you cannot stop counting seconds,
it is not my fault you are always waiting,
and i am always watching you get ready to leave.

i have wasted parts of myself,
thrown them entirely into your puzzle
your fix-and-repair
all sad-faced and
taped up with glue and apologies
i have sacrificed my sunlight,
my clouds,
my hurricanes and shifting plates
in an attempt to make you whole.

i have always been ashamed of the destruction,
i know
my love moves mountains,
it is not cruel.
that does not mean it is kind.

i cannot fix you
no matter how much i give,
time, words, sunlight, clouds,
i have given you my breath but
i cannot put air in your lungs.
it is not my fault that
in all of its destructive glory,
my love moves mountains and
you can't even climb
a foothill.

Undulating by the beckoning of the wind,
Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins
Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets
Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak
Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms

Visceral is the movement of the procession,
Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill
Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is
Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero.

Warlike, the battle up the ***** claims the lives of those already claimed
Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict,
Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.

The further we walked
the thicker the blonde grass grew.
Soon it was grabbing
at our legs.

We couldn’t carry on
a conversation anymore.
The surrounding landscape
swallowed any desire.  

“A huge human head, ahead.”

We approached a foothill
with the curve of a scalp
and a roaring view of a nectarine
sliding down behind the horizon.

We followed a drifting trail
overlooking the dam.
Dusk had turned the water
into pineapple juice.

A metal gate sprouting
from the ground
interrupted our silence.
“This might be too tall.”

I tried to climb
despite my fear of heights.
I wedged a foot between the bars
and reached as high as I could.

My strength broke.
It was too tall.

Come with me. Here’s
the secret trail. At the edge
of the potato field, crouch through
the barbed wire fence. Pass the stone
foundation of an old homestead.
Enter the maple forest, the green oven.
Bake, slowly rise like a gingerbread figure.
Follow, it’s fine (there’s no witch).
Release rivulets of sweat.
This is nothing, the foothill.

Listen: the purr, the burble, the rush,
the small canyon of Catamount
Creek. Remove boots, splash yourself.
Splash me. Cup water in hands
to pour over the face. Let water dribble
inside the shirt, drip to the shorts.
Relish the shock of cold
against hot parts.

Work uphill now, at last
out of the trees into the land of
wild blueberry. Pluck, taste
tiny tight nut-like explosions of blue,
so intense, so different from store-bought.
Gorge, let fingers and tongue
turn garish. Fill pockets.

Climb with me now among rocky
outcrops like stair steps to the Funnel,
a crevice where from below
you push my bottom, then from above
I pull your hand. Emerge to a view
of valley, farmland, wrinkles of mountains
like folds of flesh. How far we’ve come.
This is the false top.

Catch your breath, embrace the vista,
then join me in a scramble up bare granite,
farther than you’d think, no trail marked
on the endless stone but simply
navigate toward the opposite of gravity,
upward, to at last a bald dome
chilled by blasts of breeze.

At the top, sit with me, our backs against
the windbreak of a boulder.
Empty your pockets of blueberries. Nibble,
share — above the rivers,
above the lakes, above the hawks,
among the blue chain of peaks
beyond your outstretched tired feet.
Appreciate your muscles
in exhaustion and exhilaration.
We have made love to this mountain.

Hear a sound like a sigh from waves of  
alpine grass in the fading warmth
of a lowering sun. Rest.
After this, the return
is so easy.

at my foothill of persona
and of our pixelated dynasty
begins an Everest journey
of a stalemate
of hopes
and expectations
of intimacy
and socialization

4 years in expectation
4 years in perilled ranges
through cold and lonely
through barren unseen valley
through 1251 miles

close enough to see the Northern lights
never tall enough to hold them

Tonight, deep in
residential woods

at the foothill of the
butte who towers
the city-

the needle touched
the record
and Tenderly,
Tenderly played

you spoke to me
in quiet,
in silence,
and my stillness
was the counter
that you needed so

I made a deal with
fondness-
to open the most secret
vaults of my vulnerability
and sell my soul to hope
and design

at Fox Hollow's
smokey dusk,
with you

I shook the hand of love.

i want to feel your lips on mine
hands on my skin
like the coming of a tide
running over my flesh
and washing away the worry

i want to touch you
a way that you have never felt
betraying a hunger that only i will ever provide you

for i am the fire that your mother tried to protect you from
but i am also the foothill you will peacefully lay your head on

and friendship is underrated

the more you Romeo-n-Juliet things
the less you see of your surroundings

*** isolates
friendship joins
a crowd a fest all one voice rolling

******* is the mt. top
friendship is the foothill

climb too high
death will meet you at the top

thinned air petrified growth
thrumming bountiful growth

******* promises ****
that it can't follow through on

friendship just is

effing flakes out
friendship stakes out
waits listens doesn't try to fix

eff **** buddies
i need more friends

let's all get high on friendship

...

..

i mean
uhm
im still gonna ****

but

i jus need more friends

he's in love with movements of air;
her distances traveled between it

we were so visibly shaken
after the rest died out &
your bouquet dried out

we were left with our sagging, old brains
& no one's interested, beyond our machines
in our old constructs, or perhaps, new mishaps

he was unsure of what he should be seeking, and
it appeared the pipes in the basement were leaking
yoke propped onto his cracked shoulders, scrutinized
by the heavy eyes of caliginous violet smoulders


she's in love with unfair moments
the blurring of every before and after
barring the moon through creaky rafters
with ****** gloom and insincere laughter
at the sky, bearing its last each and all
tapping on a shivering wall


with a head to traumatize,
to object to the onslaught-
is to reject the tireless ****
a timeless, photogenic glut
and a refutation, erased


a collection of
twelve billion cells
with a ****** captain

giving in to the never-ending
aching, delving, pervading, as

the lecherous lecturer
and a solemn giantess
left on the barren foothill
where it all transgressed

Goodbye...why?

Don't leave out the wandering door,
sit and finish these spiraled nutted cookies,
Apple Hill Special from the twisting trees
aging in the generations old summer tilled acreages.

We can glide our right hips over our right thighs

Shut down that calling of faint voices,
chattering through their cocktail party smiles.
While they promise a wealthy life
of building the all the world's a  stage,
hammers fall one-two, one-two.

Rest here your child upon this wood plank floor,
see how he crawls swiftly, ambling upwards, notice his mobility?

Child's pose, rest here

The pocked market walls of this tatty room enshrine him,
he has laid his foot falls down, see,
Resounding, forever to re-sound.

Breath in, breathing out

Wait You!
Before you leave,
turn towards the rising horizon,
this foothill sun has still to set.
The day draws on so we can listen, the fiddler,
have you seen him yet? In town? No?
Then you shall not leave until his strings are spent.

I am seated in a bed-like rock
Under the foothills this is a single block

The Sun rises behind my back
Though I face hills in the west, its rise I could track

The dawn delightfully unfurl
Mother nature decorates herself, like a girl

The valley is full of greenery
This is a soul soothing summer scenery

Flies are flying in group
With joy and strength, to recoup

Honey bees are busy flying from one to other flower
A fresh flower spreads the fragrance in the air

A group of sparrows fly at a low height
Jubilantly enjoying the new light

A tiniest sparrow dances by jumping from one leaf to the other of a plant
On seeing this, I too wish to jump out of joy, like an infant

Peacocks register their scream from a nearby place
I could hear well, as this area is ruled by peace

From a distant rock, a pair of peacock looks
Displaying the richest colors of their outlooks

Birds potentially program their offspring by singing to their eggs, at a short distance  
One may think that they raise the voice with a grievance

Before me, a rabbit runs ruthlessly
Forgetting self, I sit here like lifelessly

Fight of monkeys upon trees on the top of the hill, comes like a melody
Free for all, as the whole range is under His custody

Clouds try to attract my attention with an array of colors
Peace as the Prince on the stage, countless others are actors

Breeze blows as if to say she is the most adorable among all
Of course, choosing the one among all is hard to tell

This is a mind moving morning
In my life, this day is a fine inning

My heart desires to lie under this foothill
But my soul is not full

as my mind yearns for my love
Of course, this place is like a paradise, as above

If I am to cherish my love even in a paradise,
the power of  love, you may be pleased to praise

Though I stay away at a far off place
The feelings of romance runs like a race

To live here, to the God, I shall be abundantly faithful
But to conquer my soul, other than such love, nothing is more powerful !



Copyrights reserved

It's supposed to be over 100 degrees all this week
here in my forested northern California foothill town;

**** that, I say.

Cascade foothill town
So many white faces shine
Winter skin, springtime

Squally weather evolves into 'Life's Saccharum Wine' , dripping from grateful leaves and every vine
Seasoned with tangy , Foothill tree and honey- flower alike
Forest patrons cull their mouths with all their might , a parched countryside becoming drunk with delight
To partake in natures vintage from blessed Earthen cask this
rain cooled September night

a mayflower
is please
the art
of law
to pursue
investigator of
its pill
when a
foothill is
mother to
triumph of
ill while
you are
nature's force
here but
taken true
elegant again