it's 3:23 in the morning
and I'm awake
because my great great grandchildren
won't let me sleep
my great great grandchildren
ask me in dreams
what did you do while the planet was plundered?
what did you do when the earth was unraveling?

surely you did something
when the seasons started failing?

as the mammals, reptiles, birds were all dying?

did you fill the streets with protest
when democracy was stolen?

what did you do
once
you
knew?

I'm riding home on the Colma train
I've got the voice of the milky way in my dreams

I have teams of scientists
feeding me data daily
and pleading I immediately
turn it into poetry

I want just this consciousness reached
by people in range of secret frequencies
contained in my speech

I am the desirous earth
equidistant to the underworld
and the flesh of the stars

I am everything already lost

the moment the universe turns transparent
and all the light shoots through the cosmos

I use words to instigate silence

I'm a hieroglyphic stairway
in a buried Mayan city
suddenly exposed by a hurricane

a satellite circling earth
finding dinosaur bones
in the Gobi desert
I am telescopes that see back in time

I am the precession of the equinoxes,
the magnetism of the spiraling sea

I'm riding home on the Colma train
with the voice of the milky way in my dreams

I am myths where violets blossom from blood
like dying and rising gods

I'm the boundary of time
soul encountering soul
and tongues of fire

it's 3:23 in the morning
and I can't sleep
because my great great grandchildren
ask me in dreams
what did you do while the earth was unraveling?

I want just this consciousness reached
by people in range of secret frequencies
contained in my speech


©2003

My heart orbiting
Around these years old coffee rings
That blemish these fading,
Family pictures.
                          A path of precession,
Towards the vernal equinox of my thoughts.
When the sun’s light Scatters evenly across
Lines in the sand We never dared cross
                                       Or,          
The last solemn ride For better words left unsaid
Death truly does Do us part
                            Death of a feeling
                            Fleeting
                                        Stars
                                                Upon
           ­                                             My
                                                            Ceil­ing

I Want To Write Poems,
All Over Your Body,
And Pray That,
Whenever I Turn You On,
It Melts All Over
This Angelic Carpet.

I love my very own pen
a pen easy to push
a pen for truth
lies out-cast!

I love my pen
the way it goes along
with my helical head
the way it goes swift
with my roguish paper
the way it writes blank prose
delighted? Not me, it's them
or you.

non-sense fonts, they say
I beg for disgrace
for they are the power
of my visions thing
they are the power of my dark ink
freedom sharpened, inked
I scribbled its wisdom

Thoughts once ooze out
ideas irretrievable
impressions? I don't need
exactly its ballpoint's labor of thoughts
desires for precession and
harmony
of ideas never pirate.

It is the last day of May,
Summer's now in full swing
and I've come to realize many things.

I think, for once, I'd rather leave them
unwritten. There's little I can say
now that'll reconcile memory.

when God claps His hands
the sky plays woodwinds
while the clouds play
the percussions and
the ghost of
Athena plays
her golden harp
in the precession of
the blue-eyed storm

Programmers   are   the   new   age   Necromancers
At a keyboard and screen, for aeons, they tap away
With   the   finesse  and  precession  of  tap dancers

They converse patiently with the  cold  and  lifeless  machine
With the love and care the rest of us reserve only for children
Filled with bewildering communiques is their lifelong dream

Their eyes dart back  and  forth in a room full of people
Hoping  to  avoid  the  gaze that leads to a conversation
In a church, at mass time, you’ll find them in the steeple

They are the toy makers of our current times
That provide  your  life  with  leisure and joy
To  them  is their code,  as  to  us, our rhymes

Rippling outward till the waves stop.
Dropped from a 5ft 10" skyscraper with a plop.

Perfect circles in precession,
stretching into regression
The placidity is eerie
as it returns with no sign of it's companion

The next one cast did a flip flop
across the liquid table top.

Those ripples again.
As if this lake had a brain,
it feigns space to detain
the stone and share knowledge arcane.  

The last one I decided to swap
I traded the lake's ripples for ones in my pocket.

Its a reason to return to the lake
The reason behind the pebble's wake
Scientifically, I know the make.
How is done, now why is at the stake.
,

Just watching raindrops slapping leaves
is better than anything requiring electricity
including fame and posterity. Monday
morning I walk over to the art museum
stand before Homer. I'm imagining
life in ancient Greece, the land largely
deforested to build a navy, white as bone,
a tourist attraction. The sea too being
denuded of its fish, super-efficient fishery
fleets, and every human wanting a healthy
dose of omega 3. O my God, omega!

the 24th and last letter of his alphabet,
which means great and has a value of 800,
often used to denote the last, the end, the
ultimate limit of a set, as in I am the alpha
and the omega (which was omitted
from the oldest manuscripts). In physics,
ohm is a unit of electrical resistance,
in chemistry, oxygen-18, a stable isotope,
in statistical mechanics, it represents multiplicity
(the number of microstates) in a system.
In astronomy, the density of the universe
(density parameter), the ranking of a star’s
brightness in a constellation, and the orbital
elements: the longitude of the ascending node
and the designation of the argument
of periapsis of an orbit.

Also the solid angle or rate of precession
in a gyroscope. In particle physics,
omega baryons. In complex analysis,
the Omega constant, a solution to Lambert's
W-function. In calculus, a variable
for a 2-dimensional region, usually
corresponding to the domain of a double
integral. In topos theory, the codomain
of the subobject classifier of an elementary
space. In combinatory logic,
the looping combinator. In group theory,
the omega and agemo subgroups of a p-group.
In Big O notation, the asymptotic behavior
of functions. Chaitin's uncomputable constant.

Omega watches, badge of the Supreme Court,
last mission of the Space Shuttle program,
God of War, Heroes of Olympus, Pokemon's
Omega Ruby, Sonic the Hedgehog's E-123.
Symbol of resistance to the Vietnam War draft.
Year of date of death. Lowest-ranked wolf.

In molecular biology, a two-point crossover.
The lower case omega denotes the carbon atom
furthest from the carboxyl group of a fatty acid.
One of the RNA polymerase subunits.
The dihedral angle associated with the peptide group.
A measure of evolution at the protein level.
In dynamics, angular velocity or angular frequency.
In computational fluid dynamics, the specific
turbulence dissipation rate. In meteorology,
the Lagrangian time rate of change of pressure
for a parcel of air. Natural frequency
in circuit analysis and signal processing.
The omega meson.
NULL, a missing or inappropriate value.

The first transfinite ordinal number.
The first uncountable ordinal number.
The complex cube roots of 1.
The Wright Omega function. A general differential form.
The number of distinct prime divisors of n.
An arithmetic function. The self-application combinator.

The elasticity of financial options.
The tracking error of an investment manager.
In linguistics, the phonological word.
The archetype of a manuscript tradition.
In eschatology, the symbol for the end of everything.

The beginning of my first week without tv.
No more movies. If I have nothing to do
or I'm too bored to do anything, I'll just sit still
see what happens. Be like weather.
Be under the weather, with the weather,
in weather. Watch weather from the window.
Wait for change, in me and the weather.
How will I change? This is life and not life.
In 15 years or so I'll be gone from the earth,
bones whitening on some mountain
or rotting in the lowlands river or estuary I lived near,
flesh to sweat flesh with the population, dead.

This death, consciousness of which should give
this life's activities perspective, except for the red
sunset which remains untouched by atomic IQ;
and dead, laying open to the blue sky and dry leaves
one autumn like last autumn, or the autumn
I realized my insignificance.

Hex Birthright in Hellenika

The Celestial Spirit of Vernarth began to walk through the Castellum del Horcodising, after the parapsychological regression in the conclusive auction and purge of him. He was looming at the Horcondising Keep; here all toilet modules, food, and medicines were well equipped, except for the inks and writing papers that were totally exhausted. Here you can see his mother Luccica, who was in a position to scribble and write on an upstairs deck, and in the other hand, she had a rosary of liberation, which anonymously appears before her purging in the presence of the protervative spellings that still wander through the cells and bedrooms of the Castellum del Horcondising. Her mother is seen twisted over the voices that polished the eight moons that she had designed for her son Vernarth from the very machicolations of the Castellum, but now with a rosary of liberation. It was clearly seen in the leaves written by her, which said that “My son abandoned his weapons, now in fluids of holy water, symbolizing real chimeras by the projections, to those who read his life verses in our Castellum, in Gaugamela and Patmos ”. Vernarth, mostly Hellenic, awaits to manifest healings for all creation, dumping water from moon storms on Rhodes, and lighting Matacan wall light at the door of the Messiah stand.

Vernart says: “my adolescent look, she has to be reborn with that of my father Bernardolipo; a whole Chamberlain, making himself free and a supporter of the baronies that were part of the servants of my servants…! Although now to climb his cabinet I have to raise my knees higher before his amplified step, calling us all and trying to be closer to a new bell to call us to dinner, as an entity of pride of architecture defined by his pen, ink, and white sheet that I mention. The mother I have to mention; My mother Luccica, rests not condemned or corrupted before her flesh, rather perfectly united to her spirit that envelops her free of sin, so that her company would be of complete solitude in our Castellum, we will continue to be in conformity with the spirit because our mansion is a beautiful spirit of vicissitudes, life, and peace, that our esplanade holds hunger and coldly indifferent to loneliness, cooling and pleasing the company of its own cold, rising from the first rays of the day, as well as rising from the first pinches of graduated ink, agreeing in the corrals where my father already lived according to his life among debtors, mortifying what he has not been able to mount on his steeds that inhabit his senses, leaving not so far to greet them in the mornings free of errors of not greeting, even When the minimum space is left to think of him as a joint-heir. Because the laments sob and others are born in the virginity of the light of the world with other lines Luccica can scarcely write, writing her co-age spirit, manifesting itself foolishly in suffering perfection; manifesting itself as everyone's delight, although ringing with anger at not freeing itself from glorious freedom. Not all sing to the tune of the disability of putting the strength of the grapheme of posterity, rather we blind ourselves by putting hope, but of patience that we arm ourselves by losing our courage to have it. Our will is of the magnitude of saints when doubt and fear entertain us, according to all the things and purposes that irreversibly will surprise us. I do not know where I have to walk here in this tower ?, because I know that myths of the unknown will fall according to the fact that I am his son, being the first-born of all men in the world, speaking of who among many intercede before tribulation or anguish, that strips me of all spirit still asking for it and justifying that I keep talking about them, but that I have been gone for a long time. For this reason, venerated mother, wake up from this frozen cell of the courtesy tower, because I am jealous and I believe that neither death nor life will fill the dead suspended in your room, which support more lives with their angels adorning their bindings and paragraphs, with principalities that are increasingly so distant more than imminent to come to please you. When your name is tried in real vices to increase, they are being stripped of the sons of the principality in which they shine from afar, but with our feet dancing on despotic brilliance, and not of the hollow that still does not fill my heart for you”

Emerging from the last lights of the Castellum del Horcondising, Vernarth bids farewell to his reign, leaving his mother Luccica in the company of three Angels who mined him with the amber mistletoe, of sallow light. However, she will remain frosted on her desk with ink at night and by day, so that when the day ceases, she will draw ink from the darkest night to continue writing that she can already be without Him! Near the Halleniká Necropolis in Rhodes, a statue of Peltasts stood, shielding the site where the “Vas Auric” Auric Medallion would sporadically rest, which came between the bilges, now inside the Eurydice. It came predestined with sacred amber garments alloyed, to make up for the between Peltast mediators who guarded them, to deliver it to its Commander Vernarth.

The Apostle Saint John says: “The Sephardim like us in exile did not see reasons restored in our union and tradition, we resembled a diaspora that did not derive voluntarily, according to events that occurred in my case in Judah at the hands of the Romans. The Alexandrian Jews form on my part certain Israelites dispersed in my prayers, leaving us where the radiance of our faith makes sense and dispensed power to us. My economy is to create the furniture that will inhabit laborious houses in the Staurós histos, even among those Jews and mercenary soldiers, freeing themselves from prejudices and clothing that represented them alone and fragile, being sensible by the diaspora. The world separates itself from the matter cell, clinging to the consciousness of the unity of dispersed Mosaicism as a sacrificial cult, to cater to those who write history more distant than a synagogue without a Rabbi. When bad winds blew there, they often made the situation worse for those scattered in a foreign land. At the end of the Hellenistic era, we had Jews in Persia, Mesopotamia, Syria, Phenicia, Pontus, north of the Black Sea, Cappadocia, the rest of Asia Minor, Egypt, and Cyrenaica, Carthage, Greece, Macedonia, and Italy. Now I in Rhodes with the Vas Auric, to trace the true effigy of Judas Thaddeus, my co-religious in pursuit of an intellectual and theological religious activity of edifying centers of prayer and universal unification, here in the Necropolis of Hallenikka, where some Davidian Psalm will be in more regions of here documented in precession, and as a reciprocal religion to Hellenic situationism. Its religiosity is felt, it even remains open in proselytism that causes the indefiniteness of the half-convert and that implies a risk for the identity of the Jewish religion as the support of a people with not a little original conscience "

He sings The Delphic Sibyl: “He bears the crown of thorns of the Coronation of Jesus, which also happened in the Praetorium, and as in previous cases to the scene represented in the corresponding neutral. In Eritrea Stauros, rather Herophile, if chaste and Delphic clairvoyant and apologetic, her vernacular artery made her a native of Marpeso, Troyana-Troade. As in fantasies of being the daughter of a Nymph and a Shepherd. Her elegy was escorting her to the Duodecim Evangelii, from Samos she is docking towards Patmos at the foundations of the Megaron. With the same polygon of the Sistine Chapel, in the quattrocento, where Vernarth had assistance in the parapsychological Regression of the Quattrocento Duodecim Evangelii, announcing that Vernolatry would be part of his Apologetic life, inspiring prophecies with the Iaspis Parables, commending scholarship after the grave that He was in the forest of Apollo Smintheus, returning to his origins in a sinkhole in Mount Coric. The idiomatic cross was its interlaced fractal, with threads and kashmar pole, surrounding the crossed palisades with linen threads, and Koiné to display the cross in the hestion or towards the Staurós or cross, in the capital event of the material instrument of execution for the man who falls into no man's land "

Never mind the best of us
I, I have seen the rest of us wander out into the desert parking lots, exodus from bars and rest stops with no sleep drunk behind wheels that take them no where in particular.
Bodies and minds prostituted in our highest universities. “Before I throw you out of my class may I ask you why you have such a sense of entitlement?”
We are all entitled to learn and to do it at no greater cost than our time and our blood and fears and ambition.

We have gone on too long to see men without women and men with out men. Men without *** because there is no revolution. The women are too busy texting while driving and they are now dead. Free love is as dead as communism and the act of necking at the drive in.

Men are turned boys again who live on couches in one room basements in basements in basements in cages. Just where they ought to be, youthful beasts, who wish to make more of their lives, wish to make anything at all.

I have worked shoulder to shoulder with those that do not want to work because it can’t even pay the bills. Why dig your own grave only to die trying to dig your way out?
And yet even to the lucky ones death never comes. There is no cold, only the burn of want, ever and always.

Perhaps money is a sickness far greater than those who suffer and sweat through swine flu and strep throat, have broken legs, loose bowls and AIDS. HA! For money won’t afford them the 300 hundred dollar lift in the ambulance. So even the dead are not dead, they are being ****** instead.

Then there are the zombies those that walk both day and night, rather, endless night, loyally addicted to a tin of tobacco or a real wicked pack. Forget what they tell you about health risk, at 7 bucks a pop tabbacy can’t feed your baby and winter is coming fast.

People have forgotten the elderly that walk the sides of the roads waiting for handicapped access to their graves. Perhaps it’s because the old has forgotten the young just as much. But lest we forget, I speak to you as a fountain of youth.

“Let them eat cake!” OR feast on handfuls of Slim Jims and pour me a tall, warm Pap’s Blue Ribbon because bread and eggs and water are for the Prince of Monte Carlo and food stamps are too passé, besides they aren’t even stamps anymore!

I want to cry for the many with broken hearts sewn together through strings of text messages and with the precession of a Nike sweat shop worker. The heart of the world is coming undone. Touch the next person you see before it’s too late.

Finally a word to the wise, more specifically the literate: My generation knows God is dead (we found his body in one of those soggy bar parking lots after a night of Quizzo) yet so is science (Discovery Channel is way boring nowadays). We are alone as a tree in Brooklyn.

Listen to windmills,
Breathe, become breath

Coarse hair is stroked across strings
A the faint sonority travels on winds
Bold changes in the sky, it is cleaned
Violin!, imerse me now in your squandered dreams

Listen to windmills
Learn to breathe, become breathing man

The bones hammer, tuning in on precession
Lower the drums, turn a slow recession
Imagine circling down metal tubes and dripping out
fluidly over the sounds of the Englar Alheimsins
a journey to the underworld, home?

Englar Alheimsins; listen to windmills breathe

Write in spite.

Leave these other guys desensitized.
Sacrificial activism
stop telling these lies
Lyrical capitalism
Deception is precession
Dark future; bright prison
Dark past; bright vision
Stuck inside; minds prism
All equal BUT, what division?
Quest, what?
New edition.
Not what eye envisioned.
Isosceles try angles
Highs lighten; the atrocities  
Apostrophes trapping trophies
Kings fallen; to their knees
Ruled by their needs
The heinous comes,
with the mockeries.
Fable creatures; feeble needs.
Dream Chasers see, wicked dreams.
The life of an artist is not all that it seems: see what I mean?

iv 5-2-18

wrest the black tang the cosmic vacuum of background static and an ungainly dream of walking down a mountain path with my father we descend the silent belly of campus seats filled with mounted bodies lolling the inside stench anna walks ahead of me her voice cuts the waking body of midnight shuttles a hydroponic plant and the sparse parking lot of a supermarket radiating cold.

the fright, the nervous flesh, the stuttered pace of cars, the empty lot, the empty hour, the empty admission of make-belief, collapsing into precession at the peak of worthlessness.

ii 22-1-18

An endless stream, the back of an apartment block, fingers twine across the powder red of brick and sunlight.

I try to catch a glimpse of myself in her eyes, but beyond recognition there is nothing.

I see my father behind a sliding door. He moves further into the kitchen to take pictures from a tripod.

Clothes litter the ground. Nothing fits.

iii 4-2-18

the cracked linen STOP the momentary arrogance STOP the surfacing violence STOP the weathering STOP

A YELL torpid stultifying CRASH cruel ******* trace of the same

and all i can do is shrink as green tea soaks the tablecloth.

i 31-1-17

The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human.

holdover from the air cools bitter awash of dark and a turning horizon without centre. where i entered an empty frame across distance and skin like smoke. ive been having nightmares of cosmic terror a sublime loss of control like paper tearing in the chaotic drifts of broken eddies and other everyday things an inward open mirror a sunlit line wavering to heat disintegration dispersal erosion and death. ive been reading uncanny fluctuations in the sign of things in a power too great and sparse to comprehend overwhelmed by haunting finitude as time veers into collision and the fleeting panic of yesterdays blood. i find myself shaking at the thought of contact the electromagnetic law of repulsion built into the fabric of my flesh eyes turned away like a promise all language from dead stars. dragged along these orbits my skin trembles and i am hateful. faces blur in passageways half-lit rooms smudge across the surface of my memory until i see nothing but the colour of what was tightening the cords of my ribs stumbling inflexion. in the precession of traffic light blurs through my sleeve and i realise i was invisible all along and that i did this to myself and that nobody can help me and that i did this to myself and that i will retreat further and further and further because if it hurts to be abandoned it hurts more to be approached and misunderstood. the masks the words the acts the plays and beneath it all fear cruel mounting hopeless wretched fear eyes turning fingers running over and over until they break the lines of my face a *******. i turn the clocks upside down. i take the batteries out of all my electronic devices. i break the locks on my door. only then does morning come.

The sun shines at midnight
on this wild white frontier
calls from homecoming seals
have the pups reply with zeal

Soon will come the time
they will break for the shoreline
a slow precession of mothers and pups
back to the invitation of the ocean

Long shadows cast
in the chilling winds
the bite of Antarctic
bids them farewell

Till next year they come
to this nursery freezer
back to where birth begun
back to the midnight sun

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

A person sits and cries
Knees together, holding her face
Lips quiver, and tears leak from cracks
Hide from the world
Not just a girl
But full grown
A woman, long

A clock clicks
Wordless in the night
It's not the precision preferred
Everything is not all right
It's face so pretty
Decorated with scrolls
Beautiful in architecture

It tells the time
But cannot really see inside
It's mind isn't shattered
It's still beautiful
Cogs, levers, springs and gears
It can only look at others
Knows something is wrong

It sees the world, all the other faces
Clocks themselves, faces hiding minds
Only hears the tick, click and tock
Sometimes it rains, humidity brings
Another tock, and knows it's off
Just one more tick
Make it work

One has to look past the face
See it's mind, complete
Not the pretty, but
Admire the precision
Mechanical beauty
Revenged emotional
Struggling time

Always trying so hard
Get through the hours
Minutes in seconds
Maybe it's ok, a little slow
A little fast, time makes time
Looking at clocks
Feeling only wrong

But it's the slow and fast
Moments between
When someday, it seems
That ticks and tocks
Patchwork healing
Shrugging, painful seconds
Keep perfect time

The other clocks
Faces hiding broken minds
Look to that grand Ol' tock
See only that it goes
Not its struggle
So in her hands
Tears slide down

Her woman's cheeks
All red, eyes puffy
A mind restrained
She hides her face, not
So all the other clocks
Can all go tick, tock
Click, whir

She only knows her
Ignoring the fact that
Her time is perfect
For everything he needs
Because the beauty of
Elegance is precession

His sense is timeless
Wonder not measured
For hours, creep
Minutes, tick
Seconds, wander
But altogether
She is everything

A crimson muddy ravine is marked on both sides by
massive cliffs towering over the precession below. A figure wrapped
in white muslin and rubbed with ash  is propped up on a stone altar. Around the figure
tribesman and women dance hard, their eyes wild, their curled fingers wicked.
The figure is not touched by the dancers almost as if he is diseased. I realize
at this point that that is exactly what is going on. A plague has swept through this
tribe and killed many. They burn the bodies on these altars to appease the gods
and to beg mercy. The dripping fat and flesh pools in the mud below, making a small trickle of filth that led to near by water. Down river from this tribe is a whole different world. Here instead of being dark
skinned the people are very pale. All of their houses are remains from shipwrecks
put up into trees and connected by rope bridges, hammocks and twisting vines. Below the fields are
covered with water. Below the surface was their crops. Melons, lettuces, berries, peppers all kinds of
earth like flora but every species glowed softly with a pulsing beat. The pale tribe was very careful walking through the lines while harvesting. One rough handling could ruin the whole crop. A sense of fear was here all of the people smelled strongly of it. I could still hear the drum beat of the sick tribe. All work stopped and slowly everyone turned to look at me. Just then a loud crackling sound shot through the sky. A bolt of lightening struck close. Gasps could be heard all around. I looked quickly at my feet in the fields of water and didn't see the glow. The fields were black. The pale faces around me sunk in, gaunt and hungry. Their mouths worked but I could not hear them. My vision went blurry then black, fading away from their struggle.

Eyeball god in mouth

Ostara?…Dio?…Luna? …

Is light as hunger for colors?

Eros the god of eyes and the hidden feelings
shameful man with ***** **** — sighing ***
in his heart — a crack, deep and wide!

Black Hole!

Punk rock for a Black Hole!

Rainbow and jubilee exploded in flood!

Like a ***** universe all of our pornographic desires
moments of starving stars and **** stars!

An eyeless god living in a glass tube with hearts
like hot flashes in heat-blasted rooms!
Pulsing pimples — swirling while a midnight sky
brings forth a cacophony of cosmic screams!

More impassioned raw-animal! More barking!
more vibrations — more imminence!

More sinewy limbs on show — ***** I’m looking at —
lifeless grey body but voracious pink face!

It licks and whimpers, suckles and *****!

Shall I become a statue again? — glazed face with eyes
sheers-white in precession of Venus?

Hey! Taint! Milk it!

:: 11.12. 2020 ::

We were told we were born sick
Though we never felt ill
We met in Sunday school
And over the coughs of other children
That hacked out either verses or mucus
It was never clear which
I asked you for a paint brush
And you stepped over the damp tissues
Thrown defeated on the ground
Like offerings at a precession
And you’d painted next to me.

We were told we’d always be sick
But we never looked ill
When I accidently bumped your elbow reaching for
More paper
Our blushing cheeks the color of alter wine
Bore healthy smiles and warm glows
And after countless more Sundays
When the men in funny neck ties
Came around to give us crackers
In the shapes of pills we couldn’t swallow
We decided to hide them in the sleeves of our robes
And we watched as all the other children
Grew sicker while we grew stronger
Even though they drank blood
And we’d sneak off to drink wine.

We became the heretics of hallelujahs
AWOL archangels
And we were never bed ridden from illness
In fact we yearned for the outside
Disregarding the warnings of germs
That ran rampant there
Figuring that was why they made the
Church’s steeple look like a needle
We wanted freedom nonetheless.

They told us that we would catch the flu
By holding hands
And when we were caught contaminated
They told us to wash our bodies off in the water
And you looked at me and I looked at you
And we agreed that we should-
But not this water, not here
So we grabbed hands again
And you with your free left and I with my free right
Pushed through the double doors
And as the light poured in the chapel
It scorched the priests but for us it baptized us whole
And now we tell ourselves swimming in the sea
That became our holy healing water
We’d only ever be as sick as others let us be.

A man in a prison, ‘till death do they part
Burning wood a wedding ring, twisted steel the altar
The roar of the flames is the voice of the preacher
The only voice of reality, is that mellow brass sound
Drowned about out by the precession, a chaotic occasion

A man in adulthood, the world still burning
Children born, from the oblivion his home
They know not anything else
Embracing their home with the ignorance of a newborn

A man is an elder, experienced through life
To find that the inferno, was just a ward
To bide it’s time, patiently waiting
For the end of his life, the oblivion has been realized

A man playing in slow motion as the world burns around him
Not a care in the world, just him and his trumpet
He knows what’s coming, but he cannot stop it
He just sits back, lets the oblivion consume him.

Look at the birds for me.
But not the swans.
You'd find it too difficult to see me there.
So choose the indistinguishable
grey silhouette of something else,
because that is me to you.
I don't expect you to find me in their strength,
not in their flight or their grace,
but in their movement,
they are always moving.
Only once did I see one that was still--
with its tiny beak parted and its pretty wings bent--
I pretended it was sleeping.
Do that for me, if you want.
But remember,
as surely as the precession of the equinoxes,
the birds come back.
Lucky for me, I'm not a bird.

Maybe You're A Little
Sad Because No One
Understands
What You Want Them
To Understand
And We're All Just
Lost In The Precession
Of Trying To Understand
What We Can't.

And So We Look
Up To You Just So
We Can Find Understanding.

The Understanding Of
Nothingness, I Guess.

Life, Is Nothingness.
Life, Is Sad.

One foot
Two foot
One foot back

Walking down the isle for the wrong occasion
Take my place in line in the precession

Until now you were holding it together
I'm next in line-- eyes lock on eachother
Face to face and I can mutter
is "I'm sorry about your father".

Break down in front of the alter
Time is still as we cling to one another
The same church we grew up in together
Familiar yet strange to remember




When the world's to big for you
split it down the middle
We can bear this load
Together we'll see it through

All that could warn fell flat.
I heard your story, saw your eyes.
Taken back by it’s depths.
The long tunnel eyes, I thought,
could see me back.

I can't find my red flags!

Now I’m shaken with embarrassment.
Sick with silliness I don’t even believe in.
An evil, baffled laugh: your detachment.

How did I get this far?
Your broken rib cage split open.
I saw heart!
Caught.
A snow covered bear trap.

I don’t know why I’m here, or why I’m maimed.
The ghost dances again, and again.
Who are these people you’re pinning me up against?
Does it give you solace?

And you wouldn’t release me?
Articulate it, please, why shouldn’t I go?
This cage still carries the remains of the last doe!
She prances around - but
In your head
And in mine.

Imagine another time, and another,
it’ll be their dime, not yours, remember?
Here, Instead, how about we craft them together?
I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine.
Projecting fantasy.
No persons, just loud symbols,
and a lot of real time.

How could you be so broken up about your own false dillusion?
How could you be so hurt that a human was, after all, a human.

Alas, after even this, I couldn't find them.

The sick joke is as sick as it can get.
Let’s just admit it.
This time, not hers, or yours, but my wings be split.
The individual who has been there through all of it.

Fashion together
Passing checklists of bias
it, not she, is close enough!
And I’ll be there to make sure you’ve got it.

Justification comes like a plague
I’ll forever hold my peace.
You would too.
You know you would, too.

You will see it, your creation, and it will be good.
No Holy Other could tell you otherwise.
No difference between yours and His! Right?

They have to be the one this time!
Take them in their prime.

And so I see through this glass dimly lit:
An individual to cup my lonely *******?
Just take me. This whimsical gem.
“I trust you, oh man on the farm, I trust you!”

You saw my fruit,
saw that it was good. Good to eat.
Soil that was warm an inviting.

And for years now you’ve been safe.
Safe and well fed.
You’ve traipsed the land.
But never owned it.
My early labor hidden.

There was nothing to stop it.

"What good land! Better than ever seen!"
“But what other field am I missing?”

A treasure revealed that was not ripen.
Seed dew moist with shaking burden,
A violent exposition.
You wonder why this fruit is so bitter?

I thought I could trust the hands, and what’s seen.
But they pealed open the rose bud and destroyed the flower.
Now my eyes will see as far as my roots go.

My new myopic.

The ***** will ****, and they will, too.
With devices that stick like sand-spurs.
Crafty.
We move but we don’t know why or where to.
So crafty.

In my naiveté I trusted the prudent deceit
and we both walked in an illusory state.
In my naiveté I trusted the naive!
And saw more then I’d ever seen!

You don’t know where you’re going,
So why resent me?

I am a stranger seen through a window dimly lit.
I welcomed you into this garden:
You scrambled and fit.

Madness unbridled.
“No, this isn’t it!”

******! I can’t find my red flags!
Just a needle and some thread.

Why am I here?
Come what mend?!

You came, ripped up what I knew of myself,
An inkling, with no defense.

Oh that my Master would come back
to His field and see what has been maimed:
The man on the farm and the flower!

I’m grape vine rose bush.
You take hold and smear me!
Disappointed that your 28 years wouldn’t grow me.
To be wine, or sweet perfume.

Skipping across time lines and opportunities-
further detachment from the reality created.
World within worlds all based on lies, fear, and hurt.

I’m not what I am in a farmer’s hands!

Oh but one day you'll finally bow
to a lonely and thirsty plant.
Whose only hope is now eastering.

After the longest precession of my life:
an ending so abrupt.

Please just look back.
Purge the cage of bones, pedals, and raisins.
Find land, and love it.
Because what made this land so good
is the millions of little deaths
that fermented on the top of her skin
and given: a shaking burden.
Worth that can't be cheapened.

Just take care of her this time.

I’ll have closure then.
The bear trap, clean.
And the doe’s ghost, prancing.
I’ll know that what I’ve seen in your tiger eyes
wasn’t just me looking.

The young grape vine rose bush, pruned.
My red flags,
pushed them back into the soil,
and let go the thread and needle.

String of raindrops fall to its quite melody
Rhyme with the breeze of a vocal splendor of black daisy
To the tune of every bee sip the nectar while accessing the anthers and pistil
Made music to a garden of daffodils in April

A sharpen affection piercing a stone amethyst
Asunder of its composure with a helpless catalyst
A scattered pieces spells the truth of an essence is out of worth
The antidote of intoxication has been futile a miasma to a path


Gaze into a night sky grid-like segments of stars in sight
A semblance of a two sign that shines so bright at night
Vast Ocean of complicated happiness sinks a deepest peaceful loneliness
Wide-ranging terrestrial of verdict congeal with annoyance of fate


Precession of equinoxes changed twice a thousand years
A tenth cycle in which Pisces and Taurus situate vertigo in twelfth mensis
A Supreme Being fills the gap of distant in a long period of time
Keep on tenterhooks as the time goes by

We conduct are options of said varant.

We conclude it's conduction.

Reasons and actions are prize of a pure thought for inventions.

Ingenious the seem less degree of varantions.

Permutions and recovery of old systems with out dated ways.

For we rise to seed the galaxy's with hyper precession and achivemental development.


Hesitant as hands approaches clap being of a honorable mention.


Within a one of 3 star year.

The all which provides heaps of determation.

Too grasp a world filled of diasters and need of a drained sky.

All the chemicals processed to harm the clouds.

Changing there compostion and puffness.

Weather stages are more of strenght and winds changing as well.

Inductions and communicate and words wrote by the minds of realistic convextion of persons.

Where am I? Choking tilt of the earth, forfeit of the sun. Tomorrow will be as today, a precession in retrospect, an nth masquerade in relapse.

I find no comfort in the tears,
Nor the lasting words of sentiment,
But the funeral precession marches on
And my soul wrenched from its place.

[Talking:]
Can you imagine a place?
Where all the trials and tribulations in the world...
[Talking:]
Can you imagine a place?
Where all the trials and tribulations in the world...
Don't existed, [laughs]
It's a real place
But right now it only existed through man's mind because...
The reality of it is that...
Until a time comes for you to get there... [laughs]
And you can only picture it...
So what I wanna do is try to give you a little sneak preview of...
My perception
Yeah
Watch this

[Verse 1:]
Nothing but happiness and peace felt daily
A place where ya children and babies can play safely
Where people genuinely, believe in being friendly
No such thing as hatred and no memory of envy
When no problems to face every morning when you awaken
You can sleep with doors wide open and nobody'll break in
Where love's force field is too solid to be shaken
Where each child grows up to be great women and great men
No depression or loneliness and no sad moments
And people full-grown who never heard of being homeless
Will we manifested our gifts and no dream is to distance
And they'll no hospital cause sickness is non-existed
And love perpetuates itself while no child suffers
And treatment of one another's not based around color
And you'll never hear 'Slander come' from anyone's tongue
In a hundred years old it's still considered young

[Chorus:]
In a perfect world (there would be no pain)
In a perfect world (no stress, no strain)
In a perfect world (we would all be wise and see the whole world through the tides)
In a perfect world (no war, no crimes)
In a perfect world (we would share one mind)
In a perfect world (and all we'd see is peace and real L.O.V.E.)

[Verse 2:]
Nations wouldn't verbally spar with one another
Point out flaws and seek to go to war with each other
Each person has a place in the purpose destined to flourish
No child is ever hurt a male nourish money is worthless
We learn in the most spiritually advance schools
And everything is done God's way, no man made rules
And poverty is no longer in man's vocabulary
Erase from human thought regulation or dictionary
No dream, the most wonderful thing you've every scene
Every living being bleeming with infinite self-esteem
And believe in the all wise ruler and best planner
We walked the planet in the most harmonious manner
Where those who rest in here get uncountable blessings
Total strengths and trustworthy with'cha most prize precession
If a man give his word, he keeps with no deception
In the mind full of knowledge is the only loaded weapon

[Chorus]

[Verse 3:]
Is this heaven or the hereafter the geographical area post rapture?
The book of life's unclear chapter
If it's in the sky then who derides it?
Find someone who's ever died and visualize it then returned here to describe it
Since none had carried out that mission
The question isn't if it's real, the question is it is a place or a condition?
See heaven has a great description
But men exaggerate and create division, make up written lies and fabricate depictions
So stop imaging and understand the basics
Your place been in the heavenly state, it's self-created
That old statement life is what you make it, is a true one
Your old existence erased and replaced it with a new one
See years of resentment left your progress restricted
Knew love could never move until your heart till hates evicted
And this place that I've pictured, look inside if you're wondering where is it
You don't have to give your spirit up to visit

[Chorus]

The blanket of space, where never rased so "placees after hours" you listen the blank taste settles there hate.

Conflate, the reams of the varibles.

Disagree, with the hammer of dawn.

Dust mist the area.

Immunity, was parched the thrist it needed a pass to enter with grain on hands you go to your converters.

The build began, its safety features include "secrete safe" house concepts.

So don't be silly or nodding because the scale use there own grips.

The yard puzzles most as Un seen.

Cars pass by yet no one sees the area.

How was this able to occur none will know.

Many men and women, praise there skills made in full detail.

Don't look away as the sun will change its pace more than just metaphorically.

Day after day the music, was played to the person of high grade, sheilds.

As shadow's came we light his path or aura enegy.

Disburst there attempts with tricky special ops.

Codes were recited, to open the plasma coil and the power was as is.

Above* the words read Care Is To Be Used!

Misinformation, spell to Earth, as Kings and Knight, change there views and faces.

Here as rain starts pain grew and Plains redone.

Illicit, there plains where yet with grim details Un masked.

Poker hands faces look easy.

Oh, dear lord it is that of pity.

Black ships and twister of reality.

Shade there (Egos) and stain there display.

Decate, as we go to the other room he begins his home made craft.

Shoulder, heavy as made precession, was resized for the purpose of matter displacement.

Life is but a second spread out amongst the perils of time in the precision of hours that make up the moments, till death herself calls you into her *****. As for love which transcends the perils of time and is heard as a whisper. To which the perils of time, parts letting love dwell in the procession of time itself. It seems that darkness reigns in this flurry of emotions. As do flowers wilt and die so does everything. Precession of memories haunting in a never-ending thought.
Posey 2014