Category Archives: #poets

TARGETS OF SUSPICION

These are the “false friends” for unintentional blows, for speaking “truth” to have no effect and “truth”
is nothing more than an eye in a green forest as it moves like the wind and is evergreen or brown.

Its nature is different and we call it an eye but it is a false friend like the eyes which watch us when we sleep like a child looking at the stars having another kind of eye.

How can we live if we believe in a false reality and this is our first choice and then the “truth” is “false?”

You have the choice to act as an impostor or be one and both?

Is life and living.

:: 03.28.2021 ::


LITTLE BOY

Hath fed the common purpose That draws the very heart of man, to the sacrificial hero!
Dangerous and promising are these dreams which seem to come from the heart’s deep recesses,
as have cast a spell of melancholy that leaves one dim.

Only by speaking about them in former times, has the world appreciated these voices from the skies.
There are no age limits, neither to the quest for spiritual growth, nor to its testing.

Beneath each of these mysteries, some preface and others express the grandeur of a true meaning;
some have shed new lights, some, disturbing.

The grandest have revealed new truths, no matter how strong the prose, the content has to be true.
To reach a mystical insight the words which the thoughts themselves preface, express;to understand the concrete problems the language must have been created by the body of man’s brain to reach it, the mind must have been perfected.

No matter what subject has been investigated it has in common three fundamental elements.

They are reason, the senses, and a grandeur: and when they interact with each other in perfect harmony the knowledge of truth is attained; the deepest, most true meaning is comprehended. We learn what is true
when our instincts are the tools to do what we know to be so; we lose ourselves when we do not know what we are; and we should know our own nature when we have used our minds to understand ourselves.

Reaching the depths of the unknown, understanding the whole nature of things, you attain an ascent to light:
like the body in a dream defeated by the weight of the body, the body in an inner form makes its way up from depths of darkness: and when one experiences this one is reborn; and when one sees this one is changed: ‘Twas in this way the poet was reborn upon this earth; and all he could atone for his human failures.

This is a melody about a man on a mountain who hears the voice of the moon and, unknown to himself, alighted with the noble heart. But the mystic of the moon was an empty moon: ‘Twas of the body of man the moon had no heart; only that of his body could he love. In his despair he sought to sacrifice his flesh. But the voice of the heart and the words from it frightened him. Then he walked on the world through the nights of the year and dwelt in deep oblivion. But what could be said to him, in his darkness, when, suddenly, a light shone through the darkness? That was his awakening, it was a vision of an inner light which drew him towards the universe. He went back to his own child, and he passed along the familiar path but what was the purpose? He sought a hidden light to brighten his way: but when he reached the end of the firmament, there was no light. How could it come from below when there was no light above?

This is a story of a mother in her humble home with a little child in her arms, who is nursing, and unaware of the wonderful events to come, in spite of her heart’s eagerness and in spite of her pride. His little fingers possess the world with an innocence which the immovable forces Avenge and they are known by a loving heart. In the courtyard she prays: but who she prays for? The next she sees he is walking down the stairs : with him goes his hand and he stretches out his little arms when the little boy reaches out his hands
and they know each other. But there is no single sound of their happy greeting nor is there a single person
they meet: the space is also their meeting place.

Life.

:: 03.28.2021 ::


POETIC PAINTINGS

SHE would pull back her hands to her sides, her furrows bear poetic paintings with a past unfolded in crosshatch, reprimands to the unblinking, to the untried to never covet an hour lost and found, the length of a sunset, a sun weighing us down, now or then looking away to a beach that doesn’t seem our way, reputed for its unchanging coral reefs and saying it’s way more glorious than the beach next door, as we know, the one nobody cares to swim into.

Then my hips, already weak, begin to shake though when you come with me, if we should go by car, we’re together, on ground heavy that your steps cannot change.

I must say more, but you know the story. You must hear the secret though only the Sages were allowed to hear it.

It is a light; my dark world turns into a coffin light, the whole thing collapsing, if i miss you, my sadness begs, but there are no answers what to do when everything in you, in all of us weeps for absence.

Better for the room’s overhead to be darkness, for me, for my heart’s an end that must not bend, a blade lost in sand. Can no healing be between our two lonely hearts without me weeping and no consolation
without you wanting to know, when we’ll fall in love again?

Want to buy a song give a gift of musical genius the way we never stop loving, until I can be safe again.

I’ve lived alone for the last thirteen years, still living off my memories of her, but having no contact with her — except for my last few days, of course.

I wrote the only song I can sing now, and there were no lessons to be had in any language even if you had known about me, about how I suffered in my anger, from the depth of my despair,
you would not have come near.

:: 03.26.2021 ::


CLIMB 13 STEPS TO HANG YOUR LIFE

CLIMB 13 STEPS TO HANG YOUR LIFE

I WALKED the baking streets of summer’s distress
found a penny and called my Soul
i got the perfect stench for death — alright.
Friends fell out and i ate the fruit
— it’s sombrose and summer days
so hate how i hate how you painted me
so hate how i painted my soul today

Paid a vagrant like me with a smile
no receipt but a foaming from his mouth
DOA — double round, silver chain,
and hate how you got me painted me now

Filth in the gutter and cleaning up my soul
with the distant stares of others who ate
the fruit and kissed the snake — sombrose
and how red flowers are beautiful but
killers // i hate you painted me \\
on the canvase of miserable life.

Lay your hands upon me pope
pull my heart out government
gather round and feast upon a poet
and still i hate how you painted me
oh how i hate how you got me within
your mind.

Dizzy days crazy life & i don’t like
how you paid me for my consideration
(it’s a dream deep within my ego
a dead lie!)

:: 03.24.2021 ::


DEMIGOD RUMOURS

By this time she began to pant with the effort of speaking and died. The grief of her children was doubled, as was that of their father, and he swore before the woman whose heart had broken that he would never again be destroyed by fire, and would walk out from his house to dwell by the sea.

The gods were shocked to their foundations. They believed that they had truly killed Zeus and had been giving his body to live; for the children would come to the holy site of Delphi to praise him as they remembered his glory and proclaim their great dread. On their approach they met the priests in the street, but the fathers waved their children away, and said ‘They think they are honouring the Greek gods. They are not worthy of our esteem!’

‘Why not?’ asked a young girl who wanted to know, ‘Why should the Greeks think we are honouring Zeus? We are honouring a great man, the greatest being in the universe.’

Her mother, an oracle, retorted:

‘You are saying foolish things! Your father has sworn, and your sister has sworn, and so have I! So let this death of our mother be an eternal lesson to you! Whoever else shall say such a thing, shall by my hand or by the hand of your children be flayed.’

This brought him to his senses, and he put his arm through his daughter’s, and declared:

‘I would die gladly for the Greek gods, but we shall stand together on one side or the other, and offer the fire to the gods of Zeus as a sacrifice for the foundation of their city. If they refuse it, we shall always come to their aid, as we did in the great and terrible earthquake that was prepared for this very day.’

He died in peace, though at first it was rumoured that the gods had destroyed him, when he refused to go against them.

:: 03.16.2021 ::


THE GODS WITHDRAW

The Gods withdraw, and he comes forth; wherein four are crammed, the “Great Ones”.

In Earth then he dwells, but his presence sends and clouds o’er the mountains, exalt’d with light, and in rays that run all night long appear.

He looks from out the circle of his globe; the fires gild with his sweet smoke, and gladness e’en may-blossoms blush.

To Iast he draws light and prosperity, and his studious song enlivening the night.
From miles away, echoing echo, to the plain, and then a merry note trills, from his bright tongue.

Songs are breathed to him the flower of Earth, and he wings all the cold, and flying creatures:
he also enkindles the heart of birds, and all the earth with a shower of star-bites.

He fondles the earth and sees all the change. He makes mountains rise and rock the water,
and make paths for animals and swine alike.

“O fickle sere,” thinks, “I may make you melt!

i will change your position; I will trample on you.” A lovely shew, flashes on his face; the matter heats, to a heat far greater, and changes its own form.

Girrrl, who never saw the world, methought it nigh this majestic beast;

it now before her than she had met.

:: 03.16.2021 ::


YOU ARE HERE WITH ME

I want you to know
one thing. You know how this is: if i look at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window, if i touch near the fire the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life,
and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots,
remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Those moments when your heart stops beating for me like the moment when I first stepped
on the moon, the time I got a colostomy— those moments are what I treasure most,
the flow of blood in my veins, the enveloping of my heart.
I have been longing since the first night that I spoke to you.

My body had always been content, and had always had the sound of your laughter.
In the first thousand times that I touched your hand, I kept them still.
I could feel my body, I could feel the blood flow, I could even feel my heart pumping,
and still I could not say a word.
And I still do not know why.
Now I always speak. Now I am not content, I feel more pain.
My tears freeze like those on the glass of a window, like tiny crystals of ice.
Now my body is not content, in my mind and heart not in my soul.
Perhaps there are moments when I know that your love for me is more
than I can bear.
Perhaps it is in the hour when I see my life descending,
when I smell the last breath of summer, when the daily walk on the river takes me far from you,
perhaps it is in these moments that I cry for you.
And as long as you hear me, as long as I am alive, my tears are filled with your blood.
Sometimes in my heart, I am so full that I burst, and I think that my heart has come to an end,
and I understand, through my tears, that you are the one who is dearer to me
than I am to myself.

At that moment my heart feels as if I am one of those saplings that have roots in the earth,
and as long as your love does not die, your roots will not die either.
That is the truth. And if the day comes when my roots set off to find you, and your love dies,
my life will come to an end, and I hope that at that moment even if my heart is in pieces,
the sound of your laughter will echo in my mind, and it will say “I remember.”

Nothing in this world can make me happy.
Nothing in this world can calm my fears.
I am never happy. I am always in pain.
I have tried for many years to find the way through the darkness
and the cold, but my soul cannot accept it.
And there is no escape.
I dream of something that will make me happy, and I wake up and find myself with my heart in my hand.
And I can not cry for happiness, and I cannot cry for death.

I cannot cry for the things that I love.
I cannot cry for the things that I have lost.
I cannot cry because I am afraid.
And so I cry, and I weep, and I am weak, and I am so very alone,
but I cry and I weep, because you are not there, and I do not know
what is right.

I have tried to love and to hate, to live and to die, but I cannot understand
or love or hate.

You are not there with me, in my love, in my hate.

You are not there in the sea.
You are not there in the sky.

I walk in a place where no one knows me.
I walk in a place where no one needs me.
I walk in a place where no one can hear me.
I walk in a place where I do not fit,
I walk in a place where I have no place to stay.

But I have so much love, and I have so much pain.

And still, I will not let you go.

You are so near to me, so near.

I cannot run.
I cannot hide.
I will not let you go.
I cannot explain.
I will not explain.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.

You are not there.
You are there.
You are there.
In my mind.
In my heart.
In my soul.
In my very soul.
You are there, with me.

:: 02.25.2021 ::


MY WIFE

INSPIRED BY ANDRE BRETON
(1896 – 1966: Freedom Of Love)

My wife with the eyes of an archangel of the nude
asking me to come to bed.
with the eyes of a unicorn riding on the back of a dragon
whilst i am the beggar upon a donkey
with the eyes of a column without mortar and of hands
My wife with the eyes of a lake the ocean flowed into
With the eyes of a pen and with the eye of a child
telling me wonderful bedtime stories of Life.
My wife with the eyes of a butterfly
of a woman who is just stepping off her horse
My wife with the eyes of a fox of the panther’s head
with the eyes of a snake
hissing at the inequalities of life.
My wife with the eyes of a cold drink of water
quenching my thrist for love and life.
with the eyes of the beak of a dove
with the mind of a bastard twin
with the skin of a smooth-jacket’s boot
with the brilliant smell of a green ear of corn
speaking through Nature with her heart.
My wife with the mind of a simile
with the body of a handful of sea-pearls
and with the Soul of a sun with a tail of serpents
My wife with the eyes of a broken dagger
and with the feelings of a smouldering petrol-bomb
My wife with the eyes of a pain in her thumb
like the swollen member between my legs.
My wife with the eyes of an exclamation point
My Love with the eyes of a box of bottled messages
as the curves of a wheel of apples
My wife with the eyes of a ring-gargoyle
My wife with the eyes of the German eagle
My wife with the eyes of a cannonball dropped into the rocks
carving love into the mountain of my personal Life.
My wife with the eyes of a crane weeping
My wife with the eyes of a nightjar’s feather
My wife with the eyes of a sceptre
My wife with the eyes of an ice-bucket containing a koi
My wife with the eyes of a house-smoker’s chimney
feeding all who come to know her kindness.
My wife with the eyes of the olive and of the lotus
My wife with the eyes of an eel and of the slipper of a cow
My wife with the eyes of an abacus containing a scarab
My wife with the eyes of a seagull

is my wife is my love is my own inspiration in this Life.

:: 02.07.2021 ::


LAT DOLCE VITA (the sweet life)

There’d be no unemployment, no crime, no war for profit; no environmental hell
for thousands of good-hearted lives.

You can’t just take so much paper so putting it off would mean at least ten
not calling till the 11th hour and hoping that you’ll forget what you needed —
i’m in a zoo somewhere between silence and (a)the mad hatter’s court of love
where the loneliness could prove impossible; i’ve been way too loquacious all day
all this time i’ve been riding in this very leather-bound bus how’d i get to this
zoo? maybe too much of this
counting bills counting wheat in the fields
counting my cash on the street
counting time in a silence-devoid world
The natural state of mankind is boredom trying to find the meaning in something so small
i’ve got too many words up in my head!
If you see a stranger carrying an extra pair of sunglasses, don’t steal them. We all
have them. They’re free.

Once in a lifetime, you meet someone who seems to have no fear. They don’t blink. They have
nothing to lose. I used to wish there was someone like that in my life, but all I’ve got
is a little bit of fear.

You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. What can I say?
Lizard-head heartbroken the love has gone — boo hoo you’re so fine, mama
: first wind it and you want to know if I still love you?

YOU, COME IN HERE, DON’T LEAVE until YOU’VE JOKED AND BEEN WRITTEN!
TIME DRIVER, THE NAMECHE MACHINE la dolce vita what a wonderful disguise
and this has been my argument ever since it’s as true today as it was then, for there’s a new king
who’s clothed in human suffering’s radiance treating it like toothpaste to his face
waiting for us to laugh at the pretend form of our wives and to learn from the conman; he’s played
all his own moves, but he’s still just a kid.
So we all shut up, on a rampage of rants and sarcasm to serve the king’s audacity; nobody wins forever
who’s ever been “the funny” when you wanted to be “the wise”?
we’re here to pick up the pieces, we get the job done, we go home
we’ll never see the boy king’s face until the queen’s hair grows back
(and he gets wise and goes home to his queen and gets “the funny” back) if the boy king turnS on us
we’ll all be dead, so, sing, ride, don’t sweat the consequences of casual cynicism, anything goes;

wear my crown and be the greatest boss of all.

i love you.

:: 01.29.2021 ::


WE DO NOT WAKE UP

We do not wake up, there is a valley of sorrow and misery, and in the center a dark demon glares with a hatred we cannot understand, a knowledge we cannot see.

We know nothing, we are nothing, we sit in a valley of weeping for ourselves, we realize there is no one to help us, and we wish that when the heart of love is finally destroyed andwe can fall into ourselves, into our true nature.

It is sad, but from it comes the healing, when we realize that we are sick in ourselves and we must reach out to a partner who will touch us in the wound, so that the poison may slowly be expelled, so we can live as an organism, as we were born to do.

I think we have to take the time to come to this realization that we want to stay with our minds.
We have been damaged by our children by ourselves and by other forces, and the hardest thing to do is to come to terms with this.

It is easy for a mother to give birth, but it is hard for her to watch her child grow into a whole and healthy man while she is always behind.

She feels anxious, frightened of losing what little she has left to give. Men do not share this fear. They are not even afraid of death.

They think they know the world and their problems, and they will always keep fighting.

We do not even need to understand their logic nor to get inside their heads. They are in the middle of an existential war they are always fighting against something they do not even know.

So men do not need to fear, and if they do, it is because they are hard and cold, with their knives and guns and dogs that bite.

A mother is afraid:

if her child will not return from school
if he will not come back after a quarrel
if he is running around with another girl
if he does not read.

A man is afraid of something else, i don’t know what.

We are not animals.
We are thinking beings.
We feel too much,
we talk too much,
we have to communicate our deepest thoughts to others,
then we must understand their thought processes and their weaknesses, and they must understand ours.

But we must learn to communicate with ourselves, to love ourselves, because as a creature we are vulnerable.

But also as a thinker, we are loved, we can love other creatures, our children, even the world.
At one time there was a wild animal hunting in the hills, when he came upon a village it was a very sad time.

The men had been working hard and not having any luck.
But the women were crying,
saying, “You do not need to work so hard, my beloved men,
there are big dreams, there are old dreams,
as old as the hills. We love you so much that we wait for you,
we send you messages when you do not see them, we touch your dreams
with our minds, we send you questions, we can tell you how we feel
for you, because the animal knows that he is loved.”

The women watched the animal as he ate and drank,
smelled the air, noticed their faces.
Then he got up from his seat, moved through the village,
and let himself be known.

He held out his paw to the men and it was accepted with joy.

Some ran to touch him.

He led the women into the village and they welcomed him into their homes,
and wept for joy.

I thought, “The creatures know they are loved.”

But they also know that they are afraid of dying, that their own blood can come to kill them.

I thought, “The animals are in danger, too.”

But they do not know this, because they are not close to their fear, they do not realize it is very close to them,
close in their minds.

And when I thought these things, I heard a noise in the jungle,
the sound of a motor.

It made my ears ring, but it did not frighten me.
The animal took a few steps toward it.

But it did not know where it was coming from.

And when it did, it took off.

In the meantime, in the village, all of the men had stopped working.

They were talking.

They were trying to understand each other.

They were moving their hands in the air.

They were communicating.

Some of the women went to touch the men.

They started crying.

Some held their husbands and children.

They were giving away the little they had.

Their own blood had turned to blood of the animal.

That is why they are always thinking of the animals.

Then they saw me.

I was walking with the animal,

and we had gone to a cave.

I think the animal wanted to give something to the women.

I thought,

“the animal is giving away a piece of himself,

but I will stay with him.”

So I went inside with him.

Inside, the air was cold.

It was dark.

But I had a light,

and my blood made a light.

There was a pungent smell.

The eyes of all the creatures were fixed on me.

But they did not frighten me.

I have been here before.

I was here when I made the first birds.

:: 01.27.2021 ::