The stream (all workshops)
his forehead bulges, releasing
a stream of glop through the
popped breaking nose, making room
clenched eyes spew blooded tears, shut tight
against the invading paragraphs and notes
his fists slaves against the relentless shoving
none of the villagers step forward
to stop or hasten this madness
it is not finished yet
some do release a whimper, though
when his screeching chokes, lips clamp
closed while cheeks shiver and bulging
neck expands, shoulders swelling
and skin stretches taut
they all look at him now
he looks to the great scroll
unrolled to the horizon
over a mile of paper, industrial, delivered
in the only truck the villagers had ever seen
it had taken him half a day to unroll it
four years to fill it with erudition
he wanted the answer
he had started his task with what he knew
wrote about all he heard and saw
then villagers helped with stories from generations
old school books and childrens rhymes
night
slender as wings
let them
sleek rest
against the
soul
and winter settles
like a dream
falling slow in motion
I can stay aside with
you forever
watching this city
becoming light
the whisper
of histories
rising
with shadows
For what intention
Do I live
Knowing of nothing
Of pure life
Or understanding death
Can the trees
Hear the music
Of the wind
Without any ears
Yet they dance
As the ocean
Loves the land
To such degrees
It caresses it
Day and night
Am I different
Among these things
I am universal
Connected to all
Yet all alone
I only answer
To my own
Heart and conscious
Can I hear
What is said
She will wonder what to wear to the execution,
and may show in an array of yellows.
What in the name of your silly ass god are you doing,
why are you here for this, looking so ready to see me go.
Cover my eyes so I can't see her love any more,
or any less.
If we could but hang around our coffins
like curious little misfits with a penchant
for hiding behind the curtain somewhere
over the rainbow
the prevailing myth of fantasy
would certainly be heard as the tree
falling in the forest no one hears
frankly speaking, the tree is dead.
Barks stripped of essential gentility, no passion
remains, no rage, no
beguiled forest to lose oneself in
nothing to be held back
the will-o'-the-wisp enters the shadowland,
head first, heart last
Looking into piercing eyes
As reality slips into a coma
And for a moment tyranny
Doesn’t hold onto society
Today, the sunset seduces
The clear sky captivates
And the birds over head
Sing songs of harmony
A mother’ has no need for tears
The old beggar need not ask
The child isn’t afraid
The world seems
Like endless possibilities
That replace this taunting reality
If one can believe this
It can be true
We all need something
To see through
A mirror just wouldn’t do
We call it ‘awuff’,
Free gifts
Surpluses sometimes
Free loaders like a whole lot
Some people say it runs the stomach
It is free, they won’t stop loading
Till the stomach is filled up with junks
Most people clamour for such things
They say, after all, life is free
Even the air we breath
So they accumulate, amass and collect
Freely from those who give the needy
For givers are said to be rewarded more
And blessed than those who receive
the city beckons me back
with promises of
lost love
drama
and the Beautiful Lights
shining by the cityscape
perfect next to the stars.
But I'm stuck to the country like
dirt on my blue jeans
mud on the pig
spots on the Buel's beef cows
and a tree to the ground.
he said I'm a rabid dog
but dogs don't bite their masters
unless they've been cruelly punished
one can't expect intelligence and logic
to enter into their dog-minds
like humans can, if they can, but then
we've all got a blind spot, haven't we?
and it's usually someone we can't
conquer with our dedication to what
works magic for some, you know, the
pack....
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