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Connor Jul 2016
And it's difficult to remember something as the very name of Eisenhower
Or flowerbaskets
And tired movies made of silicone and
Aftersex
Or sixteen candles echoing out of an imaginary suite with cigarettes at every table
And green lawns
Barbershop conversation
The reflection of the sun in special trees
Or my best friend Jesus Christ
Or the smell of the theater that one day with the cynics who just got back from a tennis match and barbwire still laced delicately around their thoughts and
Nihilism
And automotives
And priestess Jane or Henry's gloomy doppelganger who reads alternative magazines and loves the aesthetics behind broken glass
And fine tuned musical instruments

It's difficult to remember
Lonesome Fridays smoking on a park bench trying to finish the puzzle
Or synagogues you've never been in
Or insurance
Or newspaper articles detailing the misadventures of Mr. City
(Of course of course! Take your shoes off at the door and make yourself at home)
We're tossing all our sewage into the ocean
that's far from clean as it
LOOKS anymore these days
That's anything
And everything except for the glowing mountains seen faded and wintry behind Apartments and the
"Glorious Mexican House of Spices"
Never been in there either

It's difficult to remember
Times of Mr Twin Sister
Or Joan Jett in the hallway
In a highschool who's psychology classrooms have become a time capsule in the ground/
Or the gentle skinny ******
Wearing Broadway makeup and
Kafka tattooed on his shoulder
I like his hat
He looks at me suspiciously
Or the guy who is yelling his order at the counter when it's quiet here anyways
Or the mariner who has a hobby of the saxophone
Or 1970s *******
Or the sheepskin bikeseat fad that's yet to come but I'm predicting it now!
Or two dollars and twentyseven cents at the beginning of Allen Ginsberg's America
"I've given you all and now I'm nothing"

It's difficult to remember
The Oriental
Sacramento flies
Midnight Moon
Quarter to four
"The Immortalization Commission"
Remodelled hotels downtown
Where mandalas on the floor became a
Tiger lily luminous
And the kimono is yesterday's painting/
Dearest Darling
When I was feeling down!
A staircase in reverse (??)
The sound a kiss makes
It's difficult to remember
Colleen's earrings
Or Washington State
Or air conditioners in Bali
The Indian ocean's daybreak hymn
To Seminyak
Or whatever happened to Steve from the Airplane out of Taiwan
On 3 days awake
Hello Kitty nursing stations
****** (Kubrick's version)
Cardboard taking up half my bedroom
It's difficult to remember until I jot it down and then its a sudden forever
Sunshine Superman in a cafe spontaneous
drawings with someone I just met who has some ******* attitude/
Who hops fences and has feral ideas
People! En Masse! Te Amo!
You're all in wolven liberty
And vague postulators
And holy prostitutes for the dollar
Sad eyed intellectuals
With undergarments made of breakfast cereal/
Seaferry poetry is different from
Trestle in August poetry
Or henna handshakes
Or the Napoleonic era
Sweet Cherry Pie
The tulip's tongue
Garabajal
Cloudy first day of July
Was hotter yesterday
But not too hot

It's difficult to remember
Antiquity
The pale horse Studebaker outside the clinic
With a glossy red trim and **** I wish that was my ride
Andy Warhol's exploding plastic inevitable
Nearsightedness
Angels and their ability to shower with a a snap of their fingers
Distant harp music
Better him than me
Bananas almost ripe
Green aquatic
Reclusive junkies
Palomo's appliances
Questions for the next time
How much I like what you like and how I like that you like what I like
Ahh that's not my bus
I'm trying to get to the city!
That one quote Socrates is known for about knowing nothing as true wisdom
Supermarkets being built on top of liquor stores burned down a while back
Monopolies
Tragedies
"No Love Lost"
THE HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL
Your guess is as good as mine
Never tried to eat Asian food in Asia
It was all pasta and good cider that tasted like pineapple
Rain hitting the window and I'm
Drowsy again
God Save The Trees!
Curly hair looks good on boys
Torn up blinds
Queer as a three dollar bill
If Bill costs 3 dollars I'm sure he's caught something better safe than sorry
Sage advice
I'm the very model of a modern major general
Golden yen and international currency
Incense in the bedroom and how good it smells
There's my bus! Applying for a better job than the one I got now
But that's how it always is right?
Chasing satisfaction
1007 apt
Porch ornaments
Unique names
Unique style le style
The extra charge on foreign ATMs
Cordoroy polo shirts
Flooding in New York!
When someone's face screams *******
"Slippery when wet"
Dine N Dash
Grass gone yellow
Confidence in dyed hair and capes as long as wedding gowns
But less expensive
Doors that always seem to be locked and I'm wondering 20 year later what's behind them?
Albino animals
White thoughts as clouds or
Abstractions
Weathers nicer in Florida but who cares
Festivities this early in the day
Automatopeia
Do sad orphanages still exist?
Just like the movies
Midnight in mirrors
That sick puppet at the shoe shop used
To know how to really hammer it down
And now he's weak and forgotten
Never heard the words of a true prophet only Oceania
Or the private temple near Apollo Bay
Like Japanese gardens behind that gate
Will I ever see it
Make a proud example outta ya misbehavior
Form without function
Exhausted spiritualism
*** Kettle Black
negative photographs of dark rooms
And there's laughing coming from SOMEWHERE
Essays on kleptomania
Had a bad dream I became a cliche
Surrounded by other freaks and there was a lovely ***** I fell in love with her
We married in Oregon by the sea her name was rosy
***** rosy
Check your mailbox for nails
And what you don't wanna hear/
If you were a vegetable you'd be organic!
Empire
Satirical bubble gum
Satori
Linda Lovelace and her special party trick
That's someone's fantasy
Diamond in the rough
Mister guy with two black eyes frequents the adult playhouse
Hes fully stocked on fishnet leggings
He's too proud to put them on himself but
Has nobody else around
Boo hoo
Swigs back the whiskey and trips down the stairs getting a third black eye in the process
Marion came by with her dog the other day
Wanted her box of clothes back but he loved to sniff them to remember her
But she wouldn't have it

"Honey I'm going to call the police!"

"Ah they don't give a **** they have bigger things to worry about"

"Yeah you got that right shrimp **** enjoy my unwashed *******"

And she never came back again
He started losing the vertebrae in his spine 1 by 1 and you know where this is going
I won't say he was a poor man because he had it all coming to him the *******
But he coulda had a better start if you ask me.

It's difficult to remember
And even more difficult to forget
After the fact

Seagull opera
Giganticism
Portrait of the artist as a young man
Losing one's pencil when the best idea of your life drops down from heaven and into your sorry head
Signs graffitied to have funnier meanings
Cruelty
Impassive
The Loyal Lioness
And Bangladesh has too many kitchens
And not enough dishes
When I was young I used to say Island as "is-land"  
Which is true it is land
But the Europeans probably stole it from somebody else anyways/
I left my future behind
And objects in the mirror are closer than they appear
Im no illusionist
I'm terrified of the cracken
Father feels the same way about
Hotels
Why bother/
This has been going on and on for a while are you tired yet
Is your patience being tested
Mine isn't because this wasn't an all-at-once kind of rambling
It's extremely important to laugh at least
Once a day
Otherwise you'll find yourself a politician
In no time at all
Rockefeller
(         ) Quaint home to die in
I think
Trains create great music
Float on
Sink into yourself
Roses in a crooked alley
That's people
Busy busy busy busy
Let's describe a situationist
I'm not a fan of bright colors on clothes
Your best shade is blue
Bricklayers transcription of Don Quixote to a skyscraper
Rocket thyme
& Garden
Erratic children's
Insomnia
The doorbell repeatedly
Vancouver riots/ I saw that live on the news!
Pictionary with the surrealists
N Dada TV set MC Escher
Antenna
You're in the Twilight Zone now
Dear Ramona
I'm trying to make it up to you
With a brightness only seen when you're ready to see it so please for the love of God don't blame me when it's not appearing
The tapestry hidden
Keep your blankets clean
And avoid hospitals unless you're fine with fishbowls & the halogen
The water gestapo
Storage lockers full of unacted plays and
Antique microwaves
Emitting the nostalgia of the cold war era
And what a waste of time that was /
Walter Wanderleys presence in Autumn universities
The opening of Vivre sa Vie
Salvador Dali's pluvial taxi
Lightbulb epiphanies
Aquariums and their protestors
Zebras in the shade
Two wrongs dont make a right
Elizabethan theater
Saloon shootouts in a fever dream
I lost and bled out all over the rustic wooden floor
A maiden reached out for me and El Paso did play I woke up and pretended nothing happened/
Funerals for bad People who did bad things
My first memory of a cat beneath the mattress
Hello Dolly!
Auditory learning
Psychotherapy
Lillian the landlady lost her ladle and labeled little Lyle as a lair
The Black panther movement
Reading symposium some years ago and
Making note that Phaedo was still my favorite dialogue/
Zen Buddhism
Xoxo xoxo
The day Gypsies were replaced with
Surface ****** appetite
And not the real thing
Newspaper clippings
Hypnotism when all other options are out
Mystical visions of sidewalks
And the love of your life stepping through a door you've never seen
Maybe Yes No I Don't Know
Creature comforts
Che Guevara's problem is that his beard made him too easy to recognize
(Also that little hat!)
Chinese cough medicine didn't work
For long I still wheeze sometimes
Domestic violence thru the wall
Ceiling fan probably doesn't even work!
Dimpled laughter
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
In skytrains to Commercial
Bermuda in her mind
And courtesy in her voice
I'm no Arthur Rimbaud
But you already knew that
Alcazar of Seville
Filling up the shipbottle
Here's your paradise
Now relinquish it as it is
False!
Hare Krishna
Nowhere Fast
El Diablo and the
Portofino loaf left rotting on the countertop
Latin children speak of the sacred viper
You'll hear of it after this but we'll never see what the ******* meant
Heads alternating round the social current
Of my lively city
There's a dog soaking up the rain
And songs are made in honor of
Recent catastrophes
Trials are dealt
Cards cast to the gutter
New York quiets down for the news of another war
You scratch my back I'll scratch yours
Skeleton key
Ballad of the last wailing zoo
THE ATRIUM
Complexity in simplicity
That's how Brainard got me!
Elderly overcoats
Hiding purest LSD
Is a fan of Hawaiian T shirts
And a communist
What if I was a Freemason
Or owned a tanning salon
Faint crimson
What did Marv look like again?
"You're surrounded by people who love you"
Coffee when one needs it
GOODBYE BLUE MONDAY
Tattoos on the wandering man
Oriental chimes and the people who own them
Bus stop regulars
Vines overtaking power lines
The hypnogogic state
Strawberry light softening
The mind
Sister Ray LOUDLY PROCLAIMING
doitdoitdoitdoit
Passing the graffiti n Pluto neon
Halal wide awake another Saturday
Where's the Karaoke
Flashing by here
Those who find comfort in a bridal scavenger hunt
Or expensive beer
And here comes the hooded clown
Clamoring about his favorite
Loudspeaker
Telling me my time is soon and the noise
Drowns out the drowsy bliss
After hour spirits the perfect time for
Writing and trying to read distant Chinese
Indecision on the tip of the tongue
"NOW WHO IS THAT KNOCKING
ON THE CHAMBER DOOR?
COULD IT BE THE POLICE?"

I'm completely off the topic
And into Apartment lobby photosets
Low battery phone calls
Confessions
Nauseated reverb
Trying to see the attachment people got with bingo halls
And moving companies
Ah no luck again
Eve is at it with her showtunes
Halfway methodology
Triage
Paisley headbands left
Distraught on the quivering
Heater
Dwindling sunsets
We're truly disciples of the moon spirit which grants us more energy
(This is according to a drunk I met one night)
Or ***** old men
When the horizon is engulfed with
A winking cinder
Suitcase at the door
Last time
First time
Magician never reveals his fetishes
(They all have to do with bags under your eyes)
Employment office dramas of my friend the one who blinded a social worker
And the one who blamed Islam
And the one whos philosophy entirely consisted of Spooky Action at a
                                            DISTANCE
Parisian riots
Queer youth
Didn't make the team! Jester
'cross the hall who's beard suggests
Ishmeal n car battery n expired vegetables n rain which crosses the line n
***** cranberry n
Poorly fitted suits n
Harsh pigment n incense shops n
Bocca     secret towns
With churches more beautiful than any you'd find in your own city
n the cultural market
Xylophone ear to ear
Soul cleansing starting at only
$89 (with a 6 month guarantee)
Sophie's birthday and her picnic at Victory Park
The nearby bums trying to sell tea mugs and
Loose wires beside gated convenience stores
I'm an Island away attempting a poem
And never bought a scratch n win
Or heard the same song more than seven times in a row or been in a column
Or escaped the washhouse
Invested in a birdcage for next year
Been to a palm reading
Visited Oasis
Smoked salmon
Told anyone else about Montana
Screamed the things I'd like to scream
** Word of the day
Or kissed a lunatic or swallowed the corpse of yesterday
I keep her on my neck until
I'm too anxious to let go
Counting streetlights
Jeans worn in and faded to be sent off to
A lonely caffeine addict
Christmas Eve I'll be reading a postcard from San Francisco
Asking the same questions
My imagination is made of a different material than last week
Now it's the same color as your hair
HEY that's a good pickup line to use in the heart of the Canadian Embassy
Drinking discarded music resembling a sweater you may have said YES to if it wasn't so unsure of itself
And now Mr. Acker Bilk ascends thru the window of an August home
Like a lazy hornet
I'm still lost without identification
Or a nice belt
As happens when one uses a quality item too casually
How did uphill suddenly seem so downhill?
I'll claim a waterfall
For SALE that inevitable Indonesia
Greyhound O another greyhound O another greyhound
I'm fretting too much about not enough
Delayed the Airport and the yellow question

????

II

What if I knew how to read the curb?
Or translate drunken droll
What if I was never tired again and could
REALLY do anything I set my mind to?
What if I was the first cigarette that cured cancer instead of caused it?
What if I could end superstition
And walk underneath any ladder I wanted?
What if I could make it with a young Audrey Hepburn!?
What if I stopped pretending to be a microphone and got on with "it"
What if the grocery store closed later
And I opened earlier?
What if parking lots werent so sad
All the time?
What if gravity simply had enough of exotic birds and specifics?
What if we stopped trying to recreate what is truly lost?
What if foreign children embraced
Wasting time instead of
Midnight starry bicycles
And the antics of a monk
Disguised as a romantic?

There are those that worship God
And those who worship the Sun
And those who worship nothing at all
But I suppose on the last bus
We're all the same exhausted
Voice who can't wait for next pay day
What is an empty bank?
Or authenticity
What is there to prove anymore?
I hope I don't die tonight and regret
Being impulsive for once
You're a smart shadow
And a dull character
Pushing the last of the daisies
Get the lamp to turn on again
Give the pavement something to look forward to with your walk
Be consistent in being inconsistent
If there's a word there's a ***** and a poem for it!
We all oughta worship
Nothing at all except
Clarity
Compassion with ones neighbor who either forgot the pay the electricity bill or couldn't afford to
We're a swimmin
Written between late June to July 13th.
i have a break at 12 o'clock
will you please come over
you don’t have to knock
i’ll leave the door open
it will be unlocked
a bouquet of flowers
i’ll have in stock
a vase and a candle
a knife and a blade
a face and a cigarette
its all about the way we explain
i mean rationalize away
do time-lines justify our decline into tyranny
send me back again to sublime infancy
retrofit the celibate instigator
lemniscate the elephant’s fingerprints
impress me with wit and charm
storm troopers unarmed
star-gazers, shadow-haters, sand-blasters, ice-skaters,
morning's lovers, fathers, daughters, shoulders and elbows
rub brows and crease foreheads
wrinkles in your timelines
define lines as destiny unwinds
reminds me of blinding light
the heights of old empires
sire warriors, stories as tall as soldiers
for real, heal the split between mind and body
kindly, lovingly, bump up against me
and kiss me again
i am music fused together with eternity
space and dust and rusted armpits
a hundred diamonds, drops of sweat
skin like leather, weatherproof, foolproof too
determine to use it all
for you are the muse of all
do as you need to
fuse it together lest it come apart again
return to heaven and mend the tear
split the hair or the atom
magic is a language
tragic is the cancerous neglect of syntax
emptiness is manic
gargantuan attacks of presence
defenseless, we are taught worthless ****
neglect it, but remember important words
stories, looms of drawings
forming in my mind’s eye
i cannot be bought or controlled by pirates
the best moments are private
you are not invited
so go home and create your own zone of entertainment
its necessary
your gentle fingers
blessing my soul
courage to roll with life’s blows
no need for stoics
or poets who deny reality’s arguments
slippery slopes
walking tight ropes
can you cope with all this mistletoe
restring your bow
dance in the snow as if everyone knows
you are crazy in love with the whole
motionless vision swift as an arrow
roofless rooms
prom queens flip you off and turn you on
sons and daughters, lions of the prairie
a child portable and small
respects the walls that you’ve made
they are not your cage but your shelter
self culture is affluent and not arrogant
sand mandalas tall as waterfalls
golden rainbows pour from the faucet in the sky
like mighty images
wisdom bridges the gaps in our imagination
i can’t wait to get this on the page
written in stone, reflecting thrones
made from the bones of pharaohs
consciousness narrows as you approach
are you a cockroach, coach or a student
strokes of wonder for different folks
cold call your own homes
do you prioritize lightning over thunder
words over rubber
sandwiches to clutter
are you interested in diamonds or other
precious gemstones
that flutter like butterflies when i utter
emeralds like butter
do you waste time arranging your clutter
stuttering utter nonsense
frequencies wasted, gentleness chased away
fantasies radioactive
magic lacks targets
darkens our fathers
keep chasing actions
satisfaction is attractive
your eyes are like fragments of rubies in the fire
i see beauty in desire, features in the sky
i look skyward and see higher
minds are wired to remain stagnant
stranded in a lack of entertainment
change this and make your own amazement
wonder over thunder, lick me down under
gone asunder like the burning acropolis
topple this bottomlessness
can't stop this, its impossible
i wonder do you make blunders
in underground mountains
we shout words like fountains shoot water
curtains topple over
and form a blanket over our consciousness
after our performances
swarms of crazy people leave the theater
shattered and too stunned to speak
to ****** to leak they keep walking down south
toward Plymouth Rock,
Mammoth Mountian or Rehoboth Beach
take stock of the situation and just move
first one out is rewarded
sordid and sorted like straw from the hay stacks
caskets of black iron casings
tastings of wine whose shelf-life is expired
past due cheese overripe and stinky
like mustard dusted with lightning
striking on time is all that we have
thinking that was a close call
we fall down and get up, remove the uppercuts
and lowercases from our mouths
doubt is a ***** word heard too often,
coughing from a coffin she offers me her hand
cold as ice cream, these nouns are deafening
love is lazy like a muffin
and hot like a dumpling
but a liaison with time cannot be rushed
i have lived long enough to learn this
a privilege to give birth to this moment
again and again vintage feathers
send me your sweaters
detest impostors who give robotic answers
i am in wonder at all this grammar
that i was unaware of
ignorant as mustard
and smooth like custard
in this blustery weather
i am glad i wore a sweater
and have an umbrella
to keep me dry and safe
i am in love walking toward the gate
and boarding that plane
i am your heart served on a plate
with a side of coleslaw, soul food for dinner
you are a winner and i am your hunger
a porcelain gravestone
a copper bathtub with claws
stored in your basement
storerooms cold as a skating rink
please don't think, unless its about me
let sentences drift away
while we chase arguments from yesterday's
armistice

david badgerow Dec 2014
when you asked me about certainty
and if my mind was a tree
rooted in cement and truth
i was on my unaccustomed knees
blinking into a sunbeam's architecture when
the brilliant wind brought you to me
to cure me with the miracle touch
i was alone by a window dreaming through glass
you bent toward me in a mile wide sky
a butterfly with a skinny voice
or an adorable tomato in a retail uniform
before that i only knew the clouds
as bears wrapped in pastel baby-blankets
before i first kissed you in the street
i knew the sunset as a drop of fire
in a barrel of whiskey and
suddenly your eyes like a deep pool in a forest
seeking out my past with the molecular traces
of your fingers across my abdomen
mandalas blooming out of our palms
only touching at the fingers
as flames from mosquito torches filled
the round coral faces of my gauges
with apricot light
Sam Vaghi Jul 2015
These small mandalas
of intricate shapes  
and colours  
that wind
and twirl,
and bind
my scattered
and easily flustered
mind
into focus-
And into a calmer state,
settling my soul
just enough,
just for tonight,
just to get through
another day
zebra Jul 2016
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped

as above so below

the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
******* below ...flesh woven

does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy

then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children


i build  temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****

do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes

the catechism
of the  solar ****

to know
to adore
to prostrate

to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth

to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries  

those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives
Eleete j Muir May 2018
Health department signs litter the grass areas,
"Do not make contact with the water;
Swimming forbidden".
Less than twenty years ago I learnt to swim here
And fish too, once i even drowned!
Sometimes my friends and I would
Catch Eels then sell them
To the local Chinese restaurant.
I treasure those memories of my childhood.

This fresh water lake surrounded
By trees taller than buildings
My beautiful haven from the city, hidden
Between main roads and highways
that only the locals know.

Sitting on sandstone rocks
I see my reflection amongst the lily pads.
Beyond the depths an entanglement of
Roots, seaweed and *******.
Natural mandalas made by tadpoles
Ripple across the murky brown surface
Whilst a rather large water dragon
Sun bakes on the riverbank
And ducks glide by reminding me
Of the canoes we used to capsize
And I appreciate how simple life
Used to be.

ELEETE J MUIR
This poem was written back in September 2003
softcomponent May 2014
Called in sick to work, disappoint the boss, *** of a terrible ***** hangover I framed as the flu.

'I've got the cold-body-shivers and a bucket next to my bed. I'd be no help to you, trust me.' Thankfully, one of the friendlier dishwashers agreed to work the shift in my absence. My hangover eventually plateaued into one of those fried-brain poetic calms, where you're pretty sure that terrible habit of yours shaved a few minutes or days from your life, and yet you're in some sort of involuntary (yet accepted and mostly secretly-desired) state of meditation and trance with the world. People walking past speak of strange, complex lives, with their own problems, their own triumphs, romances, fears, and aspirations.

Two young college-boys, dashing, laugh with each other at Habit Coffee. My debit card stopped working for some strange reason, with the machine reading 'insufficient funds' as the cause, and yet I managed to check my balance via online application, and I still have a solid $15.86 available so something is clearly wrong. I explain this to the baristas at Habit, and the girl understands my first-world plight, gives me a free cappuccino as a result, and I sit there at the clearest panoramic window overlooking the corners of Yates and Blanshard thankful for the kindness and finish Part One of Kerouac's Desolation Angels (Desolation in Solitude).

*****, echw. I spat at the brink of ***** above my ***** toilet seat, perhaps the more unhealthy fact-of-the-matter is that I somehow managed to keep it down. So it rots away my stomach and eats away at my liver. Disgusting. Although the prior stupor was quite nice.

On my way to the Public Library (where I sit now), some girl with a summer-skirt was unbeknownst of the fact that it had folded somehow at the back and as she ran for the parked 11 (Uvic via Uplands), everyone could see her thonged *** and they all looked back, forth, back, in *****-awkwardity (I included) wondering what was ruder: telling her? or just watching her spring away? I think I heard someone make a quip remark about it, and yet glanced away and forward as to seem unaroused (their partner was with them, holding hands and all, avoiding the lumpy desire and lust that always appears in short bouts during moments like that).

I need some sort of adventure, tasting the potential of existence as I called in sick to work and immediately felt better once the shadow it cast was delivered from the day. I think of Alex and Petter, with their motley crew of savages, riding highway 101 toward San Francisco. Last I heard, they had stopped over in Portland and perhaps had said hello to our friend Tad in the area. I wish I could have gone, felt the road glow in preternatural beauty and ecstatically bongo'd every breath. I haven't felt the true excitement of freedom and travel in so very, very long. Always, the thought of debt and labour. That's the niche I've crawled into for the time being, and I owe a lot to the friends who wait (without hate, without anger) for me to pay them back. I have some sort of shameful asceticism in the way I work now, as if I cannot just up and quit as I may often do, because I'm doing it for the friends who kindly (perhaps, dumbly) propped me up with coin. Even if most of it goes to an insatiably hungry MasterCard Troll living under a bridge of self-immolating sadnesses and post-modernisms, at least my fridge is full of food.

I lost my passport anyways, they would have stopped me at the Peace Arch and turned me back to Canada without exception. That's a modern border for you, there isn't much room for kindness. Just pragmatism.

*****, terrible, clean-cut pragmatism.

That house, at 989 Dunsmuir, the place I call home in the Land of the Shoaling Waters, is exceptionally lonely on days like this, even with Jen there reading her Charles Bukowski and offing a few comments about the gratuitous ******* oft-depicted in the book. I feel trapped, at times, by all those machinations I so deftly opposed as a teenage anarchist. In principle, I still oppose them. Most intensely when they trap me, although the World of Capital has successfully alienated me as a member of the proletariat work-force and somehow twisted my passion into believing that the ways of economy and rat-race are just 'laws of nature.' If this is true, which I believe for pragmatisms sake they are (*****, terrible, clean-cut pragmatism), there really is no such thing as liberty, and what we have called 'liberty' is nothing more than a giant civilised liability within which we are all guilty until proven guiltier. Yes, because I owe it to myself and to the landlord.

I realize, often, the endless love-hate relationship with existence that one calls 'life.' It seems undeniably true that everyone is in this same jam, secretly loving something, and at the same time secretly hating it. The distinction between 'love' and 'hate' quickly becoming redundant when they are found together drinking champagne at the dusty corner-table of the most indescript and ugly bar in the alley of eternal psychology.

My back hurts, my brain
clicks, it's all a little
melancholic; trapped,
finicky, yet calm,
hopeful, excited, and
real. About everything


all

at once.

How can you write like a beatnik in an age of eternal connectivity? Just keep writing messy, weighted passages, whine-and-dine frustration, and cling on to dear life as if it were better in a lottery ticket? Dream of a rucksack revolution, ask yourself how you're not brave enough to be a Dharma ***? Would you not question your motives in rebellion, keep yourself at arms-length for sake of self-hatred, and posture yourself on the sidewalk insisting it's not pretentious?

Ah, all the vagueness and all the creeps, all the I-guess-I'm-happy's and all the success stories mingling with each other on this planet-rock. Some sort of hybrid productivity asking to be heard. Writing about liberty and livers, both accepted as ok and yet all take a beating in the face of silence and revolt. There's a science to all this, no? Some sort of belief in mandalas and star-signs, opening portals to Lemuria to take a weight right off your shoulders. I am Atlantis, and I am sinking.

A cigarette doesn't care, and neither do I. Addicted to a moribund desire to live. To really live! Not just add a few more moments to longevity by swallowing a carrot twice a day. Not just brushing my teeth twice between sunrise and sunset to avoid halitosis. Not just sitting and waiting for language to speak on my behalf.

Be-half, be-whole. Be-yonder, lose yourself. Be-yonder, and travel. Be-yonder, and forgive. Be-yonder, and don't forget. Store those memories and add them to your landscape, next time you drop acid, run amok through those stairwells and fields, re-introduce yourself to your life and remember the every's forever. Become highschool you again, where you'd sit on your mothers porch June mornings on your third cup of coffee, writing a poem with the drive of existential freedom unpresented with fears of rent or labour. You want fast-food? *** the change off your poor mum, and meet your old friends down at the local A&W.; These days really don't last forever, and thankfully you were smart enough to avoid working all those years. They will remain the best years of your life for.. perhaps.. your whole life.

Some mornings, you would wake up late on a Pro-D day, sipping a fourth cup of joe and watching the Antique Road Show on CBC because it's the only half-interesting thing playing on a late Tuesday afternoon. Your mothers couch was leather at the time, placed closest to the deck window with some sort of ferny-plant right next to it making peace with the forest. You would get lonely at times, and it wasn't until you graduated that you noticed how beautiful those 4 high-lined stick-trees standing in the desolate firth as the last remaining survivors of a clear-cutting operation really were, the way they softly bent in the wind, some sort of anchor whether rain or shine. Your mother would be at work, your brother would be out, or at dads, or upstairs, and for half-hours at a time you would stare at those trees, warped slightly through the lens of your houses very old glass. To you, it seemed, the world could be meaningless, and these trees would go as a happy reminder of how calm and archaic and beautiful this meaninglessness was. Watching them always quenched a blurry hunger in the soul. Something happy this way came. Something tricky and simple.

I could never really reach myself back in those days. Not anymore, anyways. That old me no longer had a phone, had tossed it in a creek in a fit of idealistic rage. That old me was living in a tent somewhere, squatting on private property and working at a bakery north of his old town. He still worked there, last I heard. Every summer evening, he went swimming in the ocean, wafting along on his back to think and pray. He was a Buddhist if I ever met one, reading the Diamond Sutra and the Upanishads, cracking the ice of belief with Alan Watts's 'Cloud Hidden, Whereabouts Unknown,' and preaching to his friends in cyclic arguments to prove the fundamental futility of theory. He's the kinda guy to shock you off your feet and make you wonder. Really wonder. Whoever he's become is on the road to wisdom. Whoever he thinks he is has never mattered. He's just waiting on the world to change.

Fancy.

Above me, the patterned cascade of skylight-window in the library courtyard hints at sunset coming. I contemplate the warmth and company of Tom's house a moment and wonder if he'd like me over. I think again of Petter and Alex way down there in Cali-forn-ya. A holy pilgrimage to Big Sur, and I still wonder where my passport is. If hunger and destitution weren't a block to intention, I'd be everywhere at once right now. I'd watch this very sunset from the top of Mount Baker, and yet be singing along to the Rolling Stones with Petter at my side. The Irish country would be rolling by again, and I would wonder where I am. The happy patch-work of County Cork would invite me to the Ring of Kerry where I would wait and sip a cappuccino, pouring over maps of Ireland in hopes of finding my hostel, as I'm sure I booked online.

The warm-red stonework of Whitstable village in Kent comes to mind. I think of Auntie Marcia and Uncle Bob, soaking up the sunlight with their solar panels and selling it back to the grid. I think of Powell River and its wilder-middle-ness, the parade of endless trees stretching east out unto Calgary. I think of every public washroom I have ever defecated in, and wonder how noisy or silent they might be right now. I think of Sooke, and its sticks. I think of Salt Spring Island and my first collapse into adulthood. I think of work, and how I haven't missed a dime I've spent.

I think of wine in an Irish bar, that night I was in the homely town of Bantry, with its rainbow homes and ancient churches, reading my 'Pocket History of Ireland' in disbelief at how far I'd made it on my own when that strange old fellow Eugene came up to me and struck up a conversation on world events. He tried to sell me vitamin supplements, toting it all as a saviour. I wrote him this poem a day later, a year ago, and think of him now:

49 years old, names Eugene.

We talk politics like a plane
doing laps over planet ours,
North Korea threatens bursts
of lightening and Irish businessman
defaults on debts to UlsterBank in
the mighty Americas. He tells
me to guess his age and to be
nice I take a medium sum of
35 (white lies). He tells me
why he looks so young at
49 and tries to sell me a healthy
soul as if he were an angel of loves-
yerself or a devil
of capitalism pecking at
exposed heels. Tells me
he used to be drawl, pizza-
faced, suicidal before
production loved a spiritual
lung. Tell me what! Tell me
WHAT!
When life gives you lemons,
hug the lemon tree. Seems
the angels have sold out and
they're nice enough.



He really was a nice guy.
excerpt- 'the mystic hat of esquimalt'
Aaron LaLux Aug 2018
Mumok Museum [24]

What am I doing in Vienna,
staring at cold sterile pop art as the whole entire world we're on burns,
in a city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that never really seemed that inspiring,

& it's not that I have an antipathetic attitude towards these pathetic fools,
in fact it's actually just the opposite of that because I'm an actual optimist,
which is why I don't feel inspired by bored cyborgs their wires or their tools,
& precisely why I'd rather gather flowers than be an actor for their power,

see I find more inspiration in a single leaf on a single tree by a river bank,
than from all the colors & lines contained within the walls of this museum,
which is why when I'm asked all the time what kind of poetry I read,
I reply I don't even read poetry see I don't find it in books I find it in seasons,

It's the same reason I don't need to go to church to pray,
because I don't need my messages from God to be translated by a human,

anyways where am I at & what am I doing?

Oh yeah Im at a museum in Vienna wondering where the inspirations gone,
& why everything seems so excruciatingly tiring,
see it seems we’re on the verge of a collective mental breakdown,
at the same time like we're on the precipice of a collective enlightening,

either way the system’s short circuiting & could do with some rewiring.

Why does every rags to riches story I know of those that've made it,
end in an overpriced designer outfit at home bored all alone & jaded?

Why is Consumerism followed like a religion,
I mean we're all made of the same DNA strands regardless of name brands,
I mean everything is just carbon hydrogen & oxygen anyways,
which may explain why materialism is immanent in every independent man,

while an apocalypse seems undeniably immanent &,
we dwell in the highest heights ever built still we don't totally understand,

we don’t worship Jesus we worship Visa,
putting good credit ahead of good morals,
don’t praise Muhammed in a daze we say our grace in front of TV Dramas,
no Buddha dreams just computers screens no real friends just PayPals,

& maybe that’s why it's easier to be blind than to see,
maybe that’s why we hide in museums behind Valentino sunglasses,
because we'd rather have expense tastes than be free,
but when you’re behind any type of four walls you’re trapped in,
whether on a Penthouse terrace with Paris in Paris,
or doing hard-time for white collar crimes with Madoff in a Federal pen,
either way we’re victims of our own additions trying to buy more time,
but running out of credit as banks are collapsing & the recession is relapsing,

so why even buy things when we know not so secretly,
that only Love will set us free from these retro restrictions & their trappings,

see,

the best things in life still are still free,
& yeah liberation is expensive & self renovations are extensive,
but freedom is priceless so live a life that's righteous,
seems that the Love Pyramid is the only pyramid that’s not a Ponzi scheme,

because we are all equal even if we’re not all treated equally,
that’s why some have no clothes while others wear designer denim jeans,
but these Diesels're 2 tight on my thighs this macabre carnival has no prize,
& I can do anything I want with my life but all I really want to do is breathe,

breathe,

breathe because this lifestyle is expensive,
but freedom is priceless,
even though they'll try to capitalize off of anything,
so they market it & try to price it,

I just,
want to find a place to relax & release,
& be free of all of this,
find true love & say “Fck off to the politicians & all their politics!”,

fck their programs fck their projects,
fck their ugly agendas dressed in artificially splendid splendor,
fck their quotas & their motives for treating human beings as objects,
fck their pre-programed consumerist culture of conmen capitalists,

fck there putting machines over human beings,
just to increase the place where their profit sits,
& I say all of this regardless of who it offends because I'm not an Apologist,
I'm more of a Lyrical Pharmacist,
who serves indiscriminate prescriptions in the form of transcriptions,
in order to assist in the additions that come from positive developments,
which will occur for sure once we switch the position we currently sit in,
& restore Divine Order once more in the name of Humankind's betterment,

in the game of life I play,
they know I'm so official that I don't even need a Letterman,

I just,
don’t know what else to say,
I don’t know why I’m at this museum in Vienna,
hiding away on the top floor writing this to you on a Sunday,

on the 5th floor got it all but I just want to give more,
I just want to gift these words then make my escape,
don't you get it I don't want to get more ****t,
if anything I just want to find a way to give more of what I have away,

just want to be alone,
but also want these words to be known so the truth can be shown,
but where do you go when you’re tired totally over it all,
& all you want to do is rest & write these poems,
but even with all you have you still don't know where to go,
because even with all these things you still don't have a home...

Hello,
could you please pick up the phone,
I’m calling because I still love you,
& I want to come back to you even though I know I’m already gone,

currently on the top floor of the Mumok museum in Vienna,
the floor is the 5th to be exact,
& yeah it’s true that I don’t know where I’m going,
but what I do know is I don’t think I’m ever coming back,

online & off track,
writing more words with more rhymes,
than any other living writer in contemporary times,
& no I'm not lying 'cause I'd never lie to you & yes those are both actual facts,

& yeah that’s a fact & yeah you can Google that,
but I’m going to follow that fact with a question,
before I forget to mention,
let me just ask you what I'm doing here in Vienna?



What am I doing in Vienna,
staring at cold sterile pop art as the whole entire world we're on burns,
in a city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that never really seemed that inspiring,

& it's not that I have an antipathetic attitude towards these pathetic fools,
in fact it's actually just the opposite of that because I'm an actual optimist,
which is why I don't feel inspired by bored cyborgs their wires or their tools,
& precisely why I'd rather gather flowers than be an actor for their power,

see I find more inspiration in a single leaf on a single tree by a river bank,
than from all the colors & lines contained within the walls of this museum,
which is why when I'm asked all the time what kind of poetry I read,
I reply I don't even read poetry see I don't find it in books I find it in seasons,

It's the same reason I don't need to go to church to pray,
because I don't need my messages from God to be translated by a human,

anyways where am I at & what am I doing?

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Vol. 2: Mandalas
available worldwide 08/08/18
Aaron LaLux Aug 2018
Love Your Father & Forgive His Mistakes [1]

Had to become a man,
before I learned to become a Good Son,
for your father is your father so show him some love,
& like it or not in this live you usually only get one,

I mean without your father you wouldn't even be here,
I mean without your father you wouldn't even be you,
so what part of “Love your father.” don't you understand,
& how can I get that part through to you?

See you are the fruit of His labors,
you are His seed that was sown,
& the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree,
so learn from His mistakes & you won’t have to learn from your own,

see your Father is not perfect,
none of us ever were are or will be,
but He is indeed your Father,
so please treat him with some dignity,
please show Him some respect,
& unconditional love,
& the next time you see him,
please from me give him a hug,
because your father is your father,
& you usually only get one,
& I know he made some mistakes but he’s only human,
& the best thing you can do is love Him & forgive them,

for forgiveness heals,
& holding a grudge is carcinogenic,
so liberate yourself through forgiveness of self,
& forgiveness of all others as well for forgiveness is collective repentance,

no need to hold all that resentment in,
we’re all only imperfect humans but there's beauty in our imperfections,
& sure the Road to Hell is paved with good intentions,
but only through cardinal sin do we find true redemption,

& it’s the smudges in the paint,
that creates the masterpiece,
it’s the past & all it’s pain,
that makes us to evolve & finally attain peace,

our art is our art,
let’s not let our mistakes make us,
most of all of this is uncertain anyways & full of mistakes,
but make no mistake you & I are destined for greatness,

& always remember that the masterpiece has a life of it’s own,
it's not owned by anyone not even the one who paints it,
just like a father does not own his son,
even if He's the one that made him,

& you are a masterpiece so give a thanks & an amen,

& then,
be here as we are as human beings,
collectively having a human experience,
moving seeing hearing breathing,

see if you're always dwelling on the past,
or looking ahead to the future,
you won't find me either then or there,
because I'm right here now for sure,

& when you finally find a way to find your self presently,
it will be as amazing as awaking in a dream,

I mean it’s 2018,
what the heck do you mean,
it seems we’ve become the whole scene,
or so it would seem since wherever we're seen becomes the whole scene,

so paint me a picture of what your Soul sees,
express it in any form you choose to work with,
sure the Saints are great but Love is our Savior solely,
& our only true Father is the one that gave us Life’s gift,

use His gift wisely,
use it through music dance laughter & words,
remember random acts of kindness are to be seen,
& unconditional beauty is to be heard,

with your ears you can see,
with your eyes you can hear everything,

everywhere,

where are we let’s take some time to be,
let’s check in with each other let’s forgive past regrets,

forgive & live live & let live,
be in peace & please let us be,
see we are poets we are painters that don't wish to be disturbed,
writing words that paint pictures of what all our Souls see,

see you have to become a man,
before you can learn to become a Good Son,
for your father is your father so show him some love,
& like it or not in this live you usually only get one,

& yes I know He is scarred,
& yes I know you see your future mistakes in his past,
& yes I know sometimes when you see him,
you just wish he’d hurry up & pass,
but when he’s gone you will miss him,
this much I can promise you,
because when he’s gone you’ll have a hole in your heart,
because in some ways your Father is you,
& you can always tell someone’s character,
by the way they treat their parents,
so be as thankful to them as you are to Life itself & respect them,
because without them you wouldn’t have been born,

so please show Him some respect,
& give him unconditional love,
& the next time you see him,
please from me give him a hug...

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Vol. 2: Mandalas
available worldwide here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1721134158
Gigi Tiji Dec 2014
Spotlights on us

seemingly illuminating
and otherwise blinding

can't see the audience
can't tell the difference
between time and space

different manifestations
of each other creating
infinite mandalas
poured into rivers

tones rising out
of and falling into
silence

I trip over words and pick the sounds out of the scrapes in my palms

I make motions to pick up the gravity but my actions are glitchy, disconnected

an abstracted cadence
remote inflection
radio nuance
rhythm break

modal static living in stasis

ants on a screen as grains of rice
with bubbles in a glass of beer
merging like two tones
harmonizing on a
secondary tonal plane

move me like a modulation
end me like an infinite crescendo

I am suspended
over several tones

just let it go
and I am resolved

follow where the voices lead
Maryam
turned,
moving
away
from the
caravans of
bulldozers
entering
Homs.

She
could
not bear
to look
upon the
the teeth
of steel
tracks
sloshing
through
puddles
of blood,
plowing
the rubble,
burying the
mush,
coolly
covering the
fingerprints of
criminals.

Maryam
beheld the
conquering
soldiers
standing
atop piles
of shrapnel
marked and
launched by
Syria’s finest
artillery officers.

She
remained
within ear shot
to hear the
victor’s
orator,
recite the
history of
the conquest,
carefully
spinning
suspicion,
and casting
blame
for the
devastation
onto the
vanquished.

The speaker
lauded the
efforts of
esteemed
comrades
commanding
black regiments
chasing the
last rats still
lapping at
the edges
of the red
pools;
hieing to
the dead
catacombs
as sanctuaries
of salvation.

The barker
goads other gangs
to commence a
surgical search
of hospitals to
root out wounded
insurgents. He
suggests they be
removed from
their recovery
beds and thrown
atop the piles of refuse
where the busy tractors
will push the rubble
into the far corners
of the mind where
obfuscation and
forgetfulness
blissfully anoints
unsettled memory.

Alarmed,
Maryam breaks
for the hospital,
to nurse the
injured.

She moves with
tealth through
the broken city’s
debris strewn streets.

Maryam eyes the
inert concrete,
blasted into
ghastly shapes,
burying secrets,
concealing terrible
stories of what
transpired
during the
pacification of
Baba Amr.

These
grotesque
gargoyles,
sculpted by the
mangled hand
of a deranged
sociopath
will hold their
silence for
only so long.

Dark secrets
never live
forever.

The distended heaps
of jangled rebar
pokes through
broken chunks
of concrete
like rib cages
picked clean by
the jackals
of war.

The pulverized
concrete forms
telling Mandalas
giving voice to
the stained
stones crying
the secrets of
terrible truths that
unmarked graves
never keep
silent.

Maryam
is desperate
to find the
lost children.

She knows
the ungodly
conquerors
eagerly
hunt them.

The subjugators
are drunk from the
draughts of blood
they profanely quaff.

They thirst
for more and
have set
their sight on
the children.

The crucifiers
kiss the sword
to cleanse
the insurgent
city of its
youngest
citizens.

Bashar has
condemned
a generation
to death.

He desires
to purge Syria
of a heinous
memory stored in
the ripening minds
of Homs’ children.

They stand in  
witness to
the ******
of their
childhood.

Righteous
indignation
breeds a
long  memory
nursed by the
vanquished as
a cherished gift;
bestowed to
successive
generations
like a valuable
family heirloom;
but
resentment
makes for
a monstrous
coat of arms
vanquishers
bequeath to
the defeated.

Maryam
crosses over
the scattered
stones
incapable
of bleeding
one more
drop of blood.

She hears
the howling
spirits calling
from the broken
ruins.

She glimpses
the dark silhouettes
of fleeting apparitions
moving through
the upper floors
of flame stained
buildings.

The ghostly
shadows of
lost children
wander, seeking
the rest of an
expired future
sired by their
state sanctioned
execution.

Maryam
grows anxious
as she
approaches
the hospital.

She arranges
her silk scarf.
She examines
her calloused
hands. The lines
of her palms
are soiled,
cakes of dirt
have settled
under her
fingernails;
yet sufficient
strength remains
in her arms
to roll away
the large stones
entombing
revelations
of love and
miracles of
deliverance.

The pock
marked
hospital now
in sight,
Maryam
enters the gate
of a ancient
graveyard;
clambering
over burial
mounds
of her dead
ancestors.

She remembered
a placard hanging
in the hospital’s
waiting room.

“Art is long; life is short;
opportunity is fleeting;
judgment is difficult;
experience is deceitful.”
Hippocrates.

As Maryam
neared the
graveyard exit
she was
overtaken by
Syrian soldiers
brandishing AK’s.

One stuck a
dusty barrel
into Maryam’s
face while
the other tapped
the back of her
head from behind.

A weeping
Maryam
knelt before
her captors.

She
washed
the dust
from their
boots with
flowing tears
and wiped
them clean
with her hair;
praying for
the power
of love
to once
again
overcome
the stalk
of death.

Prostrate
and prone
Maryam
waited to
accept the
shaft of
recrimination
through her
bleating gums.

If recollection is long
in the living,
memory is eternal
in the dead generations.

The only known cure
for the disease of acrimony
is the strong balm of love.

Maryam would
never again nurse
the wounded
children of
Homs.

Music Selection:
Chanticleer & Yvette Flunder
There is a Balm in Gilead

Oakland
3/12/12
jbm
Aaron LaLux Aug 2018
No Judgements [37]

Judgements,
judged upon men,
judgements,
cast upon him,
assumptions,
cast a wide net,
haven't we realized yet,
that if he without sin,
shall cast the first stone,
then obviously,
no stones shall ever be thrown.

We've all sinned so who are you to judge the actions of another mortal man?

Judgements,
judged upon men,
what is sin,
where is that line,
& how does one know,
they’ve crossed it once they've crossed it?

What's the difference between ingenuity & insanity,
between those that have it together & those that have lost it?

Only difference between a Genius & a Mad Man,
is one is more successful than the other in society,
one made a way to express their insanity in the form of productive creativity,
while the other finds communicating effectively to be an impossibility.

Possibly there is no such thing as sanity,
possibly there's no such thing as individual things,
possibly there's only one & we're all part of The Mandala,
possibly there is nothing at all except everything.

I mean,

What is Good?

What is Evil?

What are Blessings?

What are Curses?

Where do we define these fine lines,
& if we do define these lines where are these lines defined & who can say,
& how can we have divisions within the different religions,
when all of everything & everyone is just One with The Divine anyways?

Anyways,
until we make up our minds I'll just continue to write these lines upon lines,
writing lines on lines,
to try & define the Divine of this present point in time,

I write lines between lines,
so when you read between the lines,
of the lines written with lines you’ll eventually find,
that in order to find your Self you must first lose your Mind,

listen in order to feed your Soul you must first starve your Ego,
you are not who you think you are so just let your idea of your Self go,

let no line no matter how fine or well refined,
come between you your design & your connection with The Divine.

I’m,
attempting to explain the unexplainable line by line,
please have some patience because translating something ancient takes time,
& yes enlightenment is elusive but it is attainable if you just take your time,

it just takes exercising your virtues,
it just takes holding onto your morals,
it just takes letting go of your sins,
it just takes letting go of your judgements,

no need to pinch your penchants,
or itch your itching,
let go of your wants let go of your desires,
let go of your hopes & all of your selfish wishings,

there’s an abundance of loveness,
& you’ll get it all if you just start giving,
there's love yes & Love, yes, to be one with the Oneness,
you must confess then forgive your sinning & forget all your misgivings,

along with forgiving all the rest of our Collective's wicked shortcomings,

give up on giving in to their terror of errors,
& instead give love & hugs & start living as a radiant personal public prayer,

one word at a time word for word verse by verse layer after layer,
attempting to explain in measured frames the pain & the pleasure,
the spirals in this ****** cycle of survival commonly known as Samsara,
this alliance of violence & gestures from aggressors that'll continue forever,
until we alleviate the pressure from the oppressors by correcting our karma,
with the power of positive energy which when measured together,
will overcome all oppressors with gestures of open-ended pleasure,
as we become Treasures of Unmeasured Tremors in Splendor,
Senders of Centers of Lovers not tempered by the spectrum of gender,
The Bearers of Stellar Nectar straight from The Creator,
the entire Light Spectrum that comes from us Interstellar Specters,
plus every other thing & soul that’s breathing in this entire epic adventure,

as we embark,
on this endeavor together from then till now till forever,

but just when I start,
to think it’s all going to get better,
& I start to repent & give thanks to The Inventor,
I find myself sink back into the lair of Sin & Terror,
that place where we are hastily judged biasly by our errors,
& all our accomplishments are overlooked,
just because of a few miscalculated risks that we mistakingly took,
& all of our merits seem to be in vain & we feel shook like moral crooks,

because it seems we messed up once more are deemed ******,
instantly judged discriminately & forced to repeat the whole cycle again!

Judgements,
judged upon men,
judgements,
cast upon him,
assumptions,
cast a wide net,
haven't we realized yet,
that if he without sin,
shall cast the first stone,
then obviously,
no stones shall ever be thrown.

We've all sinned so who are you to judge the actions of another mortal man?

Judgements,
judged upon men,
what is sin,
where is that line,
& how does one know,
they’ve crossed it once they've crossed it?

Judgements,
judged upon men,
what is sin,
where is that line,
& how does one know,
they’ve crossed it once they've crossed it?

What's the difference between ingenuity & insanity,
between those that have it together & those that have lost it?

See,
just when I think I’ve lost it,
I find judgement,
in the form of the Self imagined Sins of this Prophet,

sure,
I am not pure,
none of us are,
never will be nor were,

but we’re,
human beings,
being human,
just as we are & were,

so,
naturally we make some mistakes along the way,
&,
naturally we take each phase case by case stage by stage,

see we are all our own worst critics,
we are all our own harshest judge jury & executioner,
citizen’s self arrested mid-sentence while in progressive development,
which in turn then threatens to take all of our merits in forfeiture,
as the fat lady sings the gavel is hit,
we're sentenced but still we don't seem to be any closer to closure,

for us or for them or for him or for her,
because the jury’s still hung,
even when everyone’s gone home,
& the cage bird as well as the fat lady has already sung,

some,
times I’m,
wishing I could escape,
out of these self projected personal persecutions,

some,
times I’m,
wishing I could escape the spiritual surgery that these perjurious clergies, attempt to perform on me by inserting their ideals into me by way of intrusion,

some,
times I'm,
wishing I could be an explosion of pure Light,
infinitely expanding into the infinity of The Divine inclusions,

instantly a Super Nova,
riding the high seas like Noah,
instantly I see how beautiful & innocent you are in your confusion,

instantly I see how beautiful & innocent I am as well,
how beautiful & innocent we all are,
& how even just to be living in this miracle called Life,
is honestly a proper privilege, a true pleasure, & real honor,

it's an honor to be here & make your acquaintance,
so why waste time with biased judgements that're made with impatience?

See usually,
assumptions aren’t worth the bother,
see we’ve all had trials & tribulations in this hard life,
so we all deserve to treat & be treated a little bit softer & with more honor.

So let me be the first to say I honor you,
& I honor your magnificent existence in every way.

I Love You,
there is no higher truth,
please there is no need to judge me,
for I promise I will never ever judge you.

I love you,
so much,
& when you love someone this much,
there is no time or room to judge.

I love you,
so much,
always have, always will, it's always love,
I'll never stab, never ****, & will never judge,

I love your every atom,
ethereal I wonder if you are even real,
either way you're real enough to me,
to still have feelings & to still feel,

love.

Love?

Some,
times we must,
trust enough to break our own rules,
to,
realize that,
actually there are no rules,

we are all free,
we are all gifted,
we are all cursed,
we are all art we are all artist,
we are all dead last & alive first,
we are all everything that’s never been,
we are all everything that ever was & ever were as you were,
& of course we are all of everything in every sense of the word,
we are every story ever told we are every song ever sung or heard,
we're every word in every book ever read we're every line in every verse,
& we often leave last & arrive first arriving in a Benz & leaving in a hearse,
& we will be love non stop & always help heal each other even when it hurts,

& that is why,
I write all of this for you,
because when the world feels like a lie,
I need you to know you can always reach for these words & feel the truth,

prove,
nothing,
just move,
something,

& do anything,

& do it for the love,
just please don’t hate,
& please don’t judge,
because this is true love,

as it be below so it be above.

So let’s move with the movements & love the moments of love,
let’s let the judgements pass & let whatever lays in the past be what it was,
left to lay in the grass that way once everything’s been said & done,
we’ll still have this emotional epitaph to remind us like a photograph of us,

& I will always have your back,
even when our bodies are gone & we have no backs to have because,
when it's all said & done & we've righted all our wrongs,
all that will be left is us,

when it’s all over all you’ll be left with is you,
& me & all of our virtues because death doesn't separate us from our virtues,
& everyone & everything we loved will exist eternally except our enemies,
& in the end my friend you’ll I'm standing in the Light of Truth with you,

so,
no judgements,
no enemies,
only unconditional love,
& all of it’s intensities,

no,
judgements,
for once you remove the obstruction of the illusion of judgements,
only then will you find where the love went,

here,

waiting,
patiently for you to return,
so remember we reap what we sow,
& we get what we earn,

so no no worries & no hurries,
no stress all bless for sure,
& don't worry Love no rush because I will be here,
always have always will waiting patiently for your glorious return…

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Vol. 2: Mandalas
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1721134158
Sjr1000 Sep 2014
Hold on
Hold on
Hold on to the light inside
before it's gone
Hold on to the love you feel.

Darkness is coming around the bend
The plagues are moving in on the winds
The wars are raging in retaliation’s name
The sun is burning,
shooting solar flares our way.
Hold on
Hold on
Hold on to the wisdom of your mind

Life is precious
Comes and goes
Time is an illusion
That we all know
Lovers, they also come and go
Hold on
Hold on
Hold on to the light inside
The mandalas in the faces of the flowers
call your name.

Against all odds
Against the deranged machinations at the hands of the gods
We’re mere humans
Standing at the rim of the stars
Staring out into space
In this brief
Time and place  
Throwing sand at the waves
To  protect the
Sand castle walls we built,
As children at the ocean.
Hold on
Hold on
Hold on to the light inside
Childhood joy and wonder
Before it to comes and is gone.

I weep these tears
For the innocent sorrow of all mankind
Who has always been so sick inside
And never remembered to hold on
Hold on
Hold on
To the momentary flickers of all those lights inside

Hold on
Hold on
We all know what’s coming
Darkness to each and every one.

Let’s make this pact
In this room
We’ll hold on to the light inside
Until the last candle is done
And the last breath blows out the light
And whispers lovingly
“Good night.”

Hold on
Steve's 185 Hippie Dream.
Lora Lee Apr 2017
Ingredients:

suitcases
photo albums
quick wit
a  new space that is comfortable to breathe in, raise other beings in, and nurture pets and your spirit in.
Sprinklings of humor to shake on it all when it gets to be too much. Mason jars of self-appreciation and worth to open in an emergency, if these qualities are forgotten and old patterns resurrected.

Preparation:

First, sit quietly with yourself.
Breathe deeply, as many times as you need.
Fill as many soul cups as you can with confidence,
and pour them on yourself, until they sink into the
soapstone of your pores.

If needed, tip back your head and open your mouth,
in order to have a more direct inflow.
After that, take just as many cups of calm
and pour them in, slowly and with generosity.
It is okay if you overflow; you may need extra serenity
later, when you are in the midst of action.

Let the two ingredients mix, slowly, until colors as yet unnamed
are formed in your solar plexus, spilling
throughout the entirety
of your body.

Take a break and blow bubbles, for lightness.
Yes, you may laugh like a loon.

Marinade:*

After the laughter has subsided, take a big dose of self- love and rub it all over yourself, drizzled like fine coconut-scented oil. Do not miss a spot, even on the parts that you have a problem with. In fact, give those extra love.
And now, for the rub*: This has been simmering for a while. It is time to push it all into the oven and bake it. The heat is rising, so be quick.
Take all precious memories and sew them into the pockets of your coat. The ugly ones, burn, quickly and thoroughly. Scatter the ashes into the wind.
Hang new pictures on the wall.  Splashes of nature you have photographed. Mandalas created by a precious daughter. A platypus wishing you goodnight by your little flower imp. A cheeky photo of your boy, to remind you of inner sauciness.
All of these strengthen with love.

Finally, rest your head upon the new pillow and inhale the scent of freshly laundered springtime. For now, the ordeal of your winter has ended.

Time for a long, languid, luxurious dessert.
A new life!

Bon appetite!
This was so much fun to do!!
Phoenix Rising Dec 2014
kaleidoscopic geometry
                                   and shapes made from sound
human reality
             is an experiment
say hello to the machine elves
                                who reside inside mandalas
Michael Marchese Oct 2017
My archetypal anima
Could dream a billion dreams
Yet none elucidate my psyche’s
Shadow self-esteem
It yearns to be made whole again
Detaching from the soma
Yet can not mend the mandalas
That fracture its persona
From the superego servant
Of unconsciousness collective
To the individuation
Silent tyrant introspective
Still projecting as the pedagogue
The hero and the saint
But the mystic rebel overlord’s
This portrait that I paint
For I’m an evil genius author
Penning nurseries of rhymes
I am the psychopath symbology
Just read between the lines
Liz May 2013
When I wake up
the house is singing an aria.
The heirloom waterstains bloom
with each crescendo.

At the closing of a door,
my families roots are pushing
through floorboards. Marshlands
fill the empty highway.

You stand in corners, faceless girl
on your arm. Your name rolls around
her mouth like a cat's eye.

My friends are on the roof,
sipping champagne from open palms.

In the earthquake
I only can save myself.
I look for safety
in a school desk.

Then the world is rivers
of orange-creamicle fabric,
prayer mandalas turning
in song, in song, in song.
vega Feb 2018
there’s a safe space with birds peeking through mandalas and trees erupting from skies next to a fireplace that reeks of cigarettes and gasoline, it rattles like hearts do when they realize just how much they miss home, with two thrones behind tapestries that hide malarkey while sunlight sits in the driver’s seat as we track miles like tally marks with bleeding ears
Sjr1000 May 2014
The
faces of flowers
speak
to me
through perfect
mandalas.
Aaron LaLux Aug 2018
Novus Ordo Seclorum [43]

All Seeing Eye,
in all ways always has It’s all seeing eye on me,
& you might think that in a way that makes me paranoid,
but in all actually it makes me much more comfortable if anything,
because I’ve got nothing to hide in all honesty,
even though there’s two sides to me like I’m Siamese,
& I’m buzzing like a drunken honed in honeybee,
& I see everything even when drinking absinthe as an absent absentee,

'cause I was told that I may hold all that I see & all that I see is everything,
because all of me at any time is capable of seeing anything,

just like the All Seeing Eye that keeps it's eye on me,

honestly honesty is still the best policy,
see even though they still attempt to dilute these truths by telling lies,
I'm still able to describe these truths successfully,
through the modus operandi that I choose to use at any given time,

see these gifts are given & received,
with a well thought of methodology that’s made of modesty,
same mold that was honed by the greatest minds this world's every known,
not mold as in fungus but mold as in the template of successful artistry,

though I must admit when I first started writing scripts I was a bit diffident,
which is different than indifference but anyways either way,
I one day realized the significance within it's magnificence,
& chose to show it since I wrote it so it could be given away,

but I made one promise,
as a poet on that day,
& that was to be modest,
but also have the confidence to not let doubt get in my way,
but it's hard to stay modest when you've written more modified sonnets,
than any other literary artist that's living today,

plus your words are some of the hottest & the girl you've got is a Goddess,
& you’ve made possible what was once thought to be impossible,
as an apostle who's gospel is God-sent in the words of rivals & bibles,
not as a disciple of Jesus Christmas but a disciple of this Divine Existence,

& that's why I see them trying to boost my pride,
& why at the same time I try to resist it,
because I promised to stay modest plus if I'm to be honest,
it wasn't me that made this all happen it was the poetry that did it,

& all of a sudden in a flash & in this instance,
my instinct tells me that it's possible they’ve spotted me,
& it's time for me to flee so I get lost so I can write more life lines,
instead of staying here risking getting caught & writing my own eulogy,

as I observe them like stars in Astronomy,
& observe their behavior like signs in astrology,
as an Anthropologist not an Apologist I observe them,
them this system they live in & all of this honestly,
including this Bureaucracy which is actually a hyper inflated Hypocrisy,
but honestly their mockery of our honesty doesn’t really bother me,
because unconditional Love is my only philosophy,
like Spinoza laying the basics of ethics in the literary form of poetry,
as I serve sermons religiously & responsibly to break the monotony,
& build bridges to doorways to construct my own autonomy,
changing the whole social topography & emotional geography of this society,
by writing the autobiography of our collective ecology & all of it’s prophecies,

I pay dues do the work & the math so in due time I can study Deuteronomy,

I am a prodigy,
& also an oddity,
that will not be brought down or bought off,
by Their Demonistic Mock Democracy,
armed with a picture perfect memory & an unlimited supply of energy,
I expose these moments from dark to light like photography,
from the Dark Room to the Light of Day,
it’s all part of our odyssey whether or not it's all done consciously,

see my conscience sees,

that The All Seeing Eye,
in all ways always has It’s all seeing eye on me,
& you might think that in a way that makes me paranoid,
but in all actually it makes me much more comfortable if anything,
because I’ve got nothing to hide in all honesty,
even though there’s two sides to me like I’m Siamese,
& I’m buzzing like a drunken honed in honeybee,
& I see everything even when drinking absinthe as an absent absentee,

'cause I was told that I may hold all that I see & all that I see is everything,
because all of me at any time is capable of doing & seeing anything,

just like the All Seeing Eye that keeps it's eye on me,

feeling,
alright with the All Seeing Eye on me,
seeking,
all night for some sobriety from this anxiety,
reaching,
a point of enlightenment that shines vibrantly,
teaching,
illuminations of thought that soak into the subconscious silently,

finally, I’m free,

& as I rise above the clouds I see,
the All Seeing Light above watching me,
& that’s alright with me I give myself up willingly,
traded my gifts for a gift card now I’m on a 24/7 worldwide shopping spree,

finally, I’m free, & finally, I see,

that the All Seeing Eye,
has it’s all seeing eye on me,
illuminating all of the darkness,
so that we can all shine on vibrantly,

finally, finally,
I am, you are, we are free!

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Vol. 2: Mandalas
available worldwide here: www.amazon.com/dp/1721134158
Julia Betancourt Feb 2019
She says she loves him
Down to the bone in which she’ll begin to carve into
If she is like me
The bone that he grips tightly,
Making patterns of her skin
Whether spirals or mandalas

He touches her like she is weakened porcelain
A plastic doll that is only good for his use
And she lets him

She says she loves him
Because she wants so badly for him to be herself
And I won’t tell her she reminds me of 13 year old me
Who wanted so badly to feel like she deserved to breathe
Stripped confidence levels as low as the concrete
That younger me scraped her knees on
Never knowing that one day she would be the ground
And the thing that keeps cutting her now is me

He sleeps in her room at night
Then he leaves and forgets her and she pretends she does, too
She forgets herself
And I won’t tell her she reminds me of 15 year old me
Who snuck into his jeep,
Followed roads to his home
Then snuck into his bedroom
Then his basement when his mom came home

The way he treats her is the dirtiness I’d carry
The way he leaves her is the sound of the TV
That kept playing while I entertained him and he wouldn’t even watch me
The way this is normal for her
So she doesn’t fight
And I won’t tell her she reminds me of 16 year old me
Who made her body a home for anybody but the people who lived there
The way he uses her is how unnatural it felt
How it feels that he is the last one I remember
That he is the last one I touched in a November

The way he makes her think it is her who decides whether
They rest with eyes open together or not
The way he makes her believe it is her fault
It is her fault
And it is my fault

And it is our faults
That keep us nailed to crucifixes made of not wood
But pain and insecurity
Of being a woman loved solely for what makes us women
But if we were men, we’d be lonely
If we were men, we’d be nobodies

No bodies seem like they carry enough blood and warmth except his
And I won’t tell her she reminds me of 17 year old me
Who would rather change for him than let him accept me for me
Who let him tell me what I should do with my body
The way he calls her back in on some nights like a dog
Is the guilt I felt when I couldn’t please him
The way she is his one night stand, for more than one night
And never a friend
Is the deadness that sprung like tree roots when I found he’d been with her
That he’d be with her, from now on

She is lost in the way he has lost love for her
And I won’t tell her she reminds me of 18 year old me
Who let cages hold me instead of his palms and his cheek
His face and his hair that feels so feathery
That feels like what it should be
The way he makes her question herself is the times over and over again I refused
The spirals on her skin are the circles I have been running in
The way he traces them with his fingers to make her think she could get him to want her is how I became lost
Chasing him then chasing me then chasing something I couldn’t see
Chasing nothing
Chasing something I couldn’t be
And should never have been, a one night stand for more than one night
And never a friend
This is normal for me
The basement and the bedroom and November is where and when I breathe
Where I see myself falling in deep, maybe
Because he doesn’t deserve a mind this ugly

She says she loves him and it’s scary
Because I said I loved him
And I said I loved him
And I said I loved him
And I said I loved him

And I know she doesn’t mean it
And I know she thinks she means it
And I won’t tell her the way she doesn’t know her worth reminds me of me

I say I love him
The circles I’ve drawn are the reason I keep finding myself in the same position
The same spaces I keep walking in, getting deeper and deeper
Like the spirals on her skin

Yes, there are patterns to my pain
Periods webbed together like mandalas
That have all kept me caught

This is normal for me

And I say I love him
But I don’t want to catch him

And I feel sorry for her—
I’m sorry.
sand mandalas tall as waterfalls
as golden rainbows pour
from the faucet in the sky
like these mighty images
wisdom bridges the gaps
and fills the holes in our imagination
i can’t wait to get this on the page
written in stone, reflecting thrones
made from the bones of pharaohs
for consciousness narrows
the moment you approach it
Jar lids pop
snow sheets slide
pitch pockets snap
water kettle groans

First light exposes
crystalline canvases
against frozen glass
the stove’s heat
melts them away
like ice Mandalas

All that is beautiful
is impermanent.

All that is unique
lives only once.
I recorded myself reading this poem. You can listen to it here: https://youtu.be/iHuWrLKcdSk?si=yJawbNC4tjb6Ut_Y
Ian C Prescott Aug 2011
She sat contained in the all-encompassing embrace
His arms a welcome warmth
as they sat under the smoldering fires of dead days past
They drank and spoke wildly as sanguine freely flowed forth from the glass
As it swirled upon the inside of their mouths
Puckering stained puce lips and drawing mandalas in the clouds
Rich with color and endless ingenuity as the tall grass softly swayed
Carrying music to their ears
From time to time exchanging glances
Witnessing the last salvos burst in the dusk
Heralding daybreak

She knew there with the breath of dawn caressing her face laying against the heaving of his heart that she would never see him again
Toxic yeti Jan 2019
As they
Destroy the sand mandala
I remember
You saying everything
Is impermanent
Except that our
Love for each other
Will last.
And you kissed me.  
Bitter sweet is
What I felt.
Lyn-Purcell Dec 2020

Flame tongues ravages wood,
licking till its black splints
A mug of cocoa caresses my palms
and my lap became a coaster
Every sip leaves me feeling toasty
My forehead rests upon the glass
console by Frost's lips

Jack's designs were of floral mandalas
Soft as clouds, gentle flakes
Each made with love for no design ever the same
I admire as they rain,
I imagine that they whisper secrets as they fall
Giggling so softly yet as pure as a baby's laugh
Coating all that is viridian in a shawl of white

Untouched
Unmarred
Cool yet so crisp
Beckoning for all to come out in a rush
For snowmen to be built, for snowballs to take flight
We would never feel your cold touch because
the warmth you give keeps us as one

Seeping down to our laughs,
You keep us close to our inner child
Nostalgia rests upon my lips
And greater still
Are these tender moments of unity
Upon my window sill


Getting into the festive spirit is easier said than done
And understandably so with 2020.
Just something I wrote while on my window sill.
It's rather cold, but I'm warmed by just letting my imagination run wild and thinking back to the days where I would just stare at the window and look at the undisturbed snow.
Something about seeing a fresh coat of snow leaves me so mesmerised.
Any who, I wish all of my fellow poets from all over the world a lovely Christmas. May you all stay safe and well!
I think I'm going to keep staring at my quiet neighbourhood for a while and wait for the stars to appear.
Be safe out there all.
Much love and air hugs,
Lyn x
SøułSurvivør Apr 2017
Stitched on a sequined black velvet
  Cerulean pearl swirls on the skirt
    Of a whirling dervish
      He dances between Venus and Mars
        Creating mandalas of exquisite
          Enlongated ~ enlightened ~ energy
        Encircling ~ embryonic ~ eccentric
      Eclectic ~ elliptical
    Entropy? Eulogy?

*Earth.
Celebrate Earth Day! Plant a tree!
#npmearthday
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2013
From the skies they come,
Devout birds swirling in briars,
  .  .    Blackberry mandalas.
Sethnicity May 2018
Things Fall Apart
As All Things Do
This universe holds the thread
and we are spinning too
Through gravity ,  
                     magnetism is key
          particularly
    mandalas      woven
  liquid                glass
       her        folded
     phalanges

Amen,
  for Food to digest
    but still met with ill repute and Infinite Jest
8 is great!
            but 9 is lucky and 10’s the best
Work with
what I have
Wait, and watch my
will I have
tricks in my vest
Not to mention a footprint proof chest
                No ego
   for eyes times 2 kNOw rest
       Elastic limbs twined by my cleaver clasp
It will be fine this too shall pass
          But Mourning desires birth hungers
and how much longer this must last?

    Awoken in my web whilst the wind whispers late
be it a lost locust or flies in my plate?
be it a dream, or not what it seems?
should I snooze sleep to continue my dream?...  


NO
  I cannot delay
Hustle and Flow
                                 Or destiny may get away
Eve in the hungry owl
rests none day
or night
but between
sustenance
and
affirmation
has become to Its diet


So man waits perched in the thick of it
may not thi s tillness be in vain
May not my Solitude leave me slain
I meditate on the overcoming Victory
in-spite of my plight
Aim my arrow high ahead
though my target out of sight
May my idioms take flight
May they reach destined site

I've laced Arrows of many colors
        for Hearts and Minds
Blood and Tears
Hit or Miss
my fingers still tremble under tension and Fears

But the only way to fly is to let it go
Things Fall Apart
but you've got to let it go.
Now Let IT Go!

My life is justice thread
                   posted in a Spider's web
               only God knows             Just us
        4
                             Tray bombs    or    Buzz cuts
               I'm just      
     to bee   or    not too       Be-long  
                                     wrapped in cocoon  
       or    
a silky pill to feed


          A Spider's Will
              Indeed
On pace we all finish this race

     ToGetHer
Too
                   “buy”
into
Becoming the blood of a different Race
That spins in Its bit’s web
                       by a single Thread
Holding onto
                    
                  Nothing
          
                               As All Things Do

Like thoughts in my mind...
  
      

                          As The Universe Grew
Dedicated to: Spiderman and Charlotte and Ittsy Bittsy and those called four eyes and TOO weird or ugly, dumb, spacey, or too different. Who's love was reciprocated with hate. For Those who dared and those who don't dare for fear of failure.
This prayer was woven for you to Let go and let God (by any name)
You are what you worship and what you worship makes you more than mere womb/man.
Be the Jah you wish to see in the world!  
Suggested listening: Frou Frou - Let Go
Aaron LaLux Aug 2018
At a loss for what it costs for these dreams,
my boss is a bot I mean a mean machine,
I mean that it seems,
they talk but I do not know what they mean,

I mean I got a feeling,
that sometimes things are not what they seem,
but I mean,
how can things not not be what they seem,

& it seems that we’re sleep walking in a day dream,
or more of a nightmare where they don’t fight fair when they feign,
& we scream but can’t wake up our minds or make up the time as it speeds,
on an assembly line butchering swine while dining on ham & cheese,

& I want to defy all of these lies,
but I don't have the time nor the energy,
so I write the signs of our times line after line,
instead of going head to head or eye to eye with the enemy,

trying to write it all out even though still I don't know what's gotten into me,

& still it’s obnoxious to to think,
that they’ve lost their conscience to memes & their consciousness to drinks,
unconscious to all things exotic while being white washed up in mainstreams,
lost in constant nonsense on narcotics it’s all gone in a smoky noxious steam,

while toxically ****** overgrown weeds sown from GMO seeds,
create these monsters that feign for meaningless things,
like rings that bling & the profits that conquest brings,
& they won’t stop this nonsense until they pop like a viral venereal disease,

I mean I’m honest I mean I mean what I say & I say what I mean,
& honestly I say they’ll **** the whole cow just for the cream,
I say they're an obese disease concealed between two legs in designer jeans,
as they march in unison an army of ants that only answer to the Queen Bee,

Martyrs for Dollars with corporate sponsors,
broadcast worldwide on cable TV,
I mean why do you think the youngest billionaire in history,
is a degenerate Jenner by the name of Kylie,
it's not a coincidence that she profits from cosmetics,
I mean cosmetics cause cancer which benefits the pharmaceutical industry,
& I don't mean that personally I mean I'm not sure what's gotten into me,
or why I'm speaking so recklessly without offering any apologies,
like a Kamikaze **** drunk on whisky,
standing in the street like “c’mon cop man frisk me!”,
or a Stalin on Ritalin or better yet a Britney with bad kidneys,
still collecting those royalty checks from Daddy Walt Disney,
& it’s all moving so fast I can’t get a grip or a grasp,
& not only am I disoriented but I’m also starting to get dizzy,

I mean,
it seems things can not not be all that they seem,

I mean,
it seems these words can not read all that they mean,

I mean,
it seems we sold out our dreams when we bought into these screens,

I mean,
it seems I don’t know if I really know if I know what I say or say what I mean,

I mean,
it's confusing to try & make sense of this nonsense & I'm sick of explaining,
I mean it’s absolutely obscene what these monsters will do for the cream,
sacrifice the whole Holy Cow all in the name of the American Dream,

& I'm at a loss for what it costs for these dreams,
my boss is a bot I mean a mean machine,
I mean that it seems,
they talk but I do not know what they mean,

I mean I got a feeling,
that sometimes things are not what they seem,
but I mean,
how can things not not be what they seem...

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Vol.2: Mandalas
available worldwide 8/8/18
Aaron LaLux Aug 2018
Honestly not sure,
if anybody can have total freedom,
while in the body we are currently caught in,
can't go back to past acts & reverse bad facts can only go forth on fast tracks,

but as much freedom as one can have that's how much I have,
buy all my plane tickets one way living life today because we all go some day,
not to boast it's just I don’t know what coast I’ll be on next week,
making a living by writing the blessings I guess in a sense I wrote a way,

so now I spend my time & spend my days,
constantly adding to this which is our Collective Emotional Anthology,

instability is a small price to pay for liberation,
total freedom is a small price to pay for some lonely feelings,
somewhat unsustainable on the rainy road riding to the next destination,
just one question what’s today’s destination going to be?

Never mind please don't say because some things are better left a mystery.

Burning fossil fuels,
can’t really call myself an Environmentalist,
because actions speak louder than words,
& though I’ve written a lot about saving the world I haven’t done a thing,

I mean,
I've given to various charities,
but the conundrum is the more I give,
the more I see how much more needs to be done,

& in comparison to the Big Picture & I haven't done a thing,
at least not to help the environment or the humans that dwell in it,

a hypocritical hippy ,
like Hippocrates under The Tree of Science,
but instead of a Plain Tree on an island in Greece,
I’m on a plane the sun is the tree & poetry is my science,

so I'm more a funky Aristotle clutching an absinthe bottle,
philosophizing with the aristocrats at The Platonic Academy in 343 BC,
than I am a shy Hippocrates,
spending his days as disturbed hermit whittling away under a tree,

no alliance,
solo & so high at the same time conflicted except without violence,
here have some thoughts from my mind to yours,
you can have mine because I don’t need my mind anymore,

I don’t mind,
so I pay no mind but still pay it forward,
forward upward onward we’re on one,
I ride proud with my vibe out I'm too loud to be ignored quick,

make my statements then I'm gone,

on a whim out on a limb with other Explorers,
going overboard disobeying orders by mortal men to serve a higher purpose,
which is okay anyways because we know the way of these wavy waters,
plus we swim good like Frank Ocean or an important porpoise,

vibe so pure you,
could bottle it & import it,
cut it a few times put it in a few lines,
& most folks still will snort it,

told you before it's,
intuitive music mixed with just the right melody,
see the irony is we make the pain feel good,
like a Shakespearean play or a Comedic Greek Tragedy,

so much love we even find a way to help the Haters not feel so lonely,

because usually Haters are just hating,
because they’re trapped in the Matrix pacing while inside panicking,
& once we slow down to show them a bit of freedom,
they usually start calming down stop hating & start congratulating,

anyways where were we at & what was the point I was supposedly making?

Oh yeah I remember now,
Honestly not sure,
if anybody can have total freedom,
while in the body we are currently caught in,
can't go back to past acts & reverse bad facts can only go forth on fast tracks,

but as much freedom as one can have that's how much I have,
buy all my plane tickets one way living life today because we all go some day,
not to boast it's just I don’t know what coast I’ll be on next week,
making a living by writing the blessings I guess in a sense I wrote a way,

so now I spend my time & spend my days,
constantly adding to this which is our Collective Emotional Anthology,

instability is a small price to pay for liberation,
total freedom is a small price to pay for some lonely feelings,
somewhat unsustainable on the rainy road riding to the next destination,
just one question what’s today’s destination going to be?

Next stop Lisbon,
earlier today Barcelona Olympic Stadium,
on stage with Beyonce & Jay Z,
last week in Budapest in a thermal bath with a beautiful babe,

no rest for the wicked let’s kick it if you're with it,
if you’ve got the time I’ll get the tickets,

wicked,
in the best possible way,
not good not bad,
not mediocre not okay,

always on all the way all day,

it's all as simple or complicated as you make it,
it's all simply absolute brilliant magnificence,
not maleficent as the plane descends I'm about to touch down in Lisbon,
there’s a guy that wants to see me there,
there’s girls that want to see me there,
both for very different reasons the common link being love,

in this metallic dove,
descending upon this most western Western European city,
to see what’s to be seen here where mostly they’ll be seeing me,
see I am the epitome of the embodiment of what one would call free,

even though honestly not sure,
if anybody can have total freedom,
while in the body we are currently caught in,
can't go back to past acts & reverse bad facts can only go forth on fast tracks,

but as much freedom as one can have that's how much I have,
buy all my plane tickets one way living life today because we all go some day,
not to boast it's just I don’t know what coast I’ll be on next week,
making a living by writing the blessings I guess in a sense I wrote a way,

so now I spend my time & spend my days,
constantly adding to this which is our Collective Emotional Anthology,

instability is a small price to pay for liberation,
total freedom is a small price to pay for some lonely feelings,
somewhat unsustainable on the rainy road riding to the next destination,
just one question what’s today’s destination going to be?

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Volume 2: Mandalas
available worldwide now here: www.amazon.com/dp/1721134158
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2013
Outside is temple—
Soft chanting snow fall, pure white,
Crystal mandalas.
Connor Sep 2017
! A frantic
venus-vision,
rising pink impressions/
potent operatic amen/halo snaking
Ouroboros
light-dream

I've been resting in the silver lodge/
I adore you and your
slumber,
it's causing mandalas to spill out of your
ears and into my mouth
like candy
birthed in the sun                 eyes/lapse of ocean island rain
                                                            ­           (ocean island rain)
starfish gaze, in sky, over city, over the banks,
into the kitchen, settling presence
(water) becalmed, sprigmask lip-
leaf smile, wide autumn orange                     (afterlife shade)

heavy breathing, hot, in Wallachian fabrics beneath the moon temple,
"Zahrada"
forgetting the living kitchen
which scurries off into my night, the holy architecture of a dream,

(to NIGHTMARE/silhouettes, wax-teeth
carrying a girl/unconscious, doll dress/brunette with blushing cheeks,
they forge a labryinth out of air, Persepolis
wide spread chalky
limbs thin like Cypress/
praying with a certain discordance, sword in hand
I tread with a careful
fire-heart
palm tattooed with a phrase from Matsuo Basho to guide me
thru a schoolyard, cement prism, myriad violins and lucid
eternal wheatfields, abandoned rosary/
chased by Quetzales, crowned explosive heads/
bells/wrath/bells
girl now devoured by the bedframe maze, darkness enfolding,
I'm alone, a cavern, smoke
thickens I taste its poison, fall-over
trampled by black horses/Nocturne/
out of NIGHTMARE)




       everyone has a different image of the Isle of The Dead....



                                        (na shledanou)

...wakened to green tea, pattern rug spread on sand,
unworldly passage
in distance, I've been out on high, travelling blind.
Someone laughing about my nakedness
I don't know when I lost my clothes (in my pursuit?)

There's a song, a no-song, Nada, two men
are writing on large papyrus

“At first, the sounds are like those proceeding from the ocean, clouds, kettle-drum and cataracts; in the middle (stage) those proceeding from Mardala (a musical instrument), bell and horn.”

when I ask what they're scribing I'm
hushed by my own inner voice

“The mind exists so long as there is sound, but with its (mind cessation)
there is a state called Unmani or Manas (viz., the state of being above the mind).”


Each word erases the previous as it is written down, until all that remains is the last word,
a final impression,
my internal voice hushes itself
now there is no

inner voice
to be quieted


II

Intoxicated & raised by the spice of
summer yarrow,

attention drawn to
a place beyond the fence, The Farther.

I sit cross-legged
on a stack of logs, it's June,
I scan the florid heat for
a birthplace I may never return to

"Le Foret Enchantee"
a child, portable and small
respects the walls that you’ve made
these are not their cage but your shelter
self-culture is affluent not arrogant
sand mandalas are as tall as waterfalls
golden rainbows pour from the faucet in the sky
like mighty images wisdom bridges
the gaps in our imagination
Joseph Martinez Aug 2016
I am settled in the arugula palace
Everybody in the same scattered image
Seeking reconstruction or construction of the mind
I write this for myself to be unwinded & unrolled
He's a shifting plane of bisecting geometries
Now a thin woman shuttling kids in a minivan
Smoking newport cigarettes & feeling mucous gather in the sore spot in her throat. Her husband who is overworked & penniless--a clown frozen in a shipping container underneath a hi-low. He is fetching up the scraps of industry from inside a concrete bottle. He is messing with the intersecting circles coming off the streetlights. He is stacking up assumptions, wishing to be freed. Wishing he could reach that frightened child-monkey loser in the parking lot. He is clawing @ sensations he will never be able to name. He is secretly wishing for a vision. Secretly wishing to be known. He is tied & tethered to the clean-up crew. They are silent pretenders nodding at the recycling bins--never emptied. There he is formatted. There his eyes go staring out. There a picture--but what's a picture now that it's all beyond control, no longer static, no longer a container or reminder but rather a cloud passing, a moment's pause, a temporary fascination? A posing, a posturing, a big a-Ha!--*******! Stranger. You are not a part of me. The danger is madness. The danger is control. There are no static images. No peaches. No penumbras. No mandalas, maps, organizations or rebuttals. There is only standing water in the basement. There is only diet pepsi car keys hanging on the edge of a golden cloudburst.
tread Nov 2012
Maybe if he'd been asking to meet before work and sit at the edge of the ocean to discuss Mandalas, Kerouac, or St. Anselm I would have said 'yes.'

But the cigarette isn't so simple.
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2014
From the skies they come,
Devout birds swirling in briars,
  .  .  .  Blackberry mandalas.

— The End —