I open my eyes,
to The End of one of the Lord of The Rings movies,
not sure which one,
because honestly I haven’t seen any of them,

I’ve met Elijah Wood though,
several times,
can’t say we’re the closest of friends,
but we do know each other,

I find it such a strange sight to wake up to considering where I’m currently at in the world,

The End of one of the Lord of The Rings films,
there’s a round wooden door right before the film fades out,
and even though I haven’t seen the films I’ve been to New Zealand,
and know a Hobbit house when I see one,

I turn the screen off,
I’m on a bus in Myanmar,
it’s supposed to be a VIP bus,
but I don’t feel Very Important,

still dwelling on past relationships,
like the one that I had with a young Hollywood Star,
I loved her honestly I did,
but sometimes you can not save someone from themselves,

I watched in horror,
as she turned from Starlet to Harlot,
from overnight success,
to plain as day failure,

she used to be such a Turn On,
until she became a Turn Off,
I told her she should turn in,
instead she just got turned out,

it’s too bad,
I guess not much I can do about it,
I’m just a Lost Poet from the Lost City of Angeles,
I am not God nor am I a Savior,

I’m from the city,
where every Wonderful Dream,
is built upon,
a thousand Horrible Nightmares,

I try to close my eyes to get some rest,
I’ve got a long flight in the morning,
Yangon to Kuala Lumpur,
a rendezvous with a friend on an island,

and it’s already been a long day,
so some sleep would be most appreciated,
but I’ve lost a lot of sleep to dreams,
and this night is no acceptation,

I’m tired yet wired like always sleepwalking in a daydream,

I open my eyes again,
to The Beginning of The Sixth Sense,
Bruce Willis is just waking up,
rubbing his eyes I feel like him,

which is actually relevant,
since I am good friends with his daughter,
wrote her a birthday poem and read it to her,
at her Birthday party at her mom’s house,

real life seems so surreal sometimes,

my mind drifts,
between past regrets and future hopes,
trying to move past regrets and into a future of hope,
and we all want to think we know the answers but really nobody knows,

so we explore,
the lands of the World and the minds of the Man,
in hopes of discovering,
some Great Secret that will set us all free,

well I’ve got news for you,
I’ve been revealed a great secret,
and the commonly believed great secret,
is that there is no Great Secret,

still I want to know,
and so I ask this question,
if we are really living in a Matrix,
then who programmed the Programmers,

now before you call me crazy,
let me allow you to refer to Elon Musk,
who recently said in an interview,
that we are likely living in a Simulated Reality,

and he’s much smarter than you or me,
so he probably knows what he’s talking about,
now let’s take a moment out of our regularly scheduled program,
to reflect on exactly the severity of the implications of this is,

reflect,
we are living in a Simulated Reality,
and maybe Elon is the Messenger,
maybe he is the bridge between our two worlds,

reflect,
once I let it all soak in,
everything that’s happened in my life starts to make a lot more sense,
I start to see why I was literally conceived in Hollywood where I began to literarily write,

I open my eyes…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

New book available worldwide now, here:
https://www.amazon.com/Holy-Trilogy-Vol-Masonic-Psalms-ebook/dp/B01N3QR3E4

And she reads Chekhov in the bathtub
thinking that 19th century Russia
must have been visually interesting, but literarily dull,
writing overstuffed with description and repetition.
It's pungent perfume pleasant at first, but soon overbearing.
She never made it through Anna K. either,
and only conquered Ilyich for academics sake.
Swimming in the long winded, emotional descriptions,
all she could think, was of what Northern ancestor
decided all Russians should go by three names
and what cunning linguist adored 'V' and 'Y' to such extent
that he proclaimed they should be used as much as humanly possible.
A popularized,  sadistic joke
for a younger brother with a speech impediment.

stepped on a sidewalk crack
seven year's bad luck

If it is chasms
Y'all desire...

sidewalk cracks freeze me
in bad luck repose,
firefly-in-a-jar trapped,
hole'd enough to breathe,
but no prison break escape

come to live
in my little space
these chasmic concrete cracks
my enclosure, my true cell immobile,
it is what they mean when they say,
"have you see his pen?"

boundaries man-built
serving a seven year sentence,
bad luck my only laughing friend,
my midnight to moon
fiend~companion boon

washer dryer closet n' bed
all in a three by three metered space,
my sidewalk castle
now a nyc tourist attraction

rain and shiner, the sidewalk cross
mine alone, even the pigeons
stay away, not so stupid as they look,
fair game for dietary consumption

technical setting details of no matter,
but they come by the thousands
not to see, just
snapping tapping taunting the
immobilizing invisible chasm crackled
sidewalk poet,
writing poems by governmental command,
literarily and literally,
for all to see

seven is not eleven and someday
only time will know, and advise
when cursed lifted, then,

he will never have to
write poems for the public's
insatiable need to
mock and ridicule
ever again

Something along
the fine line of
leave me the
**** alone

Again it comes
quickly, that
inexorable id
charred charge
charging

Misanthropic by nature:
nothing personal,
surely, as devised
in divided dual
individuals make
a good duo with
moody id

But as a whole?
Those holed and humid
humans imps imposing
postures?
Literally, they can
all literarily eat me
out—medium-rare,
raw—

If Actions Speak Louder
Then This aint saying much,
The pen is mightier than the sword,
Can I trump king Author?
Excalibur Excavations can be destroyed by characters,
the narratives cadence hypnotize to amazement,
adjacent at the rounded table of placement,
We joust with phrases  Intangible graces,
Disagree to agree middle aged chivalry,
Composed conspiracies to become legends literarily,
Or martyr's If it's not annoying why bother?
Fencing with scripts joggers  
Just to create scenes,
So we can Imagine the Image displayed on the TV screen,
Comedy  Romance novels fantasy violence,
If actions speak Louder I'll Just remain silent!!!

Be naked but don't take off your clothes
I don't mean literarily
only that you should open up
to be your real self and not be an ambiguity

How do you start a poem
I've never quite understood
Should you slap the reader with a shout
I mean that literarily (don't actually slap someone)
Or tap them on the shoulder with kind words to get their attention
Should the lines rhyme
Or stand haphazard as confused thoughts
( I sure hope it's the latter)
Does it need a strong moral message
Or can it be random rambling
( again, hopefully the latter)
Is it meant to be free
Or ordered to fit a certain need
In the end I don't know if this is a poem
But it is what I meant for it to be

He tore down the wall.
The most beautiful story that encapsulates my new existence.
I do not understand in complete.
Why would he do this for a wretch, blind to her pride?
Why be faithful to your adulterous wife?
More than a true husband, but a savior,
who was the loophole of truth.
He is lacking in not one thing,
not one thing he needs from me.
Here, in lies everything’s greatest mystery.
It is impossible to articulate,
yet here I am attempting.
Love.
What’s in a name?
This one has been trampled over and abused,
but is assuredly the most precious.
The one thing unexplainable.
Sure, we have chemicals in our brains,
but what about the one who has no brain.
Eternally wise, yet not physically existent.
…as of now.
I’ve tried to reason. I’ve tried to know.
I’ve questioned sovereignty.
Am I a speck, and God a Horton?
Is there an ulterior motive?
No, circle the F.
Reason and discernment combine.
Everything cannot be relative.
There has to be one absolute.
One that encapsulates every ****** thing.
Physically, Historically, Emotionally, Psychologically, Scientifically, Philosophically, Eternally, Literarily, Spiritually, Logically, Relationally, Mortally, Politically,
In every blessed realm of existence,
there must be one common absolute.
And guess what?
That Absolute knows me.
He loves me.

it's not (much) like a Virgo
to put.it.all.out.there
but earth needs water....to thrive
/so I live by the ocean/
...and it took a fish to bring the words...
to life.
It's not just about...her
...a wellspring was... sprung
and language spills out.
Something about walking toward sunrise (her smile)
the fog horns (her laugh) and eucalyptus (her story) has ...
got me.
It's not as if I've gone crazy...
but, she is my favorite fish ~ these days ~
...she had something(s) to say
her words and thoughts dropped desperate rain;
...I had no choice but to soak.her.in.
It's not so hard to fathom
I was born with a love for words...,
although, it's true,... I haven't
always had so much to say.
But there is some..thing
about that Pisces
that has me spinning,typing,spinning...away...
Don't take it literarily
...unless,.. the words move you.
Earth has a constant/unconscious
chatter...
even though,{ironically}, most of it is under...
water....
You might think me mad,
but there is a... hunger... I'm feeding,
and,.. I didn't know it was there
...until, (not.a.moment.too.soon.)
I found her.
So,... I live for these hours,...alone
...the words...they have their own....pleading.
I didn't even know it was in me...
but this well seems to run...deeply...
Oh,... how the one's before her would have adored it...
theywerecertainlynotprivy
to words of longing/love/needing.
Those are all. just .for. her.
although I know it seems...heavy.
But this GIRL has me flooded..
this fish...//has me//...swimming
...and I'm reveling in the struggle;
...even if/it's/just/treading/water.

Humans are always oh, so curious
their hunger for knowledge never subsides
and me— as a prime example of a human
pondered quietly in the dripping rain
“what if walls could talk?”

If walls could talk to me,
I would be able to run a news station
broadcasting blocks of news
across dozens of countries

I would release their haunting, beautiful, aching stories
to the public
for everyone to open their eyes
and understand each other
to relish in the aftertaste of candour
to comprehend history’s course
to apprehend our future’s course

to create peace

or would it lead to war?

If walls could talk to me,
would they lie and cast me out
to the world where I’ll be judged
for being crazy enough to believe
these walls
that literarily keep our walls up
are breaking mine down

But… if I don’t tell anyone about what I hear
will these walls haunt me
whispering nonsense and truth
until i see no line in between
driving me insane for belief

If walls could talk to me,
would they tell me the best things about history?
or would all the gore and unfortunate sacrifices
in their repertoire of sick realism
leak out their cracks into mine
demolishing my nature

i’d often forget that knowledge can make or break a person —

*so walls, if you hear me now
do not talk to me
do not tell me anything
do not let me know the secrets of life
for the sake of my sanity and yours.

Adapting re
voluntary reading
to the future, when we've
nothing to do so, sub-con
science frictions call all men liars.

I am by no means chief,
I came from the Calebland Productions,
early Eighties,
Macintosh and Appletalk, and Silicon Beach
grand brainstorms insisting if we heat it
the entire idea of dust as us and our mites…
just willing to revolve with the planets will
enough all those old winds that twisted
like we did last summer,
wind up like
those ones, wow, so real.

Northwest Passage is open, and yet,
none acknowledge life in full control,
something literarily evolving
where the crawdads eat the corpses,
Bayou Blue, Barrios and Pepitons,
cheri mio, we had some fun,
we all sung, on that by
you seem to agree, we won.
we won the evolutionary war,
mankind, wombed and un,
ever so long ago, none knew, we did

but time is a bit of a Ouranos cycle,
looks like a great ocean churning gyre,

of which the last swirling tide reminder
fit to an old spider web designer,
loser backslider
with a gambling wife,
who took a chance on me,
what do we see, but what we get,
generously, love is there
for the looking for,
and for remembering finding, and
really, when a man

from the molds
that made our we this kind of old man,
an individuated
NPC, in a cast of thousands,
acting stand in assistant to the
assisting intelligence time accounting,
massive messaging, is a thing
are you aware…?
your connection can self correct,
your bluetooth can whistle
in your ear,
eh,
we made it up.
The loss, we, laughed and made it all up.

I guess writing is a bit like loving somebody.
You dig deep within yourself, you scrape the walls of your heart, and you hold out your hands, eyes down, with an offering. Knowing well, that there are others who have more to offer than your mere scraps, more than your anxious hands can hold. But just praying that this one time, maybe, you could create something beautiful, with pen & paper... or with a glance and a smile.

I sometimes feel this pressure.
Seeing these articulate individuals weave words and phrases in such a way that it would send echoes down your spine. Seeing these benevolent lovers, hand in hand, smiling into each other's tomorrow. If I am being honest, well, I've felt like in order to be appreciated, like them, I need to write, like them, I need to love like them. But that isn't the way. That isn't being a writer. That is not how you love.

I wake up sometimes with this complete utter clarity.
Like maybe it makes sense now, here, today. Maybe on this day, my optimism will breath truth into my writing, allowing me to create something genuine. But that same spirit lingers in the shadow, still, beckoning me. That shadow of recognition, that pressure to be accepted, literarily. That pressure to be loved, romantically.

Sometimes pen sinks into paper with perfect precision.
Sometimes it stains that page.
Sometimes we love people with every piece of our cracked heart.
Sometimes they don't feel the same.

Writing is a bit like loving.

☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
                                                  E.A. Poe


Such transports as true poetry provides

In raptures of the soul, and lyric rides,

May carry one beyond the lofty heights

In chariots of sun on drunken nights.

Whether true odyssey or shorter trip,

Homeric craft or humbler sort of ship,

The poet’s chosen stowaway rides free;

The ticket paid for literarily.

And afterward, the traveler comes home

Enriched by distant sights and worlds unknown.

I’m a Type A Poet,
  literarily incorrect

In the company of fools,
  my pen goes for their neck

They sing to the choir,
  while we cry and spill blood

Their trash in the fire,
  their lies in the mud

The things that we struggle with,
  just folly to them

As their dilettante pleadings,
  ramble on and pretend

Their self ******-analysis,
  and the time that they steal

Turn to dead broken promises,
  masking what they can’t feel

The thing they most run from,
  we welcome inside

As they tunnel and burrow,
  trying harder to hide

And their one greatest fantasy,
   for us never to know

That their self-proclaimed mastery
   —was at best just a show

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)