3

“Sic transit gloria mundi,”
  “How doth the busy bee,”
“Dum vivimus vivamus,”
  I stay mine enemy!

Oh “veni, vidi, vici!”
  Oh caput cap-a-pie!
And oh “memento mori”
  When I am far from thee!

Hurrah for Peter Parley!
  Hurrah for Daniel Boone!
Three cheers, sir, for the gentleman
  Who first observed the moon!

Peter, put up the sunshine;
  Patti, arrange the stars;
Tell Luna, tea is waiting,
  And call your brother Mars!

Put down the apple, Adam,
  And come away with me,
So shalt thou have a pippin
  From off my father’s tree!

I climb the “Hill of Science,”
  I “view the landscape o’er;”
Such transcendental prospect,
  I ne’er beheld before!

Unto the Legislature
  My country bids me go;
I’ll take my india rubbers,
  In case the wind should blow!

During my education,
  It was announced to me
That gravitation, stumbling,
  Fell from an apple tree!

The earth upon an axis
  Was once supposed to turn,
By way of a gymnastic
  In honor of the sun!

It was the brave Columbus,
  A sailing o’er the tide,
Who notified the nations
  Of where I would reside!

Mortality is fatal—
  Gentility is fine,
Rascality, heroic,
  Insolvency, sublime!

Our Fathers being weary,
  Laid down on Bunker Hill;
And tho’ full many a morning,
  Yet they are sleeping still,—

The trumpet, sir, shall wake them,
  In dreams I see them rise,
Each with a solemn musket
  A marching to the skies!

A coward will remain, Sir,
  Until the fight is done;
But an immortal hero
  Will take his hat, and run!

Good bye, Sir, I am going;
  My country calleth me;
Allow me, Sir, at parting,
  To wipe my weeping e’e.

In token of our friendship
  Accept this “Bonnie Doon,”
And when the hand that plucked it
  Hath passed beyond the moon,

The memory of my ashes
  Will consolation be;
Then, farewell, Tuscarora,
  And farewell, Sir, to thee!

(O Fortuna! had re-gained popular attention when it was chosen as the theme song for the film, The Omen, the story of a child who was the Anti-Christ.
The entire performance of Orff's Carmina Burana is gripping and spine-chilling. I had the pleasure of watching it from a box seat the the Broward Centre for the Performing Arts back in 1999, played by the Florida Philharmonic (defunct) led by maestro James Judd--it terrified me so much I couldn't sleep for days!-D)

1. O Fortuna (Chorus) (O Fortune)

O Fortuna O Fortune,
velut luna like the moon
statu variabilis, you are changeable,
semper crescis ever waxing
aut decrescis; and waning;
vita detestabilis hateful life
nunc obdurat first oppresses
et tunc curat and then soothes
ludo mentis aciem, as fancy takes it;
egestatem, poverty
potestatem and power
dissolvit ut glaciem. it melts them like ice.
Sors immanis Fate - monstrous
et inanis, and empty,
rota tu volubilis, you whirling wheel,
status malus, you are malevolent,
vana salus well-being is vain
semper dissolubilis, and always fades to nothing,
obumbrata shadowed
et velata and veiled
michi quoque niteris; you plague me too;
nunc per ludum now through the game
dorsum nudum I bring my bare back
fero tui sceleris. to your villainy.
Sors salutis Fate is against me
et virtutis in health
michi nunc contraria, and virtue,
est affectus driven on
et defectus and weighted down,
semper in angaria. always enslaved.
Hac in hora So at this hour
sine mora without delay
corde pulsum tangite; pluck the vibrating strings;
quod per sortem since Fate
sternit fortem, strikes down the strong man,
mecum omnes plangite! everyone weep with me!
____

About:
"Carmina Burana is a scenic cantata composed by Carl Orff in 1935 and 1936. It is based on 24 of the poems found in the medieval collection Carmina Burana. Its full Latin title is Carmina Burana: Cantiones profanæ cantoribus et choris cantandæ comitantibus instrumentis atque imaginibus magicis"

"Orff first encountered the text in John Addington Symonds's 1884 publication Wine, Women and Song, which included English translations of 46 poems from the collection. Michel Hofmann, a young law student and Latin and Greek enthusiast, assisted Orff in the selection and organization of 24 of these poems into a libretto, mostly in Latin verse, with a small amount of Middle High German and Old Provençal. The selection covers a wide range of topics, as familiar in the 13th century as they are in the 21st century: the fickleness of fortune and wealth, the ephemeral nature of life, the joy of the return of Spring, and the pleasures and perils of drinking, gluttony, gambling and lust."
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CarminaBurana_

Praeludium in via ...

Vidi heri mane quando ridebam coloribus egregiis,
Eradere auro , trans tabula caeli , tentorium ...
Excelsus super omnes montes mundi mole fratres
Nimborum desertum , ubi non sit humana exsuscitatur .
Et non vidi nobili altitudo futura ...
Bonitas terribilis Vidi , *** indomitus.
Et peregrinare in ea carne existimarem Semel tamen divina ,
Nunc datum est scire , et non confundamur ab eo opus .
Ambulavitque *** Deo, quod nunc facio , et passus est ... accentus
Proditio amor et passionibus , quamvis non recipiat ecclesia ,
Divinitatis naturam , ne occulta omnia confitentur ?
Audis tu solus in universo ab duces ineptum
Ipsos victu pascuntur finguntur mendacii .
Sed ambulavit in vobis, ex ea ipsa mundi redivivi ,
Proelia ante hos annos multos, in carne nostra, amissis vate sacro .
Nos sequi vestigia veterum monumentis, ut ostensum est ;
Quia ex nihilo nati sumus , et adhuc in filiis tuis, ac spatium vivendi ,
Latebunt , quo melius in manifesto , vultus ingenio tegmina.
Ego sum primus , et consilium ... Memini tamen alta urantur
Humanis uti licet , *** aliena michi negotium.
Lorem quid ad ignorantiam et extra ,
Quia vidisti me in tenebris, in ardentem rogum meum .
Si sustinuero , praeire , ubi angeli labuntur ...
Quis autem, si non satis est dedicata piget.
Irrisorie , quoniam ego scio quod salventur , et saepe etiam ,
Post tantum est **** , et sic esset forma in re firmatam ?
Imago Dei , huc ad nos omnes in sanguine ipsius ,
A primis ad ultima, ut alpha et omega, gladius acutus .

Prologus : ( Os meum labitur )

Puer fui servus ad aras tam sacras ,
Hymnis immaculatorum : et absque iniquitate .
Quod *** ipse portabat diadema thons nudus ...
Expositum Spiritus meus, qui intellexi gravitatem.
Quis credit sanctum profanae habitu virtutum
Et illi qui in eo sunt ut carnifices ovis ad occisionem ,
Innocentes cogit induere larvis ad porcellana et operuerunt capita sua ,
Et filii eorum diriperent pueritia , vinctus catenis rudis .
Sicut teenager : ambulans in naturis hominum omnium adprobante ,
Et egressus est a me omnes, qui violatores extiterunt in coinquinatione verebatur .
Angelo fidem reperto cecidi inveni sanctitati
Nomen meum in ea , et curet abluitur dubium inveni .
Venit ad nuptias, et omnes dedi uxorem proditione ,
In solutione huius coniunctionis nostrae et sine intervallo in solitudinem imposuit ?
Traiectus mortalis caro mea reliquit me solum in sanguinem ,
Cor ejus scissum est , absque omni cultu ex ordine funem .
Angelus autem meus et leniat iras mansit dolori
Mea lux, in vigiliis, in nigrum, quod est victa ,
Admonens quia carnis mortalitate ... maxime
Angelus vult me et tremor et durum accepimus.
Et ego factus sum quam ... traumas vitae ac lacrimis
Et dimisit , in specie quae sunt post , veluti a me plagas .
Nox deinde calor intensior saunas percipimus ...
Sicut est mihi in choro , relictum est , nisi ab illo esse extensum ,
Et invicem tradent , et mortalem , ut impunita essent, sed numquam mihi ...
Non tradent ; effundam spiritum meum , et non totum .
FYLACTERIUM creare ex omni me , et oculus innocens ...
Quod amari posco sum ​​ut carbo margarita alba et nigra ;

Section I : Sacrificium Doll

Part I : ( litus sanguinem )

Ne revoces me pupa enim priscis recesserunt cavernam
Sunt inanima appetant , non realis forma in utero ;
A puero bibere rubeam ore exploratores in vastissimam taberna ...
Dum nati psallens FARRATUS agros effusi .
Vadimus ad domum Dei , in plagis , in magna pecunia debetis ...
Hoc non est ad oras Nunc cruore manant strigitu rubra de memoria , polluetur .
Nulla est enim me primus ad ignitionem gloriae ...
Quando autem mens aeterna , in omnibus placentes, causabatur laetitiam .
In stellis ibi verba quae ego volo inauditum revocare,
Quia descendi ita pridem apud venire primum ?
Sollicitus purus fabrica MYSTICUS chaos genitus antiquorum
Mitti expectant limine signa magica.
Interdictum revertatur in carminibus meis , Licinius, ut audacia ,
Quia oblitus est mei fere est: nunc originem , ut tragici.
*** filii bibere, et se abscondunt nati seorsum
*** aquæ in sanguinem, et super triticum, et arefecit fœnum, et humida !
Signum quod venturum est mutare et laboro mentem.
Facies in luna ALLUCINOR in metu torquetur , horror ...
Dumque in fauces manu stare super pectus
Inter ordines diu frumentum umbra nigro ambula
Genus servo meo animas infantium .
Aestas flavescunt, Phoebe caelesti audent .
Mea sola mcestas lupus sonitum audiri potest ,
Et *** feris leo in pontumque moueri relinquere ...
A natura mihi dolet cupio concupivit paradisus reducat .
Vidi terram terror , ut sanguis in sinu
Ater sanguis in terra , quae facit viventia ululare ...
Sicut **** habet stultitia non dicam prava vel !

Part II : ( Crucifixo et Inferorum Animas Excitat)

Nam inertis est gemere pupa altari parato, in sacrificium,
In lapidem calcarium, et in cavernam, ubi sunt wettest fingit arcus !
Un - res sunt, sed etiam *** vivit in vulneribus animae , ut in glaciem ,
In horrore frigoris fictilem , ita *** pedibus non vocavit.
Serpentipedi mucrone subrecto , remittit praecise a pupa in collo ,
Et non potest dici , quia non habet pupa voce clamare.
Puer, et egressus est a tabernam , aspectus eorum quasi a naufragii vile ...
Ut curem hominem a superioribus agentibus , corpus totum mundum.
Infra in concavis locorum asperitate visa petram
Magna voces resonare in tenebras , et vocavit nomen tacuit.
Eripuit animam trahit nauta Multo gregis
Ubi aereum reddet unicuique antiquum signum desideratum .
Et venit ad bibendum aquas illas vitae malis mederi ...
Porcellana , et liberatus a vinculis mortis obscuris sentiat frigore ;
Animas in captivitate , unde nemo mortalium loqui
Sed statim liberavit remotis perforabit clavi ...
Omnis **** , qui dicitur Golgotha ​​, olim in cruce positus .
Omnis autem mulier quoque, ad quod omnes tales sunt tormento
Et facta est , dum consummaretur sacrificium insita primum sic infirma est,
Et intantum ut nisl tot annis perpessi .
Signati post fata diu Quod murus ignis in Terra ,
Stigmatibus ferre posset ita etiam multa futura!
Quod signum erat in manu mea, ut labatur pes meus, et dimittam ...
Tamen adhuc vetera perseverare illusionibus , et non possum excitare multos .
Ego, qui iam tantum conligati Lorem ferrum quid reale,
Factaque est infinita in dolo : Ego sum ​​, et desiderio erat pax.
Nam et ego quod negas , nisi aspera ac rudia mei liberatione ;
Angelus liberavit me , et nunc inter saevus sigillum frangere conantur .

Part III : ( The Return of lux)

Qui a mortuis Surrexit , frigidior , ubi de somno , ultrices in somnis , per
Et obliti sunt intelligentiae invocatum est super sancta miserunt innoxia verba ...
Et inde apud hominem , ut maneat MYSTICUS sequuntur revertamur ,
Ea aetate in inferno commemoratione praeteritorum.
Qui suscitavit eis manum meam , et pugionem eius lumen gloriae,
Relicta meae effercio fluere sanguis subito currere libero.
Ex profundo flamma surgit millennial amisso puella puer ,
Quæ est angeli redivivam sinit luce clarius ostendit .
Et omnis qui non occaecat oculos ad intima ;
Infideles , in momento temporis ponere in obprobrium .
*** stellae ab Diua sacrorum opera voluntatis
Dum coccineum limen transeat , lucem adfert .
Momento enim omnes in caelo et in terris sunt ,
Sicut dies longus tandem inclinatus ante noctem veniat .
In tenebris , claritas multo maiorem et perfectiorem descendit ,
Eorum, qui dum in nomine meo orbata est devium.
Sicut incensum in conspectu angelorum ira animos eorum , occlusum ...
Ferrum IRRETUS texturae talis effugere nequeunt carcerem
Nam quicquid occaecat vidit lucem et scindit
Nisi quia in templis revellens mortalibus irae.
Et , postquam ipsæ fuerint fornicatæ infidelium , ut uoles, petulans ,
Et factum est in excogitando dogma , quod de ratione immemor ?
Horrendum non fides sit , tamen ita fecisse ,
Ante finem exspectent praemia petunt .
*** enim , ut est in paradisum suscipit dereliquerunt ...
Imago autem libertatis quam servitutis et negotio.
Nimia tempus extractam converterat a gladio:
****, ut spectet ad salutem in lucem , caeca lumina sua .

Antiphon alpha :
Quia hoc est ut , barbaris quoque innocentiae gentilitium mendacium vendere ...
Numquid et vos vultis emere , aut aliquam nunc forsitan putas,
Ad sciendum neque rationi consentaneum neque aetate sapientes ...
Quod si non moverent malles *** saltare!
Pleni sunt somnia noctes ; Dies mei tantum ...
Ego ad bis et quem maxime diligebam , in purpura quoque , et aprico occasus .
Ego autem haec imago non ad tangere memoriam tot ,
Qui replet in sanguinem furoris me , et frigidam desiderio finis .
Et considerandum est quod *** in ultima desperatione rerum , in cuius manu mea, equo et pilos in ore gladii ,
Nam ni ita esset, nunquam tamen inde trans familia .
Sed abusus est , ut fuit, et quidem instar caedentes sepem
An ut reliquos omnes transcendunt omnia , amice!
Ego superfui , transfiguravi ascendi in fine est ,
Multo magis quam erat, non plus quam diruere animus .
Sed tamen , quia speravi in solitudinem , ut a somno exsuscitem ancillam meam in flamma ...
Ardet , o superi, ut arbitror , usque uror dissiliunt!
De caelo et magis obscurant vestris, et tridentes, et contritio ,
Audio furorem tympana caelo antiqui gigantes hiemes.
Dii irascantur et ecce valide erutas ,
Uvasque calcantes Angeli hominis Illi autem vinariis ageretur ...
Recordatus sum in omnibus navigantibus battleship galaxies ,
In die ortus nubes inter exaestuans, quod ' vaporem ...
Depopulari Sodomam et Gomorrham, ad contumelias !
Ibi eram: et *** impiis non perire denique gemitu.
Ut illuderet mihi : et populus , quia ego bonus sum male velle ,
A Deo est, quam diu tot mala ferre cogetur .
Ego autem non sum solus , quia multa in eo et detorqueri
Deus remittit, nam adhuc sed non est intellectus ;

Section II : Hostiam de Spider

Part I : ( Rident Primus )

Caelum non egerunt pœnitentiam super ulcus nigrum est furore , et in indignatione, et in iustitia :
Et factus sum caro , quamvis intellectus non mortale .
In antro loca , quæ transivi , et dæmonia multa discurrunt ,
Et locis minus adhuc amor in search of a provocare .
In quo autem in craticiis tectoria atria mea, et thronus fuit stabilis ...
Et super collem , ubi dolorum laborum animae perit labor in mundanis ,
Transcendi vincula et consilio fidelium expectabo laudatur.
Ignis et sulphur et, semper est dextera arderent super altare ?
Ridentem cogo faciem meam : non enim veni , ut velle,
Ut in hora *** iam iuvenem, *** proposito aureum ...
Quæ pro impenso super solidum, pretium quis ,
Qui autem non cognovit , quomodo cupiam sibi solvere ...
Furor solitudinis nascitur ira nascitur ex malitia,
Qui autem contemnunt me , quia sine causa Provocantes me .
Quid est **** , impunitatem , ne quis putaret se excusat ;
Quam sapere , *** culturis tuum: mergi , in balneis , in ardentem .
Loquor de inferno, qui est infidelis nescis ?
Neque enim suis oculis effossis clavorum ...
Loquor cruciatus qui daemonia fecerunt superat .
Primus erit mihi dolor meus *** omnis fera voluntas ut ratio ...
Ut qui me conspui caro quod ambulans ,
Nescis modo larva facies mea , abscondens se.
Attendit ad illa nihil nisi insipientis solis erratur in sonis cantus
Tantum numerus ratus e fratre soror .
Sed in caelestibus quae sine causa nata est incestus est alchemical ?
Habitat in me peccatum occultum compages sǽculo.
Sit mihi vim inter gentes auditus est ABSURDUS musica ...
Spiritus meus qui regit omne simile est genitus.

Part II ( vindicta aurum )

In hortos, in quibus cupiditas sanguis rosaria semina ,
I , in manu eorum , qui esurit Quorum sitit aquam surgit !
In quaerere dilectionis affectum bestiis pavi eget
Quid faciam ut pudeat , habet me non elit .
O **** , quo impune ausu palamque vociferari ,
Quod amor sit ex me credis , et me opus manuum tuarum ,
Ut timidus , et cucurrit ad me latere turba depravari ,
In simulata excellentiam tuam , et ipse te vile animal .
Coniunctio oris linguae quasi telam laqueari
Si fieri potest araneae ; et fugiet a turpis ut octo pedes nidum ...
Et *** jam non calidus humanitatis indignum ,
Cogitans te meliorem quam reliqui descendes !
Ut vitae pretium millies , tibimetipsi .
Creaturam factus sum nocte expectant te aranea heu !
Nolite putare quia ego audirem . utrumque stridens cruris ...
Odium ductor tuus , et equi ejus , et ascensorem ejus .
Et in vestra web Video vos, Quirites immune ungues acuti ,
Ad toxicus venenum , quod oculis non potes, nisi te , octo ...
Ex quo bases Caesios sine timore, et sic primum
Ut dolores tuos comedat vos accendentes ignem caelum ;
Detur paenitentiae venia , quae dicis omnia cogit , ne superare dolores ,
Qui tibi semper, quæ videtur , non est potentia ad non noceat .
Et ascendit ulterius sapere plus pavoris tui ...
Numquam puerile ludibrium ulla facta .
Omnis domus tua dissolutae horologiorum ad socium non est ?
In desertis chaos est gaudium, ut si quod habuerunt.
Surgit in novum ordinem , nemo potest negare chaos genitus locus ,
Dum descendes perdunt, muneribus laesae.

PARS III ( Ultimo Rident)

Et sic videtur quod Angelus se et ante deam
Angelus autem nominis vocare aliquis tenuerit formarum.
Et qui in illis est , maiora sunt, ego saepe ad extraneas ,
Fingunt enim se perfectum , ignorant eorum saevitum ,
Num amor crustacea tam veteri quam in praedam , et mendicum ,
Quod minus quam tuum est , quam sumpsi eaque cibum ...
Est autem tarn coquina sicut clibanus tua vadit et ora
Ipse, ipse est extra te praemium virtutis tuae chores ,
Sicut enim res suo cuidam negotium , qui meretricem ... Lorem ipsum leve,
Putas praemium amaret , et mendicum , falli te .
Quid autem vocatis me alienum **** ... amor est malum , et hoc pudet,
Et similiter anima atque animus , quibus tandem corpus infirmare.
Vides tantum larva ... sub aspectu nisurum
Larva ut me in tenebris tenebris latet .
Circa collum tuum habebis , ut falsae aestimationis pendet a mortuis, et corona ,
Quia sterilis tibi relinquo mundum , Intenta ancillæ.
Consurgitur in excitate de reliquis abire tibi , qui sunt cognati mei
De manibus eorum procul offendant pedes vestri ?
Qui manet in coemeterio quasi mortui
Non tollere incorruptione Nimis tibi dubium .
Hue tacito lachrymis virgines flere ...
Ad mea, et robur , in quo praeda, gregibus rursum super vias hominum ,
Ad eos qui non ineptis metus mutetur ,
Aureus transmutare non magis quam plumbea nocte dies ;
Quod verum est de fine , qui scit ... Alchemist
Magistra rerum artes a me in profundum.
Ágite , quod sum aggressus creatura placet mutare ...
Ut res sunt nostrae demiurgorum lasciva oscula enim calidius ?

Omega Antiphon :
Non est autem in Utopia , non videtur quod ...
Donec ut nosmet ipsos cognoscimus prima quaerimus imaginem .
*** et in sacrificio sui ipsius , a volunt reddi obsequium ...
Qui ad reformandam et divina se , *** Leo renata agnus mitis !
Sicut in Christo, ex parte in qua invocatum est cicatrix, et vulneratus est ...
Sed simplex conversio ad dissimilis vultus nolui .
Memini dolore meo, ut acer et vehemens ...
Donee tantum possum emissus dolor servare sensu caret.
Quomodo potest aedificare paradisum non est, nisi in se mutant ;
Mutare ante mutatum esse non est in medio ; quae est in via .
Qua ad paradisum , et oportet eam, et non deficiunt,
Ne ad caelum, nisi quam nos aedificare illud infernum iniustitiis nos .
Utopia , non ruunt ad genus humanum, nisi a te, tu es qui habitavit ?
Nisi quod est extra omne malum quod in se corrumpunt ,
Manifestum enim est , nisi malum, quod mundatam ab omnibus malis moribus.
Tunc malitia faciatis abstulit senex super pluteo tom .
An non intellegat , quid est salvator ...
*** diceret quod non omne quod simplices filii ingredi
Regnum caelorum , et inde ad delectationem pertinere ...
Et quomodo potes perfrui , si tibi placet , cauillando crudelis ?
*** aurora tempore domini nituntur hominum planeta ...
Numquam imaginandi praecipiet ut discat primum voluntatis.
Non armorum vi , nec inutile mandatum ...
Sed *** modestia , et misericordia ; ergo qui ad cor suum in satietatem,
Gáudii innumerabiles et celebrationibus quae causa ?
Sed animus intendatur dolores peccatum lacus.
Ubi plausus rotundum vt quilibet sensus ?
Modernitatem iocabitur ullum definitum ornare.

Section III : sacrificium sui

Part I : ( hortos perditio )

A ziggurat sublatus est , arenosa in calidum lateres , quos coquetis in igne ...
Septem fabulae in caelum, sicut turris Babel ,
Quod in solitudinem, et in

"O where are you going with your love-locks flowing,
  On the west wind blowing along this valley track?"
"The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,
  We shall escape the uphill by never turning back."

So they two went together in glowing August weather,
  The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;
And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on
  The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.

"Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,
  Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?"
"Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,
  An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt."

"Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly,
  Their scent comes rich and sickly?"--"A scaled and hooded worm."
"Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?"
  "Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term."

"Turn again, O my sweetest,--turn again, false and fleetest:
  This beaten way thou beatest I fear is hell's own track."
"Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting:
  This downhill path is easy, but there's no turning back."

Watercolor forests time lapse
in their creaking ancient rings
We're smearing their earth tones
as the sawblade sings
Grins of snake oil drilling
seeping speculation
on massive scales
Rigged justice with financial backing
even as the prepaid system fails
Golden ratios and timeless cycles
failing the fickle expectations of
fiscal years
But you should know dead
money tastes awful
on a trail of tears
Captive nations petrified
in amber waves not replaced
Borrowing fallen feathers
to hide all we've faced
Dialed down the stars
To depict time as
a definite place
our fragile Axis Mundi
fallen from grace
But how do you find a voice
to speak for the trees
When you’ve been living
in skyscrapers
slums
and SUVs?
As bloodshot tired eyes fail
you've gone too far away
If we meet between the rows
what's left to say?
Brief clashes of red
then long fades to grey?
Am I your keeper
or am I your slave?
Your strip mauled *** toy
to plow and pave?
If you miscarry what was it
we even wanted to save?

You know the cemetery but
I know the grave.

Interpenetrating your cosmic tree

if I am to survive this visionary fancy

With my ever existent images

we skip contemplative thought

and descend into The Divine Abyss

on the way
to return sociology
to the library
i couldn't read the parking signs
so ended blocks away
at a salvation army

the kind with no books for sale
but an elevator shaft
running up, down
behind a drum-set altar
and a stage i didn't buy.

half-expecting 'the war room' ads
posted here as well
i let a stranger lead me to my muse
saying none would mind

Chuck asked me if i 'needed to pray this morning'
before unlocking -
i said, 'every day'  but thought
  not in his way
- i'm just begging him to play.

i read a psalm and kneel to test hypocrisy.
lotus palms connote release from suffering
wellness for all beings

and then  
i am here now
at the keyboard again
playing music i will never forget
even when my chainsaw body stiffens  creaks
the keys a saving home still  though shy
they hammer heart strings
broken, born -again again again.

praeludium, goldberg, well-tempered
minuets conjure Bach
in his stone church
and i cry for lost souls
my own lostness found
though convinced there is no static single 'self'
no 'soul'-rewarded other-life to justify our own
no 'god'- or science-demolished mystery
no metaphysic causa sui to separate
contempus mundi from the mundi...
no tidy verbal 'beyond beyond'
but that of Thales  Sappho  Gautama  
Laotse  Yeshua
Nagarjuna  Shankara
Duns Scotus  Hume  
Blake  Whitman  Darwin
Nietzsche  Du Bois
Tolkien  Stein  Merleau-Ponty  Sagan  Jong

but i will say we've sung the music of the spheres
in host-guest handshakes
stranger  xenophilic tunes
my earthling family hums my heart anew
as i begin  again
to sing my being into fingertips

skyward breath to lid-closed harmonies of hell redeemed
in Peter's vacuuming
request for 'Dixieland'
and Stacy's parting thanks
for 'we three kings'
Ruth's morning-making compliments and invitation back
my wish to share with them the love i feel
- from them, Gaskell's book
from deep within where no words win
authentic ownmost ocean depth of
less contingent love
historically embracing love
of errancy and freedom in our different loves
an atheist in love with vacuums
saucha and the music of human kindness
receiving gifts in giving thanks








.

For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No 'Brava!', no applause.

An unrehearsed performance,
By a monodramatist,
A solo show, a pantomime,
An improvised burlesque.

Critics stand in groups debating,
The value of my work,
They gossip in the aisles,
The playhouse now a kirk.

My eulogy their invention,
My obituary the prize,
The best review I've ever had,
A mix of humour and soft lies.

I have played the loving daughter,
The honest aunt *****,
The independent sister,
The true and loyal friend.

The sympathetic neighbour,
I have played the errant niece,
The mentor, guide, and confidant,
The ***** and the tease.

In truth, I am a diva,
Living mostly in her head,
But this remains unmentioned,
In a tribute to the dead.

Once rose bouquets beribboned,
From the greatest and the good,
Now a solitary arrangement,
On a coffin made of wood.

For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No garlands, no applause.

But wait, I see my error,
As indeed these things exist,
But not for me to comment on,
Nor as I would have wished.

For my aspect is fair frozen,
I cannot turn the page,
My performance has now ended,
And I have left the stage.

I failed to love round, but fallen flat,
My head slumps down, over an ancient map,
My eyes roll back, over the mappa mundi verge,
Where waterfalls purl, and the sea serpent-sleep lies curled.

The night draws out --
as if still yearning to linger...
but a star will burst forth
and morning will quickly break.
We linger in dawn-dim rooms,
silently contemplating our fate...
Our lives seem so minute,
so limited compared to the
   ever-lasting cosmos.
We seem staid -- and yet,
our hearts are not that way.
We need merely to step out upon
   the great expanse --
need only take that first step,
and the eternal essence
will receive us.

poppies and chamomile bloomed roads,
covered in warm dust... such a pity
that these are the only ones left
to be pointing towards the eternal city,

where marble and stone still stand
on places gods used to walk bare-footed,
where belief was more than just demand,
until cassocks have had ancient ways sooted.

A place where manner was turned into art
And polymaths emerged from genius creation,
where Latin blood spills from heart to mart
In a continuous state of vibrant elation.

where green is the colour of oils and lust
and the sun can burn to a lemon flavour,
and the sand on the front of the boot is black
and the wine is more than a bitter-sweet savour...

There, where a walk through square paved markets
is bursting with hand-made stories,
where scratching through history's pride
would always end in timeless glory...

The fire burning.

The liar turning
away from realities
decomposing core
while the doors
of perception
remain barred to
all but a privileged
few.
Truth lies not within
abandoned pews or
the Jew’s unread book
but in eyes willing to
look beyond the concept
of time and space to the
place where nothingness
and being coexist without
apprehension

I watched the world decay.
The sun burned bright for such an awful day.
And in the sun the buildings burned.
Smoke and ashes fluttered and turned.
Like fresh snow the ashes fell.
Darkening the oceans swell.
A woman stands just a silhouette.
In the darkened ocean soaking wet.
She looks into the ruined city.
And tears fell down a face so pretty.
Lost in thoughts of days long gone.
Glory fades and time drags on.
I felt her pain in such an awful way.
I watched the world decay.

I find myself blithely content when she's around though at times I look around and find she's nowhere to be found
Till I close my eyes and smile having seen her in my my mind.


A goddess she is indeed,especially when the corner of her lips are in motion towards her ears. I admire from a distance,she's so ideal. I crept close with my weakened knees pulled closer by the anima mundi and force of attraction in it.
She uttered words to my soul which equalised to my heart to liquidise. Though I was in vagueness with what she said,she sure could sing.


But you know what "they" say that neutral cliché "everything is temporary."I woke up. What a dream.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

Here in the serenity
The Chorus of stars
Intertwined in tranquility
Our earth
Alone in perfect harmony
Eternally ensnared in the sway
Triumphantly resound in him
Misery and Famine
Mi Fa Mi
Fa Mi

Enshrined in the veil of twilight
Hues ribbon across space
Before the dawn
I taste and see the sounds
And the singularity within
Dances Entranced falling into sway
Triumph and resound the hymn
Famine
Misery
Mi Fa Mi
Fa Mi

Time to queue up in the line again.
One more moment of wasted time,
is wasting mine away.

We've got too much time or not enough.
Remember how to breathe.
Once your chest rises gravity takes over,
we're not a beat away from the fire.
We could be two beats until,

We've got just enough time to spend.
Not enough time to waste.
Just enough to make it last,
until the music fades.

There's too much time or not enough.
Don't forget how to breathe.
Once your chest rises gravity takes over.
We are one heart beat away.
Just enough time, just enough.

Once upon a Time there lived a peasant
whose poems were whisperings of nature.

Nature aims toward growth, abundance
and decays softly back to succulent soils.

My homeland is not for your feet to step
upon, you belong to surrealistic cynicism.

My psychedelia does not approve of horrors
mundi and skips on every third classical tune.

What was impulsively chosen, can be a mistake
in pompous rituals on established compilations.

Apologies, for all the misdeeds lacking a true
appearances. You implied my life is a great lie.

No, it's not! Sometimes it is a knotted charade,
noose chameleon dreams wanting to create in

Castles build upon puffy clouds, youthful Ars
Poetica meeting a Pat Metheney's wonderland.

Beck is a phenomenal artist loving green lands.
Bachus was a goat. And Artemis protects us all!

[poem]
W0r1d1y th!ng5 are f1337ing.
          
[/poem]

qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem*


Bejesus we walked so far!
It was beautiful country, mind,
feet dappling through hedgerows
that led from the city, in silence,
to rest where all flesh shall come.

I remember how it started,
walled in with the others.
Lord you could dance!
How were they to comprehend
that the kink in my arm
and your off-beat jive
could lead us unguided
to narrow pathways forcing single file?

                    By a river we sat together—
amid long words and fingerprints
your skin bled dark with guilt
and for my part I saw coracles
sprout upon your breath.
We weighed down these little craft
with the chains of our sins
and tied fast the bones of our future
as payment for the ferryman.

One day perhaps, the river will dissolve to ash,
revealing our two disciples
discarded as the chance to heal,
                    there will be love
                    like a great and gentle pulse
mingling with cold stones
and memories our
downcast eyes, cheekbones to the fore.

What is the World Tree?
What is the Axis Mundi?
What is Yggdrasil?
What is Ygg's Steed?
What is Odin's Steed?
What is Sleipnir?
What stands at the Centre of the World?
What bridges worlds?
What is the rainbow bridge?
What is Bifrost?
Where is the Centre of the Compass?
Where is the Circumference?
Who am I?

“You are your own god – and are surprised when
                  you find that the wolf pack is hunting you across
                  the desolate ice fields of winter.”

                               ― Dag Hammarskjöld, Markings

Crazy old men bellowing at each other
Crazy old women shrieking at us all:
The Spiritus Mundi is hard at play
Among the wreckage of civilization

The stripping of the altars 1 is complete
Holy innocence is a toilet joke
And the literature of millennia
Now serves as cleaning rags for The Machine

An executioner, while waiting for you
Pauses to admire his latest tattoo



1 cf. Eamon Duffy

“when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning.” Grace Paley

fall into me
on blackout days
for something beautiful
is here is everywhere
is nowhere
you knew it
Borges used it
beauty is a physical sensation
the axis mundi piercing
the palms of my hands

memory like a gipsy woman
who reads palms
beauty, yes, it draws the soul
ascetic
I figured it out in the smiling of your sleep
like babies smile to angels, they say
this game that keeps us alive is hers
golden beetles die for it
of for the love of dust

pastimes of gods its archives
everyday the light tastes differently
the body moves where the mind is
or the other way round
I'll read Cartarescu to you half naked
one page a day

beauty is the quest,
this spiral of wonder
filling up the rest &
my nails

Does it shine?
Thine soul that is,
Is it blind, in rewind to remorse, anger and craftiness?
Doth it provoke?
For the devil can do that to!
Art thou up in smoke, riding the cool waves pool!
Dragged down, soaked and heavy!
A glamour shimmers with no error.
For none are fairer.....
Its true self shows when the crowd has dissapeared!!!

Installed in the Eclectic Parallel World of the invisible portal of Saint John the Evangelist, everything levitated in his sacred basaltic cavern in Katapausis, in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio-USA). They would find themselves in communion with the clan count, resembling being in their proper ectoplasm; conforming to the only part of masonry ruled to redirect them in the messianic workings of the ascension stages. Vernarth; he besieged in the conscious state of him having to adhere to the cavern, after having finished his labors by waiting three months. He risks being consumed by the myriads and conflagrations, retracting them in parapsychological clouded ways, which subsisted to consecrate themselves in the lavish places divided towards the horizon. The iridescence threatens the primary ultraviolet, lifting the carriage of Apollo Citar, a neighbor of the astronomical cave sketch of the Muse Urania. A lame nuance escapes and dissolves from his mathematical prayer, capturing the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the island of Patmos, inserted in the death throes of his embryonic revelation, to pour him into the Megaron to build.

The saint appears only on certain days looking at Vernarth from afar, to encourage him in his progress on the rocky rocks of sharp silica, he is seen as a beautiful adonis dressed in a chlamys with delicate pinkish tones. With such scruples, he redounds a psalm of the angel that normally accompanies the Evangelist around him, with greenish and indigo tones in the perspective quadrinomial of heaven, that he was perishing in his most afterlife redemption in the glory of the empyrean. More convenient than the superlative spiritual intelligence irrigated with the aldehyde, and the condensed water of Skalá, in hecatombs that indicated anarchies of the luminous prophetic men and the habit of the exokarstic soil, endowed with a small perforated Epsilon demon, obtaining its chemical weathering in certain limestone rocks, dolomite, and plaster. Diverting the attention of Etréstles that he glowed overwhelmed and charred. He was not stopped by the currents of splendor and the stormy pollutions of Cymopolea, in his hieratic invocation of the scalded typhoons of the drills of Hephaestus. This demon could be Tytillinus timorous in the defections of the deities of Mnemosyne relegating himself from his precepts, which according to this legend induced protervas inclinations of the clergy during the omitted religious services, he is the one that Saint John the Evangelist feared, that he would not give him the Asfalés Pérasma “license” to enter and be able to commission them in tasks that had been predicted for the Katapausis services after the quarterly. The Travertine silica, with residual sedimentary rocks, was partialized from the extrinsic biogenic that is deposited outside, the travertine predicted the monumental rocky karst of Patmos, for the secretions of calcium carbonate, among so much modest certainty taking you through the Invisible Eclectic Portal, and their Mundis Parallel that crashed with attached carbon molecules that, in disarray, manned them. The chasm was a cascade of weathering that became stalactites in the runes of the travertines, Thermo dynamizing the cavities that were conceived in the invisible caverns, under the parallel caves of the translucent travertine and in the sapwood of the troglodyte ghosts, materializing on the top wind tunnel.

Vernarth; I was with everyone working in the building of the Temple near the outside walls of the Cavern of San Juan, there was Etréstles Eurídice, Raeder, Petrobus, and Alikanto immersed in the Aulos who rang about exciting their ears with the royal denotes, which always had a special quality when he remained in Kalimnos. In good ink, knowing that the entire limen of proximity to the cavern was flooded by the enigmatic revulsive with the presence of Tytillinus, all are reordered towards the poles of tangible etherization with Psalms 120 to 132, thus they would give the antipode disposition with the Divine Mercy, to compensate the crown of the fifteen hours in the afternoon, thus disintegrating the agonizing parallel world that coincides with that of the fifteen hours in the morning. Somehow refraining from the northern paragon with the Tytillinus' shadowing, with the hooks of bewilderment and its scathing thoughts. With precisely this conspicuous shape; Vernarth will allow himself to be swallowed by the beast and reside in his abrasive stomach, making him believe that it will be consumed by him, so that he will soon fall close to it when vomited, thus confusing him, to make him believe that he was the same baby from his conceived womb. Vernarth manages to capture this exotic sinister image near the sinkhole, seeing him depressed in the Tytillinus Prisco; where all attentive listened to the textual vocabularies of the beatific, with the fruit of Karpos, for the benefit of a descendant gained by defeating the devil.

The European Sibilla carried the Gladius in his hand but exchanged it with the Xifos alternately for the death of innocents entrusted by Herod the Great, and for the evasion of the Holy family into Egypt. This confirms the liturgical grouping of the Easter Triduum; alluding to the passion of Christ, and perpetrating the pain of the Devout at his death, and triumphant at his resurrection. The sense of surrealism transports Saint John digging in all the layers and hordes of the Faith, his component of tribulation moved in the Egyptian and Greek cartography, mobilizing the triangular areas of the Palan, which moved in a geometric block reaching the edges of the hypotenuse gradient and the wind tunnel that lifted them, cornering the beast that visited them, pretending to be weak and imprecise. The man will carry the simile of his name, with hyperbole more or less in men who dare not to anticipate the conflicts of the gained space.

Vernarth, plots to continue insinuating with his labors, sees with optimism escape from this calamity, calls everyone to be close to the law ..., once they continued taking the steps towards the cavern. He emerges from convulsions on all edges of the cave, leaving everything dark and with vanities deterred at the end of the temporal Mundis Parallel. In the intermission, Saint John towards the response of Psalm 120 to 132, the fiery roar of the playful roar of the Tytillinus interferes, banishing the shaking of its **** to banish it from the Basilisk's egg, avoiding creating its heavy monarchy over them by prostrating them, as if to dissent. by being repentant or beheaded. Saint John the Evangelist will be an egregious demonologist, compiling thick volumes with the names of the attributions of each of the demons of infernal hierarchy. In this Venusian Aion symmetry, he moves them interconnecting with sublime periods where the intuition of the zafral of the human scale is lost, and of the archetype of Satanism or Satagenesis, with austere precision that includes Leviathan, ruler of the demons, to Ukobach, procurator of keeping the infernal flames alive. So that the manumission of slavery finally reigns according to one's own demonized moral individuality. The amount of an invocation of this type is always the soul of the unconscious individual, who will end up going to be squeezed into the underworld. The demons are invoked and they will invoke themselves in their dawn, to walk in their own darkness of the stagnant past, the mechanized present, and the multidimensional conscious future by means of exclusive enchantments that will be found here in the Mundi Parallel of the Invisible Eclectic Portal.

An enamoring dowsabel at Ib's eve
Zion proclaiming 'hosanna'
A peri lifting the anathematization off
The recusant hand of the eternal by
Dinn of God; within a whirligig of death
Rearing the abscence of perfection,
The misforgiving serpent fangs,
The Herald star. The father of lies
Circumscribed: a Dybbuk
By a ghostly tear, the revealer of truth
Upon the brilliance of the inner most
Flame in the mist of the fire entering
The ecosphere subsistent as a profession
Of the faith; to work out ones
Salvation clothed in pain, to console
A mourning soul within the sovereign
Lady to know thyself.
Life a flame of fortune!

ELEETE J MUIR

He abierto la ventana. Entra sin hacer ruido
(afuera deja sus constelaciones).
«Buenas noches, Noche».
Pasa las páginas de sombra
en las que todo está ya escrito.
Viene a pedirme cuentas.

«Salí al rayar el alba -digo-.
Lamía el sol las paredes leprosas
Olía a vino, a miel, a jara»
(Deslumbrada por tanta claridad
ha entornado los ojos).
La llevan mis palabras por calles, ascuas, no lo sé:
oye la plata de las campanadas.
Ante la puerta de la iglesia
me callo, me detengo -entraría conmigo-
si yo no me callase, si no me detuviera-;
yo sé bien lo que quiere la Noche;
lo de todas las noches;
si no, por qué habría venido.

Ya mi memoria no es lo que era. En la misa del alba
no dije Agnus Dei qui tollis pecata mundi,
sino que dije Marta Dei  (ella también es cordero de Dios
que quita mis pecados del mundo).
La noche no podría comprenderlo,
y qué decirle, y cómo, para que lo entendiese.

No me pregunta nada la Noche,
no me pregunta nada. Ella lo sabe todo
antes que yo lo diga, antes que yo lo sepa.
Ella ha oído esos versos
que se escupen de boca en boca, versos
de un malaleche del Andalucía
al que otro malaleche de solar montañés
llamara «capellán del rey de bastos»
en los que se hace mofa de mí y de Marta,
amor mío, resumen de todos mis amores:
Dicho me han por una carta
que es tu cómica persona
sobre los manteles, mona
y entre las sábanas, Marta.
qué sabrá ese tahúr, ese amargado
lo que es amor.
La Noche trae entre los pliegues de su toga
un polvillo de música, como el del ala de la mariposa.
Una música hilada en la vihuela
del maestro del danzar, nuestro vecino.
En la cocina estará escuchando Marta;
danzará, mientras barre el suelo que no ve,
manchado de ceniza, de aroma, de trigo candeal,
de jazmines, de estrellas, de papeles rompidos.
Danza y barra Marta.

Pido a la Noche que se vaya. Hasta mañana, Noche.
Déjame que descanse. Cuando amanezca regaré el jardín,
saldré después a decir misa.
-Deus meus, Deus meus, quare tristis est amina mea-
luego volveré a casa, terminaré una epístola en tercetos
escribiré unas hojas
de la comedia que encargaron unos representantes.
Que las cosas no marchan bien en el teatro,
y uno no puede dormirse en los laureles.

Hasta mañana, Noche.
Tengo que dar la cena a Marta,
asearla, peinarla (ella no vive ya en el mundo nuestro),
cuidar que no alborote mis papeles,
que no apuñale las paredes con mis plumas
mis bien cortadas plumas,
tengo que confesarla. «Padre, vivo en pecado»
(no sabe que el pecado es de los dos),
y dirá luego: «Lope, quiero morirme»
(y qué sucedería si yo muriese antes que ella).
Ego te absolvo.

Y luego, sosegada, le contaré, para dormirla,
aventuras de olas, de galeones, de arcabuces, de rumbos marinos,
de lugares vividos y soñados: de lo que fue
y que no fue y que pudo ser mi vida.
Abre tus ojos verdes, Marta, que quiero oír el mar.

/ˈspɪrɪtʊs muːndɪ/

The general spirit of the world; forgetting the factions human kind has constrained itself into.

white
I wait at the window and I watch her sitting out there in the air, empty and open to the early morning.
 
I am motionless and I wonder if I went out there and stood looking at her if she would feel in that moment that life and death themselves were the simplest things anyone would ever know and that questions were more fulfilling than the answers. That our brokenness was our only claim to existence.
We would be aware, but untouched. One second would trip on the next and we would surface and the roar would fill our heads again.
 
She blinks and focuses, she sees me. She looks at me with an apology on her face, waiting for something readable on mine.
 
Well, I guess I always thought it would feel different in the moment when someone saved my life. I thought I would feel more than this, but all I feel is white.
 
 
red
a touch to skin
a fingerprint on blush
on memory
 
anxious anticipation, the space between my blood and yours
crossed with all that I know to the only thing I have ever felt
in an inch of movement
 
the press of your life against mine
white, adored
soft, the subtly of a sunrise
rushing into splendorous day,
your lips hot on my neck
burning that fills my hands and my legs and everything
twisting and tortured
an explosion in the dark
one star joining the night sky, falling to pieces
and melting into whispers
 
the pause of time locked in the space
where my skin pours into your skin becomes
our skin becomes glimmering
light
 
 
blue
We are
up late in the static dark, and we are
together
laying in your bed perfectly still,
our limbs filled with movement
Pressed down onto the floor with the weight of imperfections in the air.
Hands and face
filled with blue blood
a silent grin.
 
can’t sleep
 
So
we go
our laughter stumbles out into the dark
pulls us out, as we follow currents of sound.
The wail of atmospheric jet planes, lonely crickets,
the boom of empty 3am freeways
a chorus of ***** angels
brings us to stillness.
 
Laying in the dirt
stars arch overhead from the bottom of my chin to the back of my neck
emptiness like falling
and if you close one eye
 
you whisper
against
my skin
 
you can reach out and touch them
so I try it
it feels like nothing
 
And with a glance
time shifts
the earth tilts
your silent face
open to mine.
 
 
yellow
August motionless
like a deep sleep.
One long deep breath that we took together
exhaled with images of green and blue,
sunlight dancing heavy on a water’s surface above my head.
The sound of slow heartbeats in a warm room filled with open air and drifting light.
 
Your voice,
whispering aloud to me the words of your favorite authors,
the weakest wind pulls the curtains into the room like phantom arms reaching out for us
from the wild expanse
that spreads away from us outside, just outside.
 
Expansion to be consumed, to be found out
to find the sun and let it fill us
before it falls away from the earth
before we shut the windows at night
before we wake up.
 
Walking up away
through green forest away from our nothing
to that lake laying there in the rocks staring at the sun
with an empty face
shattered into a billion silent sparks.
 
The heaviest moments of September
glittering in your blue eyes
as they slide
and sink
into cold depths of memory.
 
 
Orange 
if I were there,
In the beginning, God
at the birth
watching the spore become airborne
, acquired perhaps in the
grocery store you worked in you called lucky
 
singing* lucky in my orange vest
my little bird
 
(like life, death too, grows
the damp mold of anxiety)
 
if I had watched the shift and seen
your eyes too
wide open start to fill too fast
with life
 
with such as
 
when fashion passed from runway to retail to thrift store and finally became silly enough to repeat
when getting older started to make sense
(laughing at your first gray hair, we were still children)
When the second law of thermodynamics practiced itself
and energy passed from warm to colder; normalized, equalized
and things fell off shelves and the attic windows broke and we
let it be
 
eyes wide open when your childhood home dilapidated
and Alzheimer’s consumed your grandfather's stories
sitting by (him) the window on the day after new years
(melting snow shed from tired trees) waiting to leave
holidays are when you love your family
then you go home
 
when hope became the eternal sacrifice to the only god they taught us in school
the only god that could be confined to our reason,
survival
yet quoting the bible to put the weight of god into our words
 
bottles breaking and re-breaking on the shoulders of a new highway
a new monument to mankind's ancient gloriously hideous innovation
to continuance
to getting up
and trying again
And getting up and
Trying again
And words
 
if I were there standing
in the rye field
                                                  my little dove
could I have caught you?
 
 
 
 
 
black
I was right outside
when she pulled the trigger
 
and I remember
 

crashing sound, in my head
my knees, my shoulder blades. A turbulent din
heart beating like a cave collapsing
air desperate to escape from my lungs
 
and silence.
 
Light falling away,
slowly like snowflakes
with the weight of dusk
and me standing
staring at the holes that were in everything.

 
Suddenly, everything was a mountain.
 
and I remember it
 
------------------------------------------------------------­---
 
I sit here and watch as if I couldn’t reach out and touch it
Can I?
The decay is not in your heart or your mind, it is in your soul.
Its coming out on your face. Gray stains forming around your eyes.
How do you get rid of that?
Your playful (terrified, i’m so scared, i’m scared) voice.
 
In 3am empty
sitting on the floor by the window gasping for air.
How can I reach out and touch that?
I watch the nights wash you pale with insomnia.
Strings of black hair. White face. Cold morning light.
How can I reach out and touch that?
 
I sit here across from you at the table, watching your eyes look through me.
Words are coming out of you that I don’t understand.
Words that don’t fall on deaf ears
but on deaf hands
making me suffer like I was paralyzed.
Your lips barely move as you speak.
 

There’s a sharp edge to this
its cutting the line between consciousness and sleep
you’re saying
The days have been good to me
you’re saying
I am just going to get older.
 

I can feel it in me
death is in me,
and I cannot
get it out

 
For a moment it is quiet. You sit there, like something meant to be on its own \
and I sit here, like an empty chair.
How could I reach out and touch that?
My mouth opens
Be okay.
I’m saying
 
Please be okay.
 
-------------------------------------------------------­--------------
 
its gradual , the darkness is invading me
filling the back of my eyes
the depths of my ears
the pores of my skin
until I die.
 
I take another dragging breath.
feel my bones bend the wrong way
too far
 
These days feel so old
this sky is so heavy
this wet air tastes so much how it did
last winter sinks in.
 
and I remember it so well
 
---------------------------------------
 
today, a new offense
I could not believe it
the sun pulled itself up out of the ground
without you
 
january sun
light without bright
day without warmth,
burning as dull as a nightmare remembered
following a shallow line that is far from equinoctial
 
time passes like strangers faces on the street
 
already, fall falling falling
a falling scattered hush
night, again
 
 
gray
It hurts worst when I'm sitting in a cafe and a song I know comes on the radio. By instinct I turn to the chair next to me. I turn to your empty chair. Dismayed, I look around for someone to share it with. But nobody there knows the song. To them it's just the gray background. And I drop my eyes wishing I could make it exist.
 
Or worst when I'm walking through an empty parking lot at midnight and yellow light is dripping out of the street lamps and washing all over the pavement. The sound of it is deafening. I can't hear it but I can feel it. The weight of it pulls my shoulders down towards my own starving black shadow and makes me think of how the white glow of your skin pulled me down into your arms and made my eyes shine.
 
Or worst when I'm on the street corner waiting to cross and the rain is pouring over the skyscrapers and down into the canyons of the city. Cars pass like phantoms floating through the fog, their headlights flashing on the wet pavement. The sound of harsh laughter and flooded gutters invaded by creaking busses reaches me as if from the past, and for a second I can hear your voice, humming a song about the rain. And I cross, begging out loud underneath the roar of raindrops for the cars to hit me.
 
These are the loneliest days and the longest nights. These are the moments when I can feel my lungs caving in every time I exhale. The seconds where a tiny black line dancing to the pulse of time is the only movement in my cold apartment, replacing the warm rise and fall of your chest.
 
night is coming and I'm sitting at my window watching the sunset die and I don't want to give up  I don't want to and it's getting dark again
 
 
green
it is nothing I could begin to say to you
for it came to be without words
without sound
but not quiet
 
it was with the sound of something as you look upon it
The hum of tiny waves
shadow   not shadow   and the space beneath, that is to say,
between
 
life without a need to be
without purpose,
failure and not failure so close together because (finally I saw) they are not separate
 
it was steps that unfolded to infinity around the block
and around again (sic transit gloria mundi)
it was arms swinging like pendulums past ribcage clock faces
waving away the concept of time
In this small corner of the world
it was saying thank you for handing me over to solitude and meaning it
dying in order to let me heal you
it was following the jet trails with fingertips touching them like you taught me to
it was letting the poetry come in and pass through and move off
not holding it in, anymore
When I learned for the first time, to write.
it was when I heard something behind me
it was       I am.
it was when I drove on the freeway and the cloud broke and we passed out into the sunlight at 67 miles per hour, even though I was alone
when I was disturbed with the thought
today (dei gratia) I am happy to be alive.
 
Green was your favorite color.

man, a shattering of woe against the shoreline of synonymous
due applause - or kindred with the devil,
burrowing to circumstance the saharan shadow,
tipped shortest via noon,
                    how experience
    humanity without a language,
that god brokered, and not sanctify
Pontius Pilate as the saving grace?
  lava mea mani mundi -
wash my (mandi(ble)) hands clean (purus) -
aristocrats of Pompeii... ugly *******;
       differed - as was the price
of entering Oxbridge.
                 which is why the content
of dreams was questioned, rather the context...
because who was the narrator, after all?
                  why didn't Freudian theory
question the narrator, but instead superimposed
itself as the gravitas narrator: combining both
content and context of dreams?
                   i find it scary that Freud
managed to toy around until the point where
he found a dysfunctional dummy staging horror
that lacked all necessities of a ventriloquist
       framed toward a subplot: embedded in needing one.
  is Freud the only person to provide narration
for the phenomenon of dreaming?
                i still find dreams caged in Kantian noumena...
i.e., why do they happen in the first place?
        i think it's strange that dreams occur in the first place,
that's the context question,
  Freud already answered the content question:
****** Pythagorean truce: it's called all geometric shaping
fits the answer: *******.
      yes, that's me done & dusted...
                           i'm just wondering about what need
we have within Darwinism to dream... what are
the evolutionary downsizing benefits?
isn't dreaming a delusional cauldron that disturbs
our will... or is Hollywood dead and our fancies
are no longer fanciful... what would a history
of dreams reveal, merely Joseph as the sole
dream architect?
                     Freud was but a man,
he said something about the content of dreams,
he didn't say anything about the context of dreams,
i can't find anyone to explain to me
                a need for a context and a need to dream...
i guess the people who dream are as easily
impregnated with a summary of Voltaire's Candide...
that this is: the best of all possible worlds...
          sure, but inscribe upon this world
a concentrated censorship of dreams...
       let me dream the last thing i might see
and give it all the mechanics of what others dream of
to the tilt of fully-embraced enhancement fakery...
             i will still not understand how you managed
to lodge a photon inside my cranium, or why there's
a need for me to dream, that's Freud point + on the content,
but that's also Freud point minus given the context...
    not if i have to hammer a thousand nails into
planks of wood will a dream matter to me....
             by god, make your money from analysis
dream content, but you'll end up a pauper analysis
dream context... are our lives so dandy and simple
that we retreat from political hierarchies
                            and what needs to be addressed
and with tails dragged between our hinds
                  we create foci for translating dreams into
a realism that can never be realised, because being
a realism, it's only a superficial version of
the pain that reality is?
                  yep, so much "wording",
and how many breaths did you inhale and exhale
while i said that? me too, on words: too many.
             Freud can have his content-invoking
affirmation of life and the subsequent prejudices...
but Freud cannot have a context-angling depravity
     to forward life, and consequent pejoratives
being suitor:
             for those who dare not think
                    are easily converted to dreaming...
and those who care to not dream,
   are ushered into the most obscure thinking
   that has not parallel with celebrated thought
akin to Einstein or Newton... but then again,
the celebration of dreams have only one representative,
and he's biblical... oh sorry: mythical.
yet that's where it all begins,
and it is a great sacrifice... to abandon the comforts
of dreams, in order to think uncustomary
   or even murky, uncelebrated thoughts...
                         to think the mundane and non-applicable
insistences... and then dream nothing,
and then see humanity's impecible practibility
  in the do rather then the lost assertive of be,
for humanity does the most, and is the least...
  for every hundred of do instances,
there's but a hundreth of a be instance worthy a mention;
meaning? do the plumbing...
       chop the timber, fix the electric...
                    no one tells people to reach a frantic embodiment,
or calls for an impersonal god that might leave them
   personal & authentic... everyone always asks for a personal
god that leaves them impersonal... robo-tectonic akin
  to Islam... thus ascribing: quantifiably nihilistic...
                   is my life too unbearable to continue or
unbearable to convene such a life, and quote:
  "simply nodded" on my Christmas greeting card...
******* cha cha cha...
                             i ain't a trebuchet,
but i'll swing a plum with a pair of knuckles
should you need more lip-balm for a smooch;
i'm just jittery about the date you'll test me.;
because the other-half-of-me was particular
about that dietary schematic of anorexia;
some said it was cool amphibian akin to ambiance
and hence the strobe light and break-dancing epileptic:
                       coffers full of chuff!
o lookie lookie, who the ****** unit of the
daffy bunch: quack squint-mc-dire...
no wonder she says her name's Chelsea postscriptum.