So let us now place monetary value on information.
Let us return to the source,
Mining & prospecting that fertile intel seam.
To wit: WWII and G-2 shenanigans.
Wild Bill and OSS-capades,
Artificial disseminations.
Partial recriminations.
And PSYOPS:
A literary nightmare--
THE CYCLOPS from The Odyssey,
For example,
If you lack your own,
Your own personal Bogey Man.
Or men. For me:
Allen Dulles or Richard Helms.

The Intelligence Community:
It was a small tightly knit crew,
Less than battalion strength in 1942;
A few myopic soldiers,
Who, although could barely type,
Were still too cerebral to
Waste as infantry fodder.
It was a huge converted Army-green warehouse,
Space strategically partitioned,
Sectioned off into cubicle-like spaces,
By giant 4-drawer file cabinets
Standing tall like MPs,
Sentinels & Guardians,
Monuments to pre-electronic storage,
Data relatively comprehensive, and an
Archive secretive & intimidating.

Within the Army-green incunabula,
Scattered throughout the intel landscape,
Here and there a few commissioned officers,
A smattering of college psychology majors,
Personalities with predilections,
And penchants for mind games.
These self same WWII vets,
Would morph into Cold War Mad Men.
Stalwart, stouthearted men of Eisenhower,
And J. Walter Thompson,
De-mobbed, as they say in the UK.
Consumptive.
Self-indulgent,
Particularly when it came to the kids;
Children of the peace,
Called Baby-Boomers,
An entire generation enabled & destroyed.
Who would produce little of value
Except medical marijuana and
Coupons, clipped by that sober ruling class—
Fat interest-bearing college-loan portfolios
Held by that neo-Calvinist Elect: The 1%.
Fat cats one and all,
Loaded dice & canasta cronies--
In concert a stacked deck,
“Una mano lava l'altra.”
The words of my namesake--
My grandfather Giuseppe--
His vowels reverberating,
Rattling in my dreams.
Not friends, but
Fiends in high places, like
The Fed and dark liquid pools.
Thank you, Barack, for
Fooling us again.
For giving us
“Belief we can believe in.”

But I digress.
It was when the Government Secrecy Act,
In all its transnational incarnations,
Embraced capitalism in a big way,
Elevating the ideology to whole-Earth saturation,
Systemizing the ethos of Darwin,
Into one global Moby ****,
One solitary leviathan,
A multi-level marketing labyrinth,
Where wealth is the end game--
Greed: pure, unbridled & unrestrained.
Bond--James Bond—
Did his bit, supplying catchy
Slogans & tag-lines:
“For Your Eyes Only.”
“On a need to know basis.”
“Confidential Information.”
“Top & Ultra-Top Secret.”
“Hush, Hush & a Bag of Chips.”

The sealed letter sits in a locked drawer,
In that stout desk,
In the Oval Office
In The White House,
“To be opened by my VP in the event of my death.”
Another staggering work,
Of achy-achy-heart breaking genius,
The culture commoditized,
A disease containing its own cure,
Assayed, graded,
Portioned & packaged.
Priced accordingly,
To a logic that goes something like:
“Anything this tightly controlled,
Anything the government deems to be
This illegitimate and/or & secret
Must be really, really God-awesome,
Must really be Da ******* Bomb.”

Brother Coolidge was right:
“The Business of America is Business.”
And INFORMATION:
“The Most Valuable Commodity on Earth.”
So said Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III,
19th Century robber baron, and
Consummate Fat Cat.
Get the picture:
We were smoking cigars and sipping cognac,
Mighty comfortable in leather armchairs,
Muted billiard clicks,
Punctuating the atmosphere
In this spacious lounge,
His East Side
Downtown & private
Manhattan club.
I, his guest, had not the slightest idea
Why I was there.
"By God, man," he went on,
My eyes speared by his laser gaze,
His bushy eyebrows,
His monocle.
His bulbous nose;
His thick wet mustache.
And those EYES:  
Those crazy,
Insane eyes.

"I am talking about a profound change,” he continued.
“Back when the steamship
Gave way to electronic wireless radio."
He puffed smoke,
Removing the cigar from his mouth,
Holding it,
Examining it critically for a moment.
"I'm talking about communication,
Instant communication
With business associates, &
Cronies far away,
Way out there,
Far beyond the places we know well.
Picture it:
You're running a fleet of
Ramshackle Filipino banana boats,
Out of some nameless cove,
Indenting the south coast of Mindanao.
A cyclone comes out of nowhere.
Good God--there’s sixteen banana-packed
Coal burners lying on the bottom of the Celebes Sea.
Think about it:
You've got telegraph radio.
Everyone else has the post office.
Now, I ask you:
‘Who's going long,
Who’s getting rich on the
Caracas Banana Exchange?’
Good Lord, man, it would be
Like being omniscient!"
“This very conversation,” he went on,
“Could well be a verbatim transcription
Of a conversation right here in this very room,
Between people like: J. Pierpont Morgan
And some lesser Gilded Age nabob;
Some Astor, some Rockefeller,
A Gould or Vanderbilt,
Whitney or Duke,
Some Frick or Warburg--
To name just a few, old sport.”
He stopped suddenly.
He looked down at his hands,
As we both realized he had counted these names
Out on his fat curled fingers.
He looked at me and smiled.
I was afraid.
Why had I been invited to this meeting?
I smiled back at him,
Doing my best to mirror his
Carnivorous menace.

I knew it.
He knew it.
He knew I knew it.
Mr. Whitehead’s growling rabid jowls,
His slobbering canine smile held me steady.
“Okay. Touché. ‘Ya got me.”
He shook off the phony smile,
An absence, accentuating
His stare: lethal, carnal & rare.
“I never had much formal schooling.
I’ve been hungry.
Hungry enough to know for sure
That the correct fork,
Don’t mean ***** from shinola.
When I’m dining out, fancy-like,
Me manners is the least of me problems,
Far less important than
The dinner chit they
Hand me after I slake
My thirst & appetite.”
Again, he stopped suddenly,
Recognizing that, perhaps,
He’d revealed too much of his
Bedford-Stuyvesant pedigree.
He turned again and stared at me.
“None of that,” he said.
“None of that means squat to me, Boyo.
What matters now is I’m rich.
I’ve got mine, By God,
And ******* It!
Tough ***** on the rest of you losers;
The rest of you fecking whiners can go
**** yourselves over at Zuccotti Park.”
He pounded the armrest,
The padded armrest of the rich Corinthian leather—
( . . . ***, Ricardo?
Get your Montalbán
Mexicano ***, back in
Random Access Memory Land,
Where you belong.
**** ya’ Fantasy Island
Hospitality, Mr. Roarke,
Go be wrathful Khan Noon Singh,
Somewhere else.
Now is not the time, or,
Let me rephrase that:
This narrative will not allow your meme here . . .)    

Whitehead pounds the armrest again.
“My point is this:  
None of JP Morgan’s decidedly,
un-nattering lesser nabobs of negativity . . .”
BAM!  Again, he pounded the leather . . .

(Back in your ******* hole, Spiro!
Do you realize just how far back,
Just how far back
Maryland’s reputation
Has been set back by your venality?
Not to mention any shot at ethnic assimilation,
The rest of us grease ball non-Wasps
Have in this country?
You ******* Greek!)

I stopped thinking
When I realized Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III
Was reading my mind.
“So that’s what it’s really all about,” he said,
Rank smugness in his voice.
“So, I’m just a nouveau riche upstart,
A socially inept parvenu,
Yet they still let me
Join their tony clubs.
It chaps your ***, Boyo, don’t it?
I’m still Scotch-Irish, and
A WASP, Laddie.
Something your skinny
Greaser-Guinea-****-Spaghetti-*** ***,
Ain’t ever gonna be.”
But I digress, again.

So I joined one of Uncle Sam’s
Lesser-known clandestine services,
An assignment appropriate to my ethnic identity,
Namely GLADIO in Italy,
A NATO stay-behind operation &
Cold-War comedy.
I infiltrated the Brigate Rosse.
I drove the Aldo Moro kidnap vehicle.
I cooked minestrone for General Dozier.
I sliced off J. Paul Getty’s ear in Calabria.
Ironically, I lost my hearing during
The Stazione Bologna bombing.
I am consequently pensioned off,
Off both the radar and the payroll.
Years later now,
I live in one of those gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55, sunny southern California
Lunatic asylums.

Most days I am drunk at 9 AM.
I fill Bukowski mornings,
Conjuring up Jane Fonda,
Jazzercised in camo spandex.
She is high atop a Vietcong tank in Hanoi.
Or Daniel Ellsberg
Enjoying a second act in American politics,
Praising Snowden & Assange,
& Bradley Manning,
I summon up the ghosts of
Julius & Ethel,
Benedict Arnold,
Rose of Tokyo & Mata Hari—
And Ezra exiled at Rapallo,
And John Walker Lindh,
A Yankee Doodle Dandy,
Born in Washington,
District of Columbia,
By way of Afghanistan,
Taliban Americano,
Kangaroo-courted,
Presently residing at the
Federal Correctional Institution
At Terre Haute, Indiana.
Spies.
Traitors.
Saboteurs.
And Poets?
No longer capable of keeping secrets.
Desperate now to tell
The truth.

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

The highs and lows of living life
Occur in sweeping loops
The ups and downs of everything
Are determined by the groups
Of numbers as they glide
Across a digital display,
In  rendering the parabolas
Of this game of life we play.


The winning runs of business
A sweet windfall of cash
Temptation to extend that deal
Beyond …is perhaps rash;
It may just tip the balance
Commence the start of the decline
And your parabolic plunge
Will see you quailing to divine.


How you claw your way to solvency
You sweat to make it right,
How you battle tax malignancy
To surmount official might.
The administrative penchants
Of administrative types
Who insist on crossing every “T”
And switching “OUT” the lights.



Having made it, you sit astride the top
And bask in shining light.
You cast off the cloak of caution,
Claim success as yours by right.
But by morning there’s a thunderstorm
A headache and a snag,
By lunch evicted on the street
With your belongings in a bag.



The ups and downs of life my friend
Are a parabolic coast
One day you’re sitting pretty
The next day you are toast.
The only consolation
Of this constant change of state
Is the reconstructive challenge
In re-determining your fate.



So gird yourself my beauty
Hitch your belt another notch
And launch yourself at living
Before you seek that midnight watch.
For tomorrow is a mystery
The possibilities are vast
And paradoxically speaking
The very best is usually last.


Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
20th July 2008

That crude-spoken Sovereign commands a big stick,
runs the world into ruins, once our bailiwick.
Questioned why, He grins grimly, pale lips slightly pursed:
"Vindication? Straightforward: It's Me and Me First".

(To mesmerise people He’s conjured His spells
with the pride and the power that Lucifer sells –
using tricks of the trade, evil voodoos well-versed
well engendered His mojo: "It's Me and Me First").

His friends (not His foes) form the skeletal men
along trails of dead ends (for they're armed once again)
and they're counting the bones of the bodies dispersed
by His bombastic lyrics: "It's Me and Me First".

The crater walls crumble, the dust drapes and smothers,
as drummers drown screams in the dreams of the others –
while beating and throbbing, like red veins aburst,
bleating echoes redouble: "It's Me and Me First".

A warrior departed to fight for His flag
and returned as a body brought back in a bag;
alas, such are the stories of soldiers coerced
by the Devil's damnation: "It's Me and Me First".

Beneath His thick thumb, the deprived do and die,
when subjected to whims, promised pie in the sky –
yes, His heavy hand rules, and the weaklings be cursed
for accepting His sermon: "It's Me and Me First".

He's minding our business by forging fake fears
and He'll serve and protect as the bogeyman nears
by ensuring our fantasies' phantoms are nursed,
smirking: "why should you worry, It's Me and Me First".

The media moguls flash news so fantastic –
their hearsay on Honcho's forever elastic
with doctrine and hogwash and hype interspersed
'twixt the dictums of hell and of "Me and Me First".

The masses partake in His royal cavalcades
giving chase to the hearses in midnight parades
through the catacomb caves where we're falling headfirst
down the bottomless pit of "It's Me and Me First".

The children in ghettos, like slave mutineers,
vainly venture to flee before youth disappears
but their ship's on an ocean that can't be traversed
for their sails line the abyss of "Me and Me First".

While His Highness drives oxen, He's sipping champagne
thinking "each shares a trough so that none need complain",
but the water hole's drying, we're dying of thirst,
so says "sorry you guys but It's Me and Me First".

A drifter once hinted behind weary tears
"overall the world's dying or so it appears";
He replied with a flash and a sudden outburst:
"yes, but who really cares when It’s Me and Me First"?

In Great Again moments we get the DT's
from His paranoid penchants, quite like a disease,
one which spots us, then rots us, then worse comes to worst
when He utters "just Trust Me: It's Me and Me First".

When profits are plunging (approaching the pits)
He won't give up the ghost or start calling it quits,
instead purges our pockets; again reimbursed,
says (re-groping His kitty): "It's Me and Me First".

The King condescends to a sharing charade
by dispensing desserts at the penny arcade –    
yet while crawling for crumpets, the crowds are dispersed
being slogged by the slogan: "It's Me and Me First".

When faced with the facts, He's the Greatest denier
that global abuse means all life may expire –
He scoffs at the thought that it can't be reversed,
says "it's not about you, no: It's Me and Me First".

With profits performing, He smiles, misinforming  
- of weather that's warming (whilst whirlwinds twist, storming),
- of jungles conforming to nature deforming,
- of bees no more swarming, thawed glaciers transforming
bold mountains to molehills on sand bars submersed –
can the earth persevere when: "It's Me and Me First"?

                        EPILOG
If you're feeling unsettled, there's no need to fret
for it's all a delusion, and lest we forget
He repeats His old mojo (a line well-rehearsed):
"just like almighty Yahweh: It's Me and Me First".

                      EPITAPH
The remains of the deserts and wasteland lie here
where the vacuum implodes and the silence is sere
when retelling the tales of the sagas immersed
in the mythos and legends of "Me and Me First".

The stone statuettes (swapping vain epithets)
consigned rational threats (those that wisdom begets)
to their nothingness nets spread in dank oubliettes,
losing aberrant bets with no real regrets
(scorning pale silhouettes that the conscience besets).

Nonetheless, when the cosmos and chaos conversed
they but hee-hawed the hubris of "Me and Me First”.

"You're so lucky you're so well-liked."
"Your life seems so easy."

You're so lucky.
You have it so easy.

I've been spending some time to find a way to articulate my discomfort in these two phrases. "You're so lucky, you have it so easy." The reasons are pretty clear, because I don't consider my journey in the least bit easy, but I can see why you would assume that -- after all, you'll always find me being optimistic in person.

When things *were easy, they were not out of pure luck. I faced adversity with the display of resilience, and stood my ground when I was faced with hardship. I've watched my flowers wilt into weeds despite the nurture I had provided. And while I may be happier now, I was not fed the love and care I had desired from the very beginning. I wasn't always this way.

I don't talk about my past extensively. When I do, they tend to be the memories I've learned to accept and embrace throughout the course of my years. I don't talk about the time in middle school, when I was constantly made fun of for being overweight. I don't talk about the time I starved myself for weeks, thinking it would reduce the load off my stomach and hips. I don't talk about the time when I've been told I was a freak of nature, that I would never become the person I wanted to be. I don't talk about the time when doctors had to pump out the toxin out of my stomach, forcing me to ***** out pills and choke on my bile-washed throat for hours on end.

I don't talk about these things, but that doesn't make my own journey 'easy'. I did not end up to be the way I am now without all of these experiences. If that were the case, then fine. Call me lucky. Call it easy.

Life, in general, is hard. It hasn't been easy, but I've done it, and my purpose in being here today is to show all of you that you are capable. That no matter what's in your way... you can do it, too.

Which leads on to my second point: we live in a society of comparison culture. I've gone through a couple of things throughout the spans of my life, but that, in no shape or form, makes your own life experience trivial. I don't talk about my past very often, and when I do, it's often for someone who is going through something I once dealt with. I wish to leave the past in my memory box, and if it collects dust, I certainly won't mind. Not anymore, because I know now. I've experienced it. I've carried those burdens.

I do not wish to tell any of you the amount of times I've wished to leave this world. I want to tell you the reasons why I want to stay in this world. I do not wish to tell you my dislikes of this world, but my penchants of it.

In other words, what bothers me about the phrase "you have it so easy" is that it is an implied comparison.

My weight loss success was so easy... compared to someone making it out of physical therapy? My grades were easily gained... compared to someone with learning disability? My life was so easy... compared to what?

Every person is different. Every human experience is different. The phrase "you're so lucky that you have it so easy" bothers me so much, because not only does it paint over my struggles, but it emphasizes the flaw that we, as a society, have embedded into our minds. That comparing our lives to someone else and weighing our problems on a scale is the only way to determine our worth.

My friend's grandmother passed away. My other friend's dog just recently passed as well. Both individuals were devastated. I won't simply say, "my friend's feelings are legitimate because it was her grandmother, but my other friend is overreacting over an animal." No, that's not how it works. Sadness is sadness. Pain is pain. Hurt is hurt. One does not weigh any heavier than the other. They both exist on personal spectrums, but one does not hold any more value than the other.

The same applies to happiness. Happiness is constantly compared, which therefore makes all of us less happy. Just like compassion, just like hardship, and just like sadness -- happiness should not be compared, but shared.

I don't want you thinking, "Oh, Minhyuk has it so easy. Minhyuk is so lucky." I want you to wish your life could be as great as you could make it. I hope your life is better than yesterday, and the day before that. And if it isn't, I hope you can get back up on your feet and gather your courage again. I want you to stop wishing for someone else's life and begin to embrace your own. I want you to be able to stand alone in a room, without a single comparison, and know that you are worthy of absolutely everything in this golden world.

We're not lucky.
We don't have it easy.

But what we do now will make things easier, and make us happier. If not now, then in the future.

Because we are all worth it.

I can only summon feelingfulness like the passing of a dove,
postponing its arrival mid-air, somewhere along the tucked
bramble across Poblacion, starting with metaphorical sensibility
or an insensibly bland space to procure wanted meaning.
Girls prefer roses and their bright foreheads diademed with more
flowers, and boys, their chiaroscuro or lack of a color thereof, seems
to be fitting in this maladroit contrast, and so I begin, as always,
with your very vague and caged memory. Your face, the whiteness
of snowcapped alps. Your strut, my slalom in a treacherous course
of words reduced to whisperings, to flutings. Your voice, though nuanced,
flitters with an overtone of arrogance: if sound was clothed, yours would
be flamboyant ermine. And the line in front of you before I, my arbitrary turn,
assimilates into a picturesque form of waiting somewhere in Cubao.
I wanted to smash myself with train-speed towards the metallic turnstile,
which, would then famish me even so, just as much as I wish to be a car crash
somewhere within the outskirts of your town, heavily vandalized by the swill
of squalor hefting itself like the rest of the world conscious of its viscera.
  This is how I start you – like waiting for the sun to emerge by Borobudur,
or the clandestine *** of mildew and grass, a hundredfold of images appear
before me and I cannot choose upon my whims and caprices. Are you a dove?
A spear of Sun? A thunderous crackle of an impending rain? A harlequin?
A moseying cirrus? Or just another by-stander in the crowds where I ultimately
seek your being?
      This answerlessness measures my knowledge of star, and my breath snuffed
out of me while I sigh from exhausted penchants, outweigh dissimilarities and symmetries.
A progeny from all superseding conundrums arises: are you a retrogression of a wave
back to its saltine wound, flailing in brine? Or are you just the vast sea and nothing else
on a fine and lucid day where children skip stones and chant name-callings?
                   I sense the peril in this undertaking, and much to my chagrin, I still
   do not know how to end you.

Jeune homme ! je te plains ; et cependant j'admire
Ton grand parc enchanté qui semble nous sourire,
Qui fait, vu de ton seuil, le tour de l'horizon,
Grave ou joyeux suivant le jour et la saison,  
Coupé d'herbe et d'eau vive, et remplissant huit lieues
De ses vagues massifs et de ses ombres bleues.
J'admire ton domaine, et pourtant je te plains !
Car dans ces bois touffus de tant de grandeur pleins,
Où le printemps épanche un faste sans mesure,
Quelle plus misérable et plus pauvre masure
Qu'un homme usé, flétri, mort pour l'illusion,
Riche et sans volupté, jeune et sans passion,  
Dont le coeur délabré, dans ses recoins livides,
N'a plus qu'un triste amas d'anciennes coupes vides,  
Vases brisés qui n'ont rien gardé que l'ennui,
Et d'où l'amour, la joie et la candeur ont fui !

Oui, tu me fais pitié, toi qui crois faire envie !
Ce splendide séjour sur ton coeur, sur ta vie,
Jette une ombre ironique, et rit en écrasant
Ton front terne et chétif d'un cadre éblouissant.

Dis-moi, crois-tu, vraiment posséder ce royaume
D'ombre et de fleurs, où l'arbre arrondi comme un dôme,
L'étang, lame d'argent que le couchant fait d'or,
L'allée entrant au bois comme un noir corridor,
Et là, sur la forêt, ce mont qu'une tour garde,
Font un groupe si beau pour l'âme qui regarde !
Lieu sacré pour qui sait dans l'immense univers,
Dans les prés, dans les eaux et dans les vallons verts,
Retrouver les profils de la face éternelle
Dont le visage humain n'est qu'une ombre charnelle !

Que fais-tu donc ici ? Jamais on ne te voit,
Quand le matin blanchit l'angle ardoisé du toit,
Sortir, songer, cueillir la fleur, coupe irisée
Que la plante à l'oiseau tend pleine de rosée,
Et parfois t'arrêter, laissant pendre à ta main
Un livre interrompu, debout sur le chemin,
Quand le bruit du vent coupe en strophes incertaines
Cette longue chanson qui coule des fontaines.

Jamais tu n'as suivi de sommets en sommets
La ligne des coteaux qui fait rêve ; jamais
Tu n'as joui de voir, sur l'eau qui reflète,
Quelque saule noueux tordu comme un athlète.
Jamais, sévère esprit au mystère attaché,
Tu n'as questionné le vieux orme penché
Qui regarde à ses pieds toute la pleine vivre
Comme un sage qui rêve attentif à son livre.

L'été, lorsque le jour est par midi frappé,
Lorsque la lassitude a tout enveloppé,
A l'heure où l'andalouse et l'oiseau font la sieste,
Jamais le faon peureux, tapi dans l'antre agreste,
Ne te vois, à pas lents, **** de l'homme importun,
Grave, et comme ayant peur de réveiller quelqu'un,
Errer dans les forêts ténébreuses et douces
Où le silence dort sur le velours des mousses.

Que te fais tout cela ? Les nuages des cieux,
La verdure et l'azur sont l'ennui de tes yeux.
Tu n'est pas de ces fous qui vont, et qui s'en vantent,
Tendant partout l'oreille aux voix qui partout chantent,
Rendant au Seigneur d'avoir fait le printemps,
Qui ramasse un nid, ou contemple longtemps
Quelque noir champignon, monstre étrange de l'herbe.
Toi, comme un sac d'argent, tu vois passer la gerbe.
Ta futaie, en avril, sous ses bras plus nombreux
A l'air de réclamer bien des pas amoureux,
Bien des coeurs soupirants, bien des têtes pensives ;

Toi qui jouis aussi sous ses branches massives,
Tu songes, calculant le taillis qui s'accroît,
Que Paris, ce vieillard qui, l'hiver, a si froid,
Attend, sous ses vieux quais percés de rampes neuves,
Ces longs serpents de bois qui descendent les fleuves !
Ton regard voit, tandis que ton oeil flotte au ****,
Les blés d'or en farine et la prairie en foin ;
Pour toi le laboureur est un rustre qu'on paie ;
Pour toi toute fumée ondulant, noire ou gaie,
Sur le clair paysage, est un foyer impur
Où l'on cuit quelque viande à l'angle d'un vieux mur.
Quand le soir tend le ciel de ses moires ardentes
Au dos d'un fort cheval assis, jambes pendantes,
Quand les bouviers hâlés, de leur bras vigoureux
Pique tes boeufs géants qui par le chemin creux
Se hâtent pêle-mêle et s'en vont à la crèche,
Toi, devant ce tableau tu rêves à la brèche
Qu'il faudra réparer, en vendant tes silos,
Dans ta rente qui tremble aux pas de don Carlos !

Au crépuscule, après un long jour monotone,
Tu t'enfermes chez toi. Les tièdes nuits d'automne
Versent leur chaste haleine aux coteaux veloutés.
Tu n'en sais rien. D'ailleurs, qu'importe ! A tes côtés,
Belles, leur bruns cheveux appliqués sur les tempes,
Fronts roses empourprés par le reflet des lampes,
Des femmes aux yeux purs sont assises, formant
Un cercle frais qui borde et cause doucement ;
Toutes, dans leurs discours où rien n'ose apparaître,
Cachant leurs voeux, leur âmes et leur coeur que peut-être
Embaume un vague amour, fleur qu'on ne cueille pas,
Parfum qu'on sentirait en se baissant tout bas.
Tu n'en sais rien. Tu fais, parmi ces élégies,
Tomber ton froid sourire, où, sous quatre bougies,
D'autres hommes et toi, dans un coin attablés
Autour d'un tapis vert, bruyants, vous querellez
Les caprices du whist, du brelan ou de l'hombre.
La fenêtre est pourtant pleine de lune et d'ombre !

Ô risible insensé ! vraiment, je te le dis,
Cette terre, ces prés, ces vallons arrondis,
Nids de feuilles et d'herbe où jasent les villages,
Ces blés où les moineaux ont leurs joyeux pillages,
Ces champs qui, l'hiver même, ont d'austères appas,
Ne t'appartiennent point : tu ne les comprends pas.

Vois-tu, tous les passants, les enfants, les poètes,
Sur qui ton bois répand ses ombres inquiètes,
Le pauvre jeune peintre épris de ciel et d'air,
L'amant plein d'un seul nom, le sage au coeur amer,
Qui viennent rafraîchir dans cette solitude,
Hélas ! l'un son amour et l'autre son étude,
Tous ceux qui, savourant la beauté de ce lieu,
Aiment, en quittant l'homme, à s'approcher de Dieu,
Et qui, laissant ici le bruit vague et morose
Des troubles de leur âme, y prennent quelque chose
De l'immense repos de la création,
Tous ces hommes, sans or et sans ambition,
Et dont le pied poudreux ou tout mouillé par l'herbe
Te fait rire emporté par ton landau superbe,
Sont dans ce parc touffu, que tu crois sous ta loi,
Plus riches, plus chez eux, plus les maîtres que toi,
Quoique de leur forêt que ta main grille et mure
Tu puisses couper l'ombre et vendre le murmure !

Pour eux rien n'est stérile en ces asiles frais.
Pour qui les sait cueillir tout a des dons secrets.
De partout sort un flot de sagesse abondante.
L'esprit qu'a déserté la passion grondante,
Médite à l'arbre mort, aux débris du vieux pont.
Tout objet dont le bois se compose répond
A quelque objet pareil dans la forêt de l'âme.
Un feu de pâtre éteint parle à l'amour en flamme.
Tout donne des conseils au penseur, jeune ou vieux.
On se pique aux chardons ainsi qu'aux envieux ;
La feuille invite à croître ; et l'onde, en coulant vite,
Avertit qu'on se hâte et que l'heure nous quitte.
Pour eux rien n'est muet, rien n'est froid, rien n'est mort.
Un peu de plume en sang leur éveille un remord ;
Les sources sont des pleurs ; la fleur qui boit aux fleuves,
Leur dit : Souvenez-vous, ô pauvres âmes veuves !

Pour eux l'antre profond cache un songe étoilé ;
Et la nuit, sous l'azur d'un beau ciel constellé,
L'arbre sur ses rameaux, comme à travers ses branches,
Leur montre l'astre d'or et les colombes blanches,
Choses douces aux coeurs par le malheur ployés,
Car l'oiseau dit : Aimez ! et l'étoile : Croyez !

Voilà ce que chez toi verse aux âmes souffrantes
La chaste obscurité des branches murmurantes !
Mais toi, qu'en fais tu ? dis. - Tous les ans, en flots d'or,
Ce murmure, cette ombre, ineffable trésor,
Ces bruits de vent qui joue et d'arbre qui tressaille,
Vont s'enfouir au fond de ton coffre qui bâille ;
Et tu changes ces bois où l'amour s'enivra,
Toute cette nature, en loge à l'opéra !

Encor si la musique arrivait à ton âme !
Mais entre l'art et toi l'or met son mur infâme.
L'esprit qui comprend l'art comprend le reste aussi.
Tu vas donc dormir là ! sans te douter qu'ainsi
Que tous ces verts trésors que dévore ta bourse,
Gluck est une forêt et Mozart une source.

Tu dors ; et quand parfois la mode, en souriant,
Te dit : Admire, riche ! alors, joyeux, criant,
Tu surgis, demandant comment l'auteur se nomme,
Pourvu que toutefois la muse soit un homme !
Car tu te roidiras dans ton étrange orgueil
Si l'on t'apporte, un soir, quelque musique en deuil,
Urne que la pensée a chauffée à sa flamme,
Beau vase où s'est versé tout le coeur d'une femme.

Ô seigneur malvenu de ce superbe lieu !
Caillou vil incrusté dans ces rubis en feu !
Maître pour qui ces champs sont pleins de sourdes haines !
Gui parasite enflé de la sève des chênes !
Pauvre riche ! - Vis donc, puisque cela pour toi
C'est vivre. Vis sans coeur, sans pensée et sans foi.
Vis pour l'or, chose vile, et l'orgueil, chose vaine.
Végète, toi qui n'as que du sang dans la veine,
Toi qui ne sens pas Dieu frémir dans le roseau,
Regarder dans l'aurore et chanter dans l'oiseau !

Car, - et bien que tu sois celui qui rit aux belles
Et, le soir, se récrie aux romances nouvelles, -
Dans les coteaux penchants où fument les hameaux,
Près des lacs, près des fleurs, sous les larges rameaux,
Dans tes propres jardins, tu vas aussi stupide,
Aussi peu clairvoyant dans ton instinct cupide,
Aussi sourd à la vie à l'harmonie, aux voix,
Qu'un loup sauvage errant au milieu des grands bois !

Le 22 mai 1837.

Le soleil va porter le jour à d'autres mondes ;
Dans l'horizon désert Phébé monte sans bruit,
Et jette, en pénétrant les ténèbres profondes,
Un voile transparent sur le front de la nuit.

Voyez du haut des monts ses clartés ondoyantes
Comme un fleuve de flamme inonder les coteaux,
Dormir dans les vallons, ou glisser sur les pentes,
Ou rejaillir au **** du sein brillant des eaux.

La douteuse lueur, dans l'ombre répandue,
Teint d'un jour azuré la pâle obscurité,
Et fait nager au **** dans la vague étendue
Les horizons baignés par sa molle clarté !

L'Océan amoureux de ces rives tranquilles
Calme, en baisant leurs pieds, ses orageux transports,
Et pressant dans ses bras ces golfes et ces îles,
De son humide haleine en rafraîchit les bords.

Du flot qui tour à tour s'avance et se retire
L'oeil aime à suivre au **** le flexible contour :
On dirait un amant qui presse en son délire
La vierge qui résiste, et cède tour à tour !

Doux comme le soupir de l'enfant qui sommeille,
Un son vague et plaintif se répand dans les airs :
Est-ce un écho du ciel qui charme notre oreille ?
Est-ce un soupir d'amour de la terre et des mers ?

Il s'élève, il retombe, il renaît, il expire,
Comme un coeur oppressé d'un poids de volupté,
Il semble qu'en ces nuits la nature respire,
Et se plaint comme nous de sa félicité !

Mortel, ouvre ton âme à ces torrents de vie !
Reçois par tous les sens les charmes de la nuit,
A t'enivrer d'amour son ombre te convie ;
Son astre dans le ciel se lève, et te conduit.

Vois-tu ce feu lointain trembler sur la colline ?
Par la main de l'Amour c'est un phare allumé ;
Là, comme un lis penché, l'amante qui s'incline
Prête une oreille avide aux pas du bien-aimé !

La vierge, dans le songe où son âme s'égare,
Soulève un oeil d'azur qui réfléchit les cieux,
Et ses doigts au hasard errant sur sa guitare
Jettent aux vents du soir des sons mystérieux !

" Viens ! l'amoureux silence occupe au **** l'espace ;
Viens du soir près de moi respirer la fraîcheur !
C'est l'heure; à peine au **** la voile qui s'efface
Blanchit en ramenant le paisible pêcheur !

" Depuis l'heure où ta barque a fui **** de la rive,
J'ai suivi tout le jour ta voile sur les mers,
Ainsi que de son nid la colombe craintive
Suit l'aile du ramier qui blanchit dans les airs !

" Tandis qu'elle glissait sous l'ombre du rivage,
J'ai reconnu ta voix dans la voix des échos ;
Et la brise du soir, en mourant sur la plage,
Me rapportait tes chants prolongés sur les flots.

" Quand la vague a grondé sur la côte écumante,
À l'étoile des mers j'ai murmuré ton nom,
J'ai rallumé sa lampe, et de ta seule amante
L'amoureuse prière a fait fuir l'aquilon !

" Maintenant sous le ciel tout repose, ou tout aime :
La vague en ondulant vient dormir sur le bord ;
La fleur dort sur sa tige, et la nature même
Sous le dais de la nuit se recueille et s'endort.

" Vois ! la mousse a pour nous tapissé la vallée,
Le pampre s'y recourbe en replis tortueux,
Et l'haleine de l'onde, à l'oranger mêlée,
De ses fleurs qu'elle effeuille embaume mes cheveux.

" A la molle clarté de la voûte sereine
Nous chanterons ensemble assis sous le jasmin,
Jusqu'à l'heure où la lune, en glissant vers Misène,
Se perd en pâlissant dans les feux du matin. "

Elle chante ; et sa voix par intervalle expire,
Et, des accords du luth plus faiblement frappés,
Les échos assoupis ne livrent au zéphire
Que des soupirs mourants, de silence coupés !

Celui qui, le coeur plein de délire et de flamme,
A cette heure d'amour, sous cet astre enchanté,
Sentirait tout à coup le rêve de son âme
S'animer sous les traits d'une chaste beauté ;

Celui qui, sur la mousse, au pied du sycomore,
Au murmure des eaux, sous un dais de saphirs,
Assis à ses genoux, de l'une à l'autre aurore,
N'aurait pour lui parler que l'accent des soupirs ;

Celui qui, respirant son haleine adorée,
Sentirait ses cheveux, soulevés par les vents,
Caresser en passant sa paupière effleurée,
Ou rouler sur son front leurs anneaux ondoyants ;

Celui qui, suspendant les heures fugitives,
Fixant avec l'amour son âme en ce beau lieu,
Oublierait que le temps coule encor sur ces rives,
Serait-il un mortel, ou serait-il un dieu ?...

Et nous, aux doux penchants de ces verts Elysées,
Sur ces bords où l'amour eût caché son Eden,
Au murmure plaintif des vagues apaisées,
Aux rayons endormis de l'astre élysien,

Sous ce ciel où la vie, où le bonheur abonde,
Sur ces rives que l'oeil se plaît à parcourir,
Nous avons respiré cet air d'un autre monde,
Elyse !... et cependant on dit qu'il faut mourir !

I can never save you and I am terrible with
golden-haired girls with penchants for
shiver-shiver-shudder-lightning,
right through their bloodstreams
and I am a creature of ink and adrenaline
and that is all my bloodstreams have in them
and I can never save you and I can
only say I love you
and how many love-love-love-yous
can you devour before you feel content?

We have this peculiar practice, both of us. We partake in the delight of nothing.
We are two walls being vandalized. And then we are the same walls being photographed
by onlookers. And we become the complicated eye of the strangers. We become the beauty
they try to subscribe to in strange calligraphies, bent caricatures, and flagrant peripatetics.
  We have the most outlandish of penchants, especially when nothing happens while
            everything happens. Forget the sidereal zeroes of this equation. We are one
  unanswerable phenomenon tractioned by a willing cohesion. Put into mouth what fingers
    cannot do. The one in pursuit is divided by blame and the other a fugitive.
              Mind takes space when absence does its duty. There is ease in accepting
  that a body impaled in a moment may bear no gravity.
                                                                             We have disparaging repetitions.
   We invest in invented lives. We know not much from here but we know
                      the end it tries to exact in itself. The silence teems in that probability:
   all static, intrinsic, and jarring. We both know a fine day when it happens.
                         Lurking sounds of hermetic space brought to life by informed choices.
                Clinking of bottles and the silver of fish on the platter. A book stolen
from a place where everything is organized – strangely enough, the disarray people
          are capable of with their hands is not preempted
                        by a custodian. We have godless moments. Say for example, this body
   houses a river and on its flaxen waters we have already let go of everything.
                 Soft waters gnaw flesh and shadow off immediate impulses.
                                 We have bizarre practices, both of us, separate.
      Desire is dispersal. Weathering the diaspora is grace.
              We both are gilded by attendance, and in rooms fat with people we are
                                marauders of space together with them – our lives so unobstructed,
            free, and proliferating. Why can’t we house ourselves? Why can’t we cling
                 like ivy to walls of stone, melancholy to walls of blood?
                                          We have this peculiar practice, both of us. Separate. No warnings,
   no conveyed messages, no alarms. To be unmoved in moving, to be moving
                           in stasis.

Fable IV, Livre V.


Mes bons amis, je dois en convenir,
Je n'imaginais pas qu'un mort pût revenir ;
Que bien empaqueté, soit dans cette humble bière
Des humains du commun la retraite dernière,
Soit dans ce lourd cercueil dont le plomb protecteur
Plus longtemps au néant dispute un sénateur,
Au grand air un défunt pût jamais reparaître ;
Et par aucun motif, si pressant qu'il puisse être,
Se reproduire aux yeux des badauds effrayés,
À ses vieux ennemis venir tirer les pieds,
Sommer ses héritiers de tenir leurs promesses,
Et forcer ces ingrats à lui payer des messes.
Un curé de notre canton,
Qui, s'il n'est esprit fort, est du moins esprit sage,
Deux fois par semaine, au sermon,
L'affirme cependant aux gens de son village.
« Or ça, lui dis-je un jour, plaisant hors de saison,
Tantôt vous commenciez un somme,
Ou bien vous perdez la raison. »
« - La raison, répond le bonhomme,
Laquelle à mon avis doit régner en tout lieu,
« Même en chaire, enseigne qu'à Dieu
« Au monde il n'est rien d'impossible.
« - Aucune vérité n'est pour moi plus sensible.
« - Vous reconnaissez, frère, en accordant ce point,
« Qu'à mon petit troupeau je n'en impose point,
« En lui disant que Dieu, mécontent qu'on se livre
« À de pernicieux penchants,
« Peut laisser les défunts lutiner les méchants,
« Afin de leur apprendre à vivre.
« - Bien ! et vous le prouvez ? - Appuyant quelquefois
« Ce dogme édifiant d'un pieux stratagème,
« Vers le soir, dans la grange ou sur les bords du bois,
« Je le prouve en faisant le revenant moi-même.
« Tantôt vêtu de blanc, tantôt vêtu de noir,
« J'ai vingt fois relancé jusque dans son manoir
« Tel maraud qui, déjà coupable au fond de l'âme,
« Et pendable un moment plus ****,
« Convoitait du voisin le fromage ou le lard,
« Ou bien la vache, ou bien la femme.
« Changeant, suivant le cas, et de forme et de ton,
« Assisté du vicaire et surtout du bâton,
« Ainsi dans ma paroisse exorcisant le crime,
« Régénérant les mœurs, je fais payer la dîme,
« Donne un père à l'enfant qui n'en aurait pas eu ;
« Et quand au cabaret dimanche on s'est battu,
« Mettant l'apothicaire aux frais du bras qui blesse,
« Je fais faire ici par faiblesse
« Ce qu'on n'eût pas fait par vertu.
« Osez-vous m'en blâmer ? - Moi, curé, je le jure,
« De tout mon cœur je vous absous ;
« Et qui plus est je me résous
« À tolérer parfois quelque utile imposture.
« Par un vil intérêt vers le mal entraîné,
« Au bien si rarement quand l'homme est ramené
« Par le noble amour du bien même,
« En employant l'erreur qu'il aime
« Dominons le penchant dont il est dominé.
« Sans trop examiner si la chose est croyable,
« De la chose qu'on croit tirons utilité.
« Un préjugé sublime, une erreur pitoyable
« Peut tourner au profit de la société ;
« Il est bon que Rollet tremble en rêvant au diable,
« Et César en pensant à la postérité. »

when i pass away
and my earth body explodes
beneath me
like a supernova
and with it all my penchants
obsessions, desires and experiences
only one question, one truth
remains nailed to the crucible

“Have you learned to Love?”

“Have you learned to serve without
expecting anything in return?”

at the center of that heavy cross
we carry through many life times

“has the rose of pure love and oneness
blossomed?”

Tout là-haut, tout là-haut, **** de la route sûre,
Des fermes, des vallons, par delà les coteaux,
Par delà les forêts, les tapis de verdure,
**** des derniers gazons foulés par les troupeaux,

On rencontre un lac sombre encaissé dans l'abîme
Que forment quelques pics désolés et neigeux ;
L'eau, nuit et jour, y dort dans un repos sublime,
Et n'interrompt jamais son silence orageux.

Dans ce morne désert, à l'oreille incertaine
Arrivent par moments des bruits faibles et longs,
Et des échos plus morts que la cloche lointaine
D'une vache qui paît aux penchants des vallons.

Sur ces monts où le vent efface tout vestige,
Ces glaciers pailletés qu'allume le soleil,
Sur ces rochers altiers où guette le vertige,
Dans ce lac où le soir mire son teint vermeil,

Sous mes pieds, sur ma tête et partout, le silence,
Le silence qui fait qu'on voudrait se sauver,
Le silence éternel et la montagne immense,
Car l'air est immobile et tout semble rêver.

On dirait que le ciel, en cette solitude,
Se contemple dans l'onde, et que ces monts, là-bas,
Écoutent, recueillis, dans leur grave attitude,
Un mystère divin que l'homme n'entend pas.

Et lorsque par hasard une nuée errante
Assombrit dans son vol le lac silencieux,
On croirait voir la robe ou l'ombre transparente
D'un esprit qui voyage et passe dans les cieux.

À Francisque Gerbault.


Bleus ou noirs, tous aimés, tous beaux,
Des yeux sans nombre ont vu l'aurore ;
Ils dorment au fond des tombeaux,
Et le soleil se lève encore.

Les nuits, plus douces que les jours,
Ont enchanté des yeux sans nombre ;
Les étoiles brillent toujours,
Et les yeux se sont remplis d'ombre.

Oh ! qu'ils aient perdu leur regard,
Non, non, cela n'est pas possible !
Ils se sont tournés quelque part
Vers ce qu'on nomme l'invisible ;

Et comme les astres penchants
Nous quittent, mais au ciel demeurent,
Les prunelles ont leurs couchants,
Mais il n'est pas vrai qu'elles meurent.

Bleus ou noirs, tous aimés, tous beaux,
Ouverts à quelque immense aurore,
De l'autre côté des tombeaux
Les yeux qu'on ferme voient encore.

Mes amis et moi
Ont n'a pas les mêmes penchants, mais on cohabite ensemble.
On n'a pas les mêmes religions, mais on mange à la même table.
On est partisans de différentes parties Politique, mais on se parle aimablement et nos débats son sur la base du respect et de l'encouragement mutuelle.
On a différent goût, mais on ne manque pas de s'apprecier.

C'est ça la diversité.

Elle  se veut elle-même diversifie.
Donnez-lui des définitions et des avis diffèrent et elle vous magnifiera.
Seulement garder son sens premier
Celle qui prône : l'amour, l'entente ,  la paix et le vivre ensemble.


Plus qu la vie, elle est en larmes
Plus qu n'importe quelle espèce en voie de disparition, elle est menacée d'distinction,
toujours par les hommes.

Les hommes se plaignent de multiples maux pourtant, ils refusent tous ses baumes

L'homme est décidément la seule espèce sur terre qui fuit consciemment la solution à ses problèmes et bizarrement, ils se plainent sans cesse de ses problèmes.

VII.

Toi qui bats de ton flux fidèle
La roche où j'ai ployé mon aile,
Vaincu, mais non pas abattu,
Gouffre où l'air joue, où l'esquif sombre
Pourquoi me parles-tu dans l'ombre ?
Ô sombre mer, que me veux-tu ?

Tu n'y peux rien ! Ronge tes digues,
Epands l'onde que tu prodigues,
Laisse-moi souffrir et rêver ;
Toutes les eaux de ton abîme,
Hélas ! passeraient sur ce crime,
Ô vaste mer, sans le laver !

Je comprends, tu veux m'en distraire
Tu me dis : Calme-toi, mon frère,
Calme-toi, penseur orageux !
Mais toi-même alors, mer profonde,
Calme ton flot puissant qui gronde,
Toujours amer, jamais fangeux !

Tu crois en ton pouvoir suprême,
Toi qu'on admire, toi qu'on aime,
Toi qui ressembles au destin,
Toi que les cieux ont azurée,
Toi qui dans ton onde sacrée
Laves l'étoile du matin !

Tu me dis : Viens, contemple, oublie !
Tu me montres le mât qui plie,
Les blocs verdis, les caps croulants,
L'écume au **** dans les décombres,
S'abattant sur les rochers sombres
Comme une troupe d'oiseaux blancs,

La pêcheuse aux pieds nus qui chante,
L'eau bleue où fuit la nef penchants,
Le marin, rude laboureur,
Les hautes vagues en démence
Tu me montres ta grâce immense
Mêlée à ton immense horreur ;

Tu me dis : Donne-moi ton âme  
Proscrit, éteins en moi ta flamme  
Marcheur, jette aux flots ton bâton
Tourne vers moi ta vue ingrate.
Tu me dis : J'endormais Socrate !
Tu me dis : J'ai calmé Caton !

Non ! respecte l'âpre pensée,
L'âme du juste courroucée,
L'esprit qui songe aux noirs forfaits !
Parle aux vieux rochers, tes conquêtes,
Et laisse en repos mes tempêtes !
D'ailleurs, mer sombre, je te hais !

Ô mer ! n'est-ce pas toi, servante,
Qui traînes sur ton eau mouvante,
Parmi les vents et les écueils,
Vers Cayenne aux fosses profondes
Ces noirs pontons qui sur tes ondes
Passent comme de grands cercueils !

N'est-ce pas toi qui les emportes
Vers le sépulcre ouvrant ses portes,
Tous nos martyrs au front serein,
Dans la cale où manque la paille,
Où les canons pleins de mitraille,
Béants, passent leur cou d'airain !

Et s'ils pleurent, si les tortures  
Font fléchir ces hautes natures,
N'est-ce pas toi, gouffre exécré,
Qui te mêles à leur supplice,
Et qui de ta rumeur complice
Couvres leur cri désespéré !

Du 16 au 22 novembre 1852, à Jersey

Jadis je vous disais : « Vivez, régnez, Madame !
Le salon vous attend ! le succès vous réclame !
Le bal éblouissant pâlit quand vous partez !
Soyez illustre et belle ! aimez ! riez ! chantez !
Vous avez la splendeur des astres et des roses !
Votre regard charmant, où je lis tant de choses,
Commente vos discours légers et gracieux.
Ce que dit votre bouche étincelle en vos yeux.
Il semble, quand parfois un chagrin vous alarme,
Qu'ils versent une perle et non pas une larme.
Même quand vous rêvez, vous souriez encor,
Vivez, fêtée et fière, ô belle aux cheveux d'or ! »
Maintenant vous voilà pâle, grave, muette,
Morte, et transfigurée, et je vous dis : « Poète !
Viens me chercher ! Archange ! être mystérieux !
Fais pour moi transparents et la terre et les cieux !
Révèle-moi, d'un mot de ta bouche profonde,
La grande énigme humaine et le secret du monde !
Confirme en mon esprit Descarte ou Spinosa !
Car tu sais le vrai nom de celui qui perça,
Pour que nous puissions voir sa lumière sans voiles,
Ces trous du noir plafond qu'on nomme les étoiles !
Car je te sens flotter sous mes rameaux penchants ;
Car ta lyre invisible a de sublimes chants !
Car mon sombre océan, où l'esquif s'aventure,
T'épouvante et te plaît ; car la sainte nature,
La nature éternelle, et les champs, et les bois,
Parlent de ta grande âme avec leur grande voix ! »

Paris, 1840. - Jersey, 1855.

Elle était déchaussée, elle était décoiffée,
Assise, les pieds nus, parmi les joncs penchants ;
Moi qui passais par là, je crus voir une fée,
Et je lui dis : Veux-tu t'en venir dans les champs ?

Elle me regarda de ce regard suprême
Qui reste à la beauté quand nous en triomphons,
Et je lui dis : Veux-tu, c'est le mois où l'on aime,
Veux-tu nous en aller sous les arbres profonds ?

Elle essuya ses pieds à l'herbe de la rive ;
Elle me regarda pour la seconde fois,
Et la belle folâtre alors devint pensive.
Oh ! comme les oiseaux chantaient au fond des bois !

Comme l'eau caressait doucement le rivage !
Je vis venir à moi, dans les grands roseaux verts,
La belle fille heureuse, effarée et sauvage,
Ses cheveux dans ses yeux, et riant au travers.

My mind has frayed once again.
Single strands of whispered fate coaxed into softend place. They mingle respectful to their own reputations whilst seeking was to divert the eyes of equals to rise out of hidden pockets the tithes demanded from greed laden eyes.
As if they considered them souls worth knowing. Malfuctioning components running for amusement & money.
Though we know, and they know we know, yet pretend otherwise. Penchants demand this and so it is strictly kept. Whether beautiful or unkempt they laugh with desolate eyes laden wide and dry as deserts from looking past their shoulder.
Funny when the knife impales the ******* from the front.
While others wash these truths down like water of a ducks back, or clerics with poultergeists. Acknowledge the accomplishments and laugh in face of laudy profiteers, never knowing if the love of dear family and ***** diggers is clearly to be estableshed as the status quo.
It seems they gained the world and created hell, but we see the hell they made is all their own.

Most intend the arrow’s path
to fly true straight from the bow
with a goal in their sights
when the hand let goes the string
this is the plan in elder’s eyes
witnessed cross an era’s span
fetchers all across the years
spawning myths of targets hit.

Preference cast to normality
purpose planned at the release
fingers slip from the shaft
propelling life beyond their grasp
that’s where the intent ends
given to another life
with their fate to chose alone
missile finding where it should land.

The arrow flies through the air
launched from bow with fair intent
a catapult of fortune’s lot
where is the choice in where it lands?
this or the other, the targets span
spectrums spread across our lives
asking all to choose their lot
objective hit at flight’s outcome.

Self-acceptance is the key
perhaps not the same as penchants cast
acceptance of the providence
circumspection of the whole
foresight fails and life goes on
the purest love is for the self
no matter where the flight is ceased
an arrow’s path is heart revealed.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180113.