"incalculable" poems
The great hiway of dawn
Stretching to slumber
pouring out from her greedy
palms a shore, to wander
Hesitation & doubt
Swiftly ensconced
O Viking, your women
cannot save you
out on the great ship
Time has claimed you
Coming for you
~~~
And I came to you
for peace
And I came to you
for gold
And I came to you
for lies
And you gve me fever
& wisdom
& cries
of sorrow
& we’ll be here
the next day
the next day
&
Tomorrow
~~~
There’s a belief by the
Children of Man which states
all will be well
Search on man, calm savior
Veteran of wars incalculable
greed. Search on man, calm savior
God-speed & forgive you
morning-star, fragrant
meadow person girl
13.2k
split the atom an we get fission
mass becomes energy
but can we split a second
enter the essence of the present
what would it mean to us
to be that mindful
ask your self doesn't your mind
only occupy past future
abjectly incapable of living in the present
in the true present there could not be even a ghost of a thought
theres no time to think
can we enter
an incalculable split second
and totally take in that instant
with a forgotten organic technology
is it the big bang in perpetuity
yet quiet as a mute
a raging ever expanding sea in a connected
but distinct dimension
if you entered it
would it not utterly erases all of history
the thinkers and doers along with it
the step beyond the alpha and omega
the great underlining reality
imagine the penetrated moment
an all consuming unimaginable
trans-mutational merge
omnipotent
yet forever imperceptible
to those among us
time locked
an irreducible limitation
like an ant in a closed paper bag
a fixated reflexive machine
wandering aimlessly
with an unknowable mission
and a relentless survival mechanism
with no chance of survival
time as a cosmic metabolism
its medium space
a vast cauldron
an infinite vessel containing endless points of light
everywhere
myriad phenomena
its terrain and the temporal creatures that inhabit it
both exquisite and hideous
an incalculable zoo
histories victors and victims
one and all vanquished
by the curse
consciousness of dis-juncture
a merciless countenance of limitation
yet could time be an illusion
rooted in a narrow awareness
bereft of an eternal
inexhaustible self effulgent now
the rapture
an eternal ******
if we could only penetrate into it
would it swallow us
and blot out the drama of creations theater
is the
now
conscious
illimitable
ecstatic
a perfect meta moment ?
we hear from sacred texts
like the Vedas... Bhagavad Gita.... and Kabbalah
that we may enter beyond the veil
passed time and its ravages
passed mind and its distortions
not to the heaven of religion
in its endless
closed system precepts
anthropomorphic metaphors
theistic gobbledygook
and
sophomoric social engineering
a kind of cliffs notes
god for dummies
we can enter
the eternal abode of the divine
a point between
the splitting of seconds
revealed through the simple act of mindful breathing
pierced by the effort of a focused mind
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 8:09 AM UTC
O Thou to whom the musical white spring
offers her lily inextinguishable,
taught by thy tremulous grace bravely to fling
Implacable death’s mysteriously sable
rob from her redolent shoulders,
Thou from whose
feet reincarnate song suddenly leaping
flameflung,mounts,inimitably to lose
herself where the wet stars softly are keeping
their exquisite dreams—O Love! upon thy dim
shrine of intangible commemoration,
(from whose faint close as some grave languorous hymn
pledge to illimitable dissipation
unhurried clouds of incense fleetly roll)
i spill my bright incalculable soul.
7.1k
We have many ideals,
but we do not seem to have idealists anymore.
We have droves of problem solvers,
but we do not seem to have solutions anymore.
We have endless media discourse,
but we do not seem to have dialogue anymore.
We have unrestrained capitalism,
but we do not seem to have money anymore.
We have innumerable drugs,
but we do not seem to have treatment anymore.
We have scores of Baby Boomers,
but we do not seem to have elders anymore.
We have unlimited vacation days,
but we do not seem to have days off anymore.
We have incalculable amounts of information,
but we do not seem to have facts anymore.
We have regular, established elections,
but we do not seem to have elected officials anymore.
We have America,
but we do not seem to have a nation anymore.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 3:20 AM UTC
What a burning, broken universe—
incalculable, devastating,
things we can't imagine.
We attach names familiar to us
Titan, Europa, Calypso
but they are still mighty and immeasurable, terrifying—
but don't think of all that.
It's too big.
It's too sad.
Think of this:
It's sublime and impossible that we even exist
with our
soft flesh and our wet eyes,
our music, our sins,
our jealous lovers,
our moments of bliss,
and love— god, love…
more immeasurable
more incalculable
than the universe,
than whatever it is
that the universe wonders about.
Our smallness shouldn't humble us.
We are tiny demigods
watching the universe expand
from our lawn chairs
while we eat ripe peaches
with sticky hands and smiling mouths.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 6:20 AM UTC
Discernment of facts escape a blind eye
Incalculable deceit fell upon naive assumptions of decorum
Virtues so easily replaced by a blanket of colorful chattel
Now, countless blankets dance about, as ghosts
on a paved route chosen with intent of endless future passage
And now, to escape the realm of falsities
every eventide is exchanged for repose and closed eyes
Pleasure, promises, and poetry she gave
only to have something to take away
In vengeance of a caustic past
Aphrodite unleashed artful malevolence into a fallen heart
Oh, how so much exists
where there is nothing
Emptiness can be full of such desire
And oh, the bitter taste of sweet words
from the unrestrained lips of a liar
An offering cloaked with savory fruit in cordial hands
Swearing to give it all in the big apple
and then seducing to her roots in the yard
Absorbing a soul
Only to create a martyr of forlorn cause
An abomination can appear so sweet
when emptiness needs filling
A demon from below,
delightful,
before killing
Nostalgia, a trail of footsteps in the mud
Like a fingerprint with an unquestionable owner
Arduous wails reaching the extents of one's universe
as a pawn and patriarch share reflection in the stagnant tide
knowledge of good and evil, once a desire, now a curse
yet, finally held
Gratefully numb with inescapable acceptance
Scott Mitchell
09 Dec 2012
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
Hey flossy! Don’t offer this smile anymore
Mysterious smile torments the heart
That smile raises up the thirst.
If you agree to surrender all your mysterious smiles to me
In return I will return your love with the usury of love
And with time’s compound interest rate.
If you turn down to surrender your smile
Then know the consequences of it,
Taking incalculable stars as my co – operator
I will abduct the celestial curve moon on the land.
Hey belle! Don’t turn your face away
Tell me,
You will be the reason of how many wars,
And the cause of scrimmage amongst the juveniles?
If you don’t pay attention to me today
Then know it, You spectacular lady,
In the theater of mysterious smile
I prosecute for the execution
Of your heart snatching smile….
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
I am tired.
I am tired of not sleeping. Tired of trying to stay awake, because each time I try to sleep every bad thought and guilty feeling consumes my mind’s fatigue and internalises the stress into energy. My anxiety can keep my mind running all night long. I am tired of running without crossing any distance. Running without moving is an exercise my mind is too out of shape to survive. I’m tired of running away. Each step pounds the point home that I am a coward. Each pound pushes the earth down until it reaches the other-side, causing another step along the way. The eternal footrace soldiers on thanks to the anxiety engine.
I’m tired of fear. Repetitive worry exhausts every other thought from existing, so fear becomes the constant state. I’m so fluent in fear that I twitch at every sound and grip at every surface. My mouth is so prepared to scream that simple phrases of love and compassion, or even pleasantries and common courtesy involve intense concentration to untie my tongue.
I am tired of the silence. Silence from those who don’t have the seconds to spare to consider these issues, silence from the loved ones who refuse to understand, silence from the health professionals who seem to know more about pushing drugs then pushing information. I am tried of the silence I am shackled to by a condition that hides in thousands of names and symptoms.
I am tired of crying. I am tired of being unable to control a torrent of pointless salt and shame every time I need to ask a question in a train station or a bank. Countless scenarios with incalculable varying outcomes drain me, I cannot prepare for technology to fail, for accidents, for unhinged passers by or the end of the world. I cannot prepare for anything. I cannot control anything. Not even tears.
I am tired of not sleeping, I am tired of not waking, I am tired of running and running away, I am tired of crying, I am tired of caring, I am tired of dreaming, I am tired of trying… I am tired of being tired.
So ******* tired.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Edifice erections surreal mistic heights
Wayward excursions and catenary's bight
Communal collusions of harmonies site
Ethereal subsistence on exsertion's light
Lingam and yoni are indefatigably tight
Exponential overload was communities plight
Semantic regalia is myriad temptation
Finite being a mutual oblation
Vicarious recalcitrance an obeisant sensation
Conception's vastness like incalculable equation
Ephemeral effulgence is indomitable pervasion
Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion
Succinct salience is symbiotic allegory
Fecundity's verve a transcendent promontory
Imperative ascension the conjunctive's divinatory
Audacity's exigence and fertility's invocatory
Erotica's erectile like mentality's trajectory
Futurity's fatidic and inherent delusory
**** it fell right over like categorical imperative's contradictory
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
Our trajectory is unknowable, you tell me: the planet
corkscrews around the Sun, sure,
but the Sun corkscrews around a black hole at
the heart of the Milky Way,
and our whole galaxy travels on some mysterious,
incalculable vector. But sister, I saw a photograph
in which two whale sharks were brought to
heel by men in simple reed boats just
off the coast of the Philippines. All that they had
to do was often feed
the sharks many gallons of grocery-store frozen
shrimp, poured from plastic garbage bags into
their yawning six-foot maws to portside.
Gargantuan, sure, but still
as obedient and eager for food as backyard
squirrels. I remembered a grainy
internet video—I saw it probably seven or
eight years back—in which
a captured whale shark was winched
ashore in Madagascar, or
maybe it was the Philippines again—no matter—
the thing still had life left
in it and struggled to breathe while a crowd of
people gathered around—there were
women carrying babies, girls holding baskets atop
their heads—and then the
men came with a long slender blade and sliced clean
through the whale’s spine, vivisected it
right there on the dock, and the onlookers stood there quite
unfazed—I remember
being shocked at the effortlessness of the cut,
the pinkness of the whale’s blood,
and the boredom in the onlookers’ eyes. Our father
took us down to San Antonio
on one of his business trips there when we were five
or six—I think
you were probably too young to
remember it—
it was when you and I saw the ocean for the first
time. We drove down to the Gulf
of Mexico, and we saw waves breaking
out near the horizon in pale
sunlight. I kept scanning for a dorsal
fin off beyond
the breakers, thinking that I might spot one—
sandy brown, mottled with
cream spots and glistening—so that I might be able to
say to you, pointing, “look,
sister, there is a whale shark!” Years
later we would learn
that he traveled down to San Antonio so
frequently because he was a philanderer. As
a child I believed that whale sharks
crisscrossed the ocean following
paths that we couldn’t fathom, that
their concerns were somehow
beyond our comprehension, but then
Keppler pinned down
the shape of the Earth’s orbit over four
hundred years ago,
and the lives of ancient sea
titans are sundered
effortlessly
by men with indifferent faces.
Sep 22, 2023
Sep 22, 2023 at 2:27 AM UTC
There's two eyes of the Hurricane
both blue
flecked with grey.
Incalculable
forecasting the direction.
Ominous hunch
it is heading
my way.
The stability of shelter
is a lottery
of hope;
defenseless
if caught in its
path.
I'd be squashed
like a paper cup.
At a glance,
she can obliterate you
just like that. (click)
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Los animales fueron
imperfectos,
largos de cola, tristes
de cabeza.
Poco a poco se fueron
componiendo,
haciéndose paisaje,
adquiriendo lunares, gracia, vuelo.
El gato,
sólo el gato
apareció completo
y orgulloso:
nació completamente terminado,
camina solo y sabe lo que quiere.
El hombre quiere ser pescado y pájaro,
la serpiente quisiera tener alas,
el perro es un *** desorientado,
el ingeniero quiere ser poeta,
la mosca estudia para golondrina,
el poeta trata de imitar la mosca,
pero el gato
quiere ser sólo gato
y todo gato es gato
desde bigote a cola,
desde presentimiento a rata viva,
desde la noche hasta sus ojos de oro.
No hay unidad
como él,
no tienen
la luna ni la flor
tal contextura:
es una sola cosa
como el sol o el topacio,
y la elástica línea en su contorno
firme y sutil es como
la línea de la proa de una nave.
Sus ojos amarillos
dejaron una sola
ranura
para echar las monedas de la noche.
Oh pequeño
emperador sin orbe,
conquistador sin patria,
mínimo tigre de salón, nupcial
sultán del cielo
de las tejas eróticas,
el viento del amor
en la intemperie
reclamas
cuando pasas
y posas
cuatro pies delicados
en el suelo,
oliendo,
desconfiando
de todo lo terrestre,
porque todo
es inmundo
para el inmaculado pie del gato.
Oh fiera independiente
de la casa, arrogante
vestigio de la noche,
perezoso, gimnástico
y ajeno,
profundísimo gato,
policía secreta
de las habitaciones,
insignia
de un
desaparecido terciopelo,
seguramente no hay
enigma
en tu manera,
tal vez no eres misterio,
todo el mundo te sabe y perteneces
al habitante menos misterioso,
tal vez todos lo creen,
todos se creen dueños,
propietarios, tíos
de gatos, compañeros,
colegas,
discípulos o amigos
de su gato.
Yo no.
Yo no suscribo.
Yo no conozco al gato.
Todo lo sé, la vida y su archipiélago
el mar y la ciudad incalculable,
la botánica,
el gineceo con sus extravíos,
el por y el menos de la matemática,
los embudos volcánicos del mundo,
la cáscara irreal del cocodrilo,
la bondad ignorada del bombero,
el atavismo azul del sacerdote,
pero no puedo descifrar un gato.
Mi razón resbaló en su indiferencia,
sus ojos tienen números de oro.
2.5k
Twenty-four.
A number just one before
twenty-five.
A number that signifies
one quarter
of one-hundred,
-in this case-
years of age.
I've circled the sun so many times
that time itself has begun to blend together:
Days spilled into
Weeks cascaded into
Months plunged into
years; incalculable.
I neglect to mention that throughout it all I have,
in fact,
been vaguely happy at worst and genuinely blissful at best.
And so I say to thee;
If on your birthday you cannot breathe,
If every moment is lost with ease,
I implore you, see the cost of these
things-and learn to set yourself free.
Feb 19, 2024
Feb 19, 2024 at 9:35 AM UTC
~
Vast...
Nigh unknowable
Quilt stretching out over incalculable
intervals and distances…
Pulling. Churning.
Alternating between different frames
of reference
Spinning me nauseas
Look at our local surroundings
Such activity above!
Mere minutes before the untrained eye
Takes notice of
The movers,
Slowly wandering across the speckled expanse
The fire has receded into its undulating
orange-gray hideout
The satellites are so numerous now…
And the red-orange glow illumines
your cheek, your neck, and your
flyaway hair.
A distant owl
A dog’s hollow cry rings out echoing
off of the hill
Sending this gang into high alert
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
this verbal wishing well, appreciated,
a nut of good intentions but drives me
deeper into de-spare-ing downing detentions,
for it is only the article's genuine genius,
that elevates the human spiritus, to godlike status
no ditty this, but a wail, shriek, for
human touch is gift so greatest,
that any day passing without
either, neither but both, 'tis one
truly wasted,
a deduction on our
calculus of inited^ human intuitions,
a failure of our greatest inventions
a subtraction of our
gainful living, a purposed ecstasy
our one and only inexact
measure of measurement
that defies pedantic notions of
things of weight or volume,
but extends our own existence
sans
the armies of embrace,
the electric elected syncing,
of the shocking sharing of
closing the borders of divided spaces,
a soft contusion, a realized illusion
a de minimus of our days,
a lessening of our lessons,
a loss of earning livingness,
a nail in our coffined basket,
and here to cease without surcease,
the elemental incalculable numbered
members of our total human races,
that so tragic in a twenty four expiry,
that the bonding of affection goes
unexpressed...
offer you my armory of arms,
cleanse us both with showered kisses,
inform you thus of our emboldened connection,
voiding these lowlife separators of lineage divisors,
what matter color, gender, chosen god nomenclature,
any of this nonsensical human inventions for distancing
divested human beings from each other
tho eyes closed, and all our senses flaring,
when we confirm what we were born knowing,
there is nothing greater than the human touch
PostScript
my first and best poem of the day,
how it came to me goes unbeknownst,
but will practice what is preached
with any and all willing encountered souls,
and perhaps, come-end of day, will write,
once more, one more, re heaven on earth
7:02am
Tue Sep Thirty
Two Thousand and Twenty Five. nml
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 7:13 AM UTC
*What be more grandiose than poetry,
expound at your own discretion,
bottle sunshine, save it in a jar,
tie an affectionate knot, spread it around
flood desert mirages with flowing spirits,
speaks kindly and murderously about love,
can tempt winds to uncoil temptation's gist
****** upon or written asunder desperation
relentless in its seizing of human behavior,
magnifying moonbeams or star's decimation
perfumed magnolias to winter's cruelty,
call of the wild midst sweetness of fresh rhubarb pie,
infinitely vast in its incalculable grasp of predication,
beyond limitless infrastructures 'neath fancied significance*
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
Edifice erections surreal mistic heights
Wayward excursions and catenary's bight
Communal collusions of harmonies site
Ethereal subsistence on exsertion's light
Lingam and yoni are indefatigably tight
Exponential overload was communities plight
Semantic regalia is myriad temptation
Finite being a mutual oblation
Vicarious recalcitrance an obeisant sensation
Conception's vastness like incalculable equation
Ephemeral effulgence is indomitable pervasion
Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion
Succinct salience is symbiotic allegory
Fecundity's verve a transcendent promontory
Imperative ascension the conjunctive's divinatory
Audacity's exigence and fertility's invocatory
Erotica's erectile like mentality's trajectory
Futurity's fatidic and inherent delusory
**** it fell right over like categorical imperative's contradictory
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC
Edifice erections surreal mistic heights
Wayward excursions and catenary's bight
Communal collusions of harmonies site
Ethereal subsistence on exsertion's light
Lingam and yoni are indefatigably tight
Exponential overload was communities plight
Semantic regalia is myriad temptation
Finite being a mutual oblation
Vicarious recalcitrance an obeisant sensation
Conception's vastness like incalculable equation
Ephemeral effulgence is indomitable pervasion
Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion
Succinct salience is symbiotic allegory
Fecundity's verve a transcendent promontory
Imperative ascension the conjunctive's divinatory
Audacity's exigence and fertility's invocatory
Erotica's erectile like mentality's trajectory
Futurity's fatidic and inherent delusory
**** it fell right over like categorical imperative's contradictory
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
What time is it by you?
such a complicated question,
you know
exactly
what I mean,
are you brushing your teeth,
hello or goidbye,
weeping into your pillow,
sun borning hopeful,
writing poems
a handful will brush by,
leaving your wet insides
even more dry
dissatisfied
dinner or breakfast,
day gone erased,
another wasted,
or
clock marked as
just started
and the
task of filling hours
an unwanted curse,
an incalculable calculus,
but insoluble
for there is no
their
no in,
in your life,
no
us
in the numerology of
your clock marking
time to rise
to church go
time to take
the woman out
for one more
nothing-to-say
silent dinner,
inject or flush,
bar dive,
TV mindless,
to high, to low,
to pick
right left or center,
to ***** or bandage,
to turn in,
or come of age
is it time to bed return
because you have just AM awoken,
and every any other place else is hell
no time to pay the bills,
no money, why bother,
time to worry,
why that is the only equation constant,
only the worry changes,
never the time
time to reconnoiter
a good book,
to tune the body up,
afternoon blues,
red eye time,
self
mutilation,
even verbal,
when?
D time?
deep dark
suffocation,
***** all *****
or
shower bathe,
slough off the dead cells,
clean clothes clean start,
even at midnight
what time is it by you?
time to clean mop your life,
walk in new places,
walk to the roof,
just for the view
so many answers....
this I know
it is time for an answer,
choose
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
a new vocabulary is driven
as the authentication of genius
one that convinces a migration
toward imagined conjugations
of constellated false inflections
mirrored words on camera
dematerializing radical mutations
interspersed with graffiti and poster sounds
words, sentences in cadence
framed vowels, recordings of consonants
a punctuated acceleration of the visualized
the scanned and the incalculable hallucinatory
holographics of a language in which
communication is not spoken directly
but becomes the audible interpretation
of a microwave
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
In the sea of dawn where all do well, the calm of his people has broken. Once-coddled infants, wrapped in shades, compose the cobble trail beneath their frantic gait. Ruination of palatial temples. Debauchery of the sage who is misshapen, misspoken. The serpentine begets dear tempest in steeplechase of sate. The incalculable herd of vermin across the earth cascade. Eyeless they stream, dripping roses, wont to asylum. Demented, as each ivory beam shatters.
They fall like infants beneath this mad promenade.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
On Saturday
any Saturday
every Saturday
multi-themed pedestrian parades
pour down commercial corridors
celebrating a holiday known as
WEEKEND.
Middle school queens throw
exaggerated waves
from backseat upholstery tops
in imaginary convertibles marking
the current flow route between
Foot Locker and Game Stop.
Marching throngs display
personal banners on
plastic handled brand bags
drawing peer clusters,
human petaled floats,
vying for ribbons
passing devoutly interested
sideline spectators
now feeling a bit empty
without score cards.
Hippos, thin men, package jugglers
stroll along the branching avenues
labeled in chest advertisements
including everything from
Magnetic Health to Jesus.
No mega-city floatilian
compares to the mall regalia
in a midsize hometown
duck-n-spend.
Though it may be
a little short on free candy
it is still sponsored in part
by Macy's.
Interlocked peddler palaces
reign as shopping centers,
though shopping is the least
of the reasons to be here;
not unlike people going to
a hockey match
are not going to watch hockey,
or partakers in Nascar
don't actually go for racing.
Truth is,
we are all hoping
to see a collision,
Haves with Have Nots,
Lovers with Haters,
Colored Hairs with High & Tights
Refined with Undefined
Talkers with Solitaries
Personal Loathing with Itself.
Unanimously, they all come
for the curiosity of encounter
incalculable, anxious, wanted
or unwanted.
In secret,
dreamers hold royal hopes
praying to Aeropostale gods
pleading favor with credit cards
and a bump in popularity
that if so anointed
the purest of this parade's followers
would be next week's
Grand Marshall.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
Time is valuable
Its worth is incalculable
Time is unstoppable
Pausing it is impossible
Time is change
Nothing will ever be the same
Time is limited
Because death is imminent
Time is uncontrollable
The amount we receive is not negotiable
Time is mysterious
Because it is very ambiguous
Time is irrational
Attempting to measure it is unnatural
Time devastates
It will slowly decimate
Time is addicting
Without it, we would not be living
Time is torture
It slowly prepares us for the coroner
So be happy
It will cure the pains that hurt badly
So be unique
Your life does not have to be routine
Take the path that is right for you
Take the path with the best view
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
At a young age,
you laboriously worked on complex puzzles;
completing them, with an unnatural ease.
Distinguishing yourself from others.
Your passion direct.
Fixating on numbers,
calculating your future.
You try to find a formula for happiness,
although it is incalculable.
As an irrational number, unable to terminate.
You extract formulas,
despite the odds.
Conveying your theories,
constructing logarithms.
intent to prove it is not abstract,
to be a female actuary.
Seventy years prior,
Catherine Prime opened the field.
Disproving the infeasible claims,
that women could not excel to this level.
Faced with reasons not to give her rank,
amongst the stunned men.
Who claimed she was good,
for a woman.
-Marissa Navedo
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
*the man of light
knows darkness all to well
he possess sacred knowledge
of source
a living experience with in
radiant
and self effulgent
he knows all is permitted
in the acculturated labyrinths of mind
rooted in bias
and incalculable distortions
a hell house ride
constructed of warbled mirrors
Leprechauns gold
an abusement park
of crepuscular
subconscious ethers
and concertized form
on shape shifting sands
creativity gone mad
where time undoes all
its weary inhabitants worn
they are the color of sleep
attaining misguidance
oh the vacuous business
of guided meditations
through azure skies and verdant fields
while the certified uninitiated
whisper
their pale voices against sonorous winds
as if they could lever boulders with broken twigs
stone churches
gothic crosses
temples of man
monoliths to the imaginary
fantastical man god
re-pleat with beard and cock....how quaint
adulations and prostrations
to there man made deity
through myth that binds
group think
other directed
un-individuated individuals
like tribal ants
a world of shattered light
a white knuckle ride
on a spinning mud ball
yet who knows the secret
of the inner light
the illuminated door
the portal through which
Scottie will really beam you up
The man of the mystic light
in a darkened freakish world
is he not an inconvenience
like a mentor to the deaf dumb and blind
he is rarely recognized
almost never believed
the light is not a metaphor
the source that emanates all
although formless and self effulgent
it is not a religion yet all abide with in it
in the dark funnel of conceit
man turns everything into a noun
as if naming is claiming
when what he seeks is beyond
for it is a great dimension of another order
konx om pax
light in extension*
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 1:08 PM UTC