I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

it made him feel old
     beyond even the years
          he was managing to carry
as he judged the children
storming the carriage
raucous in hi-vis
ever-ebullient despite
their chaperon's plea
to showcase successfully
their inimitable behaviour
only to be scuppered by
a locomotive
     lack of momentum
which did nothing to quell
their impatient effervescence

as the stationary train
     held by an unexplained
          flashing of red signals
awaited its onward journey
through yet another
outbound rush hour
not one single person
elected to sit next to
or even near by
that solitary man
wrapped tightly in coat
bedecked in hood and hat
hands deeply pocketed
and eyes half-closed
blind against his fatigue
and the low-slung sun

unseen by the children
until after their calming
the man appeared to them
     as one of those adults
          not to be disturbed
like their grandpas
deeply snoring on
those rainy Sundays
or their parents
finally at peace
after one of those
     wanton days
steering clear of limbs
and personal space
they are careful to avoid
any proximity to this
slumbering stranger
fearful of the wrath
of such an awakening

appreciating their caution
     unnecessary as it may be
through his squinted
obstructing view
unexpectant and unexpected
he found himself smiling
     at what he could see
     at what he remembered
and stirred playfully
settling deeper into
his feigned slumber
careful to avoid
confounding
any of those
childish preconceptions

.i did write about rooney mara once, didn't i? porcelain beauty... eh... not mandible beauty, the sort of beauty parallel to the Mona Lisa... the sort of beauty that's not mandible like the beauty of a fat *******'s beauty of stretch marks and extra flab... ******* a beached whale... you know... a mechanic's type of fetish for a broken down car engine... rooney mara? ms. porcelain doll beauty? that **** you just paint, you don't **** it... thinking to yourself: if i **** it, will it break?!

                       is... is...
this guy known as
yungblud...
singing the song
california...
dyslexic or something?
no, wait, wait...
he's hiding a lisp?
**** it... i'll just do
the camp *******
of reading the sunday times
style supplement
magazine, interviewing
cheryl tweedy...
****!
who the hell put on
van morrison's
brown eyed girl on?!
   yum-yum-sloppy-seconds
thank-you-very much...
like... a face that allows
you decentralize your
phallus from orientating
it around cow Martian
testicles and...
those floral patterns
in a ******...
   kinda like... joey fisher...
see... i'm under the
polygraph of a liter of
ms. amber...
     who the ****... ha ha...
lies when drunk / drinking?
she's about a liter tall...
(insert snigger)...
and she has a Havana ***
girth...
all that's missing is
pickled onions...
and some raw cherry
tomatoes...
ah ha ha ha!
god... i love reading these
articles...
i love women in general...
not unlike those glory days
when women found
*** easy...
with the likes of...
oh **** me... there's a list,
which implies a colon:
tony curtis...
   shhhhh... it...
  i can only think of tony curtis...
charlton heston doesn't
really fill the bill...
ooh ooh!
  **** jagger!
**** it... let's leave it at two...
in the meantime,
the bite of reality:
        
*****... what you gonna do
when your favorite
sugar-grandpa is kicking
the bucket?
   fix it up with the types
of losers of my generation...
lament of the first world war...
the missing men...
or the Haj route to the Kaaba
of a Saudi Sheik's harem?
me?
   i'm a father every time i ****
off...
   daddy in a tissue...
both father... and genocidal
maniac... i killed more "people"
than ******...
hey...   appetites are appetites...
but it's not as bad as if i was
given the incentive of
a circumcision...
   now... you have your dress of genitals...
and i have my *******'s worth
of tux, white **** and bow-tie...
we're even...

and to even think...
when we were leaving high-school,
i wrote down my ambitions
in the leaving book my two prime
ambitions...
either living a bohemian lifestyle
of an artist in some European
capital (Paris... god, please, Paris),
or becoming a priest...
   well... i'm doing both...
a covert monk...
          there's the god's **** of beer,
there's ms. amber,
the marquees de bourbon...
               and...
                usually a newspaper and
a blank space in pixel paper...

poor boy gotta laugh...
poor girl gotta fish, tame or hunt...
rich boy gotta party...
rich girl gotta dream about
a fling -
some variant of an indie
romantic comedy.

I am not a ****

It’s a shame

If that’s what you see

When you look at me

I’m not a gangster

Or a rapper

I’m not the images

Plastered all over T.V.

I’m respectful to women

I was taught this

By my mother

I’m willing to fight

If the cause is right

But mostly I’m a lover

…A good book

Despite

If you like

It’s cover

Compassionate

Thoughtful

And considerate

Of others

I’m not lazy

I'm not a thief

I'm not a criminal

Who runs the streets

I work at least

60 hrs. per week

And don’t be surprised

When you realize

I’m very articulate

When I speak

I’d rather read a book

Than shoot hoops

On a basketball court

Music is my passion

And I write poetry for sport

Love is my drug

And I put it

Into everything I do

It’s pure

Strong

And addictive too

I bet you won’t see that

On the news!

I am not a ****

So please don’t assume

You could be missing out

On a good friend

Don't let your preconceptions

Resume

Don’t keep your mind closed

Open up

…Make room



I'm not a ****

I am a MAN

Try to get to know me

Then you'll find out

Who I Am

when you are three you will bring home your first tracks of mud from the garden when you sneak out of the door to play. i will wash the grass stains off your socks and tell you to wait for mummy to come out next time too.

when you are four you will bring home your first macaroni necklace from nursery school and try to eat it raw. i will put it around your neck and we will make pasta together, minus the glue.

when you are five you will bring home tears and your first bleeding knee after falling off your tricycle. i will clean up the wound with antiseptic, put on a smiley face band aid and tell you it is okay to cry.

when you are six you will bring home your first finger painting from kindergarten and a white tee shirt that is streaked with a myriad of colour. i will place it on the laundry pile and we will stain canvas with paint coated fingers for the rest of the afternoon.

when you are seven you will bring home your first report card and babble excitedly about the A you got in art class. i will tell you i knew your teacher would love the tiger you drew that had too many teeth.

when you are eight you will bring home your first best friend and you will ask if you can have a sleepover. i will bake you cookies and put up a tent in the backyard so you can fall asleep under the blanket of stars.

when you are nine you will bring home your first 100 on a test and ask me if perfect is a good score. i will hug you and say that no score can be more perfect than you are.

when you are ten you will bring home your first girl guide badge and tell me you need it sewn on your uniform. i will teach you how to use a needle and thread and see your pride at accomplishing the task on your own.  

when you are eleven you will bring home your first medal from a junior fencing competition and tell me you love the foil but you are scared of the older ones who use epees and sabres (even though one day you will be one of them, too). i will hang the medal on your bedpost and show you my rusting sabre in the storeroom and tell you my stories.

when you are twelve you will bring home your first case of chickenpox from the girl who sits next to you in class. i will make you chicken soup and we will make bad puns about poultry for the next two weeks of quarantine.

when you are thirteen you will bring home your first failure on a test paper. i will sit with you in your room and go through your mistakes and we will learn together, because you are more than a number and i never want you to forget that

when you are fourteen you will bring home your first questions about why the girls in school giggle about boys when the name you doodle in your jotter book is the one of your hauntingly beautiful social studies teacher. i will tell you that love is whatever you believe it to be and who you love is less important than why you love them.

when you are fifteen you will bring home your first can of beer in an effort of rebellion and try to hide it in your room. i will get out the wine and we will share it and i will teach you all there is to know about alcohol and being careful around it, and regale you with stories about the fact that i am a happy drunk.

when you are sixteen you will bring home your first attempts at a resumé and tell me you want to find an internship. i will watch you with pride as you make your own way as part of the working crowd for the very first time and learn more than i could ever teach you on my own.

when you are seventeen you will bring home your first girlfriend and introduce her to me, blushing and stammering. i will smile and ask her if she wants any orange juice from the fridge, and watch you give me a grateful grin.

when you are eighteen you will bring home your first college application and all the relevant documents. we will sit down over the kitchen table and discuss the pros and cons of local and international schools.

when you are nineteen you will bring home a suitcase and some assignments when you come back home during break. i will watch you tuck in to local fare ravenously and listen to you dreamily talk about the girl you share your dormitory with.

when you are twenty you will bring home your first paycheck from a part-time job you’re holding while studying for your degree. i will joke with you on what blue chip stocks to invest it in and we will go out for dinner at a swanky restaurant together.

when you are twenty one you will bring home an engagement ring and ask me if it is too young to ask your dormmate turned lover forever. i will remind you that love has no age and preconceptions have no place in devotion.

when you are twenty two you will bring home everything you need to propose to the love of your life. i will watch her stare at you in shock and fall into your arms and cry, and i will smile at the way your breath leaves your lungs, and you cry along with her.

when you are twenty three you will bring home your first pre-wedding jitters and be fretting about tomorrow’s ceremony. i will reassure you that everything will be perfect- even if it isn’t.

when you are twenty four you will bring home your first spare key to your new place and entrust it to me. i will bring over the dishes you and your wife love every sunday and we will have dinner together, talking, teasing, and laughing till we cry.

when you are twenty five you will bring home your first daughter you have adopted from the orphanage.

and daughter, i hope you will tell her the things i have told you.

Sometimes you have to reconcile love
To really love yourself
To truly know yourself
To let go of your preconceptions
Of what love might be
And find yourself again

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt

Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.

From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive.  But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.

His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.

Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words,  confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.

                                                
~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

After the inception of the new, high speed way,
luck beheld a continuation that increased
velocity even more.  Stores, beginning through
optimistic (sails, sales) filled with industrious
wind currents, began to perish, because the dust

crept in to forget and never start again.  Trade
was offered from one to another, likely to achieve

practical results, but the consequence was a loss
of heritage.  All that had gone before stumbled
out the door into darkness and surcease.  Absence
was abandoned as the light walked away into
the desolate remains which, in only a few days,
left the city, and commerce, stalled with people,
everywhere, standing quietly like burlap dolls.
The sound was pouring light outward from its
eyesight to remember something other than that

which had been lost, inserted and devoid; the
former ideas drifted to become a trace of the new

prestige.  Communication overwhelmed the hope
though hope endured.  A collection of machines
was learning to live together, and to attend night
clubs with astonished amounts of stress arguing
against the comprehension which insisted that
importance was captivating the subjects of change.

Always, they were slinking into the circuits,
coloring the programs with a steady pace that
receded to neglect functionality.  Those tired of
hearing about the clocks winding down were not
escaping the clever snares set for their awkward

feet and kept among delicate fossils of brilliance.
It might have been a global fever, or perhaps
everything just ceased to operate.  Some strike by
electrons offered them the predicament, and
the opportunity, returning them to a simple form

of human sentiment, so that smaller gatherings

arrived at the significance of a tale while burning
things on sticks above the campfires flickering
along the coast and seen inland at the base of
distant mountains.  Simple arts included using
furniture and hot air balloons driven by stainless
steel burners.  Talking too often, and to a point of
foolish interruption, demonstrated the frailty of
coordination where zeros and ones meant,
essentially, that a point had been made and lost,
although fighting confusion was denied by context.
Some of this was mistaken by preconceptions that
created impractical situations, and other things
were long walks glued to comfortable boots or

reliable shoes.

"I love you."
My fingers froze:
dark eyes on a list
as long nails clacked
on gray keys which
stuck with age and use.
I dreamed of love,
sweet hordes of
doves escorting me
to my desire of
love, love, love.
Such dreaming flags
floated in my mind,
wishing to be a hot ***,
body made of rag,
a delicious mess
of hearty gags.
I wanted promiscuity,
in all its forms,
shed of all its innuendo
and flimsy disguises.
I wanted hard action,
man on man,
cheap rides and
cheaper thrills.
I wanted to be a little
pornographic princess,
a tiny-dicked seductress,
big ***** conductress
of all his passions.
My flag flew up as a
hormonal reaction,
attraction,
smooth bodied and
tight lipped action
running up and down
my jaded cadaver.
He wanted a **** *****,
a promiscuous witch,
casting love spells and
**** glances to make him
itch.
He entered my love nest,
the back seat of a car,
to destroy my frame,
to rid me of my childishness.
My folly melted away
in sexyhot sways
of my hips as
my lips would say
lust filled nothings
that would be filled by
empty sighs and
****** filled
"I love you's."
My fingers froze:
as brown turned to white,
my body turned to snow
and rained down around
his swollen flagpole.
He was incompetent,
inept at the deed
and unable to satisfy,
but it was my ego that needed
this gratification, not my
libido.
I laid in the aftermath of the attack,
calm,
demure,
sad but
ultimately relieved
Finally,
I am ravaged.
I have soiled my nation
and salted my own fields,
laying waste to my youth,
my innocence.
I wanted to be conquered
and so did I receive,
being taken and
yet somewhat untaken.
I remember his voice,
that dumb accent.
I remember his preconceptions
of what this was supposed to be.
"I love you."
My fingers froze:
as lungs filled with air,
and brain filled with contempt,
my jaded body grew
to desire--
God, I really wish I had a cigarette.
I remember how he thought
I cared,
how he though that
anybody did.
I remember how,
I thought I had, too.
"I love you."**
No, you don't.

If we lived in a non-judgmental world,
where social norm were a blank slate
free of preconceptions and expectations,
a world in which it was traditional to be liberal,
what would you do?
Would you work this hard or drive fast cars?
Would you read 50 Shades of Grey in the train?
Would you still cry in the rain?
Would you be outgoing or spend more time alone?
Would you laugh at funerals and never mourn?
Would you wear your pyjamas for Sunday mass?
Would you identify yourself with the working class?
Would you use two forks or wear socks with flip flops?
Would you avoid dating jocks?
Would you take up smoking or marry young?
Would you tattoo your face and pierce your tongue?
Would you work as a stripper whilst being a nun?
Would you form a jihad against wars and guns?
Would you become straight, forget how to pray
or wish your first born son were gay?
Would you ever fake an ******
or admit you like it rough?
Would you follow the stars and lucky charms
leaving all life's decisions to luck?
Would you believe in evolution and gravity,
or argue we're heavy people with sticky feet?
Would you avoid salad or order tofu?
Would you try to go up a dress size or two?
Would you give to charity or take up a sport?
Would you sell your house and buy a boat?
Would you order expensive wines or
write poems that did not rhyme?
What would you do?
Perhaps you simply wouldn't have a clue,
for we appear to have forgotten how to be true.
So when ever a Miley comes like a wrecking ball
we unite to share our disbelief and loathe.
As we did to Snowden and Jesus Christ,
we mock and torture and crucify.
The UN, CIA and the Vatican unite,
to teach us how to lead our lives.
For when someone somewhere breaks a norm
that someone somewhere has formed
it has become a universal priority
for the former to be conformed.

Perhaps in this non-judgmental world,
we might decide to start judging each other...

it is the scene that comes to one
that opens its palms
like a child might open its own
in delight

the fingered-bamboo on slender arms
and the smooth waters flowing
like a sage’s long white hair;
and the rocks like pauses
and the terrain sliding, gliding down
not to be outdone by the river that flows –
it is the scene that comes to one
and one must come to it, and one observes…

one comes with no preconceptions
and without creed and theology
one leaves one’s history
and expectations and conditioning
and one sees what is before one…
to this one does not bring one’s opinions
and one’s past and emotions
and one’s beliefs and one’s dogma -
for to observe is to see, not to overlay
like laying carpets on mud
or marble tiles on the mansion floor…
one observes, one sees what is before one

and from this one does not take
opinions and memories and revelations
and dogma and emotions and similes and metaphors
…one observes, one sees…
…everything else is conditioning,
structure and formation…

Ebony.
Skin smooth as silk.
A yellow tint or cocoa hue.
You do not experience what we do.
Being viewed as the enemy is imminent.
And it's evident, that the color ebony's negative connotation is remnant.
Of a past connection to Nubian kings & queens--
Stripped of their crowns.
A piece seen, in my name.
No...it is not fabricated, but actually holds meaning.
It's the closest thing I got to my slave ancestors.
Stop trying to degrade me...
And chain me, with your everyday preconceptions.
The concept that I'm beneath you, when the foundation of this nation and slave bones lie beneath you.
Looking out your peripheral, unspoken prejudice fabricated.
Wondering how I'm dressed respectably, like "That's an expensive fabric, ain't it?"
Cause the last time it caught your eye, my ancestors were picking it.
When you see me hold my head high, you feel the right to question it.
But I already told you, it's a new day
Don't saturate this generation with racism
Like you did civil rights marchers with hoses.
We've come a long way, but I still have a question for you... 
If God holds all humans in the same regard,
Then why is accepting the color ebony so hard?

underestimated, misunderstood, falsely accused...

so I glanced at a blank, it looked back

...I smiled, feeling confident,

it grilled me in disappointment....

then a mirror, liking what I'd thought I'd see,

it spat at me...

then within, this time without preconceptions,

I saw unequivocal greatness, glory, victory,

wings spreading, eyes glowing, countenance radiating

...I saw what none can, then realized it was a just a dream,

projected expection of the self amongst the selves,

greatness when I close my eyes to the world,

foul once awoken from the bliss of personal sanctuary,

I was my accuser, misunderstanding myself

overestimating reality by the measure of fantasy..

then, I looked around and saw in many,

that reality had completely replaced fantasy,

so how can they possibly see me?

why then, should I feel falsely accused?

intentions,
they sometimes get the better of me,
such that
my automatic, lie-down attitude, sees.
sees me standing here: searching,
desiring the vastness of the open sky
(and beyond), yet:
at each point of involuntary contact,
i find myself embracing the ground,
and during this disjointed,
increasingly frantic
(often disassociated)
illusionary dance,
i sometimes glimpse
the shadow of such unknown wonders,
brush their shape with open hands,
before blindness claims me once more.
such mini discoveries
(or mini-delusions to the minds of some)
keep open the bud of childlike wonder,
starving off decay, and
total submersion within the blindness of
societal preconception.

The end of our journey
on the horizon's center;
the last stop to this asylum
in the midst of winter.

Darlings of destitution painting
****** distractions on the latex;
the essence of ambition covered
within the toxic keepsakes.

Cold doors keeping out
the warmth of affections;
our bodies wrapped tightly
within the canvas of preconceptions.

The thumping of our minds
beneath the crumpling distress;
ideas illuminating our perilous
potential.  ****** beads of sweat falling
into the darkness.

Crazy notions spewing
all over the floor; the
filthy piles of wasted
time is growing.

Insanity within this circle
of trust; our dreams mislead us.
No windows to expose the sun as
we recline towards amnesia.

You sneer at me, tell me don't get a tattoo,
People will look differently at you
What you haven't considered is that marking my skin like this is the way I'm holding on
Creating something permanent for me in a world so fleeting
It's either this ink on me, or cutting, or death

sickened
by media lies
legislative disguise
rotting food
attracting flies
beguiled by trite examples
limited poling
and internet trolling
expressionless selfie
apathy as fashion
androgynous culture
manly men are maligned
while supermodels ******
minds
warped youths scramble
attempting to grasp
beauty
through surgery
and consumerism
their tiny orange bodies
reflect social illness
its glare blinding
bound to the taxation system
pre-social security number
these zombie babies
march to Red Bull
FOX news
and social media *******
fluoridated and infected
they reject ideas
not rooted in technology
…mock astrology
believe in genetically altering
living organisms biology
practice unlicensed psychology
and pharmacology
all the while supporting
underground government demonology
…….. my apology
lost in this madness
I feel trapped and isolated
and the irony hits
flattening my preconceptions
“As part of, I am responsible for…”
…..darkness and pain
crash on aging shoulders
realization
and defeat

Let us spark,
Lest we dwindle on
Such ill preconceptions.

Let us spark
For the steps
We have taken
Towards setting suns
And rising moons.
For the tears we shed
And the blood we’ve sullied
Alongside tobacconists,
Who pray without hands,
Hymnal steam seeping through
Chapped lips
For the sounds of laughter
That erupt from
Inconsequential selves
Who only ask
A tiny bead
Of hallowed light
To cut the smoke
Dense in our skulls.


This heaving ashtray
Will go on for miles.
I beg pardon for
A moment’s reprieve
In dear memory
With cigars.

-Juan Carlos Gomez

Give yourself permission
to use your experiences
as if they were clay,
emotions like paint,
music like rain.

Let go of preconceptions
to ask questions
and invite the energy of the world
to transform it into a moment of peace.

There's an entire field of math
that investigates how fast
things move, one with respect another.
From hydraulics to ballistics,
to scheduling and logistics,
to expected birth rates -
healthy babies, happy mothers.
You can model how disease
moves through a populace with ease
or with diff'culty, as coefficients vary,
how heat and energies diffuse,
or how quickly I will lose
your rapt attention, if I choose,
choose to carry,
always carry,
  carry on the way I do.
If I carry,
always carry on,
  to interest just a few.
But hey.
A passion's still a passion
no matter what you're drawn to.

And with some level of abstraction,
maybe we could find an action,
a reaction,
  an expansion
that could yield a change or two.
Piece together some firm notion,
quantify that art in motion,
brew that bubbling new potion
that can build a better view.

Because there's got to be some level
where preconceptions start to end.
Where the Bell curve starts to bevel,
where your mind begins to bend.
Where names and labels scatter free;
it doesn't matter what you do.
Where fin'lly I can just be me,
where you can just be you.

Because it all comes back to how we move,
one with respect another,
always acting as behooves
someone with our label's cover.
Father, mother.
Sister, brother.
  Pusher, shover.
   Friend and lover.
Villain, hero.
Dime or zero.
  Caesar, Nero,
or just a guy.
A ****, a bro
a ****, a **
The man who knows
every disguise.
Mathematician,
a physician,
  a scared little boy wishin'
  on a shootin' star swishin'
long across a midnight sky.
Theatrical protagonist.
Can you start to get the jyst?
We've got so many roles to play.
Who do we want to be today?
  Just who looks back behind our eyes?

A Freedom Fighter
Wrong righter
Fire started
Broken hearter
Wallet stealer
Dope dealer
  Narc
  Cop
STOP!
For God's sake,
let it stop.

I've got too many roles to fill.
Just can't chill.
Can't calm down,
can't come around.
I'm so tired,
I'm so wired,
  I'm so scared of gettin' fired.
So much **** piles up.
Please, Barkeep, one more in my cup.
  And crank those ******' dials up.
Make chaotic volume flood,
'til the sound of pounding blood
  in my ears becomes a mud
layered thick around the brain,
until that **** that's so insane,
  becomes labeled as mundane.
Betrayal.  ******.  War.
Ya know, I've seen it all before.
  And I'd expect we'll see some more.
But that's okay.
I can breathe.
I'm listed here as understanding.
It's expected.
Let it go.
I'm listed here as undemanding.

It was for a blessing's name
that Cain betrayed his brother.
So becomes our choice of movement,
one with respect another.
Stationary, if not stable,
names fighting to define
people willing, if not able,
to leave their names' confines.

I know it could be simple
if we put our names to rest,
but like some aggravated pimple
grows my own list to contest.
I'm still a lover unrequited.
Still the guy who's ever-slighted,
I've got my Fightin' Irish side;
got both the drinker and his pride.
I still speak my simple credo,
have a Gemini's libido.
And by chivalry's demand,
will keep on offering my hand,
  knowing full well that you will stand
without assistance,
and insistence
that you don't need help from a man.

It gets out of hand so quickly
trying to cultivate ourselves
into what we think we should be.
We wind up bring off the shelves
more than we bargained for
and in the end,
the labels wind up wrong.
While well-intended
all we ended up with
is a spoiled song.

It started out four hands together
plucking out a little tune.
Silv'ry chords you sent to heaven
on a morning come too soon.
But the motif
stolen by the thief
of our own grand delusions,
Our minds,
just as we trained them,
racing off to draw conclusions...

What was once upon a time
beautiful simplicity
became muddled by the noise
of the entire symphony.
The blowing brass and sawing strings
of complicated history
confuse the senses, turn our tune into
a blurred cacophony.

And so we quit that silly game,
'cause it could never be the same
after we banished every name
except our own.
Then we could be
free from confinement on the "who,"
the "what," the "why" of what we do.
with me just me, and you just you.

So it is shown.
Q.E.D.

Last night when I came home, I noticed a very delicious
fragrance enveloping me. The jasmine was not in bloom,
so I knew it couldn't be that stealing through window drafts,
and the incense sticks were long extinguished.

Was it Lakshmi? Her divine fragrance perfumes the three
worlds and I sensed an unusual lightness in the atmosphere.
This morning I still detected a unique aroma, though not as pronounced.

I went outside, in the backyard, to let the dog out and observed two orange speckled butterflies dancing near her doghouse. I shooed them away protectively.  As I did this, they moved over to another location, but one hovered near my hands.

It fluttered around my hands for a good minute. I was able to hear,
witness and breathe in the amazing oscillation of it's fragile wings.
Gorgeous mosaic patterns glittered between the rays of sunlight bathing
our golden communion. I could clearly see its ebony face peering curiously up at me.

Soon a third butterfly joined the party, and a trinity of sweetness pulsated close. After a while they all took off in different directions.

Later, I reflected while swinging in the garden jhoola how wonderfully connected we all are.

This Unity transcends the mental, emotional and physical barriers, preconceptions and dimensions of our ordinary awareness.  

Love has a lot to do with it, respect, peace, truth and right conduct too.

Between circular arguments
and confirmation bias, critics
debate the fallacies of Faith,
themselves unable to connect
to Yahweh via the divine spark
that has drawn us closer to Him;
each individual has been given
a unique measure of Faith; yet,
desire dictates the development

of our personal growth in Christ.
The Scriptures remain available
to those wishing to receive the
fullness of God’s Love or those
wanting to dispute His authority.
Now people choose to search only
for information that support…
their preconceptions; after all,
we’ve the choice of Death or Life.

Beautiful Evening, Somewhat Blighted
In That The Love, Is Unrequited.
Beautiful Lady, Eyes Electric
The Defectless Picture, Asymetric.
Beautiful Setting, Baker Seats
Ode on a Grecian Urn, By Keats.
Beautiful Melody, Goes Unheard
Preconceptions, So Absurd.

As Then I Awoke From Infectious Bliss,
Restless, Dumbfounded, Devoid Of A Kiss

*(September 2010)

You are the smell of dawn in the evening.

You are the taste of champagne in flat beer.

You are the storm after the calm,
that calls a sailor to his doom, and his resurrection.

You are the pupil of my mind's eye.

You are the reflection of eternity in the backside of a spoon,
held only long enough to know on a level beneath foresight,
between bites of spaghetti and pesto.

I alone can call you from the trenches
to embed your nature in the navel of the world.
Your pulse is the very river Nile herself.
And as you pour your own prediction of flooding into my lips,
I know the life you give.

The moon can call an owl to its perch.
Just as the sun can burn a wolf to its bones.
But what loss is that?
They both meet destiny at a coffee shop,
sipping on the preconceptions of their parents, transposed into prose,
whose simple words will uphold the will of the world.

Enter my Mind
Mind your step
Breath in Deep
For what you
See here
Hear here
May make you weep
May make you weak
May make you Wiry,
Wild and Fearful
May make you feel
Alive and Cheerful.
I have fallen more times over
Tried to kick a habit
One that would make most sober
Tried to break the chains that have long held me down
Tried in vain
But it's in my vein's to act the clown
I try to act proud
Keep ma head down
But the world catches up
And when I finally pick myself up
I'm thrown back down.
So who's listening now!
Who's speaking out loud
of foul rumors spread
half of them true
oh please yes lord
I'm trying to pull through.
But I miss my baby blue
I miss my baby who
Could pick me up whenever I was down
Now I'm on the wrong side of the equator
We say we see each other later
But I know it ain't so.
So I'll keep marching on
Boldly, Bouldering  singing my song.
Until I get knocked down and i'm finally gone
I'll just keep getting right back up again
still marching on
to the beat of my own song
I'm a saintly sinner
A loser
A winner
I've been deeply thinking
Of all those times I've been drinking
Of all the **** ups and jokes
I don't wanna choke
On a bag of coke
I wanna stand strong and keep marching on
Leave the behind those habits that have done me wrong





Will Shake up any preconceptions you may have

I’m sitting here alone.
This empty car lot.
Another heart broken.
No preconceptions.
Nobody to point the way.
I need to break all the rules.
I need to beat the system.

I need to stop crying.
And stand up.
Shout out for her.
She is out there.
I can feel it.

For now,
    We have fun.

Fathered by a fantasy of ideal expectation
Nurtured by the fallacy of promisory’s sought,
Living out the lies of appearance as priority
Content in the hollowness of misconceptions taught.
Wafting through the days in a cloud of preconceptions
Drifting in a lifetime of falsehoods rendered loud,
Teetered on the brink of a precipice, precarious,
Arguing malfeasance in empty tones of proud.

Blinkered to collapse of society in freefall
Unseeing of the seething fraud which permeates the globe,
Blind to the bombing and the gunshots in the avenues
Sadly unseeing of unsightly flanks disrobed.
Perilously cloistered in a crowd of like admirers
Jostling for position in this flimsy house of cards.
Sipping pink champagne in a plume of sick pretentiousness
Ignoring words of warning with a haughty disregard.

Slipping to a flagfall in a shocking fall of failure
Slipping to a flagfall in a pall of choking dust,
Slipping to a flagfall in the hues of sad surrender
Sagging to oblivion in a staining sea of rust.*


Marshalg
Auckland NZ
May 1 2014

how do you justify a head spun so spun from a virtual verbiage virtually vindicating a long lost ideal supposedly lost in the war, practically lives ago.  closed eyes like picture frames for a face so quickly etched into their very own new and nervous neurons.   novel indeed but hardly new, reminders and reminiscence of made mistakes recovering from the back burner blindside.  yesterdays regrets dont matter much in this dream and a refusal to awaken is the only option.  it's only what you've been waiting for if you recognize it when it passes you by on the boulevard.  Numerous enough are my days for me to understand the importance of open eyes for blinking is risky with this vision.  ice ages have taken hold and regressed since the last time that friendly chemicals werent responsible for such an onslaught of smirks.  the concept of "we", of "us" something subsurface unseen yet present with a strong presence presenting preconceptions upturned and made moot.  you frighten me in the best way.  the best kiss my lips never received, from the pacific with love.  from the sea itself.