The cosmic river of placidity our spiritual
Graveyard, laden illuminating the resevoirs
Of the sun serpents mineral kingdoms created
As the desecrated flowers of the
Universe decay,
The barren Earths machinery immortally
Combative rebirthing deaths plague.
Akashas victorious joy reflecting the
Sillohettes of times ardititious travellings
Fleeting, the strength of withered spirits
Collective daydreams upon solacses fallen
Fields of despair, redeeming justices
Patience provocating abeyance.
The irredescent golden amber of an iron
Roses kindling flame; katabolisms landscape
Transcending sunsets incarnate pharisaical
Clouds defying agonising temptations rising
On the wind of sanctimonious whispers
Working the stagnate temper of
Choas' repining heart.


ELEETE J MUIR.

THE COURSE CHOSEN   06-29-10 (In Memory of Rachael Ruinard 08-02-74 – 06-29-00)

I must finally, completely convey to you
There is not one whit that you can do
To stop the course of whatever I choose
Don't worry, there's nothing
that you have to loose

It’s your new beginning, a life without pain
You shudder and quiver; you shake off the pain
You  let all of it go; you sail away to live again

My clowded eyes soon become
insufficient resevoirs,
Drops of heavy salt escape
and weigh heavy on my awkwardly bent  
lower lashes, causing a pain, aching and dull
At long last, the tears slide from my eyes,
followed by untold more
They etch acid rivulets down my  chalky cheeks  

unwsavering watchiung your departures
watching all of my efforts form a pool at my feet
It will soon be as if I have never been
Heavy with tears they remain unblinking It is time to exit, to quit hurting others
I’ll set my schedule after seeing my mother
She’s the only one I don’t always bother
Quick breath, I pull back in time to see.
I’ve led her to the brink of my insanity.

I tell her goodbye once more to soothe her
I spare her the knowledge, my agony wounds her
There really is no need to tell her
that none too soon, I'll be six feet under

I have no more will with which to conspire
A certain something is now required
A trickle of strength from those I’ve inspired
I’m tired, tired, just deadfully tired

My path is written in a fat wide ink
A river unwritten, of which I can’t speak
I agreed with you on an indivisible pact
It is broken now, by your unspeakable act

I try to drive off the causeways sometimes
But I live another day, which is no surprise
I think back to the moment of my demise

At that very last moment, at the end of my life.
After  convincing myself be to numb and blind.
Some sort of enigma rearranges my mind

Instead of watching my certain fall to death
I wake up to the smell of my acrid sweat.
In the nick of time, a blink of an eye.
I pull myself back from the electric fence.

I’m too scared to let go, please do me a favor
When I near the fence, push me into the wire
There I will leave towards my destiny, higher.

I’ll have gone with peace, not just one desired.
Soon I will be pulled from the eclectic wires
and tossed into licking pits of their fire
Or the dogs may eat me when they so desire

You build false conventions; you massage your convictions
I’m not just a patient with all sorts of addictions
I am your social condition with all its afflictions
I am hurt. I am real. I am not your fiction
Leave if you want, my path is clear
your trepidation is ugly, I sense your fear
You have no experience of what you see here
I do. I react to the evil that’s near.
You gave me up, you turned me out.
You did not know what my life was about
I believed you cared; I felt your concern
Only I decide, now, which way to turn.
You had to let go, my hand slipped out of yours
My life was quick, my thoughts endless hours
It is right for me, I don’t feel God’s ire
I will sleep better, I am not a liar

Above the gloom, doom, and my own deception
my unknown spirit is once again woken
Your eyes try to say something unspoken
But its not really you, you’re a humble God’s token
I will never again bow beneath myself
To gain the acceptance of someone else
I do what I do, I take my chances or else
Mother will bury me under an Oak’s dark shelf.

Once you held on, but your hands became wet
You haven’t learned the real lesson yet
The blame is a claim I own and regret.

poetry called back
said I knew
you couldn't stop
even for a few days -
but the real question is
are you unhinged enough
do you break rules
with enough fervor
to join the poetic tribe?

do words tumble
out of your lamp
and roll around the page
like dots of mercury
and then morph into
poignant crystals?

and do you walk
around the town
with bare feet
in a blatant shirt
asking spontaneous questions
about absurd things
of total strangers?

you should practice
living on these edges
because writing poems
means you break
the thermometer
of your soul
and your blood spills
into myriad rivulets
you cannot contain
with a million resevoirs
no, once you start
there's nothing
you can ever put back
the way it was

The real cost of technology has not been to jobs or the economy, but to the human spirit.  Huge cyber wastelands have replaced what was once a society of human interaction.  We’ve sold our souls for the convenience of not having to know that they’re there. We’ve sold our souls with no repurchase guarantee.  

Some people have many channels in their head like a radio.  Others have only static, interspersed with very few moments of clarity. They live in a self-imposed interference. The reality of their nature being FM, as they ramble the AM stations consumed by the noise. So many of my early years were filled with this AM wandering, always in motion, with my direction in doubt. The clear channels, usually unwanted and tuned out in my programming, were hidden resevoirs of what I had forgotten to learn.

Some of us though, have only one clear and consistent channel. It is a short wave to the future and the past but plays loudest in the present. Crazy Horse was like that. Like all true prophets, he saw through the superficiality and into the meaning that connects all of life together.  His channel had no on/off switch, and he needed no advertising or endorsement to drive home his message.

The price for this clarity he had already paid, and he would ultimately pay again. His message, although often unwelcome, was the warning that his tribe needed to hear. His station was not a place on the dial, but a frequency into the heart of one refusing to change. It was a respite, and last hope, from the threat that European civilization posed to the Oglala Sioux.

The truth, resonating from the deepest places in his heart, burdened him because so few wanted to hear.  His message was ignored by those who still lived in denial. He would remind them: "To live truly free comes at the highest cost of all," and like many great men the idea of Crazy Horse was more welcome than the reality of who he was.  The line crossing over from storytelling — to living the story — left many behind.  The message in his words was often covered over by the smoke of what many still wanted to hear. So often he said: "Looking into the fire you either know or you don’t know," and the difference lies not in the music of the dance — but in the dancer.  

The campfire oftentimes had an illusion unto itself. Its chanting would enlighten the few while only warming the many in a comfort that could not last. Like Muzak, which tries to convince us today that any noise is better than the quiet it replaces, the Oglala Sioux continued to hear a similar monotony — with their heads in the sand.

As I pull into Tuba City, my memory yearns for the simplicity of my old BSA Gold Star, where more was not necessarily better and whose soul I could always find.  The clarity of its exhaust note would reach deep inside me, reminding me that the truth is always spoken to one directly, and the importance of its message only strengthened with time.

Kurt Philip Behm: June, 1971

Fly me to the moon,
And let me play amongst the stars,
Send me back to earth in the afternoon,
To my memory resevoirs.

Filled with passion and deprived love,
Too many to count, too much to care of,
Cigarette in hand, let me lay on my bed,
Let me sleep eternally, knowing i've earned my bread.