There was a fog that seemed to hover thickly
over the perceived salience of his musings
  
It was as if there were a veiled mystique
that left hopeful understanding ,
                   ambiguously obscured ...

His soul's cadences fell beyond the pale ,
like a reverberant iron bell’s clamor ,
                   drowning acumen ;

albeit , unmistakabe crystal clear allusions ,
scanning inwardly, rhapsody in his mind's eye

                    Illusive accord ,
                    beclouded by seeming stigmas
                    borne of the flesh ;
                    delicately sensitive nuances ,
                    misunderstood imperfections ,
                    bespoken utterance weighed heavy upon heart ...

In the hush of pensive repose ,
flow of soul streamed forth from its retreat within ;
bequeathed as if darkness
was magnetically drawn towards light ,
purging muted understanding ...

                    Assuredly seeking all questions with verve ,
                    accepting , that all answers sought
                    are not meant to be understood

A realization of those who wish to speak yet abide unspoken ;
the unseen mark of those that wished they had been loved ,
befallen the music of a thundering heartbeat ,
understanding a circle is vulnerable ,
only makes it stronger ―

                    hence ,..
                    it had been written
                    in countless misunderstood ways ...

Knowing he resists an inner-voice to endure silently
for a fear of that which remains indelibly writ ,
tattooed on introspective walls
far removed from the afterglow of light ,
where depth of soul yearns to be freed ;

                    heart speak hushed , deft words avowed
                    in enigmatic tongues ― Vayu doth whisper

                    soul's prevailing tides ebb and flow
                    from unseen depths , permeating
                    deeply within inner realms

The spirit of soul once steeped his heart’s intone :

               "Spell words that bind together passing strangers  
                 Coalesce  thoughts to inspirit those whom often walk alone
                 Append the goodwill of poetry, aspiring to bond individual
                 hearts and minds with words of love and light.  
                 Conjure written  spells to bespeak sincerely ,
                 a faith in unabated love"

and yet ,   he will write it again and again ,.. searching beyond words

…words grasped from emerging thoughts
                   drawn in to the light
                   searching for other adept words
                   to recite yet another way ,
                   sketch another word-scape ,
                   written with the relentless inexhaustibleness
                   of an unstoppable awakening ...  

Another winter dawn imbues a new day come to light

                   he will write it again and again ,

                                          ... finding another way to be set free ...



                                                          ­       Harlon Rivers

I.

All I can say is that it is a hum
Reverberant, droning, consistent
Quiet thrumming along the surface
Stirs me awake and then it fills me with
Ichor and I sip, sip, and sip (until I'm drunk).

All I can say is that it is a hum,
Quiet droning, a hushed whisper,
Loud screaming inside the head,
A piercing headache, sometimes a discordant wail.

II.

You sit on the porcelain lip of the tub
Hooded eyes lowered, your fingertips
Pressed together like the steeple of a church

I think: Yes, this is what Renaissance painters modeled angels after. Your skin is like a rose-tinged alabaster, your cheeks Suffused with blood. The painter took a measured time with you.

"Do you honestly think you'll be okay on your own?" You ask.

Silence, she greets you.

III.

Hasn't my mother violently
Ejected me from the nest
I'm only a few months old, a nestling
Wings awkward and clumsy
Beak agape for masticated food
(I'm not ******* ready yet)
Ejects me
Her beak threatens to pierce my shell

This is dejà vu.
I've conversed before
Different room, different domain,
Different speaker, a sicker listener
I'm as sick, sick as **** now

Mind, she hums, crescendo
Crescendo high like a choral piece
Orchestral, and this is resplendent
Everything is gleaming
Your face encased in a soft glow
Halo of light
Your face, cherubic,
His face, Romanesque, was sculpted like a Bronze Age statue.

"Your mother didn't give you the right set of tools. My mother at least gave me–" he falters.

IV.

I remember calling the ex 28 times in the span of 2 hours.
The policeman, he counted.
Thrashing on the floor, weeping like Persephone must've in Hades, like a fallen Mortal reborn as a minor goddess
Stripped me, he did though, of my wings
Avian feathers streaked with years-old blood

My tears, why yes, they're bleeding rivulets.
My ****-brown eyes alight on the bleach
Yes, sweet death

"Stop calling me. I'm ******* another ***** right now," the ex says.

V.

Memory is so faded,
Plays like a scratched and worn cassette tape

Mind is a-humming, humming, my mind is
Orchestral choir, church choir, Pentecostal
Now, I eat ichor, ravenous, now I am Closer to God and she is a woman,  
Draped in funeral attire
She weeps, soundless, a Seer

"I don't know," I say.

"The med isn't working," you reply
Cherubic face shifts and morphs
Melts into soft glow light,
One with the halo, is the halo

Nothing makes sense, everything else does too. My mind races, cassette tapes
Whirs, skips, images flash, I weep
Weep like Sisyphus
Eyes spilling rivers of penny-tinged
Crimson, sanguine ichor

One day he'll taste it and hate me,
Loathe me, the jade-eyed serpent
Poison-fanged
I'll clutch his scales until my fingers are Cut, welts, mottled bruises, fading scars
I will be punished, am punished
The illness, the eternal Boulder on the eternal hill, it rolls and rolls, my mouth agape

I await my cyclic fate ordained by the Higher God

VI.

How many men have I lured into the chamber?
Drunk on sweet wine or mead?
Petrified into osseous
Their gazes failing to avert from my Penetrative stare?

He was an errant General, beautiful but stupid, his mind a one way road, his temper unpredictable and flighty
Oh, how I loved the duality of him
We philosophized
Theorized on the Gods
Laughed at their follies
Wondered at the mysteries of the universe, Her deep annals

Oh, how I loved the physicality of him
Tight, corded muscle, his back like a Wound spring, Bronze hand
Grasping a silver sword

Hark! His rounded shield is lifted, my hideous reflection stares back at me
My eyes, widened, the cup of manna Clatters, soundly in the chamber
Reverberates
Bounces off my throne of skulls

How many men have I–?

VII.

"Can you honestly say that you can take care of yourself?" You ask from the place atop the lip of the porcelain tub. Your hands, a steeple, a church spire
Perhaps, you are a lesser God, perhaps we are all falling Lucifers, wingless, blinded by vengefulness and betrayal
Perhaps, he too is–?

"Am I an infant to you?" I ask.
The headache splits
The pain demands, claws at the side of my skull, dances across my nerves, liquid iron on my tongue

Because when did I?

Oh, Sisyphus you weep! You, who slaughtered so many!

Oh, Medusa, you wept, you beautiful serpentine harlot, you *****, you–
The choir is a strong crescendo, Ascending, ascending, ascending
Lowers like a thrumting and heavy bellow
Deep, rich, and full, timbre

"Everyone, all your life has said you were crazy, but I don't think you are, I–"

VIII.

The tapes skip, voices garbled, muffled, Indiscernible and distorted
Mind shrieks, lower now, quieter now, Barely audible, a fading whisper, your halo Recedes, soft glow dims

Your hands separate, the steeple, no, the Spire collapses.
Held breath hitches,
Serpentine tendrils become wisps of hair, Cloudlike

We are lesser gods, not quite mortal, not quite divine

The itch demands to be felt, protests
And I, I scream endless into a dark chasm
My voice, it does not call back to me
It does not–

"I don't know."

Wind blows.  Snow falls.  The great clock in its tower
Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:
At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .
The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.
We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.

We are like music, each voice of it pursuing
A golden separate dream, remote, persistent,
Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair.
What do you whisper, brother?  What do you tell me? . . .
We pass each other, are lost, and do not care.

One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing,
Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him;
One drifts slowly down from a waking dream.
One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . .
Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.

One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.
Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.
A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.
He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils:
A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.

Death, from street to alley, from door to window,
Cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching,
Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.
But why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect?
Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?

Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled,
A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes
Down jangled streets, and dies.
The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely,
Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.

Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways;
Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways;
From freezing rooms as bare as rock.
The curtains are closed across deserted windows.
Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.

Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight;
Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly;
Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone;
Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered;
Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;

Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror,
And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not;
Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,--
They are blown away like windflung chords of music,
They drift away; the sudden music has died.

And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly
And sees the shadow of death in many faces,
And thinks the world is strange.
He desires immortal music and spring forever,
And beauty that knows no change.

The mosquitoes supped histamine limpets into our puckered flesh
dew gilted grass entombed our feet in dappled domes
refracting the overhead fireworks
smears of whirling color
accented by smoke mote ghosts

I forgot to wear my contacts
my near-sightedness
makes you giggle nervously -
a hard full body ****** of a laugh
it arches your spine
pulling our hand-holding into an expansion
only the lining betwixt finger inlets
galvanized our pulse

well, that and your voltaic laugh
its flourishing timbre
resonant
reverberant pyrotechnic
thickly glazing aural canal

lascivious tomes penned themselves
densely
upon neural plane
dendrites imprinting chemical insignia
moment captured in impressionistic blurs

When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
When all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
As by a shining brainless beacon
Or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
When you are calm and joyful
And finally entirely alone
Then in a great new darkness
You will finally execute your special plan

One needs to have a plan someone said who was turned away into the shadows
And who I had believed was sleeping or dead
Imagine he said all the flesh that is eaten
The teeth tearing into it
The tongue tasting it's savour
And the hunger for that taste
Now take away that flesh he said
Take away the teeth and the tongue
The taste and the hunger
Take away everything as it is
That was my plan
My own special plan for this world
I listened to these words and yet I did not wonder
If this creature whom I had thought sleeping or dead would ever approach his vision
Even in his deepest dreams
Or his most lasting death
Because I had heard of such plans such visions
And I knew they did not see far enough
But what was demanded in a way of a plan
Needed to go beyond tongue and teeth and hunger and flesh
Beyond the bones and the very dust of bones and the wind that would come to blow the dust away
And so I began to envision a darkness that was long before the dark of night
And a strangely shining light
That owed nothing to the light of day

That day may seem like other days
Once more we feel the tiny legged trepidations
Once more we are mangled by a great grinding fear
But that day will have no others after
No more worlds like this will follow
Because I have a plan
A very special plan
No more worlds like this
No more days like that

There are but four ways to die a sardonic spirit might have said to me
There is dying that occurs relatively suddenly
There is dying that occurs relatively gradually
There is dying that occurs relatively painlessly
There is the death that is full of pain
Thus by various means they are combined
The sudden and the gradual
The painless and the painful
To yield but four ways to die
And there are no others
Even after the voice stopped speaking
I listened for it to speak again
After hours and day and years have passed
I listened for some further words
Yet all I heard were the faintest echoes reminding me
There are no others
There are no others
Was it then that I began to conceive for this world
A special plan?

There are no means for escaping this world
It penetrates even into your sleep
And is his substance
You are caught in your own dreaming
Where there is no space
And a hell forever where there is no time
You can't do nothing you aren't told to do
There is no hope for escape from this dream
That was never yours
The very words you speak are only it's very words
And you talk like a traitor
Under it's incessant torture

There are many who have designs upon this world
And dream of wild and vast reformations
I have heard them talking in their sleep
Of elegant mutations
And cunning annihilations
I have heard them whispering in the corners of crooked houses
And in the alleys and narrow back streets of this crooked creaking universe
Which they with their new designs were made straight and sound
But each of these new and I'll conceived designs
Is deranged in it's heart
For they see this world as if it were alone and original
And not as only one of count with others
Whose nightmares all precede
Like a hideous garden grown from a single seed
I have heard these dreamers talking in their sleep
And I stand waiting for them
As at the top of a darkened flight of stairs
They know nothing of me
And none of the secrets of my special plan
While I know every crooked creaking step of theirs

It was the voice of someone who was waiting in the shadows
Who was looking at the moon and waiting for me to turn the corner
And enter a narrow street
And stand with him in the dull glaze of moonlight
Then he said to me
He whispered
That my plan was misconceived
That my special plan for this world was a terrible mistake
Because, he said, there is nothing to do and there is no where to go
There is nothing to be and there is no one to know
Your plan is a mistake, he repeated
This world is a mistake, I replied

The children always followed him
When they saw him hopping by
A funny walk
A funny man
A funny, funny, funny man
He made them laugh sometimes
He made them laugh oh yes he did
He did he did he did he did
Oh how he made them roll
One day he took them to a place
He knew a special place
And told them things about this world
This funny, funny, funny world
Which made them laugh sometimes
He made them laugh oh yes he did
He did he did he did he did
Oh how he made them roll
Then the funny man who made them laugh
Sometimes he did
Revealed to them his special plan
His very special funny plan
Knowing they would understand
And maybe laugh sometimes
He made them laugh
Oh yes he did
He did he did he did he did
Their eyes grew wide beneath there lids
And how he made them roll

I first learned the facts from a lunatic
In a dark and quiet room that smelled of stale time and space
There are no people
Nothing at all like that
The human phenomenon is but the sum of densely coiled layers of illusion
Each of which winds itself upon the supreme insanity
But there are persons of any kind
When all that can be is mindless mirrors
Laughing and screaming as they parade about
In an endless dream
But when I asked the lunatic what it was
It swore itself within these mirrors
As they marched endlessly in stale time and space
He only looked and smiled
Then he laughed and screamed
And in his black and empty eyes
I saw for a moment as in a mirror
A form the shade of divinity
In flight from it's stale infinity
Of time and space and the worst of all
Of this world dreams
My special plan for the laughter
And the screams

We went to see some little show
That was staged in an old she'd
Past the edge of town
And in it's beginnings all seemed well
The miniature curtain stage glowed in the darkness
While those dolls bounced along on their strings before our eyes
And in it's beginnings all seemed well
But then there came a suttle turning point which some have noticed
And I was one
Who quietly left the show
No I did not
Because I could see where things were going
As the antics of those dolls grew strange
And the fragile strings grew taut
With their tiny pullings, tiny limbs
The others around me became appalled
And turned away and abandoned the show
That was staged in an old she'd
Past the edge of town
But I wanted to witness what could never be
I wanted to see what could not be seen
But the moment of consummate disaster
My puppets turned to face the puppet master

It was twilight and I stood in a greyish haze of the vast empty building
When the silence was enriched by a reverberant voice
All the things of this world it said
Are of but one essence
For which there are no words
This is the greater part which has no beginning or end
And the one essence of this world for which there can be no words
Is that all the things of this world
This is the lesser part which had a beginning and shall have an end
And for which words were conceived solely to speak of
The tiny broken beings of this world it said
The beginnings and endings of this world it said
For which words were conceived solely to speak of
Now remove these words and what remains it asks me
As I stood in the twilight of that vast empty building
But I did not answer
The question echoed over and over
But I remained silent until the echoes died
And as twilight passed into the evening I felt my
Special plan for which there are no words
Moving towards a greater darkness

There are some who have no voices
Or none that will ever speak
Because of the things they know about this world
And the things they feel about this world
Because the thoughts that fill a brain
That is a damaged brain
Because the pain that fills a body
That is a damaged body
Exists in other worlds
Countless other worlds
Each of which stands alone in an infinite empty blackness
For which no words are being conceived
And where no voices are able to speak
When a brain is filled only with damaged thoughts
When a damaged body is filled only with pain
And stands alone in a world surrounded by infinite empty blackness
And exists in a world for which there is no special plan

When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
When all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
As by a shining brainless beacon
Or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
When you are calm and joyful
And finally entirely alone
Then in a great new darkness
You will finally execute your special plan

Hello again my cute little coy butterfly net
I know that with time you may fray and fret
Though I wonder at which it is you wake to yearn
To be re-woven by one's intricate concern
Or the display of versatile reverberant things?
I recall your temporary retention of those beautiful wings
Your cornice of vivid vitality forever vicarious
Are you- the gentle jailer, nervous ******, or simply fastidious?
Those lives that you catch into your fluttering heart,
I suppose they may change you when pinned and ripped apart
Whether that be or they are released to fly free
In what you have yet to see spins your sense of serenity
So forget them, when you remember your demure nature
For history is just a child caught in sincere nomenclature.




Shakespeare's Sonnet #9

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That thou consum'st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
   No love toward others in that ***** sits
   That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.

eat, drink...enjoy it all...
it has been a hot day
and we have worked much
and we sang songs to see us
through the demands of it all

oh fields,
we have come to work
and to give you our time and effort;
give us your love in return
and in coming months give
us good produce and fruit

and now it is time for each one of us
all as in one family to sit in the open
and eat and drink how you like
with slurps and loud noises
and big reverberant burps;
there’s fish before you -
with your chopsticks
dig, tear and eat;
a fan for you respectable Old One
fan yourself while you eat
and the young too, let us not forget
and the baby
O let us all drink noisily if need be
eat heartily for we are the deserving
and let us not forget too the creatures
that are also part of the family

*eat and drink
slurp and gobble and belch
empty each bowl whole
dig into every bit of fish
eat and drink
for we are the deserving
after all our work

Wish this city's smog doesn’t settle in
Wish these noises don’t creep in
Making my day, my mood a hectic hue
Broken hearts, love affairs and office tid-bits
Wish I’d peacefully for one day stand in a queue
And not be bogged down by Monday morning blues

But if all these scenery is taken away
Would there be a city, a town or bed to lay
To oust our shadowed yearnings- we have
turned to the cluster and clangs.

The rush, the reverberant noise, the raucous sounds,
the adrenaline pumping adventures serving as a palliative
to needs within us now suppressed
could we for once be silent and still
and ask amongst ourselves
“why did we our peace ****?”

He’s sick with all that he’s seen
So he stays in bed for 3 weeks
He doesn’t miss his friends
who spray art in the alleyways
and get high from
too much coffee
and mass hysteria

From his window he watches
the endless stream
of metal and gasoline
He writes down his dreams,
both sleeping and waking
He hears two songs
of sadness
and softness
and silence

Like an artist, August descends
down into his lonely den
He hides underground
deep in the realm of
Reverberant sound
Where music seeps
through the walls
Where time is gone

i am water streaming
through cracks in a rock face
rushing roaring booming
reverberant static
as i become many
and one
the beautiful endless
prison I called home
all along
now indistinguishable

Yours truly quite astute,
especially regarding cute
little field mice, also known
as meadow voles,
which imprecation one doth emote,
when aforementioned animal burrows inside
leaving pellet size **** in their wake
suddenly presenting a pain in the glute.

Analogous to swiss cheese
fecklessness riddled **** sapien
writer, whom he himself
cannot Provolone equality
for Mus musculus to live,
exception viz one named Stuart Little
as equal among indomitable realm
dominated by bipedal hominids
said species arrogated
since time immemorial
self superior holier than thou tenet
and dictum governing hegemony
across webbed wide world,

which supposed word of creator
conveniently got interpreted to mean;
"Be fertile and multiply;
fill the earth and subdue
every square inch courtesy
trappings of western civilizations,
henceforth since the dawn
of consciousness, when primates
such as Sahelanthropus tchadensis,
**** habilis, **** erectus,
and **** heidelbergensis evolved
to slowly but surely

wield dominion over
the fish of the sea,
the birds of the air,
and all living things
that move on the earth,”
their subsequent descendents relegated
every creature deemed inferior
and thus (no pun intended)
fair game across proverbial
eminent domain, thus justified,
ordained, usurped, et cetera
courtesy manifest destiny,
particularly mostly aborigines.

Against bullet proof credo, ethos,
and genuine holistic integrity
to respond to such an event
as Minnie's or Mickey's, no matter
an ohm my cat reluctance arises
to don and trumpet role as "killer"
tis with only the means and ways
to avoid health crisis that I
hesitantly didst exterminate existence
of other critters decried as pestilential

so please no unsolicited
mouse a lean knee black barbs
against this august gent
tis a marvel to evince the behaviour
of rapaciousness, when nary a hint
extant within me - except,
at a crossroads arises
when vermin take residence
as per mentioned earlier
as an unpaid inhabitant,

this one mortal married male loathes
to distribute deathly lethal instrument
innocuous morsels of D-CON
doth not make me feel jubilant
this chap doth newt believe
dangerous buggars ought
be be consigned with tender loving care
but certainly less cruel fate
versus getting lethally euthanized,
eradicated and essentially

charged with heinous crime
such as ****** committed by a litigant
slapped unfairly suffer being poisoned
imposing forfeiture reprisal
tomb the tinker-bell tolls
visa vis a role in the realm
within flora and fauna not meant
for humans decreeing vermin
lack purposelessness,
and must be exterminated

to own rights qua life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness
quietly when staking out an alcove,
cupboard, or mauve wainscoting
reproduction of discriminated,
hashtagged, and targeted mammals
would nonchalantly find safe haven
exiting man made confines if left
to their biological devices,
this millennial saga of mice and men

perhaps Noah occident,
and no matter what means
one approaches pursuant
to rid the house of mice,
these creatures reboot toxic tolerance
to incorporate schemes
quite innovative within floorboards,
deep chambers viz hitting
expansive domestic quadrant
this Brie zee, cream cheesy,

though temporarily dislodged per demise,
the recurrent adaptation reverberant
and stupefy supreme survival skill re:
by a modus operandi
with adaptive qualities salient
ta dum me little nimble,
opal and quizzical rodents
lacking redolence tubby mammals,
though their existence
and devil's blue diet tribe curd dish rant

might be diametrically opposed
to American ethics committee, who slant
the bald (also balled), bold,
and brazen cordon bleu appearance
analogous to a vagrant, unrepentant truant
sans more than one little
furry Muenster of scurrying critters
spur this heir force deputy
issues a poisoned search warrant.