A Treason of Images: Verse 15

Religion is revelation, not submission: Rope and reins of religion stifle, strangle the garden of dreams that's imagination; all Life leans towards the Light, closes itself away safe and securely from the Dark.

A Treason of Images: Verse 14

In movement of moon-ark flowing fast, a ribbon of silver spills on ground laid out in bright white stripe across black lands; a night descending cat-current of blooming luminescence slowly stalks and crawls.

A Treason of Images: Verse 13

There is a gallantry in every stated refusal, in every said negation, in every published public statement of denial; in the very act of protest of submission, as it's the "no" that makes us men and not the "yes."

A Treason of Images: Verse 12

Vagaries of soft syllables hiss hot asphalt streets in summer rain. Splashing diamond drops of worries melt in pavement heat. Stormy past escapes in steam. Regrets evaporate warm forget in drowsy noon. 

A Treason of Images: Verse 11

Declaration of Independence: I am the face of my own word which makes of my own beginning. No god or nation comes before me. I serve no state and owe duty to none but myself and to my own aspiration.

A Treason of Images: Verse 10

If you seek, you shall never find; for the effort of the will prevents the act of revelation: sleep to know. In any place but this in any hour but now, time to wipe the satisfied smirk that withers away; so relax. 

A Treason of Images: Verse 9

An alliance of light, a galleon moon in crescent shape of boat, sails its gold ship over a purple sea with rippling waves of spuming revolution white in magic silent night to safe dock at the blue port of dawn. 

A Treason of Images: Verse 8

The lettered clowns of Congress and of churches, which preach their coward faiths within their hollow Capital and in their cathedral caves of ignorance, fraud constituents and congregations alike with lies.

A Treason of Images: Verse 7

Secreted in a state damaged by an absurd cult of capitalism, suicide; that moist obscurity; that sits hiding within an avarice cloud of fog; that lies in staining mist of blood, makes for melancholy mood.

A Treason of Images: Verse 6

To remain standing upon the sight-lines of immortality, to do is to be. The eye that does not see; the ear that does not hear; the tongue that does not speak, shall never taste of the joys and fruits of life.

A Treason of Images: Verse 5

Stars are bleeding fast, pouring forth ruby jewels of spit-spiralling blood; their bodies' sleek bungalows of plasma gas mirrors ours of bone and of cartilage in breaking their limbs away from trunks of energy.

A Treason of Images: Verse 4

Purple-black is the famine of the dark dance lightning strike beneath the storm-blue sea of the hungry cloud, and it comes ever closer; an expense of spirit in a waste of shame is this rumbling rumor of war.

A Treason of Images: Verse 3

Mellow moods promenade in nights of Spring as the dancing twilight of dusk perform lingering refrain. Sun kisses the horizon in its final setting of purple and of red, bloomed out in crimson melodies of gold.

A Treason of Images: Verse 2

Poorer and poorer stunt beggars of morality and of memory; dementia governed nation America devolve; the fall of the dark is come again upon the World; the night-sweats come from vision of threatening war.

A Treason Of Images: Verse 1

The World is lucky to have us in it: Bilious smoke of compromise, treason of images in a succession of smiles, they would keep us from our purpose, deny our destiny; advertisers, promoters, of mediocrity.  

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 34

Won't do, won't satisfy, whispers in the dark, smoke of conversation, parody and pastiche of wit, serve to disguise illusion, camouflage disgust; because the delirium of reality becomes much to bleak to bear.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 33

Media is an anesthesia. It's a dropping off to sleep. Analgesic of dreams, it drips deliberate forgetting, an eager amnesia; slavery accomplished not by iron manacles but by addiction to softness of Internet.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 32

Stalked by our pasts, veneration is real reason for writing; it's expression that makes us men through exorcism of memory, history made renew, each re-telling changes it to make it more adaptable to life.

The Hour of the wolf: Verse 31

Elegance was lost in the arrogance of fashion. Censorship denied, in being forbidden to poke, to speak fun at familiar street apparel a bitter sarcasm prevails; anger shown clearly in ugly dress of the young.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 30

Surprised by death and not content with this strife filled life, a nothingness follows; all contemplation ends and there's no more need for consciousness now for the hour of the wolf has come round at last.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 29

As drink is the great enemy of wit, dependence destroys independence. He who would sit at another's table expects to be poorly fed. Congress seeks to bargain its citizens to sell them to the highest bidder.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 28

Durable and true, in a magic spherical of return, in renewal after wash of rain, in dimpled beams; a sun's light comes on again, to sweat through heavy cloud, in thick-swept rays of yellow and of pink.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 27

In respect of seeking shores of distant stars; need no ship to sail on the space to them, but slim imagination, being so enabled to let slip the bands of time to travel far upon the seas of heaven.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 26

Cold breaking day in blue, caste in bronze clouds; bend grass in breeze; freeze dew upon thin stems to jewels, glitter-bright prisms of delight; committed soon to melt in sun in ancient conspire of dawn.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 25

A blaring interweaving of many muted trumpets calling, the dark burnished frame from the bass drone of the dream within the dream signals a profound danger; a keeping coming back to probability of war.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 24

Lucky casualties of geometry spread in symmetries, celebration of purple amid green; cloud of violent color in violet dominant but here and there splashed in lavender indolence: haze of irises in the grass.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 23

Lavender chain of proofs for Spring, the lilacs in late March are in blushing violet idle, blooming; then a snow came unexpected and sudden and their tallness is buried under in a blue annihilation of promise.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 22

Long gone away, yet still feels so near; allied to everything we say, stated in everything we do, they were a quiet people till were raised to indignation, to rebellion against who would keep them silent.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 21

Heartaches and tears, the long suffering from love that's lost, the lingering stuttering of time's remote desire, the ailing that comes from cruel rejection; serve to conspire in the reveries of deepest memory.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 20

Ordinary in means of expansion, meager in income of inspiration, the mind is kept only clean by use, by constant scrub of industry; yet solitary expression of Art is compromised, is made confined by poverty.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 19

In the islands of destiny, one day's ride is tomorrow's suicide for it's the sound that's primary and it's meaning that's secondary, as shadow of the body precedes the body; it doesn't come after to follow it. 

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 18

Torpid in movement and lethargic in mind, talking turtle of mundane morality yet another pope of most vapid and banal philosophy was elected and was confirmed by others to speak for us and preach to us.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 17

Losing hour for love in the twists and twirls of the braided wire of crisscrossed time lines, dreams have dreams, visions have visions, and nothing seems real anymore as the world tilts as it swift slides away.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 16

In black daggers plunging, in an endless falling, in pliant bouncing, falling endlessly in the dark; rain, rain, rain, spitting down, in a singing, stinging, pinging, banging, plague of downpour, a staging rain.

The Hour of the Wolf: Verse 15

Lashing at air, a pale fire is stirring light into flakes of snow, falling slow, falling slow, in glinting drifts of nothingness; quiet is the night and the moon shines silent in the sky and snow is slow falling: Down.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 14

In jack-hammer strokes of white fire on uncovered heads, hail flicks down its knives of stone in storm; as ice-picks of ice, flames in covered malt of carapace, layer in layer, rounded, rolled, tight and spiked.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 13

Travel is an education. The greater boundary of the mind expands outwards by every new experience. A window of noise whispers through the blinds of the passing train; look around you, look around you.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 12

Sail on brave mariners: The sky is our country, an empire of stars steadily expanding and unfinished, a sea not mapped and infinite in shores. We'll be the fishermen there. We'll sweep its oceans of thought.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 11

Under the covers in the midnight hour, going off sides in the small vacation of sliding into a sleep, such dreams come that cast shadows on our lives; still staying savage, long in my memory, you remain alive.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 10

This generation has studied well the grammar of violence, in a martial school that exists in them that graduates a schism that makes for greater separation and divide, in a war that is internal and inside.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 9

In those days of black drapery of mind, when the world may market exuberant despair, smooth, sand away the scuffed hours of care; strike away the minutes of anxiety with long walks in deserted woods.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 8

In its sentimental sanctioning of dusk, sunset sinks down in clarinet peal of rose bright red to dream a painted sky of melted blue in evening sleep; sudden twill of stars breaks out, woven in velvet tapestry.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 7

Hostage to wind, the color of rain is null, nothing containing a whole of heaven's blank opinion of wet; splashing drop by steady drop a deaf tune from a dead tuning of a tenor guitar upon a deserted street. 

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 6

The ash and the alder who know the silver-grey of moon-light, disguise themselves in far darker cloaks to brood when the heart of the deepest night descends in fainter somber reflection of brown and blood.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 5

Stars sail swiftly within their settled courses, indifferent to the opinions of radio-astronomers; whom, while in their habit-staring at their many books refuse to look at the beauty which moves above them. 

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 4

Cities, smothered in snow, trapped in gangrene winter, smooth white encasing woe, become hungry in the stillness of solitude, feral in loneliness; yet still shall thrive our life despite blizzard and cruel storm.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 3

The geometry of shadows rests in change. We are such shadows ourselves; lengthening, diminishing in life, in hued coloring from blue to gray, in losing firm identities beneath overhead light of noonday Sun.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 2

The harp of love is plucked by the finger of lust and these twinned tyrannies of each addiction are the same; the blood and iron of temperament decide the issue of the supremacy of two entangled desires.

Hour of the Wolf: Verse 1

In the time of morning before the time of dawn, before the Prussian blue sorrow of first light's coming, be soft spoken and to silence dwindle; go to the breath's slow exhalation for now's the hour of the wolf.

Folded Guitar: Verse 34

Wanderers in Time, wind, water, wave; we're visitors here, trespassers, not permanent tenants. Least of all can we claim to be the owners of our world; lessees just for a little while: brief short-timers only. 

Folded Guitar: Verse 33

Angry to Be, for an ability to endure; there is the desire for existence. Just as worlds float upon their wide oceans of space, universes float on top of the seas of the large dimensions, trying to create the lives that shall sustain them in their many-colored worlds. 

Folded Guitar: Verse 32

Go. Pad your days with your meaningless ways. A most methodical lover of the eternal Now needs no such distractions; needs no such diversions. He can walk in the untrammeled snows and not be cold.

Folded Guitar: Verse 31

Seemed causes are but effects: fact and logic wither fast and are dripped away by sordid icicle presence of prejudice in science; splattering away cool reasoning, keeping the holy fragility of civilization alive.

Folded Guitar: Verse 30

Through suffering comes learning: the score of the music showing the dance of numbers is subtle and hidden and may only be read after much practice; discovery is found and fostered in the agony of Art.

Folded Guitar: Verse 29

Though absurd belief and behavior is domain of creators of religions, in going to midnight after dark so obvious is the debt to be paid to psychotic evening light; blue illumination there seeming absent cause.

Folded Guitar: Verse 28

The burn of the candle in the lantern that fires the mind blinks, sputters and pauses from the battering of white winds brought to bear upon the brain by the blind concussions of the trembling strokes of age.

Folded Guitar: Verse 27

What change to come; what wonders? Flinch at moaning darkness to come: future's terrorizing. Fight with poetry; with verse, against the nations and religions that sacrifice and eat their children in wars. 

Folded Guitar: Verse 26

Mayhem the maelstrom of anguished memories, borne by and carried away over the waterfall strings of folded guitars, poured down to be stirred around; swilled and swirled in the deep whirlpool of love.

Folded Guitar: Verse 25

Song of the morning chanter of the wrens sing of the remain of a clarity of a tide full-in upon the shore. Let the baleful winds blow high or blow low, the small bird is safe-secure within its tiny house of straw.

Folded Guitar: Verse 24

Chamber astonishment and carry it at the hip canted forward to be drawn and fired on those harping critics of your life and work. Banish the misfortunes of their intrusive mediocrities with a sniping wit.

Folded Guitar: Verse 23

Bow lingered lightly upon the cello's A-string, brazen head of mountain covered by the mist, bright beagle baying of the hounds; chance is with the fox to escape the heavy tramp of feet upon the fog-bound moor and bog.  

Folded Guitar: Verse 22

The world shocks itself new through poetry's high tension lines, in the found sound of the electricity of discovery spangling down its wire; pinning taught, upon the crossbeam of desire, the limbs of thought.

Folded Guitar: Verse 21

Hard lands made drowsy by time, lay down in steely sleep of concrete dreams among the stony waters: Time to read the slender volumes of glass skyscrapers of the song of life is short in these lean canyons.

Folded Guitar: Verse 20

Frost frames the chill of night in a blue lens to give the Moon's light on snow an indigo hue. Everything changes; long white wand of shore turns cobalt in the dark, waves spanking iridescent turquoise upon the sand. 

Folded Guitar: Verse 19

Intimations abound: The growing, gathering storm of war cyclones ever nearer, and the people, who have become more vicious and more savage; ever more desirous of coming conflict, still live beneath its volcano.

Folded Guitar: Verse 18

Sliding down from a night sky flamed-full of red stars swirled overhead, meteors swift-descend, slicing unnoticed and unremarked into a dead sea, lifeless of swarmed movements; a blank desert in the dark.

Folded Guitar: Verse 17

Semaphore of their coming dance of leaves, buds are spiking on twigs to announce an early Spring. In their green whispers of such birth, the black dream of war seems far away; dread not the night in this dawn of life.

Folded Guitar: Verse 16

Singing the songs of sedition and playing the tunes of treason, these sighing contagions of confessions that herd-corrals this aberration, contain the celebrations of the citizens for their servitude to the state; to the state's religion of patriotism: None be Free.

Folded Guitar: Verse 15

Losing identity, becoming a stranger to myself, almost impostor of what I once was, faceless in the mirror of recognition, invisible and unheard in the silent streets of this city; still I shall continue on.

Folded Guitar: Verse 14

Tiny are those small levers of monotony, those tightening bands of conformity which squeeze dissent from public discourse the puppet masters of chloroform media choose to closely finger and to control.

Folded Guitar: Verse 13

Bandage worry by sentiment of beauty: clear and cold and blue, winter sky skids over us; its flannel azure gauze of light sheds as it heals to make of our common cares of every day, but small frivolities.

Folded Guitar: Verse 12

Transformation of a real and a permanent good into one still higher still, half-moon birthing one of full; burn that wonder of a Constitution to create a new and better convention to make a confederacy of wit and rights.  

Folded Guitar: Verse 11

No comfort could be found; nor no stay from care, can be discovered in this lengthy probation of a life. The country devolves. An insurance agency designed for its own degeneration has become this nation.

Folded Guitar: Verse 10

Hesitate your heart and restore it to its normal beat. Return it back to its slow, sure, steady strum. Fire your charging thrust of lust for life through listening to its changing drum beat of ever-pumping blood.

Folded Guitar: Verse 9

When walking these long days long in this false Spring; the fragrant fields of color, the fugue filled fields of sound, are fating our miraculous afternoons with their splendors of generous lucky-nows.

Folded Guitar: Verse 8

A carefree moon in a cloudless sky bellows its nonchalance to us; exclaiming by its dazzling presence in the night through streaming shaking light a dispersal of the heavy fog of worry from off our heads.

Folded Guitar: Verse 7

Slam-sledge of callused palm upon hard table is the speech of drink and not of wit; the loud foul talk of angry fevered minds. Each time around it's the same hell from small heads spawned in bloated bellies.

Folded Guitar: Verse 6

A fortune squandered which was vaulted and was safe-contained inside those great minds devoured by the frivolities and the seductive fashions of shallow society, can't be recouped and could never be returned.

Folded Guitar: Verse 5

Maladies abound. Weary and worn, and denatured by many dissolute nights, a sick and obese nation suffers consequence of sloth: physical health of a people is evidence enough indicative of the psychic and spiritual state of a people.

Folded Guitar: Verse 4

By day we work as mercenaries for others' desires; but at night we become ourselves. So embrace the night tenderly. Sleep brings with it a kindness. Sleep brings with it a coma. Brings an erasure of cares.

Folded Guitar: Verse 3

Cold religion cheated compassion this full moon again. They that were squeaked into existence as the clerisy of learning, attached as they are to their tenured lives, these teachers of old morality, have no knowledge of the true beauty of things. Broken windows on beaten shuttered stores; old newspapers scuttling down windy streets, are sole heritage of their ethics.

Folded Guitar: Verse 2

My winter heart is warmed by you. Convicted and confused in collaboration, verse cannot describe nor music imitate the frantic fibrillation that has been forged there in its ventricles by the mere mention of your name.

Folded Guitar: Verse 1

A visitation touch, deft and light; a whisper of fingers slant-sliding along a cheek, is prelude to a kiss. Lips parting smile, a smile too glad to be true, captures your heart. And yes, it just happens that way.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 28

God is the empty set; the set that exists but has No-One, just an absent deity. Sparks ignite even better in the dark; better to trust the god in the head, who creates this poetry, poor as it may be, than the one outside, who stays so silent and is deaf.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 27

Recommended company on the royal highway of philosophy, are street-light eyes, accustomed to the dark; amber torches for seeing into the dark shadows, illuminating the hidden figures standing there, waiting for their turns to speak.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 26

Stating byes, each by his, in setting for his own allotted time and tempo; each one has his solo turn, his own small set to play, an instrument unto himself, before his piece, before his last stop, before his final sign-off ending, comes. 

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 25

A cacophony of spirit, a dissonance in soul; but should I care at all? At least, just this final evening, there is a movement in the dancing indigo sky, in this, the last moon of this month; in this, the last month of this blue year: December days.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 24

These priests and these philosophers know talk and they know how to do it well, but they know nothing of what caused talk to come to be; by the touching of the searching hand of tongue at a distance far, in the famished taste for truth.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 23

Weathered pines snug in the sable warmth of their white wool coats of winter snow. Difference buried by the muffled cotton of the falling flakes, a continuance of harmony is scented in silence there in that holy stillness of the woods.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 22

The coarse encrusted arc of mystic memory is rusted over to make more difficult an attempt escape to fly bold rebellion against the past; to break from off the failed efforts of the mind chains of exhaustion that come from regrets.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 21

This is nation for the old and that's the problem with it; comes you, fountain of every understanding, wash and bathe our frailty. A murmur of the heart has sealed our fate and a new tyranny of fear has replaced the old. 

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 20

Wonderment is it this house of cards, America, which absent any foundation that makes for civilization, should continue; is this then to be its golden age? It's been deeded over to the narrow backs and to the soft hands. Horned callus of soles of feet and palms of hands are unknown to them, to these legatees. 

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 19

They, who in their ignorance, claim a power over me know nothing of myself. They would force us, and they would subdue us; they would suborn us too, to use our own ability against us so as to pursue their selfish ends. 

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 18

Reason alters all allegiances; for this disturbing muse battles and destroys past faiths and bad beliefs; it bestows a logic and a clarity where none was before, and for this result we give to it our high praise. 

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 17

Destitution orders poverty of spirit to leach our souls. The gravity of income scales us down to make us small. Kindness melts in the heat of desperation. Sanity dissolves, to be replaced by smirking violence.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 16

Sinking into a red bulb sitting upon the horizon at the dying sunset these desolation days hammer at demolishment of me, sapper blasting and exploding away my accepted ways, for all my former lives are submerged by that same sync; they are dimming down within this Blood Sun.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 15

Dead flowers, their closed cups a bone, frosted by dew, stand at a slim-bending tremble on ice-brittled stems, in the wide white coated fields. Among wet standing stones, new carved, the white caskets are being laid in the ground today.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 14

A yellow into a twilight, whenever a sleep comes, these moments in dreams push for their success through the lucid method of the talking mirrors of memories; exciting dawn for their fulfillment, in order to wish to work all our daylight hours.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 13

Pace these city streets. There. Throw down your long shadow, granted by their silver lamps at night. Ground those moods inside of you, the blue and the red of you; that go to shade and that make the purple and the gray of you, together.

A Tremble in Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 12

Abandon reason. For a brighter later, put away and slip away from out of the cloak of Time. Surge your heart in gallant fight against the dying of the light. Take your mind to flight. Outside of understanding, only in the sensing of the skin; only in the touch, does reality reside.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 11

Cringe and hide your face away; from a bleeding Sun, shooting crimson rays in steep steps descending, spitting red, raining rivers of blood, slicing hard down, in the far falling of fate; for doom is come upon, an uncomprehending Earth.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 10

Wicked burn till return of the rising Sun. The setting of the white-haired Moon serves as a sermon enough for us. There's solace sufficient for the day in twilight hours. The strange bed of the grave waits for sleep tonight.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 9

After such violence, after such long passion; who would wish to distance keep from life the flesh? Who would separate lust from desire? Carpenter and solder those past misty years' aspirations to the clear and present day's soft demonstration of love.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 8

To do Art: Sacrifice the World. Waters and woods serve as holy altars of inspiration and of imagination, not the works of man; there's more of architecture in standing trees than in glass towers built by men.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 7

Relentless in its surging animosity, an endless repetition of ocean wave splashes on shores, seizing beaches and boardwalks in hypnotic grasp; delaying hearing in a smooth silent mesmeric crashing.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 6

Query not, for there is no response; the high questions seek for their solutions by the greater generation of other questions, in an unending series, in surveying of nature's subtle designs.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 5

Rain splatters against the winds-shields in the cop-car; travelling with its wipers wiping, a neon dream is moving in the evening, probing on the wet, glistening streets, its siren sounding warning in the dark.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 4

Never argue with ignorance; instead voice opinion hard by the fiery stomp and by the rapid walk away; by a rapping loud rejection on wooden floor, at the crudity, at the stupidity of what's termed wit today.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 3

Wrong-folded wings are in constant danger of wind-dance falling failure. Suture and tie your past and your present together. Jester strange desire, the want for tenure of immortality; for timid needful life.

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 2

Champion the day in a premonition of forever morning encased and snug set in a band of eternal dawn, singing to the soul of the green and gold of glory, in sweetened honey rays outpouring down from Sun. 

A Tremble In Time: Autumnal Equinox Section 1

Sparks in the dark ignite; to go to make an offering of light between the possibility and the final performance of the action a hesitation resides, in a pregnant pause, in birth beginning by the falling of the hammer, in sinews taught stretched, and then contracted to combine in final downward strike.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 30

Who would grade you, degrades you. Timidity taxes; hides, harasses the in-born natural action of an outbound approach to living life. To comply is to die; so defy! Why walk the long wharf out to...what?

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 29

Suppressed by the smell, the stink of blind religion; that makes dark gravity that holds down the light of reason; that grapples, censors and compresses thought, men can never aspire to reach for heaven.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 28

Rain all day, and just too-tired, the blood-fired boiler of the heart gives out; surrenders in final shutdown to the cold, and to the coma, to the withdrawal, and to the long sleep of hibernation.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 27

Short-sleeved Summer soundly sleeps in schools of surrounding rainbow flowers. Sketch and render a slumbering loveliness vision of surrendered smiles of raised hands in living flames' close-studied hues.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 26

By its endless ending that makes of death a suicide, new beginning is signified of an eternal recurrence of renewal; coming Spring the going on with no surrender in a refusal to stop and cease the pain of life.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 25

Heavy in argument but weighed light in reason, furious factions spit anger; though nothing is certain. Possibilities and probabilities float and surround us, remain unseen, ignored, not taken; forever gone.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 24

Forest floor of religion brambled over, its commandment vines twisted thick by encumbering curves; entangle the feet of genius in obsolete laws and regulations that smother creativity, and so stifle art.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 23

Savage still holding science's sacred ground, in an everlasting standing duel, sharpened edge of the sword of mind sustained throughout, as the world of faith is engaged; to be fought to first blood win.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 22

Black dungeon heart, shut against follies from philosophy's new breeds of men's frivolous fashions of thought; open up. Part the long black veil, and laugh at the foolish faiths men strive so hard to die for.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 21

The forge of fire tempers a heart of steel. Train through pain to gain. That faint forsaken path just off of the dark canyon road of life may only lead on into a wild wilderness of thorns of regret: Take it anyway.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 20

Chimes of discord, making of this evening into frown, in a distant plain complaint, night sounds play sharpened chord in high distinct; sigh and sow and swear and edge the angry wind with discontent.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 19

Rise. Howl down the night to spell the dawn in spilling light. Pierce the clouds of doubt. Rays of consciousness spin-toss through warmth of coming Sun, climbed out from bed of black despair. 

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 18

Banish color from the world and make it sing a simple sepia tune. Leach from it all its hue. Contrast it; high heighten the bleakness of its past from the brightness of its future and chiaroscuro chant of that.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 17

Thinking of trees is in seasons, budding Spring to bare Winter. The tinder of time catches fire late. So bad is its delay, so slow is its ignite; it's good. Lately. Lately. Come you light. Come. Come. Illuminate.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 16

Weathered stones covered in moss, at annual scheduled ceremony, at grave-sites of veterans of wars; the voices whisper with the tolling of bells their loud regret for lost chance and for wasted opportunity.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 15

Store bought emotion has replaced natural feeling. Even stranger now is delayed response that's made after so long a wait for energy for power and for the buried source and vital fountainhead of sympathy.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 14

Substitute and insert an idle dream on an indolent day deep inside the closing veil of sleep, a curious thing to contemplate in the smoky blue light of a trance, encased and safe within the bubble of song.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 13

Fling away and abandon that past so filled up with the lies of exceptional-ism of nation and of belief; of favored few that have been given truth and a special destiny, distinct, divided far from the rest of men.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 12

Close down eyelid of consciousness. Substitute; cruel remove the cobalt blue from out the crystal skies of hope; replace the Sun of Faith by doubt of cancer black; shut-cut handle from off the door of change.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 11

So much for the prayer set in stone of its sacred constitution, grim becomes the politics of this nation. Bless this short sight stone blind love into future for the long view looks towards disconnect from life.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 10

A promise of heaven is the deliverance of hell; utopias come and go, the world remains just as it is, speaking again and again with white-harsh and pale-blatant shouting voices of down-falling snow.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 9

The latter days of this great depression, of this grand desolation, of an indulgence in despair, are done. Circle round the Sun in colored light. Sketch the dawn in blue and gold. Paint the world in pastel green. 

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 8

A storm raging within its ground, laid out weary and worried hard times are come again upon the land; in the wearing of its majesty of fear, the trail of the long black veil of sorrow scrapes to cloud the soul.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 7

Love is the lasting art. It contains a smile secreted in a dissonance in every dream and in every desire. Life sentence that's inscribed, that's tattooed upon the heart; there is no relief from it and no amnesty. 

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 6

Nature, cured of the presence of Man, is set free and is reprieved. Man's absence lets it loose from humanity's tired discourse, which accords to it some hidden innate purpose or deep subtle design.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 5

In making of morning a damp clay wearing thunder, black scudded clouds pool. They decreed a prescient woe, a coming Age of Lead descending. Dull color of such dawn spurns ascent of Sun.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 4

Saxophone bright, heavy laden burden of midnight blues spin out in wide spirit waves to crash upon the ear relentlessly, relentlessly; sounds of placenta dreams pouring out from its golden oval orifice.   

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 3

Sometimes the night winds blow giving off a cool sharp kiss with the salt-stung beer taste of the sea. A rasping noise is heard hard coming out the sea; it's the hiss and groan of waves breaking on the shore.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 2

A wonderment, so sustained, so kept, within a purity, smelling of newness, hard pavement spanked clean, scrubbed, after soft summer rain; can't get away, always there behind me still attitude of joy.

The Long Wharf Out: Summer Solstice Section 1

The rape of thought is achieved in denial of an audience; censured, done deaf by the closing of the ear. Streets in paralysis, held-back, restrained, can only sing knife-fighting songs; for they know no others.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 35

Stuck into despondent detour slows to slothful dependency, to crawling alignment of mind and heart; brakes and dissolves to black, to a shutting down of everything; stalls, deletes and removes from life.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 34

There is no warranty on life no guarantee. An angle of a smile may oblique to frown easily enough. Our life makes migration in some flying wild dream of frenzied transport between joy and groan of despair.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 33

Sweet junction of the soul, between what one is and what one does; when we will have that certain knowledge we have finally become what we really are, rather than what the world wishes us to be. 

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 32

Give to us a garment of shadows, a cloak of smoke to hide our shame. Our down bending ways made for us shameful descendings, a quick drop into oblivion, into hole of sorrows; the fell into well of hell.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 31

Stream of steam clouding evening air, speaking to itself of itself solely, a conversation carried in smoke silence, escaped slow moan in struct stilled night; talks in a sulfurous vapor, to an audience all its own.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 30

Agony, of starts and stops, of the many stations between, skipped and abandoned, deserted, desolate; covered in detritus of time by the lost loves and lusts concealed, flails at its failed momentum forward.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 29

So close to midnight and so close to home, time jumps from off of the rails of memory to marry fortune, hops and detours into imagined sidetrack of nostalgia; soft place of safety away from streets of danger.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 28

Gold glow opening up the dark, still rolls it by, to smear its shouting whistle whine over the darkened shadowed land; red piercing blooming headlamp shown behind looming nearness of the outside gray.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 27

In the kettledrum shakings of steel track rails, small anger precedes along apace in these wild rabid clatterings, in the screech, in stuttered shuttering; in the push and sudden pull of cars' train wheels. 

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 26

Sounding scraping loud, train wheels state their distinct aspiration to be rooted deep upon track rails, hard travelling in the dark. Distance dispenses within the screams of an engine pulling unwilling cars.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 25

Train cars tight-linked concatenated by chains of destiny, curves abound around them keeping needed distant rails away; each cab, in danger leaning over far, fast speeds through the black escape of night.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 24

Their brief glances from train windows are taken slyly; their blank faces peering out from behind those unwashed dirty panes upon blighted desolation of longing planes, level, flat, featureless, devoid of life.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 23

From far back, standing silent and still, behind the astonished congregations of the living, this smiling, the uninvited guest, at the wedding of hope and desire; at the switched crossing of life's rails is Death.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 22

Look up and live. Decry this darkness here below. Spare your speech. Hazard your life. Smoking black in a bleak night, the engine of your destruction, wheels turning without mercy, relentlessly travels on.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 21

Is it just this that serves to so soil the brain with the anomaly of detour, in a sidetrack of the mind? The hesitation of blues; that vacancy of sound repeated to a hidden music separated, distant from the soul?

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 20

Charmed by movement and by desire, want for a lavender moon in a purple sky, with thick clouds billowing in pink saffron; instead of the black pervading night devoid of even one disarming light.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 19

Force of promise, force of hope, set in a distant distance blinking, some small tight light lifts its hood covering, shows a spot-white flame, off and on; stability there upon the far smooth breaking horizon.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 18

Wandering winds, your breezes blowing strong, skipping in motion, straying outside of time, out about upon your mobile stepping, out on this dark night absent any moon; fly far away on your ambient ways.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 17

Train of life taking shaking swerve within ever bending arcs; in straight tangent of wheeled continuity that fluoresces in midnight time on determined track to final terminal, to its ending destination: death.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 16

There. Look. Streams of fire in the heavens make rivers of delight; braving those sparks of stars to force a shaking above us in the dark. Lay your head upon my shoulder and stare; just stare, in awe. 

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 15

Sure and slow the curve of track circles out the iron family of these strung-lined cars in a continuous disappointment within its sinuous arc; so stand you up you favored few and look upon your mortality.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 14

Thoughts dive down; are cleaved to stare into their deepest stasis keeps, dungeons of the soul. Leap back into the well of your worry and into an indifferent light; into the long red shift, shaft of the past.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 13

Dead weather coming tonight, moon hides behind clouds, giving impression of careless cruising, detailing designed declensions; cycles of many generations of decline, futures telling long sleep. 

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 12

Seeking fast sapphire speeds, train tracks make a never ending blue lightning ladder seemingly up to heaven; shoving forward rungs of fat sparking embers from those friction wars of wheels on the rails.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 11

Delayed dalliance to pick up passengers who had remained all unwilling in scurry to survive a stop to survey their life; for this train is ravenous to fill up its cars, and it is desirous to devour the still living. 

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 10

Strange is the bright path its transit follows in the night from dusk until the dawn; waltzing down the tracks, growing large, hoary, hastening along, cars strung far apart in frenzied coruscation of sparks.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 9

The weight of it, the pressing down of it, belies its speed. Force holds together its engine and its train upon the rails. Force and force alone speeds it on, on to the City; into its destination, its final terminal.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 8

Bitter is the breath of the coming morning, the coming yellow halitus of dawn spirally out of the tunnel mouth of devastation. Stay night in quiet thought. In movement we will keep our hope and consolation.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 7

Hard working wheels, with gaudy flash of spark, spin faster now on level track, flaring fire in the dark. Change is motion and motion is change. This gives a subtle substance to shadows moving in the night.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 6

Fiercely revolving in one lone night, in midnight flight, hard-trying wheels are pushing the black train's stammering engine. Ever tightened cycles, far ahead, speed hums away care in swaying, clanging cars.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 5

Suffer night's sulfurous ride on rumbling run-away-train hazarding rails far apart in savage ways; the long black train of many cars, tied together, travels behind the same moaning engine, shrieking blues.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 4

Aurora light sharks this night in waves of crescendos of color in vying hues; its swimming, sparking, back-ground shim is the set of a history of America, steaming forward in the avatar shape of a train.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 3

Cyclone train snorting forwards, furious fast into a spangled night of stars spilled clean of clouds; its angry engine of an empire still as yet drives it ahead, its lamp shining straight in a bright, wide gaze.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 2

Night-crawling steam-engine, with your sleek head-lamp single spot-beam light sweeping forwards, piercing straight to jump-break from the prison of the surrounding and the enclosing dark; travel on.

Grand Central Terminal: Vernal Equinox Section 1

At hiss of steel wheel against a rail and splenetic whistle sounding in the still of the night, when the moon in full has high raised high her lamp of gold above; soul companions ride upon the train of life. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 48

Pause into a question of suspension: What is this ghastliness, this ghostliness, that so enthralls us still? Life!

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 47

Winter's bleeding cold is defiance against the dark. Rain comes in to bring with it reflective desolation, questioning lightning's anger's spoken, spiking, spearing, words; hatred spouting harsh resentments.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 46

You gave freedom away to pension your future. You sped your mind into a recession, so twisted trails of decrepitude shadow upon your struggled stumble back home to your beginnings; to scarred reality. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 45

Flotsam of air, dead trees wave levels of void within their vacant limbs; in their floating high collapsing branches, breaking canopies of fluid desiccation.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 44

Was born when I was born, but had died long before I died; my soul languishes in the empty cavity of heart. It's absent still, robbed of all desire.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 43

Iris closing in the sudden sun, a successive shining begins each breaking day. Even though it be brought in by a winter's sun, it's still excessive. Sunrise serves too much of dawning light too soon.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 42

Always the life that has been fore-tuned in tonic key to chance shall end in dissonance and in a despair.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 41

Look at these graves. That mere scribble set upon this slattern sleeve of earth, so hastily scratched into dust, was the sole will we had. We wanted to remain remembered, every last one of us; not just as a laid out, skeletal, fossil. Once firm writ, now has become indistinct, was inscribed upon tombstone as short legacy for our life. It's erased and is left by a nothing, not to be. We had hoped, at the very least, for some future generation's small memory of care. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 40

Chrome for eyes and steel for a heart, lungs of brass and having copper liver, robot men make a stagger of life; for small in stature, diseased in mind, they struggle even to walk short distance.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 39

Blindfolded man you have no inner star to guide you. Nothing shines within you, just this sad dimming blankness that forever stays inside.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 38

Did it mean anything to you at all; anything, all of them rejected long-lost days? You step each day with a careful liquid foot, while avoiding all the depressed holes from your past. But listen! It's an old music they'll perform. Something that's from that lengthy time before, for memory is the large land that none can survey; just ghosts inhabit it. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 37

Shade and shade alone, a warm shade, is given by the full moon on mid-winter's coldest night; a shield against the memory of the distant sun. Void of deepest indigo serves as a canopy above for a bridge of time.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 36

Woodsman, walk alone. Beware the barks in the night, the howls of beasts that hunt at each other over religion, over politics, over culture; biting at nothings. Silence, as in response to ignorance, is courage.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 35

Take a walk through time. Indignant man, did you expect to change your past? You shall not be forgiven anything. Every word that ever you spoke is a hammer upon you, every word. Every action, a sword strike cutting into you. Did you think you could escape from the recordings of your life? Everything you've done was put down; was notated. Your whole life is a ledger of mediocrity. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 34

Covered in ashes, colored in daub white hues, its dreaming landscape dressed in beige, where silence is the sole echo of our wintry despair; the mountain of madness rises up before us.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 33

In winter dawn the icicles lit by sun prism into pointed stalactites of glass, into bleed-red and bile-green; for the harsh geometry of life's sorrow is best portrayed within those brood-hard acid colors.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 32

Interrupt to think the new. Hate your teachers. Inflation's vast imagining is beyond their zombie lives. When last have they danced? They survive but are not alive. They seek safety who should seek truth. Their lives are but a long passage into somnolence.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 31

The world begins in a flame. It begins in an invention of time; begins in a benignity of hope of thought: flame, time and thought, together; for they make, create and are each all the same One. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 30

In this twisted light of an early morning dawn, a vanishing of truth occurs. The dead have their lies too. Toll and toll and toll again, tales of my head upon a stake, of my torso in a graveyard, of those stories of all my trials undeserved, that serve for common complaint, as they've stated attested causes for their desperation; dissolve.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 29

And then it falls away, falls away, chained to far hidden corners, the sugar frost of the remaining snow hides within the docket-court of a violet madness in winter's morning's shadows; and soon, soon, shall it be policed into a wet-discharge by the ever-reaching, the ever-devouring, violent clenching sun-light.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 28

Play only the black keys of life, the sharps, the flats of feeling. Leave those boring whole notes for those who walk by day. We are the night-walkers, the shadow-men who step in twilight.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 27

Drum beat down, slow dregs and drags, detritus of existence in their covered shrouds and veils, dissipate like dew in sunlight; ghosts have short life from dusk until the dawn. Midnight minds, gamblers musing on chance and luck belonging to the night-walkers of this evening planet, are entertained by moon-musics and by star-fugues, these quiet satisfactions only delivered to them on their long lonely hikes. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 26

Moved into simulation of contemplation, the sun spins out its webs of iridescence through the spider webs connecting the limbs and twigs of trees, in colored spindling triangle spines of light; stating the common reckoning of any night's small-cached prey in woods in any winter's coming dawn, as metered chords in sympathy issue cover by the sad songs of birds, faithful in their despondency that the hounds of jealousy were being again let loose.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 25

Early dawn brings with morning light a tolling of the bells, in giving birth to new, when life of old is done; those bells there loud bleating bare their says of rhyme, telling, telling, telling the tall tale: Time was still left enough to dream; yes, even for you, you the despondent and the abandoned one, who will yet be abiding in this nation of savages. Carry the sun in your heart.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 24

Ribbons cut from pain, saw these patriot teethed ties, the badges sown into minds, their medals of cartridges sliced through body-armor; that pierced the State's ancient assurances, those expressions of dreams of hope, of the deceits of presidents, the soft platitudes of politicians, and of all those flag-bitten forgotten loyalties that, rough-flung, like our sore maimed corpses, were tossed blind into foreign trenches on fields of unmarked graves; none accompanied with the savage blessings from a grateful nation, upon this false Memorial Day.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 23

A keeping light shines through, lantern of times-past, expelling nostalgia upon this demon eve. Night winds are wan-white colored fast in hue, exhausted, tired with our tied desires, their airy currents tethered by muttered aspirations into pale-hued chords, designed to mute and soften chants of regret; to sputter in songs of remorse.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 22

Stunted-stilled dead stars, burned out remnants of once fiery suns, fierce in their past glory, shed no more for us any shining.  Remembered words, that were as searing liquid torches on live tongues, are dried-out scattered whispers now; are embers weighted down by our soft, fat, decadent age. We're watchers in the dark, sensing in dumb darkness, scuttling, that in heavy silence, moves.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 21

Holster your anger and carry it at cant on your hip. That which for them shall serve for a futile contradiction is for us simple confirmation, wallowing the sickly light twining this dank darkness of our lives; neither a moon nor a sun, but a doubled-system of crimson stars.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 20

Comes the thunder. Comes the groaning in the clouds. For our reality is a worm-wave, wriggling towards a thin yellow existence; desiring for recognition, for a final red redemption: a string aspiring between the nothing that is and the stated identity that it's become; ghost that's disclosing false stasis within Nature, hologram of That-Which-Is. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 19

Speak o memory. The voice of death has a cutting cleanness to it, a sharp edged shaping of dialog in its commentary on life. Slicing deep and dark spoken, knifed from a tongue of an old nostalgia's palest fire; it brings with it a remembrance of the days of thunder, of those nights flamed with the lightnings of desire. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 18

Night is so cold it shivers with sodden bitterness. Night becomes brittle broken dark; for hard rains are a-coming down, bringing stinging wet sighs upon the heads of evening dreamers, giving to their faces a ghostly kiss upon their turned-up beckoning lips.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 17

Tired eyes see cemetery dreams; from the tenor of hope onto the baritone of dread, the thin cello thread of life is severed in two; each part curled into itself, separated, sliced, made distinct, to be drawn up, to be covered up, in a canvass of parched and dried up crackling fear.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 16

Black canyon walls, blank barrenness of space, give pretense of sound, a cunning deception of direction, that enters into the orifice of the ear, invades the brain, sets the mind afire with its sad story; a tale that echoes its ancient histories of evangelism, a discourse absent of sense, of all maps and legends. The mistakes and many regrets of long dead ancestors yet still walk silent in our company, as whispering strangers to we the living.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 15

Bared bars, the prisms of the transit to eternity, black glow of tongues in their white mouths, the pale spirits of the dead are talking.  They are speaking in fire.  They say: A deafness pervades this world, a lacking of that comprehension so necessary for survival. It makes for a turning of those of us, those who are now still alive, of our heads, of our heads being twisted away from the truth. "It's a sad religion that would ever seek to censor love." Yes for it's that they are saying; for it's just this flame of truth they're all conveying.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 14

All fall down in measured genuflections to the present age. Conversations among the dead slip smothered syllables inside shrouds of swaying grayness, giving gasping guttered chains of light from toothless mouths; their gum-less throttled throats are filled with a sliding honeyed stifled tenderness in these hard times.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter solstice Section 13

A trembling awe follows upon the tumbling down, the falling of snow, shed tears from drunken ghosts; torrents of white in moonlight shine a glistening, ribbons of flannel falling.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 12

A rustling high above is come, heard faint is this hurricane of days, storm-dancing trees swaying their slender canopies, in a syncopated violence that slants their tops; to soft catch and to tender counter, those harden throws from angry winds.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 11

This is us; this is us on our dark journey into the black caldera of the soul, smoldering in anger. Abandon it. Obdurate the light. Stifle it in sighs. Blot it out. Let it die in you while you're shuffling through this wicked world. Let it burn away; yes burn, burn it all away, torched by your despair. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 10

Stank, sweating, swooning words swear at the rent of life; to howl again in the rank chants coming up from the dank earth, songs which echo complaint against the black fires that are come again to be rained down, released upon us, without surcease. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 9

A slip, a slide, and then a succumbing stumble in the scree; regaining feet upon the path upwards, on upwards, towards the peak of Blue Mountain. 

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 8

O to give me just one single candle-light of hope. I'm just a visitor here, am but a temporary transient; soon I will be leaving this place of dreams. Sloth had unmade me, has stole my zeal; and so, I sought for a harder place in which to stay. I looked for a bed of stone on which to lay. I had such hope once; but it's here I'll now abide.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 7

No man can be happy if he should chose to be an exile from his own nature to become an enemy of his own soul. All that is, is: Thought Illuminating Being. Clasp in your mind a sword. Cut and sever the reins, the straps, of your society. They which would use you and lose you have no ties on you.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 6

In this day's grayness, in this thin rain that has since turned into wet snow that's falling lightly, that's lightly falling down; swilling the sky with white, a sea-foam of gray-whiteness, falling in still air, that's falling, down.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 5

An azure winter's sun, turned blue in a gray sky, gives little light and no warmth at all in this shortest day of the solstice, bearing itself small in the skies, far away distancing itself from what's below; and then lightly, ever so lightly, a black rain begins to fall.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 5

On it goes, on it goes, on goes the crying and the moaning and so on it goes with them, these the dead ones; on and on it goes, for these zombies, the talking, the ever sore compaining, discussing dead.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 4

"Death is the long insomnia of life sustained forever. A place of dissonance and of no desire."  He moaned. As did all those others, all together in a chorus, their faces melted into torpor of despair; these who had been deleted from the traps, from the many heavy burdens, of existence. And yes, yes, as I am listening, I'm thinking this is no good for me: I've got to get out of here. I can't move here listening to them. I have got to move. I've got to get on, get out, get on out.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 3

Those recalled to life know nothing of it's advantage. It seems a wearisome thing now, said one of the dead. Nothing there gave me sustenance when I was alive. It seemed all of it to be but an aching of the heart at best. Nothing was changed by my life and I learned nothing from having lived. A waste and a sorrow was my life with nothing to be shown from it; neither the good, nor the bad. Life was but a long emptiness awaiting death, and now that I am dead, that emptiness remains with me forever. Life wore me away. Here I stand absent of every hope. Even Death has died in me.

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 2

"Fair traveler from far away, you who seem as yet still living, what you see in we shades are the sad cylinder remainders of ourselves; we who were remaindered, depleted and diseased, and not our original alive corporeal inception. We are they who were elected to stay to instruct, to admonish, to advise, they still living."

Blue Mountain Blues: Winter Solstice Section 1

Ghost or is it just this mist?  From a shaking light descended, a cloud so close it speaks in crawling whispers on the low-cut foot-paths that gradual rise into the sun-lit spaces at the blue mountain's top; those shapes move inside it in sudden gusts within the deepest gullies. A slow passage of the dead, who are green-lit in their gray garments. Merge then into that fog to listen close enough to hear their conversations. For the dead are seeking opportunity to argue with the living. What is it that they say? They that insist. They that walk so stiffly soft in dark woods, while the dew still nests crisply in the dank grasses, wearing their suits of shrouds, wearing their burial gowns, in the colors of ashes.

Voices

Voices from no observed direction, whispers hung ambient in the air;
Jar of conversations, each competing for separate space to be heard.


There is something about bridges, spanning over rivers of discourse;
Translations connect ancient cultures under-flowing beneath arches.

Four Of The Clock

Four of the clock in the morning. I haven't been able to sleep as of yet.
Damp is the night air. Here I'll lay awake, awaiting for some change to
Come in rising of the morning sun. There's no design to dark evenings.
What is made for sleep became a time for worry; for fear for the dawn.

Parted

A parting of the ways, a detour into the unknown, a fork in the road; which
Way to go?  I'll not be attending you no more. There's no solace in science.


Gathering dust in the attic of the soul is the old assurance and the remedy
For hurt; for time's fast passing, for that country where we're all heading.


I am no more.  Never was you know; didn't know it then, but know it now.
Something better replaced me, something eternal; I'm all the better for it.

Tick-Tock

Drum-flam of the heart. The tick-tock of the body's clock leaks out of time.
Chatter of cell destruction; the miracle of its clockwork paused and stilled.


Stim-shocked back to life, its two-tone beat picks up its rime and rhythm.

Reflected

Reflected in the clear milk glass, were shown a fire-dream of black flames,
From yet another frame, another universe as reversed from this curvature;
While inside the glass, when looking out at this world, all flames are white.

Star-Light Simple

Covered, hidden by moon-light, behind a bright blanket of night-clouds;
Just by being there always available, standing in sky; star-light simple:
Winks.

Rain

There's a smiling dampness in the air.  It feels like a laughing rain.
Coming in. It's maybe too late to help us now. But coming anyway.


Dry inside, shriveled, no moisture left to generate new beginning; 
Striated and stripped, on an empty horizon, a dead tree standing.

Hungry Wind

It's a hungry wind that's been blowing outside my window tonight.
Eating at that pane; pinging, gnawing at the pane with sharp teeth.
Cold orison of biting longing, serrated sharp; wreckage in the dark.

Fox

A smoke of movement in the grass, of no hue at all, suddenly ignites.
Flashes.  O.  It's a fox.

A Neon Life

It's a neon life we've got; a flashing, stuttering interval of sputtering time;
Splash of light, stop of black, then splash of light again, gaudy and sordid.

Maybe

As easy as that you say.  Well.  Maybe.  It's just a gray world here.
Shadows slide against stone walls; invisible, phantoms in the dark.
Some force frees, generates alive the ghosts; some field of energy.
Something outside of us and in us; don't know what it is: It's there.

Mask

Spirit in the flesh, disguises so clever and so subtle, hide fierce nature; its
Destruct ferocity.
The world becomes renewed, reborn, with every infusion of new blood; in
Redemption war.

Aspiration

An aspiration of the breath has kept me here alive. Kept me free of death.
The slow inhalation, a double breath inhaled inside, fills the lungs with air.
First see gold on first breath. See blue on the second. Inhale. Inhale again.
The exhalation is slower than the inhalation; when it's being done, see red.
This is the ancient way of our training. Learn it. Live long:  Gold. Blue. Red.

Perspective

Issued from a photograph, pushed out from an unfocused parallax of view,
The wounded point of what's pictured, what is stated there; kept silenced,
in background, is an accusation, an admonishment; issued from the bright
Fires of faces who were once alive: The dead speak in faded photographs.

Patience

A stolen patience, a forged persistence, is the feigned virtue of any artist:
Was ever artisan born who would not hold his art; not hurry his creation?
Barely begun, we live in an unfinished world, waiting for its furnishings.

Hand

Tender and so soft, best sensitivity of the flesh is expressed in the hand;
In the fine discrimination of its fingers curled, one by one, to make a fist.

Sense

The sense of the absolute subsists within the smallest and strangest place;
In the largest too, within the wildest prairies and the widest deepest seas.
Clasped in cusp of thought, the chalice of the will contains the wine of life;
Rovers to the stars, nothing keeps us from our destiny, but hesitation fear.

Barricades

Born in blood, barricades are smashed out becoming bleeding revolutions.


Broken bars release a snarling beast raging through the streets unleashed.

Many Worlds

Visibility denied, a fading away from line of sight gliding down a desert
Highway in a blue electric light.  There's a better travelling in the night,
A better matching of machine in the long evening into the yellow dawn.
Hum and blur; in many worlds in the west of America, it's a leather life.

Reason

Explain nothing. Give to action no excuse nor any reason. But just commit
No matter the wait no matter the delay. There's no education in the nation.
Expect no answers, no solutions; except those arising from the Self inside.


Crackle and hiss, an old recording play, still stuck in a grove of patriotism;
Stuck in a repetition a siren call of sacrifice, of success of sovereign State,
Demanding an allegiance to a country that supports only an oligarchic few


Who've bequeath to us but blood and dust, yet they'll expect of us an oath;
Obligation to defend their property even when we've been dispossessed of
Our own heritage. Forswear oaths that protect the psychopaths of finance.

Salute

Breakers of bones, we salute you. You, who patrol the forced barricades
Against compassion. The folly of any nation is shown, and is mimed; it is
Best illustrated by they who police, by those referees who law its games.


Those that seek a permission for their lives need some excuse for living,
Desire hierarchy.  So they'll dress in uniform to state their relative rank.
Their clothes make them and not their character. They disguise as men.


You judges in your courts of law, presume and dare in your black-robed
Majesty, to state the case for the prescribing of our lives. You laid down
Sentences which close and confine to a small, tiny, pitch our field of life.  

Canoe

The sea, the sky, the seizure of waters trembling in a rippled wake,
In this slippery silence, in the sudden waking river's morning mist,
Canoe a-heading home smooth sliding ashore; to dock in the dawn.

Mice

Mice eating the grain of conscience are these preachers, these politicians;
Thin-lipped men, who grant a smirk to others, while pocketing their credit.


Poachers and pederasts, they lecture and they'll advise, but have no skill;
Only of poison they serve in their schools and chapels of abject servitude.

Conundrum

Concerning ourself with the greater questions, with the ancient problems;
Not in an expectation of solving them but to make ever new riddle of them:
A restatement of existence.  That's science and that's the real religion too.

Titanic

A frenzied citizenry is caught in a sinking State. The stumble of this fiscal
Storm that's rushing down upon our head topples any remaining morality,
Making for grey men in a grey ship, who will sell themselves for security.
Tearing seams, sabotage occurs, then denial; resulting in rejecting reality.

Weary

The weary fraud that became this world shimmers in hesitant beauty.
Smoke flows and falls from fires in cold November, tracks the ground,
And never rises higher.  There is never a leaping upward of the flame.

Birch

Slender, the silver bark of birch branches,
Wet-stained to brown-black; peels away,
Shows white; to betray its pale beneath.

Fair Reason Fails

Fair reason fails.  There is no logic in this world, no nether foundation;
Nothing underneath to hold the frail structure up to prevent its failure;
An absence only, a void shadow filled with gray, dumb to say its name.

Slow-Dance

It's slow-dance stagger of jazz of trumpet and trombone.  It's moonlight
Blooming out of saxophone.  It's sparked tamping fingers on piano keys;
Making a music.

The Un-Named

Something so obvious, so superfluous, that it need not ever be stated; it's
Concealed in the strange delusion of normality, in commonality of what is.


In the mood, darling period of delight, separate from commerce of the day
Beyond the sea-storm of money and of debt, squeezed fit to be measured,
Confined in suit of worth; distant lands lie beneath different colored suns:


Worlds un-named as yet.

A Contact Life

The fine print of contract has grounded out the course of commerce; has
Made of communication an obscene conversation, but a poem is a phone
Call dialed direct to your heart.  Answer its ring.  Make of it a contact life.

New Lands

It has the worst of it, the anger and the agony, the anguish of discovery;
An argument sitting in the stomach of humanity is this religion and faith,
That shapes men into a race of sleepwalkers, terrified of demon dreams.


Great and restless minds are final stilled by the stasis of fatal indecision;
Stalled within slow space, jailed in cell between an ambition and despair,
That keeps them bound by chains of conformity, from taking foot outside.


The choking yell of conscience maintains its grip upon the throat of talent.
Small imagination smothers aspiration and tethers fast the reins of society,
That yoke back youth from embarkations; from their destined explorations,


Of new lands.

Baroque

Harpsichord and harp, strung horizontal and vertical, make for soft music;
A plucking sound, careful and considerate; none too loud for conversation.
A cleanness and precision, an exactness in the tempo, not too fast or slow;
Within a music that has nothing of regret only hope realized in each chord.

That

An almost named thing, slipped from the tongue, receding into distance:
Yes. That!  Used to have answers.  Don't have any anymore.  Gone away.


Gone away from me.  They don't listen.  They got them something to say.


Fat men talking of sports they could never play, knowing nothing of skill;
A tired people, speaking of tiresome events, over and over, looped again.