Thursday, December 10, 2015

Baring arms in surrender

There's a meltdown in the melting pot,
just scroll to your hearts content...
no parchment here, just old, wrinkled,
worn out plausibility structures
crumbling in a heap, then comes the weep.

Grab your tissues and wipe your eyes
as you watch the carnage grow,
tainted seeds and steely clubs
are all you're meant to know.

I bare arms, my feckless freckles need the sun.
I'd never shoot at any son.

Distracted, I shoot the scenery I desire
where everything is One. A flower is a river
is a bird and the sky above. Grounded all
together, I see a beauty that I call Love.

People have their beauty too, I won't deny
what isn't true, but polar bears die on a beach
that wasn't meant for polar speech, or rhetoric,
or point of view, if you disagree in thought or
creed, I'll shoot before I know your deed? Really?

Maybe the Word should die a death and leave
the shrouds of doubt as jest. So sure have
sides of thought become... (I dunno, is not that dumb).

I bare arms in silent surrender,
shrug my shoulders in helpless wonder.
Then shake my head and float away,
there isn't anything more to say.

Monday, August 17, 2015

There's no trying in wasteball

Well, it came as a surprise on a balmy day
this feeling in size that grew out of a the bay
of the still waters that carry belief,
if only I was a better me I'd not have this grief.

Fuck that shit. I'm sick and tired of wasted trying.

Trying to do all the things I was told that would bring
me to happiness and riches of gold... worn out and old.

Trying to please everyone in my space who gives me their
time and just smirks at my face... in a moment of their
precious time and space. I smile at the mischief as they
have stolen my face. Another smirk that is hard to erase.
I tried to play, I cry inside, and I'm laughing at sickness
that I was trying to hide.

Come out, come out, wherever you are... Huckle Buckle Beanstalk
you live in a glass jar... and it 's jarring.

I could see years wasted in trying and good, and throw in some hope
for good measure too, trying is tiring but it's the right thing to do...

for a soap on a rope or a pretty clean dope. 

A wasteland has pasted my intentions on a wall, it's
pretty confusing but I've dropped the ball. I can't try anymore...
it's not really what I was looking for. A like is pathetic when your
looking to score. No one cares that you're trying to's a snore,
and a colossal bore. I'll not try anymore.

A perfect desire is a prefect disaster... are you really sure of what
you are after? It takes a while and a toll as well, trying and hoping
is another road to hell. Been there and done that, but it seems so right...

But not right now and not tonight.

I'm wasting my time on a nowhere flight.

Tomorrow it will be out of mind and outta sight. All right! Dang. Duh...

it will be less of a fight.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Quicksand or Beach

All we want and all we know is just a mystery
in a mainstream show. The slip is showing,
your child-self knows the joke. Can you laugh

at yourself and all the absurdities of a belief
that is a be-lie. You will not die if you question,

Why? Human being, why are you trying
so hard to fit in with an old shoe, you wonderful
but obedient you. It is time that you knew...

Your senses are lies in the whys of your earthly disguise.

Eyes can see outside and mind decides, ears can hear words and things
held dear, it's just noise my dear. Touch has gotten you into some trouble,
an outstretched reach to heal another... is double trouble. The nose knows
nostalgia from a smelled past, another comfort for a sense that can't last.

It is senseless to guess the meaning of life, it just flows like water across a thirsty
land to a destiny of beach or quicksand. It is a black or white endeavor that a
heart will not understand. A child keeps asking why, as a philosopher states
because it Is that way. How wry.

Give up asking and you will intuit... there's really nothing to it.

The merry-go-round is a timeless ride, click whatever channel you need
to survive and be bold...

Did you really come here at this time to be old?

A new kindergarten is waiting for tomorrow, between a beach and quicksand
it transcends your senseless yet timely earth sorrow.

I feel this right now... but I can assure myself that it will change tomorrow.

Saturday, June 20, 2015

Hornswaggled and Bamboozled

OK so here we are again
kayak in a whirlpool
twirling and batting
hand against the hull.

Haven't drowned yet,
amidst the hornswaggle
and bamboosle. You know,

You are still here too.

What do we want?
We don't know.
Do we want this?
We don't know what this is.

We came for something,
and then we forgot.
Whose to blame? No one.

Lost and found yet again,
amidst of the hornswaggle
 and bamboozle.

Spirit has a warped sense of humor.

OK... got it.


Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Tall tales tell all

Tall tales told by small snails tells all
in the slowly plodding drift in the dirt and sand

it's a tale I can't stand or sit as I planned,
but I lay down to comfort the colors I command.

Yes, I do as other before me have felt this way too.

Women, get off your knees while the patriarch
do as they please, you have life from your womb
rise up and uplift your sisters and please do it soon.

Would you raise your sons to go off to war
and daughters to cry when the bell tolls for more
lost lives in a wasteland of a disastrous making,
while you in the kitchen with talents a wasting?

No kudos for cookies and spilled milk, the blood
thicker than water is part of the ilk as slippery
snails spin their tales of silk, silken lies, old blood
never dies... you can see it in the eyes.

There is a new way in the light of a new day,
be proud you know the profundity of the sway,
it's not here to stay. It's cornered and scared of
your nurturing way. For now, it's all I can say.

The snail is patient in a plodding way,
the slivering snake just got in the sway
to tell you that You are the way.  So take
off the veil of your disbelief and love your
children: sons and daughters, I bequeath.

There are slinking lies, you know them
you do. They are quoted by the sons and
daughters that mothers once knew.
They were programmed that way, but now
in this time there is unprogramming to do.

I'm in for the long haul and I'm knowing
you are too. Whew! It's hard to write words
in a world that's untrue.

Love always wins... the snails are slow.
Tall tales are the first programming to un-know.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Time Blows Gusty

The winds and seas are fierce and blowing
tides are a changing and black hearts are crowing
 "we're almost there" said the psycho rowing
in a boatload of shame. They feel no pain.

Sunrise, sunset is all the same to me. The world
may be in turmoil but I'll tether to a tree.

So blow your gusty winds and sound your croaky horns,
I won't follow in the past of a crown of bleeding thorns.
I don't need a savior, that's an old party favor. I don't like the flavor.

The winds are blowing gusty in a ancient past of dusty...
I say, hooray, take me away... oh I'm already gone

That's gutsy.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

The mirage at dusk

Oh I saw those stars and stripes waving incoherently
in a puddle of the blue mirage... sadly waving a goodbye
to all that what once was proud and true of freedom's brave
from the mouths of the knighted knave. I'll not behave.

A sadly subjective commentary of belief gone bad, rogue
and very much in the clutches of the New gone bold. It's old.

Golden ripples in sateen threads, hold sway over grieving mothers heads.
It's not about money, or power or oil they sssaid. But what gives about the
the dying dead? Speech filled lies of hope from mysterious spies. No worry
they said, from unseeing eyes. Illusion can be choice to trump players lies.

So the belief systems are mobilizing everyday soldiers, before auspicious whys?

The children, in colors unnamed, come in brilliance amongst the dull and insane
playing out their heavenly game... to a world they forgot that was hardly to blame. Caretakers were promised to show them the way, but foolish beliefs
in perpetrated lies held sway. And they groveled and shuffled to the gods before them, not realizing that it was just another program. Techno-Media King was the distraction who ruled them.
An anthem that hinted of war and the glory of
dying that they had lived before... what a god damned bore.

Have no belief in what you are told, as stocks tumble and money is sold... paper promise is the new price of gold, but what lurks to steal US will never be told.

Or so the lowly gods were gleefully told. But waving their truth by a women's twilight
gives a pithy meaning to what we were told was right. A mirage in a puddle or on distant shore, a war-loving nation will cry a little more, until...
the women of children and innocents can state loudly... we'll not stand for this
ANYMORE. It is a gift of the spirit which the Goddess will state proudly.

So go on with your soldiers and military spies
you will never get over on a mother's crying eyes.
She has awakened to your war-mongering lies.
In golden threads of a forlorn and furloughed flag
lives the blood, sweat, and tears of a dream gone awry
by the gold and epaulets of another tyranny on the fly.
All isms are schisms (on which slavery abides)
whose time is over, good riddance and a welcomed buh-bye.

Even if it's only from my own jaded eye.

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Chirp... not a bird.

Oh a good day interrupted by the chirp of a technical bird.
My word, in my home a small circular dome with battery
attached... evil contraption. Chirp, chirp in a circadian rhyme
disconnect the battery and it still peeps out a chime.

You are interrupting Joni Mitchell... furry sings the blues.

Bringing smoke and dreams... not allowed in this established place.

We have been hoodwinked to a placated place in a somewhere blues.

I want my harmonica, so I can blow my brains out.

We replace the battery, another small battle won in this odd post card existence.

I hear the blue jay, mocking bird, and crow for real. Screeches, trills, and giggles.

Techno birds warning of impending fire? Shut the fuck up.

Monday, April 6, 2015

Not again nor evermore

There is a great joy inside
welling in an outburst of tears,
beyond the blue horizon
upon a golden blur of tears.

What is this joy?
I do not know.

What are these tears?
I cannot say.

What is this place?
No clue today.

A fog around the tracks
rolling silent as thunder
a belief in what was what
and all that went asunder.

A simple question
asked a million times,
a riddle of wonder
in uncertain times.

Who are you now?
Asked the fog about,
Oh, I've certainly forgotten
said a waterspout.

It's been asked over and over
many times before...
I don't really know,
I'm not really sure,
and I won't question myself

Sunday, January 18, 2015

Stifle Edith... if you can.

Art is like a fart... it comes unasked
with unsavory aromas and an
unlikely return... and yet,
you know it must just come.

How appropriately unjust.

That's the jest... better put all reason to rest.

I just wanted a little nap, a reason to escape
on a couch with no reason to wake.

In a mind unsound with rhythm and wine
there trembled a small and resonate quake.

I had to wake... to bake a cake, to tame a snake.

The words were there and I got up to stare...
at a computer screen... a dumbed down stare.

Oh blessed curse...what the hell was that verse?

Wisps of clouds and a slip of the tongue
is a poetic license to the very young.

I'm not that dumb.

Forgotten in an instance, but I'm still here.

It was important at the time, but now I just

I'm still here!


Ya gotta know the caterpillar
to be the butterfly.

Oh my, how wry.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Let's be clear... the fog continues. Blow hard.

Oh so now you have awakened
and it's not what you wanted,
pray tell what you wanted,
if not this awkward squawk
smack in front of your face;
pie in the sky and a cherry in the eye
beyond time and space.

No, you're not a disgrace.

Love as you know it is a dead deal,
a dialogue with a demigod...

who is not for real.

No big deal.

I faced that fog and met myself,
gray and misty on a bus to nowhere.

It was real.

Show yourself, I screamed...or so it seemed.

The bus careened around the streets with screaming
and terror and a drama complete. One part of me knew so well
that we are really completely drawn to a life of hell.

Oh well.

I was honored and revered for all my ridiculous fear.
The bus stop was my bed, warm and cosy with a buzzing
in my head. A nightmare of a misty and musty old fog...
but there was nothing to say or nothing to hide, I chose
to partake of this incipient smog.

In the early morning, under the stars... Orion, Pleiades
and Venus and Mars.

I inhaled the smoke of the dream as it came, woke up, thought awhile... and blew it out hard. Come and get me while I dance and I sing... a song, that I learned long ago.

It got nuttin' to do wid a hollow wood bling.

Fog is gray and a mysterious kind, better than black or white if you're unsure of the box... grey is a hound chasing the fox.

A vixen... a flower, as lethal as foxglove. Take it off slow...
one finger or petal at a time. The fog will clear, a heart will quicken,
the gray will morph to colors in time; a sun dog is barking
as the colors entwine.

Blow Gabriel glow... he is a woman, ya know?

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

The reprimand

Oh I saw a corporate window
and it could have been my own,
a blond and chastised woman
without her chastity phone

in front of a lesser boss. How dross.

The big man came in swinging
though small in stature be,
arms a flailing, shouts assailing to
the lesser goddess than he.

Now I do not know her crime
but surely it was there,
her hands were pounding out a code
and I knew that she was scared.

Do not let those tears flow for this.

The lesser boss had his back to me,
the greater boss yelled and then did flee, but
i could not see his face. He fled in
anonymous disgrace. A mouse without a face.

She sat there brave in an odd discourse
pretty, yet shitty, but it could be worse.

The office, now empty is still brightly lit
but a goddess with binoculars had caught the hit,
this sad and ancient empire is afraid of the clit.

Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?
The shadow knows; and it will take a woman's
heart to call it out.