Epigraph: “When she thinks,
While she is grace,
Where she sees,
I will also be.”
I need someone to cease
my soul tears.
That specter has cried
I’ve let the rivers flow
until they met in the center of the garden.
O Eden: once paradise proclaimed
the heart as the navel of emotion,
I knew love existed
–just not for me.
Then my sullen sulking drew its bright sword
and light flooded my eyes.
I saw the world as pure perfection in disguise.
The words of conversationalists became meaningful.
You, the one I cried for
and sought in desperate dreaming,
make my lamp grow brighter.
From each person I sensed uniqueness
after your gaze reached my eyes.
All the world is veiled in dark peace
until its scars are removed.
Magic love, a deacon of old wisdom—
O, make her come alive!
She knows me and I have
talked to her for years unknowingly—
She is my spirit animal
and earthly desire.
Her totem becomes my living art,
and each door is closed but I sense
the Life opening like a dream
(O, make her come alive!).
My soul tears ceased in the darkness
of the fiery night
as sharp scalpels remove my murderous impulses.
Although, I only fault my heart
for approaching too early a depth it could
I will no longer cry in my soul.
She is alive, beautifully alive—
and our masks are bravely shorn, piece by piece.
Wait. I have no control.
The intiated have vented their rage
like flags of attrition.
Common sense is not the image
of our hearts,
and the mood set is reset.
I am darker than the valley
but I see the cutthroat completely.
No man has cause to philander.
It’s a new age we see emerging–
darkness is parallel to the horizon,
fading in tomorrow’s rickety old Ford.
No more can we fly high because grief
has grabbed our newspaper snippets,
and American ships are sinking.
Wait. I have no control.
Brooding is the way some of us
handle our mistakes.
Contradiction emerges as democracy plummets
in the hole we buried our masks in.
God-given speeches are wasted breath.
NOTHING is the only being absent of duality.
It is truth we seek, not fresh air or power.
I am not greedy for night lies.
Take a side or don’t take a side.
Both are fresh in the wheel
slick fates tassle in the broad daylight.
No one feels fresh with guilt
but blood is cutthroat completely.
Each attempt to love
leaves a scar, and
an empty breakfast table.
The heat will not let me go,
my body is the clown of it.
I am a nightmask,
horror’s relevant kiss, this streak of satisfaction that love’s technology
grants the lover.
I am free to give love,
though it rejects me.
A cynic fresh from questions
I do not love you as the courts
I love you as the judge loves justice.
Let us go, set my people free!
The vast abyss, open to decaying voids,
these words are depths of the heart.
Let it go, let it be, either way we are free.
“I have nothing to lose and nothing to give, therefore I mustn’t.”
part one: the asylum
Desperation drives the ghost mad
like a lunatic in a dream-world,
The asylum is full of hopeless illusions.
The sun will come out at night
like a mountain goat etching his shadow
on the horizon.
The sorrowful prophet escapes to her
and begins to chatter in tongues.
“O loose and frayed garments of time,
your rhyme is not the way I imagined,
and could the hapless world be any better,
more perfect, shapely as my concerns?”
The genuine light refracts
from the mirror of the false,
and our world loses vision.
Go, ghost, and grieve.
Your lights are before you,
sunken in this glorious race!
The american muse is solitary,
and hides her shameless face.
“O prophet, face wintered by the
worries of time,
let go of thy battles,
flee into rhyme.”
I see the ghost now
in the spiritual chaos,
within the Redeemer’s soul who spans the cold dark.
I will no longer search for the heaven
No, it is already there within me;
my heart is satisfied.
part two: the industrial prison
I do not have the strength
to speak, o muse, where the terror
strikes me most.
I, strong as I am, do not have the
will to complete the scroll.
Why do you require my hand?…
“When the time comes, you
will see the horizon
is like a forest of light,
bending its beams to the melodies
of our industrial prison.”
Angry, as my brain squats in its hole
while the dream comes livid into view,
I sense the science of my satisfaction
growing denser, and silent.
Tremors, the banished face of fear;
then, the doleful disguise of inspiration.
Desperation climbs into my bruises like a
lizard of darkness, high sorrowful and cloyed.
This pageant will elicit its own
We are marred by our marriage
to a dream, the indulgences of peace.
Pagan idols, crushed into the dust
of years past
by these fanatics who bar the ghost
from the palace,
from speaking the language
of its golden heart:
they create the industrial prison
we face in silence.
part three: the strength of sanity
How can my fingers keep
track of the pen’s motions,
sparked and pure?
I never knew the solace
of a shoulder,
the constant companion of pain—
how am I to face the final dirge?
The elegies for my fallen body
in this sanctuary of slant rhymes
are soft, endearing.
The touch is a promise of renewal;
the angels have spoken
and risen from the earth.
I immigrated from the vast seas
through the electric orb of my heritage
to seek the prayer offering
My muse, o america, speaks
to me from that torch,
held by the princess of Liberty!
“Let the starving masses come,
they shall build the new Arc
of the Covenant.
They, and only them, can rebuild the dream.
Flame consumes the profits,
the motive from which they emerge,
one nation embalmed,
live once and ne’er forget,
never forget my call!”
The strength of sanity can bear multiple
It is the dilemma our continent faces—
that the poor, huddled masses
should be forgotten, exiled, and jettisoned.
Let the prayer for our redemption
be shouted over all!…
The truth persists
in veins of yearning
The dream of thunder
comes close to burning
-Lightning, from a stack
-Flash floods, from a
stack of laundry.
-Earthquakes, from a tutor’s
bones, with no image.
Friend, your strength sours
My bitching is vain
because you lived the war
I study in books.
Why then, do we exist?
Why then, does God exist?
We don’t know how we got here.
But why we climb from the slime
back into the Garden of Eden
will remain a mystery.
The veil might not be lifted
from our hearts, or our brains,
but the spirit will deep succumb
to our deadly wishes.
Our own vices will conquer our hopes,
and our dreams will remain these wishes.
When a soul relinquishes
her translucent beauty to savage voyeurs
like a female high in whoredom’s palace
like thus, the chambers of my heart
are filled with foreign eyes.
I am a homeless, hesitating muse
of the generation gap,
and I blister the skin of my solitude like the hot sun.
I cannot assume that I am the Bard,
but my visions are violent, bright flames,
razor-sharp to the page.