Month: June 2016

He Slouches Forth

He Slouches Forth

Days as marauders routing us, dust clouds and then a new day, before dawn has erupted we plan for the dusk.

Words won’t save you from what they describe, sometimes they help you cope with what is inevitable,

other times they make the inevitable seem less evitable , complicating matters, making withered flowers from blushing gardens, deserts from worded tundras,

reaped grasslands bare the mark of your intellectual progenitors, rocks,their scribing.


In what way are we to communicate, our nuzzling as complicated or less than a dog sniffing his compatriots ass?

With spirit we put on heirs, we speak of God as if he were the excuse for our behavior, I wonder, too often I wonder,

What cruciforms will we tote into our arguments, and you ye atheist what agnostic lack of decision will you tote to your abiding end?


Prophet Selected

Prophet Selected

By night the glare of stars,

in bed

or in the gravel driveway,

bats fluttering ….. the foliage encroached light pole,

cigarette controlled by the fingers of the right hand, every move a mystery solved and then confused again to be yet another.

Often I hear a voice from the leaves crushed by the night prowling mammals out of doors,  as God’s whispers translated backwardsly into my psyche.

A heartbeat , a lungs breath.

What qualifies a prophet to profess?

What deserts must his wrinkled brows circumnavigate, what oases imbibe?

When we transcend, to what and from what will we have transcended?

Not knowing this answer makes said transcendence impossible.

Why a yearning for a palpable impalpable?

I digress.

The constellations last night were of God, my shadow cast invisibly by them, the echo of water splashing from the pool and the taste of wine, I cast my net and bring in my harvest, ruminating over the I think I know, trying to attain equilibrium is mostly discarding the bulk of selfhood equably on both of your hemispheres,

all is an alchemy, each of our rationales are the seeking after a nonsense fools gold, our temples of pyrite do shine, but they only impress bipedal primitives and those who’ve always settled for less.

I balance a prayer in my mind like the Lord balances gravity, in it i hold together the base strings of physics which would speak for what it knows not, and beg deference to what I know is a gargantuan glory beyond my misers joy.

Let us not limit one another by our clinging to the habit of self, in a world of the truly blessed and learned,

we walk ever on an ice of our own making , it grows constantly thin, from the risen temperature.

Wiping our brows and clasping hands as workers of a purpose beyond measured wealth, let us thicken the frost and cross the ice.

Last Utterings of a Tyrant Bound for Execution-

Last Utterings of a Tyrant Bound for Execution-


I was born like you, of a mother who coupled with a father,

And like you I nursed as the God Man did upon Mary,

I built my soul from an amalgam,

Gathered it from the flotsam about me,

Is it any wonder I am monstrous,

I have borrowed all of my habits from the world,

Itself Leviathan,

I have merely perfected upon that which it had begun ,

I am a master of ownership,

A clinger of clingers,

This is my legacy and yet I will not be remembered thus,

You will study my ruins and my artifacts,

Marveling over them,

Never knowing that you slavered histrionically over the spawn of a monster,

You knew only the wonder of the tomb,

The open sky of freedom eluded you,

And eludes you still,

When I go to those whom I go to,

This last breath dropped out of my lungs like gravel in canyons,

My self a mere rasping shiver,

I will know you,

And you will know me,

And when we meet,

You will not be surprised.






I woke before dawn to check my children’s breathing,

My heart racing for near to no reason,

Dreaming the foolish dreams,

Fearing they will become some remarkably improbable déjà vu.

So clear that we need guidance,

So clear there is malevolence when fear finds us in our somnolence,

So I am having coffee,

And I am praying with My God in the only way I know how,

The only way he has shown me,

And though it burns every time,

And I am a creature of the ilk of this world,

Who when touched by grace recoil as if vampyric and touched by sun,

It is all that will get me through this.


You who claim your days are different,

Perhaps they are,

God made men for different purposes,

Perhaps you will not climb Mt. Sinai,

Perhaps your eyes weren’t meant for the true illumination,

Fools were made for laughter,

But the greatest truth is this,

Fools were made,

And by a God with a purpose in mind,

It is no humorless being who makes his prophets and wise men name their children laughter,

Or who without a giggle in his breath at the audacity of it all,

Calls himself the God who hears.


These are strange times,

Where men only go to canyons to hear the echoes of their own voices,

And moss grows on paths men no longer take the time to cross and re-cross with their feet,

And few if any will see a sunrise unless they are on their way to work, Rendering and Rendering unto this new Caesar , this Hydra ,this multifaceted beast which hides under the Garb of all of our bigotry and purposeless and beautiful wonder and manipulates all of our good traits,

Turning all of our love to stone before it can even flower from its infancy.


I am not here to be agreed with or to fall on my knees before the idols of men,

I am not here to worship and keep candles burning at the icon of myself via social media,

I am here to grant compassion to my fellow man,

A thankless job seemingly,

Until one begins the Job,

And once you do,

You start to question your very system of values, The one that allowed you to hide behind apathy for fear you would not be thanked for doing what was right in the damn first place.

My God may not be real to you, but Ill show you how indomitable

My love, which is not mine alone, breathes and forces all sadness into slavery.



The years and months

Have donned wings,

Fluttering by,

their feathers scratching the window,

Waking me as they depart.

O to be a boy,

But I am.

O to be a man,

But am I?

What man am i ?

Who have stood in this centrifuge,

And inertialess ambled my craft,

Without avail,

Watching small tyrants trample the rights of those to whom my love,

Like a loaf of bread hard as a stone is given,

Whom are legion and loved lovelessly by me, this fool.

What man?

Watching stars and not praising them as the blessed fringe of lordlight that they are,

Who has not tasted the brine of the sea on sail ridden spume betossed craft,

Perusing his worlds dying oceans?


Ive ridden high on the crest of waves that never have been mounted,

Shouldered carbines in wars that were never known or fought,

Been pilloried by my own hand (impossible) tossed rotten fruit in my own direction,

And forlorn held the hand of my dreams,

Comforting them as we took the long walk to where they would remain,

The oubliette,

But Love?

What love cracks the carapace of this doubt,

It would need be muscular,

Crepuscular almost alien to hold me still,

Pin me down and let me,

Be loved by it.


When will my foolishness seem a polished wisdom?



“May all the cruelty of fate wear itself out and stop at me.” Seneca in a letter to his mother




The whole thing and begin anew,

So I did,

Can I tell you of the smell of cedars and graveyard?

My sons running amongst the graves,

A visit,



Let them rest,

I say but we always remember,

Atheist and Christian ,

we grow more foolish,

And I see us all here,

All denominations represented,

None raising a cry of outrage,

All silent,

Like the sound of love,

In a grove of cedars,

Where beauty and eternity coalesce with that nothing scent of the lichenous,


But with the sun setting it was time to go,

So we drove home through the Gypsy encampments,

And everyone was quiet.





To an amoeba,
You are a trackless wasteland,
A limitless horizon,
But come here I’ve actually got something to say,
I know I’ve bothered your ear before,
Like sinks dripping or an endless dog bark from the hated neighbour’s yard,
Such is my voice at times,
But though I apologize for the pique’d quality of my tone,
Ill not apologize for the content,
Which can be vouchsafed by both genius and fool alike,
In a world of such life and pain,
What hurt does it us?,
to bend our ears toward another even falsely,
In an effort to hear what they mean by their silences.
But we have bedeviled compassion,
That is what we have to come to discuss,
Though you know it not,
This chanting of mantras,
These voices raised in flippancy toward the heavens,
One voice screams “Science”,
One “religion”,
One “Reason” ,
but even reason knows not what he wants,
You know what Yeats said……,
But I digress.
I want no part in a Science un-tempered by the wonder of the unknown and the power of faith,
For that would no longer be science,
which itself would be an unnamed phenomenon,
or merely just a recorded piece of code,
were it not for art,
But how does a poet speak to this generation,
One lacking so in understanding archaic mindsets and wisdoms of all epochs,
Self referential beings who shit on their past,
Acting as if they were experts,
Elaborating on theories,
Though they aren’t even equipped to deal reasonably with the time they themselves have somewhat ridiculously been allotted,
What they make now are not prognostications but self -fulfilled prophecies,
And the streets are rife with the prophets selling their wares,
And the people are overburdened and overtaxed,
By various invisible phylacteries,
Sometimes I want to just run to the hills,
But I live here you know,
Or do you not?,
Sometimes I wonder if anyone does.

Unsure of a Sufficient Title

Unsure of a Sufficient Title

Today is the day the AP jumped the gun and said Clinton  was the adversary of Trump ( for those of you who live out of state he’s the muppet baby running with the pink skin and the idea about walls) and it was a shit day for us all, or if it wasn’t for you, then you should reevaluate your judgement of reality , or merely disengage yourself from human interaction because your views are on par with not one , but two psychopaths needing and craving power, for  a purpose we know is vicious.

Turns out she did win, and since primaries mean nothing if you know of them, its no surprise, the electoral process and ages of doing nothing about it have created a perfect storm of hell, and here we are, ready to be smothered by its sirocco winds .

I find myself leaning more and more heavily towards total disillusionment, but then I’m reminded of the true impact of history and realize my place in it, and how I have no time , ignorance, or the ability to be incapacitated  by nonsense , action is needed.

Men will wave flags, incite your emotions, do what it takes to run you in the direction they wish you to be run, their corrals are everywhere waiting to be filled, whether it be the MAC store or Starbucks or Trader Joes or Wholefoods. All of which I would vote for over the present candidates.

Who would I be if i didn’t scream, preach and lie down in front of tanks over this. My greatest fear is that my need to do what I must to survive will impinge upon protecting and safeguarding a future that others deserve as much as I deserved mine. Seize all days.

Reporting In

Reporting In

In the morning the flood, the birdsong muted, Summer Tanager , he runs from me, my meat  smell, one of fear,

I a predator?  I whistle , he flies away.

The ground corpse like, my feet sink into it,

think of mud dwelling creatures,

bogs, the smell of fermy underbrush and newts muscling their way to and fro, glistening.

Dark days of muted light, the sound of the sun turned down,

the voice of cloud crushing,

there is a small leak in the roof.