All poems herein are original
and unpublished works
Dawn X
Do you also fear the new Dawn?
The acidic regurgitation of State failures.
State crimes?
Does the ache of regulated breathing,
buying,
producing,
weaken also your resistance to breakdown?
Fear the legislation of rifles from your homes,
this double-think deconstruction
of freedoms' last line of defense,
threatening loss of child,
popular insecurity,
and more notorious crime rates,
where free souls,
dare to safeguard liberty,
with their God-given right,
to self-defense,
For it is a long, dark, poisonous snake,
that coils tight,
about the neck of sanctity,
teeth European white,
as they sink into,
the tender flesh,
of the future child,
bled of hope in the womb,
barely birthed,
but prepared,
pre-shaped,
pre-destined,
squeezed into proper design,
by the scion python,
Do you fear also the Pyramid?
the spoon-fed excuses,
for excise,
excess,
execution,
based on age, race, sex, and background?
0 N E Y 0 U N G B L A C K M A L E
can be Christ to the
Blackest souls of the
Political Pharisees,
of the Washington Synagogue,
and a million crosses can be,
sacrificed for the nation,
that we might march forth,
W H I T E A N G L 0 - S A X 0 N P R 0 T E S T A N T
with ample doses of,
corporate viper,
Congressional leech,
Presidential mass-murderer,
media brain-twister,
and every dark rung,
of the government ladder,
is lined with the scum,
that climbed up before,
the next,
sly-eyed opportunist,
waiting to coerce,
your money,,
from your,
paycheck,
I cannot laugh any longer,
where judicial impropriety,
allows for four white devils,
to slay in slanted perception
that lone, black Christ,
huddled in vestibule,
confronted,
frightened,
cornered,
and assassinated,
no judge nor jury that evening,
to find him,
NOT GUILTY
ON ALL COUNTS
for suspicious demeanor,
for ebony skin,
for low-income,
for scraping by on minimum wage,
in some Bronx hovel,
he shared with friends,
Immigrant,
African,
Anxious,
Hopeful,
Young,
and Dead!
Do you also fear the new Dawn?
The acidic regurgitation of State crimes,
State failures?
Does the ache of a deep,
despicable,
cumbersome Truth,
beg you to pretend that tomorrow holds Hope?
Anniversary. April. Awakening
Cry dead Republic, ash cosmetic on edifice,
You boil but do not regard it,
You sing unaware of the still air,
Cry Justice, to the victims amassed,
Behind You in chains are your skeletons,
Crawling over lines old drawn,
Rising to consume the castle, the garden,
These huddled masses teem not from distant shores,
But rancid ghetto, shanty-town, and gutter,
From spoilt suburban combat zones, Sober,
Cast unto the foot soldiers with a prayer for victory,
There go the elitists' blessings, the Good dreams,
And do "righteous" hearts dare squirm at this?
Exhausted Liberty shakes off these primitive critics,
She stands reborn as the QuOen of Subjective,
But a weapon now to mow down the unlearned,
Cry Justice, to the victims amassed,
Fire does not die, but waits silently,
You are anxious what your blows may trigger,
You fear these animals, you build stronger cages.
It's Not Really Life
It's not really life,
that's what you don't understand,
It's just cells, dead matter,
not much more mass than a beer can,
Spawning, yes,
I'll allow for osmosis,
but Life? a life? really,
It's a parasite, isn't it?
Can it exist on it's own,
independent of the host?
No, no,
as a can of worms opened,
spills chaos all about,
so is the inconvenient consequence,
of ill-plotted intimacy,
Rather than open the can,
throw out the can!
drop in the bottom and cart to the curb,
Or better still,
Pop open the can,
Suck out the contents,
One big mess flushed to oblivion,
Into the latrine,
out of existence,
over, forgotten, and Done,
It's not really Life,
that's what you don't understand,
It's a parasite, a germ,
a bacteria, a virus,
It's not an infant,
It's not a baby,
It's not a child
It's not really Life.
High Polished Globe
With scale in hand do Committee-members sing,
These jeweled walls dare not be assailed,
Insulated by soldiers, lawyers, sheer decades,
They will clink their champagne glasses and dance on the peons,
Who drafts laws whose hand they've not shaken?
Who calls out troops who hasn't called them first?
For their policy, in a word, is Division,
As their purpose, in a word, is Slavery,
Hold in hand their precious concoction,
Painted paper and their puppets adorning it,
Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's,
And unto Alan what is Alan's,
Count the corpses pilled high in debtor nations,
Collateral genocide off-sets deficit neglect,
Erosion of life to meet eroded investments,
The trumpet, it blows, the margin call is made,
Some sergeant in camouflage hustles squalor to their pens,
More leeches paralyzing the figurehead to be neutralized,
More Dead tortured, Dead starving, Dead rooted out humanity,
Leaks under the sink of a high-polished globe.
Atom. Pulse. Current:Indivisible
It isn't easy to bikeride uphill
but after enough times you
get used to it,
You glide up, one side to the other,
a gradual climb,
because headlong is a killer,
without strong legs,
You weave back and forth, gaining slow ground,
building momentum
until you teach the top,
ride out over the crest,
and head down at top speed,
to build up momentum,
for the next
hill
The riddle is soft, the idiosyncrasy obvious, as this world
is obvious, this nature I am in, struggle is struggle after
all, no matter whether I weave away from it or drive in screaming
it is there, there to be faced, there to be ridden over,
Yet if this were but an echo,
a reverberation of that ancient spark,
moving outward, away from the
center,
could we possibly meet that center again,
despite distance carried,
momentum driven,
eventuality transcended?
Nothing after "z", you see, as there is nothing after "9",
time is not a loop, Einstein was wrong, for one cannot eclipse
in one moment an event passed once before in that same moment,
he assumes that existence has any meaning without consciousness,
but without consciousness there is no existence, there is no
recognized time, there is no tomorrow
A horse gallops,
a bird flies,
a whale sings,
But does the horse know it is galloping?
The bird knows not how it flies,
only that it can,
and does,
over a whalesong that,
no whale has ever recorded,
nor any other creature,
save man,
recording,
saving,
appreciating such evidence of Life,
even as this same man,
insists on the vindication,
of his existence,
via his level of appreciation,
for what is around him,
How would it be for him,
to not understand,
nor ever contemplate,
the need for understanding,
I see a world dependent on time, or rather, dependent upon man-
kinds dependency on time, his desire for justification, his
endless search for meaning, we are conscious and so we study
what we are conscious of, WE KNOW and so we must know WHY we
know, and this is religion, the reason we must know, the
awareness we have been designed for, survival of the fittest
is a human myth for survival is more by design than intention,
nature does not survive as much as it exists, for what threatens
it? and where in nature does the endangered species lobby for
it's own preservation? it simply goes as long as it will and
when it is gone, it is gone,
Emotion is ones' reaction to awareness,
perceiving something,
from what we see,
these environments reflections,
of our nature,
of our own being,
For we know an ant is an ant,
as we know,
that spring is coming,
but we can change the future,
as we are,
the only creatures aware of one,
Just as animals endure,
the most deplorable conditions,
Man does not,
for he knows conditions change.
Watch the creek and there you'll see,
leaves riding on the water,
skirting stones,
catching the edges,
over the gurgle, over the earth,
and see how for a time,
these leaves go on beside one another,
drifting somewhat carelessly,
not directed,
not inclined,
but being not so inclined,
I find,
leaves soon drift apart, away"
for time is that creek,
getting wider,
And I am a leaf getting carried away,
away,,
until it is no longer a creek,
but a river,
going on into the ocean, the sea,
there is room now to drift,
and the leaves,
all go drifting,
away...
Banners
This banner I will drop at once,
If you would hand me another,
One as stately one as unfaltering,
One that might even challenge it,
This is not my own,
Yet from your hand I will take your thesis,
If indeed it holds merit,
If indeed it is true,
But I can not compromise,
I can not accept one near-as-good,
Nay, for they raise man up supreme,,
As surely as they declare him inept,
saying,
"We are without purpose or meanings
"We are matter shaped out of patient and endless time,to
"We are the spawn of a speck and destined for Godhood,"
"We are consequential, thus inconsequential,if
And none of those can I carry,
None can I dare touch,
For Man I know, as surely as my soul,
And nothing sacred from his own hand has come.
Getting Over Adam
Dear ground, you are old,
So unlike the ground I used to know,
Cartographer's pen insults the grandeur,
as surely as the title-holder's paper,
deepens the sovereignty over you masters,
all of your masters,
You are the prized slave they bid on,
You where the river knew no opposition,
You where the mountains once stood proud,
You where taste of air is majesty, beauty, perfection,
Nothing clung to and,
Nothing carved,
Nothing bled upon nor cursed,
But you, dear ground,
Now you are cursed,
from when first the nomads dropped foot on you,
Bowed down to a fate foreseen
Bowed down to a prophecy,
And you are part of that,prophecy,
You are the thing a 'coming,
Cursed Earth,
Did you not know?
It was poisoned that day,
It was all infected by the fruit,
No thorns before nor weeds,
No infections nor diseases,
But in one day, one act,
T'was done then, and now,
You've never gotten over Adam,
Feeling his curse, his crime, his betrayal,
Spring forth vine and sin-soiled creatures,
Let come earthquake, volcano, and winds,
. And you will wield tragedy,
You will taste fully the fruit,
Suffer the men who own you, ground,
'Til the day you do get over Adam.
Soldier
Soldier, what are you hiding?
Do you recall a day without the blood,
Of excuses as they run,
From wounds you desperately bandage?
For whom do you fight? For what?
This dispossession of self endures,
the greatest labours,
of an often redesigned illusion,
One I mistook for rational and true,
One that still hypnotizes the adventurous,
I am not an adventurer,
Soldier has the fight yet left you?
I fear that day as I fear for your life,
When bandage seeps with too fresh a blood,
When grounds waver and science resigns,
Both will end, and I will miss you,
Speak Soldier, while it's not yet that day,
Does the gun feel heavy and useless?
But that mind, your pistol, compares not to your heart,
I know it is as true our time that is decaying,
I know you can live ... I know.
Dear Mirage
Dear Mirage, I still wince to smile,
Finding that ghost in the attic,
is dancing again, upon the walls,
always dancing but never beyond them,
and yes, the dirt's now been shoveled,
Care for a token of survival?
A deep stare, a pause, there, you'll see it,
That shadow isn't my own, but yours,
still blocking the sunset,
still tapping an easy tune on your toe,
as if I haven't a memory,
as if I truly "got away",
as if a corpse so far away is not a corpse,
a regret not a regret,
an absence not an absence,
Dear Mirage, my mistake was my misunderstanding,
My willingness to be instructed,
Thinking that I might only Be, Exist,
and never bother about the rest,
Now, of course--Now...
I understand destruction,
that existence necessitates destruction,
that moment justifies eternity,
as much as sadness demands Hope,
But the whirlwind distorts reality,
Ebb and flow of temperament through circumstance,
My days as a leaf are ending,
As the whirlwind passes on,
Passes on into the night where fresh leaves lie,
Ogre. Postscript. 1820
Some nights I dream a ship has come,
To lift me from this Promethean rock,
perhaps to America,
or just to Brazil ....
But I wake instead to smell the flowers,
in the garden I'd planted outside,
a bitter salt even covering these,
no aroma here left unstung by it,
And I hear that devious Governor calling for me again,
to say,
"We must liquidate the silver, General,
to shore up maintenance costs,
and to pay the labor,"
as I snare beneath my breath,
"Emperor, damn you, I am an Emperor!
Can not your petty island,
of shopkeepers and brigands,
accord me the simple respect of the royalty,
I've wrought,
with my own hands?!"
Indeed, General was but a colored pin,
I'd pushed into German villages and Russian roads alike,
each one a man charges to thousands,
each color animating the motion,
of the armies of Man upon Europe,
"He is but a Governor," she would console,
where no British ear was by,
my only guest,
my last mistress,
and her also did I handle abruptly,
throughout the battles between my captors and I,
the lies of their doctors and the condescension,
of their stares,
Years, dear years, have long since passed,
when I was but a General and no more,
one horse I'd rode was that,
and easily I jumped to others,
reigns tight and riding hard,
from Toulon to Paris,
to Arcola to Palestine,
once artillery lieutenant,
then General of the Army of Italy,
so far, so fast,
so deep in my brow this charge to glory,
Yet on mornings such as these it is still there,
in a dawn unbroken by human stirs,
under a sky billowing with clouds,
I remember also my face in the Seine,
staring back,
alone and unguarded,
so bitter, then, so alone,
and I knew then, that moment,
that a world I neither be,
under nor beside,
I would have to be above,
I would have to rule,
That dark Paris eve,
where the city lay in pieces,
and the cries in the streets,
were of throngs cold and hungry,
huddled against the walls,
where the thick stench of death,
left no nose unawares,
That eve I cast my will,
though not my body,
to the fates untouchable,
and surely the choice was hard made,
I was broken in those streets,
torn not with my losses alone,
but my family on Corsica,
my friends in rank,
and I,
going step after slow step,
over that bridge to invite the waters,
and what had I then?
For the glorious thunder of ten-thousand horsemen,
charging upon the flanks of my adversaries,
was a sound I had yet to hear,
the roar of one million men in battle not felt,
And the hills and bounty of Italy,
the sands of Syria,
were soon to greet me,
Ah, but the fears I hoped to shrug,
gnawed at me from beyond,
that dark Parisian guillotine,
and I could not bear life then,
for my hero had forsaken me,
my family was banished from our home,
my career was already shaken,
by countless weeks of leave,
I'd taken to save them,
from Paoli's rebels,
All was without hope, then,
all dark and quiet like a South Atlantic coffin,
and I was the fool for it!
Was it not I who charged,
to the standard of the Jacobins,
that I might hoist it high above France?
Did I not mingle with the guilded,
masks of the aristocracy,
and flirt with the bloodthirsty bourgeoise?
Affairs swirled about me beside,
swords sharp with lust,
Hot summer air carried the cries,
of new political enemies,
While coalitions seemed always,
at the door of dear France,
assassins buying time,
'til they might catch her unaware,
And cut down this people,
who'd suddenly thrown bombs,
into the comfort,
of Europe's bedding,
Oh that eve where more thoughts than I could swallow,
were at my conscience,
so many choices all seemed to mean disaster,
Alone on a bridge, yes,
and here I am now,
twenty-five years later on some,
cold and dreary speck,
more covered with the refuse,
of seagull and piper,
than either flower or smile,
But now I am not plagued,
now I am not lost,
For much as I may swallow defeat,
and taste regrets that can never be quieted,
I know the streets of Moscow,
I know the trees that line the road to Vienna,
I have suppered at Versailles,
as host to a royalty,
as much pampered by me as berated,
I know the sound of west-borne winds,
through the olive groves of a Lebanese oasis,
as I know also the pleasure,
the dignified ecstasy,
of a pope watching helplessly,
as I placed a crown of glory,
on my own head,
These are the footnotes,
These are the memories,
salvaged as I walked away from that river,
on mornings cold I can feel it still,
sad, alone, defeated, and done,
but I rise from that bed,
as I marched off of that bridge,
and from boy to man,
and man to god,
I return to man again,
here,
on St. Helena,
where I soon will breathe my last.
The Weight of Deeds
Oh for the will to do, where choice is my enemy,,
a creature no smaller than the rest that lurk,
these demons of ignorance and lethargy,
impatience and selfishness,
a blind demand for Me, Now!
and these empty lots to gather up as I go,
What learned words can be dropped here for posterity?
This race is not tame, but restrained,
and they wait in their colored, labeled corners for the flag,
a sea anxious to spill,
a stomach swollen and counting pains,
til birth and release,
And whose lips might stress dignity to the mob?
You stand out there, don't you?
And you must be waiting, eh?
For the fool gambles his hours for gratification,
No investment here, only squander,
and buttresses volumes against years lost away,
as if the empty air of knowledge weighs anything,
And are you impatient?
What words do you wait for?
Do you even know me, see me, expect me?
Did the young men dreamed of South America and Europe,
That they might wake in the static of coupling?
Thought the road a paradise for the hero,
And walked not there, but in the hearts of men,
In the deeds done daily that weigh small, but weigh at all,
Deed upon deed til they are a blessing,
lain at the feet of their brethren.
Great Wall
Run, fingers, find the grooves,
This face of stone is a mask, a carcass,
But I am muffled before it,
Taste what this substance declares itself,
And find it in opposition,
A restless monument trying to tear itself down...
Smell, flower, what smells you,
So unlike the fragrance you wear,
Not quite natural, nor truly ... unnatural,
Hear voices babbling in a hundred tongues,
And which holds sway?
They will not divide, but instead, worship the new obscurity,
Have I seen the doorway in the stone?
They are pained to convince me it's there,
But this face of stone is a mask, a carcass.
Infactuation Fix. Exit.
One ... one ... one ... one Thing,
Where is it hiding? what does it mean?
THIS is now,
THIS is the everything,
The soup of existence that I swill about in,
and when I see,
that face,
one glowing and restless,
Time becomes inconsequential,
Thought becomes optional,
And the eyes, the smile, the walk, the body,
Swim on through the sea,
The noiseless instant of "Ahhh" fading,
And it's a bottle of this I look for,
I watch and wait and sigh and shrug,
Not here, no,
I'm an intention on hold,
my life on pause,
and for what?
But I know the ground,
I know the ground before me,
It is multi-faceted, of all variety,
But meant for my feet to tread?
When but to know is a prayer,,
That I might lay this sack from my shoulder and sit,
When lightening sharpens the eyes,
That I might rest, rest,
One moment to rest,
But I'm coming,
Really, I just need a moment here in this puddle of life,
Just a second, just a second more,
and I'll be there.
When Dawn Breaks
When dawn breaks,
and the earth seems to sigh in the warmth of a new day,
The struggle at once is rejoined,
Minus wants to be plus,
And plus must become multiple,
Rates of exchange will compliment dominant currency,
And detailed perceptions must be freshly reconfigured,
that their complexion might mold neatly into minds,
The heads of state will debate the pretext for intervention,
As the editors comb the copy for paraphrase,
The curtain hides favor for favor for favor,
No pale, stiff, wide-eyed homeless frozen solid,
No comment on burning bodies since dismissed,
Only cardboard facade over squirming rot of corpse,
Flowers on the gravesight,
Perfume on the ghastly corrosion,
They know better still,
They will shape societal ills,
If they can't legislate conformity,
They must hack away from the cutter the ugly fringe elements,
And tomorrow,
When dawn breaks,
and the earth seems to sigh in the warmth of the new day,
Trust remains trust,
Truth remains truth,
Power keeps power,
and waves crash on against sand spawn anew,
Corp of Engineers making the beach safe for property owners,
Protecting the investment of the rich in a new way.
Yonder
What have you, World,
to offer me?
Can you yield the crystals, the pieces left,
of dignity?
Found you that morn on the brink of peril,
your children grown bored and suddenly,
violent,
You said there was an existence to discover,
You said there was truth, justice, Righteousness to be found,
But what have I found?
I have labored long to bore holes in your surface,
And below I find souls damned,
and promises broken,
So much I decided,
If this is real, I must be unreal,
If this is the Final Destination, I must be a glitch,
For where I go, you hunt me,
Where I sleep, you wake me,
Where I love, you hate me,
Where I live, you seek to destroy me,
seek to destroy me,
just as they said,
as the warning had come,
That this is not my world, no,
I am not a part of it,
Placed like a weed in a poisoned garden,
You'll snuff me, burn me,
spirit me away,
And when they've cursed their last over my gravel
I will be smiling from afar,
Not that I've beaten them,
Not that I've won,
But that my reality then will surpass,
The cruelest lies this planet's infection,
could conjure,
to dampen His glory,
invent--to negate His will,
twist--to pervert His Power,
and to ignore,
His plea that we Love one another,
Love one another,
So, what have you, World,
to offer me?
What is there to find?
Someday you will kill me,
and I have been waiting,
waiting to meet you there.
Box-shaped Heart
There you are, quiet heart,
Sitting on the fence again,
Weighing the pros and cons,
Of trying your hand at hope,
Needing reminders to sting you,
Needing time reward to you,
For your lack of personal achievement,
For your refusal to take a side,
Something about the fence, though,
You're not going forward,
Thus, you're not going back,
And the splinters may seem,
to the buttocks to be,
an itchy inconvenience when compared,
To the possible loss of a limb,
To the cloud of doubt on the mind,
To the fear that this is destiny
To the courage needed,
to hop off of that fence,
You, heart, you're waiting,
There may be a cure,
For loneliness, for heartbreak,
a pill you can take,
And pain is forever gone,
not even a threat,
not a thought ever given,
Courage is bulky, tough,
Too tough to swallow,
This is a minor inconvenience, heart,
But I promise you,
Someday we'll be off of this fence.
I promise you.