The needle falls down on the record, a thump deep in the bass, the speaker cone shakes and the sound ocean floods from my Serwin-Vegas...That alien who stepped out of the saucer in Close Encounters of the Third Kind decides to speak to Dreyfuss, and this is what it sounds like. This is the language of his planet, on the other side of a black hole in the Gamma region.

A ****** of crows, cold in the snow, muttering low, squeaking and squealing. Love taking on flesh and blood, suffocated by skin, now let's let the service begin. They sing their gut-hungry praises then flitter away.

Signifying nothing.

The priest places the wafer on the infidel's tongue. He lifts the cup to the liar's lips. A subtle glow emitted from a place slightly behind his head. He intones the Mass and tries to empty himself to allow the Holy Spirit to work through him as he ministers in the name of Jesus Christ to his congregation. The Spirit lifts up his voice to the sky and intercedes for my weak soul.

These chants are ancient, as old as the book of Genesis. These are the languages of the Mishraites or the Zareathites or the Eshtaulites. These are the tongues spoken by Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak and Shuah. A language taught to them by their slave ancestors, excommunicated from the clans of Sarah, mother of the promised. A language used by Abraham himself, when he beckoned Isaac to the land of Moriah, making him carry the sacrificial knife soon held to his throat.

The procession moves forward, each recieving the body and blood in turn, enriched and better for recieving it. They walk like slaves submitting to a kind master they love to serve back to their seats in the cathedral, to wait, to get lost in the sacred relics and the sacred art scattered throughout this beautiful sanctuary.

And surely the Lord is in this place, for all that is good is from the Lord and this music is exceptionally good.

The chanting continues, now sung in the language of Baal-Zephon, where the king went after the Israelites, translated: "Wasn't there enough room in Egypt to bury us? Is that why you brought us out here to die in the desert? Why did you bring us out of Egypt, anyway? While we were there didn't we tell you to leave us alone? We had rather be slaves in Egypt than die in this desert!..."

These tone poems, written in the days of the Exodus, have a modern sound to them that is uncanny. Aliens who landed on earth in 897 BC bestowed gifts of prophecy and tongues to the individual members of the head's charge, and they are merely tools at the disposal of the leader of the aliens in their attempts to express themselves to the earthlings. No, there's no way any of us not from their planet could ever understand their language, borrowed as it was from the priests, Zadok and Abiathar in a meeting held on Mount Calvary the last time they landed on earth. The chord progressions are subliminally tainted with commands to relax, encourage a sense of floating, drift off with the thoughts that interest you most.

A looping tribal dance, recorded on site at a Buddhist monastary where the monks would mumble polyphonic OMs and the tourists would catapult their spirits through a needle's eye just to show that it can be done... Are they praying for rain? Or is it a rich harvest they petition the Great Spirit for today, their knees to the ground? The dance turns into an ****, bodies tangled up misplaced pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

They **** the whale, and so we mourn.

They fester hate like a sore that won't go away, so we sing this lamentation. Translation: "The Son wants you...Hear things in the music that aren't there, only in your hammer struck head. Ring the living bell, ring the living bell, shine the living light, shine the living light...

They incite aggression, so we back off.

They treat the blind man with scorn and contempt, so we judge them.

They are good for nothing but fighting your wars, their stone hardened hearts too far gone to notice each life snuffed out under orders from ground patrol. So we pray for conflict. We petition the Lord for strife and dischord. Exterminate these burned-out husks of men before their 4 years are up.

They lay hands upon the genius and lock him in institutions with people who pull steak knives on strangers. They are afraid of him, so they put him away, in sweat-stinking padded cells or wrapped up nice and tight in a straight, mornings woke and hustled to the breakfast line. They extricate his confidence, thought pattern by thought pattern, and curb the flow of his intellect. They leave us to sing a funeral song for the postmodern society on the day when common sense is evenly distributed amongst individuals and Moral Law is accepted as fact by each and all. A dirge for each time you've ever been hurt by someone's words or actions. Our common denominator of heartache and sorrow. Divided about all other things, by necessity united by tears, wailing, howling at the moon, primal scream therapy and insomnia.

And now the church is empty. Angels lingering to usher the Spirit from the echoing halls. Silence and stillness brutal proof of God. Music from the other side of this life. Welcoming songs played at St. Peter's Gate. Stubborn prayers from those passed over, coaxing us through, waiting with scissors at the ready to slice the mortal coil. Believers bellys full of the body and blood of the Lord, digesting it at this very moment, letting the body do it's digestive work, preparing it for re-birth.

If I ****** myself
Deep enough
Into your hardness-
Recieving softness, will it  
Convince me

That it's really
*You?

The rain beat the pavement as the man ran to a nearby bus shelter holding a newspaper over his ragged hair. The rain hitting the glass was nearly deafening, but there was comfort in the sound. A public transit bus comes and goes, recognizing the bleak figure immediately. This was, after all, his commonplace - the closest thing he had to a home in the past two years.
"Get a job", people would say, as if it were ever really that easy.
He had been diagnosed with depression after his wife’s passing nearly four years ago and suffered alone as he mourned and pushed through what most people see as a normal life. On the outside, it was unapparent how miserable he had become, unable to share the world with another as he had now for so many years. He came to his cubical on time each day, he worked until the late afternoon had came and went, and he left without a word. He was the unnoticed face in a crowd.
All at once, he lost his drive to live his life. He stopped showing up to work, he did not pay his bills, he didn’t answer the door or the phone. The clear print reading “EVICTION NOTICE” had meant nothing to him. He took only the essential things with him as he left behind an empty house behind. The last thing he put into his bag was a copy of the Odyssey, worn now after so many years of attentive reading.
The tattered copy sat open on his crossed legs, the moment passing by. The walls of the shelter sheild him from the wind and welcome him into their embrace. the adequecy of lighting was questionable as the sun descends and the world loses its colour. A streetlamp flickers to life and casts an ominous glow onto the street beneath it. He continues to read about the long journey of a man trying to find his way home, not unlike himself. What’s happening on the page is disconnected from thepart of the world that he is trapped on; he watches his secret world become a vivid painting beneath his hands and turns the page.
"Hello," said a man waiting for another bus to take him to a far off place.
He didn’t respond.
"I take it you like the book, judging by the condition…" The man tried again to grasp his attention. His dark figure loomed on the other side of the glass.
"I do", he said.
"What’s your name, son?"
He paused, turning to fully look at the man. “Its Tristan,” he said, contemplating the man as he stepped into the light. The man shuffled into the shelther gingerly, leaving behind the loud clack of his cane. His clothes chaffed against the skin on his legs, and he carried his fedora in his hand. He creased his face in pain as he sat beside Tristen.
"My name is Connor Wright", he breathed heavily, struggling to continue. "I have a spare copy of that book myself, laying around at home. No use to myself. Would you want to have it? I can bring it to you the same time next week"
"How do you know I will return it?"
"Perhaps I don’t want it back"
The silence stretched. “I would like that very much, sir” replied Tristan.
A dark blue bus pulled up to the stop without warning and stirred the stillness in the air. The headlights shone in their eyes and caught the edge of the mans thick-framed glasses. “I will see you next week then”
Each week came and passed as Mr. Wright began to bring Tristan books frequently, exchanging each new book for the last. “Why do you treat me with such kindness when I have nothing to give?” Tristan would ask him each week, never recieving an answer.
A year passed by in the presence of the silent agreement. Mr. Wright would often bring Tristan a warm container filled with soup, or a sandwhich left over from lunch to accompany his reading for the night.
On a cold night in april, Tristan waited at the bus stop for the greying man. He spotted him across the street as he waved to him. Tristan, flashing his increasingly more common smile, returned his vivid wave in the direction of Mr. Wright.
"Hello Tristan", he began as always with a bright smile. His distinct aroma filled the hollow bus shelter - a mix of burnt wood, but also new paper and musk, and apparent paradox. After a brief conversation, Tristan took the book out of Mr. Wright’s frail hands.
The bus arrived shortly thereafter and Mr. Wright borded the exhausted vehical, taking his time going up the short stoop of stairs.
This book was rather unlike the other books that Mr. Wright had given him in the past months. His books had usually been full of journeys abundant with creatures, or filled to the brim with a quaint scenery, embodying an allegory in a far off place. The book he held in his hands was called “Darkness Visible”. It was a self-help book for those in the winter of their lives, much as Tristan was, though he hated to admit it.
He opened the page of the book and the spine cracked as the smell of fresh ink and paper filled his senses. This book was new.
He read with curiousity at first, which later turned to deep interest, and later still, turned into inspiration. The following week, Tristan returned this book to Mr. Wright as he told him that he would not be returning to the bus stop with any more new books. “I wish to see you again in the future”, he said, handing Tristan a slip of paper with his name and phone number on it.
Many years passed by and the two men kept regular contact, discussing the endevours of Tristan and his success in his new life.
"Doctor Spense, you have a visitor" his secretary informed him in her usual airy tone.
"Send them in, please"
A man with strong lines creased into his face turned the door handle and entered his office at Kingston University. Commonalities were exchanged and the man fought back a solemn look as he took a seat across from Tristan. The armchair engulphed him.
"Doctor Spense, I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Connor Wright passed away this morning as he succumed to his long fight against cancer", he spoke as though he had said these words in practise. "I am here because you were included in his will and we need to speak about legalities".
Mr. Wright had left him his entire collection of books, including that first copy of the Odyssey that Tristan had cherised so many years earlier when he had had nothing else. As he opened the familliar book, an envelope fell to the ground.
He stooped to the ground to pick up the white sheet and put it in the pile of other loose pages when he saw in handwriting, “To Dr. Tristan Spense”.
He read the words and tears filled his eyes, prickling at the corners and pooling in the clear canvas of skin before his jaw.

"The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty…" - Mother Teresa
I treated you kindly holding the knowledge that you would have nothing to give in return because I saw something I once saw within myself during the darker days of my time. I helped you because I knew your soul would rot and perish in a sickly way should you go unnoticed. I helped you because I hate faith in you and knew you had the kind of illness that could be taken away with the love of a friend. I hope that I have been able to give you the medicide loneliness, desparity and hopelessness and that your cabinets are stocked full. Remember where you have come from, and remember that it is always darkest before dawn.
Your friend always,
Connor Wright

Hers was the first face I found
freshman year at FSU.
I'll always remember that garish orange and green gator shirt,
and pin with the picture of a bulldog,
hanging from a noose.
I thought, oh Jeez, she's got school spirit,
and I shuddered at the image,
of cheerleaders, and sports stars, recieving preferential treatment,
but my first impression was far from the mark.

She had a smile for miles and eyes to match.
And a laugh that could shatter a frown.
And she laughed any chance she got.
The few pictures I have left of her,
she is laughing and smiling in each...
That big toothy smile,
and that magical laugh...

I remember the first time she kissed me.
I was playing my guitar on campus,
back when everybody did it,
not just pretentious *******
trying to show off.
She came up behind me,
and did the old hands over the eyes routine,
and of course I knew her voice immediately.
She turned my head and kissed me,
for the first time,
and I could hear the whispering,
and feel everyone's eyes on me,
and it felt pretty **** good.
How I wished someone had snapped a picture,
for the FSView, with the caption
" Future valedictorian kisses scruffy hippy freshman.
Entire student body baffled."

I was baffled.

She was the talk of the campus,
she spoke her mind always,
and she was active all over the campus,
doing this and that.
I asked her one day,
"Why do you make your life so complex,
when do you rest?"
and she said
"My life used to be complex, because I made it that way.
But believe it or not, with all I do around campus,
really my life is simple and fun. If I didn't love what I am doing
I would stop Will. Life is too short for complexity."

I laughed, and I thought to myself,
this woman is more complex than she lets on.

We went out for my entire freshman year,
but she graduated my sophmore year,
and she got a job in London, and she moved away that summer.
I said I would visit...I never did..
She said she would write...she did, once,
to tell me she was getting married,
she even invited me, but of course I didn't go..
She enclosed a photo of her and her fiance,
and it was clear what she saw in him..
he had a smile almost as big as hers,
and of course she was smiling too..
Of all the images burned into my memory
that picture is the one that hurts me most.

I wrote back, wishing her luck, and I told her I couldn't come,
I never heard from her again, but I prayed that night,
that he would treat her right, and if he took away her smile,
I prayed he would suffer, until he put it back.

Every time I close my eyes, I see that picture...
that smile...
I hope she's smiling, even as I write these words.

First day of the week.
Glad we could meet.
A new day.
A new beginning.
Another chance
to go out and learning.
Exploring and searching.
Meet new people and sharing.
Take time for reading.
Believing and recieving.
Your words make
my day so appealing.
Like a soft summer breeze
on my skin so soothing.
Hope you are smiling
while reading my writing.

Sometimes when I try to force a poem, nothing happens.
But in the moment before I fall asleep
In the swirl of commotion that consumes my mind
Pops in that perfect line that was just
Out of reach
Then the flood gates open
My mind is awash with line after line
It goes as quickly as it arrives
If I don't get them on paper quick enough, they start to decay
That's why I keep a notebook next to my bed
Often when i read it in the morning it doesn't sound like me

Eyes can be deceiving
In recieving that which we do not wish to see. Optical illusion creates a delusion of something more pleasing. Blinded to pain and misery. Its calculated in the sensory. Knowing this vision isnt seen through rose colored glasses we make believe. Looking only at the beauty past the ugly. We camouflage the eyesores. Blinking just once to change the perspective of all things in sight. We hide behind closed eyes to avoid the view of the world as it is. We overlook just so we dont have to see. Its only when we realy look do we find the truth hidden behind blue eyes.

Dear Eliza,

It took me years to gain the courage  to write you
In those years I haven't found a person like you
I miss you more every day
I think about you in every way

I think about your beautiful eyes
that pierced into mine,
and your long golden hair
that first made me stare

I remember our first conversation
And our first confirmation
being our first kiss
All of this I miss

I remember when you left for school
and I stayed home to work like a fool
You would call me every night
I regret every yell and every fight

I remember tough times when you got ill
working two jobs to support the bill
I saw you getting worse and I cried
I cried, I cried, I cried, and then you died

I remember recieving the call
Our friends and family in awe
Funeral arangements, more bills, and cries
Years of loneliness and unable to know why

I'm unable to love anyone more than you
I'm unable to stop thinking about you
I see you in my dreams, it gets me wild
I see you even more when I look at our child

You left us, not because you felt the need
but because your body felt weak
However, you had a heart that was strong
And in our hearts you will live on!

With much love,
              Your Eternal Lover

Your body language is hard to read like teen vogue magazines -
shallow and they don't give a real message.
Free stylin' courageously as I'm bumping to the music.
The stage set solo with the spot light on me.
This is my chance to speak without my tongue.
Crown chakra open ,
purple fat lotus plump and focused.
Accepting, recieving, translating phenomena,
through my skeleton.
I allow the rhythm take me wherever it needs,
water fountain pouring out of me.

his kisses
were like
little gifts
that i oh
so very
much enjoyed
recieving.

There was something about her
That made memories linger
But I remember her in bits
How she fuddled with her fingers
And how a glance from her
Was like recieving a hug in an envelope
There was a sparkle in her eyes
Just a bit hope

She had a sly smirk
Whenever she schemed
She found happiness where ever it lurked
Even in the saddest dreams
She saw how every detail is perfect
Or so it seemed

She was a complete mess
And justified it
When she confessed
That chaos is beauty
But lacked to see her own loveliness

Her image was disproportionate
She couldn't even fathom
That the way her way of life
Had so much value and passion
It created an effect of inspiration
To any one she spoke

And she couldn't believe
How much she meant to me
I guess she just didn't know
That there was something about her
That made her glow.

Intro:
Humanity balances in the grasp of a belief of a higher order a belief that handicaps and restrains us from our true self and what we desire to become just for the fact to be in a nirvana that nobody has proof that it is real
For we could know we all could be going to hell for the corrupted society and government we live in

Poem:
They wanna lock me outa of sight for not recieving any contacts
That the lord and savior had givin out to me
Then i beheaded a ******* for his contacts
i hide the body where nobody could see

See the devil in my eyes with his contacts
Now my eyes are blacker than the bottom of the sea
Everybody knows that were going to hell
Everybody knows that we will never be free

The captain stood solemnly
recieving what he saw
with stark indifference

the dark clouds towered above his tiny ship

he drank deep in the danger
taking a lungful of air
he finally let himself see his crew

they were frightened

this invigorated him
but he did not want it to
he had always taken pleasure
in being "The Captain"

hoping when hope was lost to other men
lesser men

but he knew deep down
there was nothing lesser about
these particular men
he also knew they would all die
presently

he parted his lips to begin his final oration

I searched for meaning
In religion and philosophy.
Taking on gods and
Prophets.

Gained some wisdom, but
Ended up confused more than
Enlightened.
Lost the little firm footing
I had.

I searched in arts and music.
Interprating. Analyzing.
Enjoying and disliking.
Expressing and being
Alternative. Original.
Outside the box.

All I gained was an unhealthy
Love of wine.
Less meaning than I
Began with.
Some pretentious friends.
More confusion than ever.

So I stopped searching.
Stopped chasing.
Stood still drawing fresh,
Crisp morning air into
My lungs, then felt it travel
To my soul.

I closed my eyes and heard
Her heartbeat through her
Naked chest; her collar bone
Against my temple.
Attuned my own to hers.
Dancing. Still.
Dancing. Still.
Dancing. Still.

Everyday magic.
Adventure within trivialities.
Dirt on the knees of my new
Jeans from recieving a hug from
A five-year-old.

Seeing pride in the eyes of my
Parents from a distance.
Unretainable love
And lust in the eyes of
My woman on a Tuesday afternoon.  
No special occation at all.
Just here,
Now.
Us.

No need to struggle.
To search.
To run after anything.
Just relax. Observe. Appreciate.
Love. Long for, then
Enjoy.

Nothing is without reason.
There's meaning in  
Everything you sense,
Everywhere you are;

You.

Why I am writing?
Sharing words of hope
Giving those something to read
Releasing my cries
To the public
Ror attention that i do not need
What i am?
A hermit without passion
Recieving affection that bewitched me
Why am I writing?
Cause the madness has conquered
Unrelenting thoughts
Images breaking my slumber
Awaken to soundless chatter
What has come over me
So, why am i writing?
Take hold of myself
Relax
And just write

Left for good
Bad is right
Living a one way life
Wishing to end
This life of sin

~
      In the end one then begins to right the wrongs; from insight ,with what we write in songs. a night alone,beside urself in a fight for gold  frigid& cold feelin naked & ****** bruised bleedin all because wireless network pending payment delayed and and my messages not sending nor recieving and in traffic but with my 4 bad habits safe to include i forgot if it was right ? Maybe left?

For good
If only we knew
Our way of life
If only we knew
The struggle
The fight left inside
Wrong is wrong
Right is right

these are the thoughts
of Clive,
the neighborhood curmudgeon...

how do i know this,
i am the imp that put them here....
in the garden, you folks
call a brain......


take this, sodding life
and it's meaningless struggle.
i set my face to this wall
and brick myself self in
to this useless stall.

the old man, Clive,
grumbled with a,
set and sour grin.

you...you're all pathetic,
thinking you can win.
death's the only victor...
over us, one
and sodding all.

and you can take,
your sodding...
flowers and cards
and sodding, casseroles too!!

there was,
one ray of sunshine
in my life
and now she is gone.

and she is not,
sodding around in another room,
or waiting for me up there.
she is not, in greener pastures
cause she was never..
an effin cow.

she is,
six footdown,
underground,
in a cheap wooden box,
making fodder,
for worms and beetles.
slowly, they are,
breakin her down.

and it will not be,
sodding fine
and time will not heal...
a heart smashed to smithereens.
a life torn asunder
**** me it's time,
for you pathetic
do-gooders...
to get ****** real....

no i am not,
a happy man,
and yes i am,
greiving the greatest loss.
and a ******, sausage
and bean casserole,
is not going to be,
making me believe,
that the world,
is a fair and just place...

don't you, worry about me.
i reckon i'll soon be,
leaving, my home
and my goods and chattels
and be recieving last rites,
farewells and a deep,dirt bed.

and that will be,
fine and dandy,
as long as it is,
close and handy,
to my beloved, Mandy.

what?
you're worried...
about my,
state of mind...

will ya, just *******,
haven't i
made myself clear,
i am way, too busy dying,
to pay you any attention...

this garden just going gangbuster
hey¡¡yah huzzah!!!

remember, i'm recieving loneliness like
tears bought, nothing for frightened
and still loving.
leaving like dying, under skin
twirling under rain for death, dancing.
open my falling for words and a boy
dropping life.

I'm getting hyped up on caffiene
and ignoring my problems just
kind of trying to forget about
everything that has happened
and everything that will.

I'm tired of feeling neglected
and turning my head away-
pretending that what you've
been saying hasn't made me
want to just set mysef on fire
and ignore my true desires.

I'm sick of running up into
my bedroom to escape inside
of my virtual worlds to ignore
the lectures my parents have
been screaming to me.

I'm so fed up with the fights
my best friend and I get into
they're pointless and make
me want to turn away but
I truly cannot because she
means too much to me.

I'm saddened and physically
effected by the way I think
and feel about myself. I'm
pretty sure if everyone
somewhat enhanced the way
they acted towards me I'd
simply crack. Shatter. Fall
to the floor in my own tears.
Because I do not deserve
such greatness nor do I
deserve the hate that I've
been recieving.

But maybe they'd be better off
if that were to happen, they
wouldn't have me around to
complain and dump my feelings
everywhere from the drain that
is my mind

The only person that I really
want to stay around for is
someone who I really adore
he is everything to me and
more, in fact I dream about
him a lot which is just lovely
like the smile that he shows
to me in pictures that I hope
will sooner or later become
mine, his, our reality.
He's amazing.

Trying to find the words
that will mend the hurt
To smooth the pain
to render wisdom
and understanding
into a soft salve
to rub onto
the open wound

Wincing
as you turn away
reaching out for you
but recieving
a single,
over the shoulder
glance
and a slight wave

as my stomach
tightens into knots,
several bound together,
squeezing the life out of me
the vivacious thing that once
made me as colorful as an
Andy Warhol print

Smiling with joy
twisting with sadness
oh what a tangled
Massive
web we weave

Oh the bird
With it's sweet sweet song
A gracious melody
There will never be a moment
To be frozen deep in time
When one does not worship this sweet melody
Poor, poor bird
Recieving undue love
What of those with horrendous music
Will they be worshipped the same
I think not
They will get lost
Lost deep in time
Their magical ability to sing
Shunned for the mere sweet, gracious bird

Colors seem to fade
Vision is taken away
Same faces everyday
Worthy of recieving honor
My soul giving out
My heart pouring out
Small touch of your skin
Another touch it'd be sin
To be loved is pretty great
Lust must be displaced
Blackness turns to grey
Transformations night and day
We are all owls
Suddenly we behave
In a awkward kind of way
A behavior that no one can take away
Depressed by night
Moon hear our howls

God is going to bless me with so much
I don't know when and I don't know what
But I know God is going to do great things for me
He is going to bless me with beautiful visions
And a beautiful future
I am blessed and I am recieving blessings every day

I have many things to look forward to
And I can't wait to see what will happen 
God, make me extrodinary
Guide me in the way I should go
Make me shine the way you need me to shine
Make your home in me and renew this temple

Spread love not hate
Spread peace and share faith
For giving is the only form of recieving
Believing is the only way of achieving
We are humans, different in race but one in spirit, let's learn to inherit this love and share it

i could feel the tension all along
but i didnt realize it

it was almost like a song
carrying along in the wind

i could feel it, i just couldnt see it.

but everything eventually breaks surface
and it came about like an earthquake

knocking me off my feet
leaving me on the ground

i felt so unsettled after recieving that bomb
and it hurt me more than i ever let on

i could feel it,
the pain

rushing through my veins
reaching my fingertips, my legs

it took over me, your misery
that you left for me

you left me with zero energy
dead,
empty,
numb,
done.

i loved you with all of my heart
you were me.
my family.
my other half.
my best friend.
and now you are no one.

you left me all alone
with pain boiling in my veins

misery is all i see
unable to move for lack of energy

alone.

you let them pound
on your walls of emotion
blocked them out
never letting them see
how much pain your eyes held
I wish I was as strong
as that barred up girl
dealing with everything
yet showing nothing
how can one person hold it all in?
I'd have died
crushed by my own toppling walls
as they squeezed my last breath of sorrow
out of my crumpled body
lying in a heap
waiting for warm arms
but recieving
nothing

That's not love.
Where you holding your love one prisoner?
That's not love.
When you refusing to let them go.

Than uses the words"I love you" to hold onto them.

That's not love.
When you seeking more than you need possible.
That's just not love.

Love's like a stream that floats freely.
Like an eagle with wings flying freely without restraints.
But without anyone recieving

Surrounded by people
Caught in their midst
Recieving a crash course
On life and the bliss
That comes with it--
But also the hurt
And the pain to the heart
That people sometimes bring.

Can't bow out, not gracefully
Yet can't immerse myself fully.
Trying to hold myself apart,
But I'm already in this game
This game that never ends.
This road, this tangled weave and web
That I only want to be neat.

But somehow we'll get through it
And come out having learned
About ourselves and others.
And at the end of this road,
This web will still be tangled
But neater than before.
And we'll be wiser for the better
About this life we've lived.

The needle falls down on the record, a thump deep in the bass, the speaker cone shakes and the sound ocean floods from my Serwin-Vegas...That alien who stepped out of the saucer in Close Encounters of the Third Kind decides to speak to Dreyfuss, and this is what it sounds like. This is the language of his planet, on the other side of a black hole in the Gamma region.

A ****** of crows, cold in the snow, muttering low, squeaking and squealing. Love taking on flesh and blood, suffocated by skin, now let's let the service begin. They sing their gut-hungry praises then flitter away.

Signifying nothing.

The priest places the wafer on the infidel's tongue. He lifts the cup to the liar's lips. A subtle glow emitted from a place slightly behind his head. He intones the Mass and tries to empty himself to allow the Holy Spirit to work through him as he ministers in the name of Jesus Christ to his congregation. The Spirit lifts up his voice to the sky and intercedes for my weak soul.

These chants are ancient, as old as the book of Genesis. These are the languages of the Mishraites or the Zareathites or the Eshtaulites. These are the tongues spoken by Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak and Shuah. A language taught to them by their slave ancestors, excommunicated from the clans of Sarah, mother of the promised. A language used by Abraham himself, when he beckoned Isaac to the land of Moriah, making him carry the sacrificial knife soon held to his throat.

The procession moves forward, each recieving the body and blood in turn, enriched and better for recieving it. They walk like slaves submitting to a kind master they love to serve back to their seats in the cathedral, to wait, to get lost in the sacred relics and the sacred art scattered throughout this beautiful sanctuary.

And surely the Lord is in this place, for all that is good is from the Lord and this music is exceptionally good.

The chanting continues, now sung in the language of Baal-Zephon, where the king went after the Israelites, translated: "Wasn't there enough room in Egypt to bury us? Is that why you brought us out here to die in the desert? Why did you bring us out of Egypt, anyway? While we were there didn't we tell you to leave us alone? We had rather be slaves in Egypt than die in this desert!..."

These tone poems, written in the days of the Exodus, have a modern sound to them that is uncanny. Aliens who landed on earth in 897 BC bestowed gifts of prophecy and tongues to the individual members of Sigur Ros, and they are merely tools at the disposal of the leader of the aliens in their attempts to express themselves to the earthlings. No, there's no way any of us not from their planet could ever understand their language, borrowed as it was from the priests, Zadok and Abiathar in a meeting held on Mount Calvary the last time they landed on earth. The chord progressions are subliminally tainted with commands to relax, encourage a sense of floating, drift off with the thoughts that interest you most.

A looping tribal dance, recorded on site at a Buddhist monastary where the monks would mumble polyphonic OMs and the tourists would catapult their spirits through a needle's eye just to show that it can be done... Are they praying for rain? Or is it a rich harvest they petition the Great Spirit for today, their knees to the ground? The dance turns into an ****, bodies tangled up misplaced pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

They **** the whale, and so we mourn.

They fester hate like a sore that won't go away, so we sing this lamentation. Translation: "The Son wants you...Hear things in the music that aren't there, only in your hammer struck head. Ring the living bell, ring the living bell, shine the living light, shine the living light...

They incite aggression, so we back off.

They treat the blind man with scorn and contempt, so we judge them.

They are good for nothing but fighting your wars, their stone hardened hearts too far gone to notice each life snuffed out under orders from ground patrol. So we pray for conflict. We petition the Lord for strife and dischord. Exterminate these burned-out husks of men before their 4 years are up.

They lay hands upon the genius and lock him in institutions with people who pull steak knives on strangers. They are afraid of him, so they put him away, in sweat-stinking padded cells or wrapped up nice and tight in a strait, mornings awake and hustled to the breakfast line. They extricate his confidence, thought pattern by thought pattern, and curb the flow of his intellect. They leave us to sing a funeral song for the postmodern society on the day when common sense is evenly distributed among individuals and Moral Law is accepted as fact by each and all. A dirge for each time you've ever been hurt by someone's words or actions. Our common denominator of heartache and sorrow. Divided about all other things, by necessity united by tears, wailing, howling at the moon, primal scream therapy and insomnia.

And now the church is empty. Angels lingering to usher the Spirit from the echoing halls. Silence and stillness brutal proof of God. Music from the other side of this life. Welcoming songs played at St. Peter's Gate. Stubborn prayers from those passed over, coaxing us through, waiting with scissors at the ready to snip the mortal coil. Believers bellys full of the body and blood of the Lord, processing it at this very moment, letting the body do it's digestive work, preparing it for re-birth.

This music is a hand reaching out and over the chasm of being to grab and pull you into another reality for a few moments. For a few moments you will experience the world from the viewpoint of Jon, Orri, Georg & Kjartan. It is an exhilirating sensation, coveted by all.

This music is the voice of Thor, the cries of Aphrodite, the sins of Baal, the dreams of Pontius Pilate, the sound of coyotes cuddled in a cave, wailing at the moon. This music is the war of the worlds. It's release. ******. A little death. Afterglow then off to sleep. Waking to Philip Glass, inspired to listen to him by Sigur Ros.

The needle is yanked from the record and silence and stillness return to claim their divinity.

Im sorry, I wish I could tell you that it will be okay. Or that the sun will be brighter soon and this.  . . . . . Haze. Will lift. I wish I could tell you smiles will be bigger, and hugs would be tighter. They will not and I can't lie. However, we will find a new part of ourselves we never wished we knew. A life without you. Air you don't breathe, sun you don't see and no you for to touch. The sun will not get brighter but we will learn to keep closer to the ones who love us. And we will learn its okay to smile again. And we will become more recieving, even though it still stings a bit with each hug. I'm sorry, I can't say it'll be okay. I can say, we will come through.