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.

Quark Inquiry

Curved small into a tight cocoon of energy, crunched tiny close by gravity,
Its nucleus stripped of its garment of planet electrons, in greatest tension
Within the smallest arc; a quark sits, awaiting its fate; does it exist or not?


Do I?  Do you?

Miasma

Vents deep beneath seas spew forth hot black magma to form new lands;
The island nations were made, created congealed by thick hardened lava.


This is how we too are made; the crusts of old desires subsiding and new
Volcanoes uplifted giving forth new desire to smooth cracks in our hearts. 

Growl

Growl it out; those empty words, from creeds and constitutions;
From the hollow pledges of allegiances to nations and religions.
From the pretentious rhetoric of politicians and of bureaucrats.


Growl it out and stamp it out.

Proxy

An avatar death done in internet way, is gamed for return, for a
Resurrection, for redemption, a rebirth right back to pseudo lie;
So like religion, the player becomes but sad simulacrum for life.

Allies

The habit of danger fashions the trench-coat and cloak of war.
Daily enmities and fights give rise to lengthy feuds and hatreds,
Which, whenever are en-kindled, ignite genocides in tomorrows.
There lives a little holocaust sitting inside us ready to be flamed.
Small sleights engorge to grow; become allies that tumor death.

Out!

Gestured safe or gestured out, the call is yet still
The same. As if one had never played this game.


Bench warmers, judged not able to steal a base;
Not able even to sacrifice to bunt a player home,
Just member of that roster never rotated to bat.


From the start, passed picked to play on a team.

Smile

Tinged softly to green age, her eyes of copper upon this harbor gaze;
Darkness shrunk below these waters carries smudge of soot so near;
Her somber smile frowns in stifling grimace from ten thousand tears;
Acrid, bitter, sour stench of burning flesh fills billowing skies of Fall;
Her torch is stuttering in bigger flames of torch-lit towers of the City.

Tap-Dance

Roiling clouds of feet pounding on wooden decks to hornpipe of the heart;
To skeins of stories sold on rooftops and on fire-escapes of this here City;
To the rock and rolling of slats from shifting grates under pounding boots,
On the streets; on the streets; yeah, on these streets, streets of New York.

Chess

They play with the lives of men like counters upon a board of chess.
Howl hurricanes of storm. Small ships of state are tossed upon seas.
Politicians are deliberating nonsense while the world tumbles to war.


Blue bonnets, their blossoms waving in the breezes of vast prairies,
Show ripples of remembrance, swaying leaning from passing winds,
Stretching forever, grasses of such green the eyes water with them.


What does it matter what these slick-trousered, shiny-bottomed men
Deliberate upon?  Soil will soon forget the inane deliberation of them.
Flowers shall feast upon the bones, fertilizer made from bureaucrats.


Tired of them; tired of dispositions of dilettantes who perjured them! 

Skin

Skin and the shiver upon it, stretching sensations into stunned silences;
There is much in the fingering upon a fiddle, from an E string to A string,
That gives a mournful salute and fond farewell, a satisfaction to ending:
A sweetness is intensified and a savagery slumbered by the art of song. 

Black Waters

Sounds of a stretched saturation, songs of despair; softens the mornings; quiets the evenings, with those sprays, from their never-ending plunges, plangent to the end, cuticle of streams eating at the sands' black waters.


Torn heart, throw down in your well of tears to drown in black waters.
Drowning in black waters. No one to dance with anymore. Drowned in
Black Waters.
Black waters, they be for drowning me, drowning me, in black waters.


Waves of trouble descend in murky trembling one down upon another.
Drowning in black waters. No monies in my pants pockets. Drowned in
Black Waters.
Black waters, they be for drowning me, drowning me, in black waters.


Long time traveler on the moon-tides, of the surging crests of breakers, of their spumed shaking blasts onto beaches; I am the top of the wave; I am surfer of oceans and rivers: Still-standing pile in the swirl of black waters. 

October Skies

October skies spurn the soft sighs of Summer's solicitations.
Settle down and shelter in your stiff parkas of forgetfulness.
A storm is coming. It is coming fast upon us from the South.
Sleep the deep sleep of hibernation. Spring will come again.

Derivative

Derided and despised, every revolution originates in a resentment,
A frown and a displeasure.  Contentment doesn't build barricades.


The shape of the thing unformed shall exist prior to its beginning;
Almost as a separate thing, a shadow of that self still yet to come.


Peoples of the old countries have made loud refusals to their states:
No taxes for less services; a wonder here they've not done the same.


Their silence means an animosity is forming, a surly discontent which
Shall sourly build; surely rise in insurrection, with secession its result.


States that become threats, not helps to the people, ought be replaced.

Bingo

Bingo is a secret numerology of Torah calling forth numerals and letters.
Calling of the places on the cards has as much validity and as much art
As do surahs and verses of sacred text and shares as much a certainty.
Brown bread and butter and bitter beer has more sustenance and solace.
Holiness isn't found in deluded books, but in your heart there's a divinity.

Agony of Air

Not knowing is the cruelest thing. Worse can be faced.
Nothing there; just empty box of sun contains the soul,
But not even the sky could hold the heart's expansion.


Beneath every laugh lies a grimace and complaint, an
Aggression.  A world of smiles hides a world of hurts:
Mouth set and still. Throat holding in an agony of air.


No reply may be made.  Smirk lead to silence forever.

Leverage

Debt is a dagger, a stiletto poised to stab, and pierce the soul;
A long gamble on deflation and shorted bet against the future.
A demon is this debt, ensnaring populace in anxiety and doubt.


Leverage states shall employ to stifle liberties from their peoples
Is to sit the stone of sovereign debt on them, till no breath is left.

Schools

Serfs taught by serfs, these are the teachers of our schools;
Scoundrels tutoring scoundrels, to be servants of the State.
Each day that's spent in school in learning not to learn robs
The young of their vitality and steals their youth from them;
Makes them compliant to adult belief, and stifles creativity:
Colleges for dunces churning out more dunces in the world.

Saturday Night

No money left and anyway no one to spend it on;
Another Saturday, Saturday night. Smooth-soft,
Sapphire and salmon-pink light over dark alleys
Toss amber down to make there double shadow;
Sat is the shark-night here on this street of souls.

Numbers

Tangled numbers, compressed in themselves, burst forth
From their imprisonments to parse equations; statements
For the propositions of a possibility of worlds yet to come.


The numbers come before the worlds to make the worlds,
And the worlds come before me and the worlds made me,
Sum and total of all their making; but what have I made?

Wit

Small wit encased in narrow skulls have these priests and clerics,
Monks and rabbis too; add to them those teachers and professors,
Lawyers and the judges, and all these politicians too; nothing but:
Imams of Banality.

Wild

The studied vine tardy seems to born the wild grape.

Fear

In this land, a foul wind is blowing fierce, a hurricane of fear.
Companioning the stinking gale comes flashflood of paranoia;
Closing houses' shuttered windows, drawn blind to the world.
This is the New Order. It's crept upon us, assassin in the dark.

Citizen

We have no voice over them; no speech to stay our disgust at politicians.
Just
Remember
The problems with them began so long ago in the fumbling beginning of
This
State;


In Constitution fawned upon so much it's become seditious desiccation, a
Casket
Corpse;
There is shown a hatred of tyrannous states and faiths rebelled against, a
Stated
Wrath.  

After

This light that bleaches the clouds of noon of color
Scours deeply inside; decayed angels of the white
Speech of lightning, conveying voice to the blood:


After.  Yes.  Yes.  Yes.

Blue Vespers

As boxers hammer blows upon those bruises already made,
Summer's sadness was hard shown by the hallowed moon's
Blue vespers' chant; its sharp pinching blight of twilight into night.


Short miseries make for long stories by such; those stretched tellings of That Moon.
In these terrors of the night, skies bleed there the bright blood of stars.

Costume

Perhaps once; well now, it was some time ago, this sad world
Presented itself as new; and I, myself, yes, was once new too.
New dress can't hide old face. Summer shows her Winter too.

The Hurricane Season

Everything that bends, bows in.  Like a pulled-back bow,
With the re-curved shrug of shoulders, the world can be
Dismissed; let go entirely, ignored, as its string is spent;
An arrow of time hurled to future, leaving us left behind,


In this Season of the Hurricane. 

Example

Some small semblance of lived art was illustrated here,
Each sentence acting as a semaphore for greater truth,
A pointing of the way hinting at an emergence to come,
In contrast to life ending as example of how not to live;
For skin has eye to see and its sight is an original right.

Cornice

A shadow space of emptiness behind, the cornice
Keeps a bust within its corner of the dark: A face,
Familiar and concealed, set in a determined gaze;
I know not who it is nor even why it stares out so.

Naked

Bare your heart into a nudity; severance of public pose,
A disrobing of your soul, so what you are is same to all.

Strung

Sunder and forever sever the strings of love.  Go: Savage them.
Small epiphanies come unbidden; arrive sudden, unannounced.
Anger the sorrows of the soul, so to make them out loud shout.


The catch and clasp of lust's compulsion, broken now at last;
In smile and with farewell wave to former capture of desire,
Your strung harp of passion, place aside.  Untune the heart.

Drum

Blast this scarred rock, and scrub it phosphorous white;
So, it seems to shine, by a glow that pulses from inside.


This rock, this small arc of aorta, smacks a beat, a pause;
Then becomes drummed again by serum passing through.


Smooth passage, the cleansed artery, bends the blood;
Guides it through all the locks and levels of the heart,


With every pulse, with every drum-spasmodic thump,
To wash life through each portico of organ and of limb.

Dogs

They scent us by the smells of our tongue, by our
Speech; four-legged and fierce in inquisitiveness.


That bitch-bureaucracy of tenured hacks forcing
A curriculum imposed upon the young of simple
Subjects, easy courses; that have no reflection,
No bearing, upon reality and which convey skills
Not needed, nor appreciated, in the workplaces
Of today; no skills necessary for pupils' survival.


These teachers and these professors, are dogs;
Are slaves to the leash and to the reins of their
Faculty master, lecture of life they know nothing
Of; that they are not acquainted with, and have
No experience of, and poison the minds of their
Students in deluded, preposterous propositions.


They leave behind them a devastation; long debt
To be repaid by jobless graduates. And this, this,
These dogs have an audacity to bark and declare
As a public education; when all they've imparted
Is dead language, a swollen tongue of nonsense
And meaningless syllabication; speech of howls.


For the youth, such education is imprisonment;
That jail that keeps them from their play of joy.

Foam

The blare-smacking white foam tops of the waves
Barrels into beaches, smashing sand from its way;
Heavy tread of sodden feet of water tripping over. 


With every wave, some reverie is brought to ruin;
Deluged by a suddenness of an unexpected spray
Of regret, that hangs over the present and bursts;


Smearing the small quiets of a mild summer's day
With intensities of images and sounds, broken and
Distorted; glistening spectacle, in spumes of spite.