A Miscellany of the Lord's

12 BOWIE PLACE

It was there, and remains
at the end of it all and everywhere at once, 
under exquisite sunsets aside the cool lag
of reservoir whispers that I decided to live forever, 
that I decided to end my life.
Of course, fate interceded in (or against) my behalf 
on both counts -- down but not out.
The stale aroma of burnt-out cannabis and cat piss 
could never dull the magic air that enswirled the place, 

a realm of constancy that I could extract
by my dreaming, as simple as removing a flask of warm brandy 

from the black and tattered hollows of my velvet lapel,
or wipe away quickly as an unborn tear waiting to burst. 

It was here that I discovered poetry
and gorged my roiling chest with a pen – 
Cars reduced to scrap metal in the instant of an evening, 

the ecstasy of a night's events still mirrored in our eyes.
And I remember Mrs. Brown and the conversations we'd have. 

I'm amazed she'd entertain what was surely drunken and inane, 

the inert ramblings of youth waiting to discover it all,
and I'm am only sorry that the warm fight of her soul 
couldn't have burned the worms in her belly....
It was here that I took a noble swipe at brother Geoff... 

It was a mighty blow for childhood & oppressed children 
  the world over, 
one childhood lifetime relived as my fists pounded the air
and left me reduced to swollen eyes and bruised despair.
It was here; and was here amidst the warm tallow of afternoons 

too precious to remember, solemn eternities embedded
in the sweetgrass, a moment extracted and enacted in grace, 

recording silently the interregnum scribbles of our restless pens. 
Imaginary things grow real, grow real...
Then fade.

Meaninglessness

Meaninglessness 
dementia sin ash 
tacit turning 
eventual dominions 
puddling unexpectedly-
dissolution be done 
bone Sung,
dreaming in aftertaste.
Honor, abide with and respect 
The duality of the dual.
Sorrow is an abstraction. I can't shut myself
inside of this thing. I swallow as a cloud fills the sky. 

Scribbles of whiteness blank such insubstantial sunderance's. 

I succumb to nothing. It all simply is.
                    ?
The answer is YES ... but, with a caveat.
Staring out the window
a thousand dead reflections-
all those mad openings!
Halo of skies, and eyes 
await the bait.
I am finally aware of my own mortality.
Where is that damn dog 
when you need 'im.
The chatter of false teeth 
is keeping me awake, 
and the memories.... 
such impotent gestures, 
dead notions
my heads hot. 
It is simply all.
It's best that we not communicate again.

Cartoon

The shadows are overrated

The shadows are overrated
as are words. What I need 
is distance, a space of emptiness -- 
the unremitting grace of absence.
Perhaps it's all a bizarre craving 
for death, the ultimate holy
that leaves me with the wish
to abolish form, toss out absolutes 
and become a prostitute of weakness.
Fuck it. I must now divorce myself 
and crawl into the first available hole

SUN

Part I
As the sun shines 
so does
     your warm love 
light every
       dark corner 
   of my eyes, 
made dry and old 
from the pain
and pale smokes of 
death,
expired in useless 
vision.
My life is spent 
in your breath, 
your tongue on the 
cool
green waves
w/ invisible hands
running like warm thoughts 
over a helpless
world
penetrating 
these.

Monday Feeling.

Part II
In soft light, the melt of tears
fears the silence of you, a religious absence
hollow in shades of a fragrant deity, 
remembering the nourishment of your kisses;
the torment of a memory not yet lived 
struggling colorless with white hands,
a voice unheard struggling under thunder, 
giving no answers to my word.
The decrepit leaves wander on frozen turf, 
dying laughter in longing hues of youth grown
dusky and old -- where now shall my lily grow? 
Vermilion isolation. A cloud disperses
in the bony crooks of my hollow fist;
I cry to the sky as the solitary muses spill,
melting eyes to the heavens' overthrown grace: 
Thou art all of me, and without thee
I perish.

     

SUMMER TRILOGY

Part III
Rare atmosphere, the light of souls divine --
     my universal search
for meaning finds conclusion in your arms. 
     Purity and endurance
upon all impossibility, fate embracing heaven 
     in our convulsive hold;
there is no escape, all burden becomes bliss, 
     and this, my angel, is love.
An idle poet, I've seen men of greatness --
     such courage and stamina,
though it's for your love alone that I 
     find vindication and cause;
it is only for your eyes, your heart, your hair 
     that I lay siege against all vice,
and from it construct, with loving repair 
     Ah yes! a very paradise....
          Held in perfection
               black ink of my blood, 
                    for thee bled.
My soul is insufficient alone!
          O eternal jewel,
               love without end. 
          Heart to heart, to thee I wed.
So for now, I shall hang up my pen
     wishing deed o'ershadow sentiment,
               all conception acceding to the light of our 
  rainbow:
So please, let me show you the world 
               *and more*
          let's soar on high:
                    my heart is the pink pinioned arch disappearing 
  into the heavens 
with you, only you, and your holy light by my side.

HAIKU FUCK YOU

Symmetry/became
momentary in the mind.
I rejected it --
          (then bought some dope).

Photo three-set of author.

On a sharp table

On a sharp table 
you've walked straight 
not being able
to remain at rest 
in a room,
a vast and unfamiliar 
space chopping
the fruited wood. 
Poise of duties
a fragile embrace, 
obligation is 
the direct entry 
behind one vast smile 
dies pacified.
The ideal dive 
the public pool, 
a knot of lies 
buttoned throat; 
a silence arranged 
in oneness.




 

a hunk of ugly marble

a hunk of ugly marble, 
filthy sculpture on my head
the self-created lie
on which the death-
sentence was inscribed, 
there is no inevitable 
and dreams unwilling 
are dead anatomies. 
round head infertilities 
hanging bone holsters 
chopped out antibodies, 
cancer of consciousness 
defiles memory loss 
backbone cameos.

The red shelves

The red shelves 
Splinter red shelves 
The stones are slow 
Lie balding
Fault lines
Lives lifted selves 
Left disfigured 
Red in the thrown 
Unending
What to get up 
For what have I 
What have I to go 
Out on
If not nothing 
Goldbrick acumbent, 
Hanging on a branch 
Loving bagworms 
Commensal ruse 
Kneeling
Upon the worted 
For this I gave up, 
Stuck on an endive 
Lank scrub
Of will unwilling, 
Scutching
In this dead silk 
Closet
Made of wood 
Dead as ever 
Everything left for dead 
Unsaved lunch
Fed from a skull, 
Dormant recusal 
`julep, julep' 
summer has ends 
malefic halation 
encysted
myths
cradlesongs, wallpaper 
light like knives 
carries it away
an inch from the shadows, 
the sticks hinder
fall in
to bloom
and no one remembers 
what gave blame 
heart, heels mired 
unreturning
shelved to selves unopened
     

OCT. IIK

Incandescent luminosity  
concomitant intentions 
          eye dears scintillae 
the Lord, my spirit 
               filleth the word, 
               corpus subtile
Sol invisiblis d'appui
     Les extremes se touchant...
Don't open your mouth to spit or blow 
soul-substance,
                       inverted cripples 
                   princepts participant
                                 human SOULS FROM HOLY BREATHS: 

             He deliberately reduced the intensive cultivation 
  of his heart 
             in order to expand the contents and significance 
  of his life
                                                 as, an 
  ornament

Blood sordid

           
Blood sordid 
heartless throwaway 
          untampered-w/ 
          ashtray process 
                    allures 
Vanish-o
          matic ad-mass
                    allergic transparencies 
          heraldic, empty
     vividly eliminated. 
"$he loves me,
she loves me naught." 
          Immaculate nipples 
          scoop the moon, 
relief
          is an apron over 
                    densely packed 
I deal,
                              but is ill.
It is an insult. 
Inside the truth still
     delivers a touch of

Xanthus w/ a stone

       
Xanthus w/ a stone
gave laughters drowning down--
          impossible to explain,
or a crucial consequence
against all immensity --
          the choking groans
of mock battle
w/ the prospect of blood
          violations (vile elations);
the spirit veers
from this dusted clench
          a separate force
of sullen sleep,
blind with will
          and irresistible hands...



   

My Religion

In the winter I'm a Buddhist
And in the Summer I'm a nudist.
                    -- Joseph Ferdinand Gould

The artist is one

The artist is one who holds out the hand of all human hope 
  to each individual.
I am not an artist for I know myself too well.
Ecstasy is its own means middle and end.  It requires no 
  immediate knowledge.
An overwhelming atmosphere of emotional fatigue has killed 
  all of the child in me.
I crave some form of self-expression that seems more sincere,
but maybe I'll leave that for others.
If the art is not spiritual
(by my definition, both sacred and holy)
I want no part of it.
The Gods of Autumn are upon me.

finis