There was a funeral in St. Thomas d'Aquin,
And it wasn't in the Latin tongue,
Not English, Italian, not even Norse.
It was unctioned in French, of course.
But it may as well've been Greek.
I sat reserved in my seat,
As many a French rose up to speak.
But the incense was the same,
And the holy water sprayed on my glasses,
And I sat as people knelt
And blessed themselves,
And joined in on the refrain,
I knew it by its name: Le chemin. La verite. La vie.
It's a form of glossolalia,
And it's coming for us daily.
The mourners were onto something more,
Than words, gestures and litanies,
Something greater than any of these,
Yet the translation was lost on me.

Heaven, O, Heaven, is the path to you through intentions or artifacts?
They are hallowing the moves, the writings but not the heart's acts.
Heaven you are not close in a place like this,
They "follow" the man to achieve, but all they do is miss.
They miss God and make out of people a bliss.
Compensating for the void with the material, marching to the abyss,
A "renaissance" they claim, while we here the truth reminisce.

Mon coeur est confus, J'ai le cœur en aller-retour,
Quand je vais trouver enfin l'essentiel? Ici, je suis secoué,
c'est possible? Suis-je le seul esprit qui ne soit pas doué?
ou la verite est-elle, quelque part, écroué?
Repondez-moi, est la vérité dans l'oubli ou dans un carrousel?
la vérité, je vais, avec mon cœur, avec vous, me renouer.

It is the silence of the truth, that makes the sound of lies loud,
It is the paralysis of rationality that leaves peace unfound.
It is the loud not that rational that guides the crowd.
It never was what they vowed.  

You are a "master" that is creating a disaster-piece

It goes from one hand to another, the cross,
Throwing it from one hand to another, with no loss.
Selling angels and demons, sending to heavens and hell fires,
But O, the lives are not a coin you toss.

Je ne vais pas donner ma langue au chat
Le salut est entre les mains des gens, cette fois.
Ce n'est plus pas entre vos mains, Monsieur.
Aujourd'hui, le chat ne mangera pas ma voix.
la liberté est un choix.

I despise myself for not being the obedient you could cherish.
Shall I follow or shall I purge out the poison and perish?
If I am gone, my writing will be there in the dark, garish.

Actually, you are a "master" that created two disaster-pieces;
A corrupt generation, and me; the one whom you, despises.

I am glad I am enslaved to no one, but my "rotten" thoughts.
I lost my home; my peace. Today, I cannot connect the dots.
Tomorrow, you will be the first to take a sip from my tea,
When I sew a better reality with my weary knots.
My home; peacefulness, is given away to the kids,
To the cats, to the birds and clean pots.
Call me by my name, when he applauds.

I buy a role.
Cinema verite.
But think much bigger and more grand in scale and style.
Costs me seven dollars or eight.
I'll be moving up from time to time in time.
There are packs you can buy where all the joints are different colors.
And I smoke them all or someone else does in moonlight, perhaps.
Mostly I smoke one of three:
American Spirit Blacks;
Camel Turkish Royals;
Marlboro 27s.
That sorta sums me up.
I'm in love with all the world, through the look of a ring of smoke;
Or a wavy line rising disappearing to the sky.
If I turn 28 years old I'll thank the Lord aloud.
And kiss his hollowed ground.
And change some things around.
And make some lovely sounds.
And shoot some lovely scenes.
And star for who to see.
For you there is a me.
Yes you, every lady.
And every sweet young supple girl,
Who is ready for the world;
I will be your man,
And I'll show you all I can,
And when you've seen enough,
I'll lay you down for love,
And we'll go deeper then the rest,
We'll plant new foreign lands.
And start humanity there.
And we will watch it grow...

Worlds never been discovered.
Our spaceship's under covers.
But soon it will be built.
And then we will lift off.
Not knowing we are safe,
But knowing we are great.
And trusting all around;
The people who got us off the ground.
We'll sail and leave the Earth behind;
And first stop will be the Moon.
And that's all I can write about that right now.
Wouldn't want to spoil a thing.
Not you.
Not even the ending of a movie.
Like when I open up my pack of Turkish Royal cigarettes;
Out on my back porch tonight under the stars;
And I pull out the very last one;
And I light it up I'm either saying cut or I'm saying action...
Every pack of cigarettes a movie.

We don’t all get to be birthed

Yet dying is as sure for

Everyone as killing be to some.

Animals have no consciences

Sows will eat their piglets -

But for my mother being Catholic

And I of Irish extraction by caesarean

There is a good chance that I

Would never have been a poet

Because she told me later in life

That she wished I was never born

Et pour ça, peut-être mon fête de

Naissance n’était jamais célèbre.

Electric relaxation on my mind
The gurney that lights up the cigarette
Trees and Cassavetes, that reminded me of cinema verite
The truth appears to be spoken in truer words
Truer words haven't been spoken, for licking lips and prying grace look over shoulders
In the lying order of the jumbled papers marking Presidents for representation