Air in my chest is close and warm
But when I have to release it
It's cold and turns to ice
Before my eyes
Just like my own little storm

Frost is beneath my bare feet
And the cold air around me
Is colder than I've ever felt
This winter is brutal
This winter is a slow, methodic beat

Everything around me is dead
Gray and brown, gray and brown
The pattern never seems to end
The flower must have so much courage
To break through the winter's layer of dread

It breaks my heart to see the earth like this
Grieving for past warm days with
sunshine
Yet the sunrise always is there
To remind the earth that she cares
She caresses the barren earth with her golden wrist

Slowly she rises till she covers the earth's every line
She whispers, "it'll be okay,"
And all the trees and blades of grass
Have renewed hope
Hope of days filled with sunshine

I,
Art,
Pointed vocabulary.

You,
Me,
Or I,
Combustible,
Inexcusably,
Irrevocably,
Unattainably,
Plated,
And jaded,
New years faded,
We,
Are geometric.

Mathematically methodic,
Periodically pinning,
Hot and heated,
Razor folds and sharply pleated,
Fascist fad,
Plaid,
Bellbottom dreams,
Up do uppers,
Down right downers,
Freedom from freedom,
Morals for the meat grinder,
Hamburger politics,
Methodic politics,
Periodic politics,
Political politics,
Politics frolic with a devil,
And an angel by its side,
For a fast food meal,
With hamburger policies,
And fascist fries,
Supersized and supervised.

loathe* — july 17, 2013

reëstablish the current which made being whole
no, not just in another life since fragmented whole is nothing tethered to the waist. that’s what belts are for. *if you say so
monitor it like
you would anywhere
the trajectory is clear : light the torch of multi-orbed sensation
where we wait on the cusp
of the whole
perhaps in another life, we dare to suggest it. i don’t dare. if i did, i would consider myself a pigment of this pallet
i don’t breathe limited expectation
scientific claims
they’re just as good as dead to me. perhaps the whole can be related and consume our progress. there is too much to see. too little methods
methodic function isn’t perfunctory yet. a push is required. jumpstarting will only cause sparks.
i know something better
so sit down and move to the right. the light’s blocking my view and i cannot surmise unless i’m granted a complete oversight. nothing backseat, because we all know
that is reductive
paint splatters on my face
                                                i
              ­                                am
                              ­             frozen
the colors reimage our complexion and erase the mistakes until we are whole
[ uncertainty is the new guarantee ]
introspection is a form by which we do so. everything we see is incomplete. our eyes need to be adjusted
to the [ uncertain ]


adore — july 29 , 2013

black blue strata pillars spruces flutes
eclectic aftermath debris snaffle pop
  chute-in whelked chrome lugubrious
   lifeblood : trans yes mutate pro-ohms
    in timehalts wyoming woodsmoke
     screened scans : rancid gemini rotors
      hulks histories back - lying supine arts
       ( please remind me to act regimentally )

Information Required Order 38582 Moonshine Makin's

I intend to use this order to test
the viability of an herbal extracting service for local gardeners.
If there is interest
and our trials prove commercial, the methods
will be posted publicly, methodic.

The intended customer base is the home canning and preserving enthusiast, ****** societies, 'n'such.

Now, the pod cast, statement of use. Right, of course.
Right use is to be made of all the time we wish, and we wish to share the method we use.
With youse.
Here's my idea, at the moment

nothin,

then I hear this guy who got famous in the seventies,
in such a way that I would have known.
Had I been on the same planet
during the Seventies
and half the eighties.

Terrence McKenna, right. If I had survived 1970,
and things had been well positioned for that to have happened,
had I not...

What did we do, my strange friends, or was I the only one who does remember my last sane thought? Actually,

I don't. And then, I do. Quasar-ic-ish-ly.

An edit or two could change every thing,
imagine this Terrence
McKenna taught "Authentic Being" a sort, or class, of being,
very high and good.

We teach being authentic.

Being a being's been being a while,

upon multiple instants of
a time, best'n'worse, full'n'empty, war'n'peace

(i'sgottabeat)

yet never is hope absensed. Any time I tell a story,
hope springs eternal, soon

soon the old fool will see No one is listening, and wink.

No one and the fool have friended
upon such times as these,
No two, as well, (seedawink)
to a far lesser degree, ye may see.
Secret secret secret knowledge, gnosis, donchaknow,

is same as sacred, yes, yes, it is, sacred made, made sacred, samesame that's the game... secret

I am in me,me ni ma I
Magic Ab-io-alchemical Hermitical Heretic, am I. Spirit. Muse?

Are we lost? No. We are wiser than we were.
By any measure.

A statement of use for that we wish to take, once it is granted. What's the use? We stuck not knowin, right?

Wait, I have a chit
"All things pertaining to life and godliness have been given thee." Got that at VBS, by God.

Really, we are treading on Bunyan's tale? We escape the Giant Despond on a promise of a promise?

Yes,
seems so. So little is different. The road, seen rocky three decades ago, or so, now, it's

bricks, silicon bricks, I recon they been doped, ye ken?
Some ol loswoids crosswise need gold ducts to flow
past the reflective edge, where we saw that Mckenna

outright lie.
He did. Damright. Said Paradise was opened by the door that shut Eden, but he said that

Like it was a bad thing.
Jesus Christ, if he missed the whole reason there is a Bible and a Jesus in it, who is gone gowon his testified
psyc-hellic oppositio cunjunct-ifitis trip?

So, I missed the seventies,
as if I were flying from LA at forty k and I go on by, to land in 1985, after fifteen years enculturated to believe a not-so-complex,
on the surface, lie.

Truth has a strange mercurial 'spect,
all the light that can be reflected is reflected in mercury, see,
the edge twixt yinanyang, dang,

as far as we can see, tho'

we can't really even see HD, but
it seems better.

Reflecting on an idea is blissfull, but that's not the reason.

Old wine, sometimes, has been
vinegar, a while.
On opening, one learns, they say.

It's good
for cleaning windows, and lenses.
- but we'd better let the next
- jug of that vintage go to auction

New wine. Make glad the heart,
workers in the vineyard, laughing tired,
sugar high burned out, say hey, boss,
why don't you hire more hands,

eleventh hour hordes appear, as they
by right of the lateness, are  payed
a whole day's wage.

And that's alright now, momma,
nobody cheated me, I worked all day,
took my pay.

And it is,
very good, if I may say
so now,
Life is short, but filled
with instances, infinite instants
in some state
of methodic mental ascent.

And that's alright now, momma,
nobody cheated me, I worked all day,
took my pay.

We got plenty,
we have confirmed,
as is, to up and hit the road,
go boldly old into this cold night.

Her words are measured and methodic
Articulating life’s magick
Begetting a vision wild, rhapsodic
Her musings are divine, melodic

With ear and heart and mind and eye
Attuned to nature’s majesty
She observes the world that’s passing by
And conveys its beauty in her cry

I breathed in fear                                and exhaled
magnetic force.
Our bodies were not yet ready
to touch.
I bent
my knees,
his did the same

And we dragged                                                         the tips
of our feet                                                       across

The wooden floor

so                                                                     slow
            so                                                                     methodic
Like walking                                       on                                water


                        Forward

Left                                         Right
                        Back

Then a (hip) twist                                (but no shout)
Then he folded his hand around
Mine
Like holding a dove
And embraced me with
The other

And I felt
I could move
to his power
forever.

~

The news did spread, a kingdom’s will
For sorrow placed its shadowed hand
‘Pon castle steps the crowd did fill
As heart break took a firm command

The skies, a darkened clouded stain
As children wept in mother’s fold
Now lost amidst a dismal rain
This hour, sadness frigid cold

How could it be, their precious queen
Had fallen to a woeful stead
A tethered seed, nightmarish deem
Her majesty this day is dead

The knight, of shining armor might
Her lifeless body cradled deep
Staring straight to heaven’s light
Then bowed his head, began to weep

He raised her body ever strong  
Carried her through chambered door
An empty hallway wide as long
Depleted by this mournful chore

The villagers of forlorn feel
Gathered in the dampened street
The plight of loss in full reveal
Disconsolate of death’s defeat

When then upon horizon’s glare
A silhouette of staggered steed
Towards the kingdom's stricken stare
In slow methodic steps proceed

This figure slumped of saddle ride
And weary strains of wistful yearns
Through gates of iron, wandered stride
*A shout rings out, “Our king returns”

There exists this place within myself that is deep and unknown-
Yet it is filled with peace.
Star gazing - Mars gazing-
I watch them dance to a beat of their own
And change colors like passing cars on a speedway.
What do they dance to?
Do they dance all night?
If I stare long enough - the sky begins to close in on me -
Like an elevator door migrating to the millionth floor.
My eyes become heavy and my feet begin to tingle.

Is it my circulation or the energy penetrating the souls of my feet and the sockets of my eyes?
The energy that sits so still in the night sky -
Yet moves at the speed of light.
I close my eyes - tuck my red robe collar close around my neck and let the pull of the night sky and the beat of the night earth, layer into my whole self.

30 feet off the ground and i can still feel the cold, damp, strong roots of the earth pushing and pulling every inch of me.
A draft crawls up my legs that are covored in silk.
My body shivers and turns into itself.
It is then that i listen.
I listen to the voice on the other end of the receiver -
Yet i dont hear the things hes saying,
I hear the things he is not saying.
They are screaming so loud - yet his voice remains calm, monotone, methodic almost.
I feel his peaceful pull between reality and perception.
I wait.
I wait for the quick temper to emerge- to unravel itself like a traveling, unraveling ball of yarn.
So yearning to become its colors.
And then all goes still again..
Yet moving at a pace only he can create.
Moving at a pace that wont be allowed to be changed by anything or anyone - but maybe, just me.
The observation of human doings - wait - arent we suppose to be human beings?
Why do we believe that to do will bring us further and better than just being?
Than just being.
I am ready to just be.
I am ready.

Nocturnal , cool June ravishing in the flickers of gas lamplights
Quiet country lanes with familiar friends , Southern engines
tumble over the tracks bound for New Orleans
Barn Owls sing to Apricot horizons , the audible strain of methodic hardwood Rockers
Cicadas , Field Crickets and Katydids stir romantic hearts
Piedmont , Fall line hamlets lie at rest till morning*  ....

I ventured forth, again into the musty canyons
The dark, dank space that is
My past
Or more specifically
Ours.

A perusal reveals:
Hats in boxes, brims unmet by sun in ages
Creased shirts, bands' crests emblazoned bright
Clever titles scrawled in sharpie on silent CDs
And everything coated with brown hair
Crooked and curled as the smile
That I wear presently
Upon this journey

Upon further inspection:
Percussive rhythms, beats tattooed
Into slick skin
A laughing afterthought of intimacy
A private joke shared between us
Among many

The messy box:
Conversations held hostage by anger
Fueled on one side by deceit and fury at the world
While the other fights a war, at another's side: alone
Confusion racking both
Where once there was naught but desire
To care, protect, discover, and journey
Hijacked, a spoiled child upending a puzzle
That his insolence will never allow him the
Solace
Of completing

And the box that releases a torrent of whispers upon opening:
My name
Hands on knees, rage relieved in an instant
Your laugh
At my protruding tongue, a face fraught with focus
Poetry, lilted and simple
About the charm in how I climb stairs

Ending with the lessons:
To seek patience; with the large, and especially the small
To love fully; as they say, time flies
To face fear; naked honesty will conquer this
To rely on; there is no shame in support
To...

The grit of clenched teeth
Overcome by the solace of
Framed reality
I descend the shaking ladder
Leaving behind this echoing forrest
Mist clouded with
Shared impassioned melodies
I have sorted and cleaned enough
I will revisit from time to time

But. In practicing honesty:

I am a living memory of you

For as a sculptor
Slow and methodic with the clay
You have shaped and molded
My very being
And all can see
Your impassioned mark on me
A testament to kindness
Tried, and true

She walks with rough and magic air
His words are rare, rare as care
Epiphanies dwell in there
His rhymes have rhythym, they strive, they dare
Begetting visions wild, rhapsodic
From tongue tender and melodic
Musings refined, methodic
Articulating life's magic
She sights him, stares, from the bar
Where has he been? Has he wandered far?
By what thing could he be marred?
She falls deep, she falls hard
A love as deep and wide as skies
Conveyed by the smile that's in his eyes
He has her, captured, mesmerized
As the molecules of passion are synthesized
How many times have Poets cried
Of Love like this, souls intertwined
Love, activity refined
Incessant, by no fence confined
Before she was waking to go blind
But now she sees; sees kindred kind
Out of the gutter he lifts her mind
Mutual treasures they do find
Still she walks with rough and magic air
To the beat of his words, rare as care
All joy and all love soars in there
You can sense it in his enchanting stare

I guess that’s how things change:
like seasons but not nearly as methodic,
and like lovers or skin that finds
new indentations and marks over time.
Like how one day I look up over
my mug of coffee and you’re
no longer there across from me.
Instead, you’re a thousand miles
east or west and I can no longer
keep up with the colored marks on a map.

I am a living memory of you

For as a sculptor
Slow and methodic with the clay
You have shaped and molded
My very being
And all can see
Your impassioned mark on me
A testament to kindness
Tried, and true

The bridled tongue and darkness spoke
Fiery dragons and the devil's joke
Softly in the ears it screamed
Foolishly a future dreamed

Broken fool's mockery and shame
Ravaged and thrown in the evil game
Black diamonds and bloods oath
Jezebel and the demons hand both

Deepened pools and the loves dance,
Round and round methodic prance
Hands on the clock fail to stop
Love makes an unfair swap

Screams mark the gates of hell
Tears ring and the echo of bells
Loneliness haunts the serenity of night
As loves leaves a painful sight

As the ricochet of your pain has castrated the wind from my lungs, my lips parched and blue beg and gasp. Darkness encroaches and the beasts perch upon my chest. Rivers toppling the rocks in desperate pleas for life. Demons devouring daylights solitude with angry howls and invisible fangs. The Devils nefarious orchestra warming for a perilous journey. Daylight brings not the peace for fear lingers on. Oh but for a moments blink, a tiny draw through the cracks in the claws. Even if only to wet the lips with taste of air. Greed ask not for a breathe just cries and cries for the remembrance of fresh air. Oh but your love has so tainted the Devine equity that filled the lungs with dreams. Now each breathe tattoos agony and engrained hatred upon the soul. It is not your soul that is hated. Hatred comes for your lack of sympathy. Why did you not drive the dagger deeper into its sheathe. Planned out your torture was, but sweet death you would not give. The voices they can't hear, but understood they well are. Methodic chants of deaths door and the hinges of pain harmonize as they sing a sirens song. Eleven more days till the fiery carriage arrives. Seductive horses tamping an irresistible call. Into the darkness dust they scatter. Silence and happiness are there gift

.....Qualyxian Quest....
             Quixotic
       Kairotic y ******
              Improv

          not methodic


                   hope

Turn out the lights
let those colors spin and reflect all around me
hold me tight as I sway
taking a trip into soulful explorations
pour that sweet drink on my lips
let it embrace me,
whisk me away to a far away world
be with me,
but let me go into this world
this psychedelic experience,
my eyes will close and roll back,
let my hair become a mess
who cares about my shoes
it's just me and the universe
and his deep, methodic chords
lyrics making me travel higher
let him dive into my soul
fix all of my fears
Please-
Let go
Let go
Let go
Of everything
Let go
Take me away
Let go...

In the middle of the night, when silence rules
And when sleep runs away from me,
I can hear you screaming.
I can feel you killing.
Nocturne killer, methodic;
I hear you humming a melodic rhythm.
Problematic from unknown motives,
You never let anyone help you.
I can feel my soul running
When the pain destroys me.
I hear the dead calling me
And I am in the forest, afraid.
Nocturne thoughts, I don't know what I am supposed to do.
Nocturne thoughts, alone in the dark.
I can feel you running through my veins,
You and your emotions, silent