In the Shadow of Man

Complexion in the Early colors' rift,
Burning, arid climax of the present
Hangings; divided by their Numbered Lift,
That by being, created their presence—

The lamb lies calm before the parting stream,
O’er the mead by the thunder ascending,
Thou made Thee of Thine owns temporal scheme,
By that ember now coldly descending—

Is it not by this Sum weave arrived;
Divulging the illusion into being,
Relating the Myth our Shade contrived,
To cure Us from Its irresponsible-sting?

They've taken us away to come of Age,
Severing our Pistil-bonds and haven,
Introducing foul, the toxic pollen Rage;
Dwarfed the Lovers to suckle the Stamen,

We've the Circles of nobler critique;
The Snake to a Rabbit's finer mergence,
And We draw of our mean's antiquity
Within the drift of those Ancient currents;

The tinge of obscurity shaded White—
An ebb and flow of Plastic existence—
Pines the dirty creatures and dingy Night
In their inability for persistence.

The sword that didst cleave Lust from Love,
Smote in twine, the clay-mold: Mother from Child;
Didst stain cheap its Manhood reeling Above,
Castrating all of the Beasts in the Wild!

What is the essence and greatness of God;
Or the vastness and grandeur of Its brand?
What’s the Nature and splendor of a God
But a fraction in the shadow of a Man…

“Are You Still There?”

(A tribute to Jim)

There are no more spectacular words,

No more Giants; no more Curds,

From the Ancient Towers of Bone,

They left and built their Gods of Stone:

“Are you still there?”

Where have you gone? Is it time?

By the grain that turns an hour; where?

We've been, to do and gone to fly.

There are no more evidential moors,

Tied to the docks Mem’ry erased,

Across the transparency through the doors—

They ne’er existed; created to be debased.

“Are you still there?”

Behind the blinds of Origin

By the pound, the dust of Angels—

Smooth-winged fiends foragin’—

And the clowns blatantly fake,

They shake and they tease, and ask,

“Are you still there?”

We’ve gathered here today to wait.

Wait, the dead are all silvery songs,

The tongues find the night to speak,

And the glory that hast been and gone;

We’re fed from hands that clean our beaks,

The artist’s paint brush,

And the tenor’s voice;

The strummer’s guitar,

And the drunkard’s choice--

Where’s the innovative; the unique?

Where is the pioneer, and the novel?

Where is all the Originality;

Sickly, dying in its infancy.

There are no more spectacular words,

The envisioned minds have killed them all;

There are no more independent chords,

Simply nuances in their fences and their stall.

Demise is clad in mediocrity,

In the lines of a confused maelstrom;

Nature’s besmirched by idiocy,

In the cool Winter spring’s kingdom.

The burdened beasts we have consumed,

The nature of our distant light; fumed,

Here plumed like the mountain sheep’s horn,

Now fading the embers that delights the Morn,

“Are you still there?”

A writer to a reader wrote,

“Are you still there?”

Death, the poet, alas, hast spoke.

A Friendly Voice

I heard a voice so distant, yet so fair,
Not gathered, but sing’lar beyond compare;
Somewhere, not too far from here, somewhat;
Too staggered, half-spectral, be gone, but here.

What this chant possessed; from my ear distraught,
And I ought not to stop this being-not so wrought,
Now mine own stutter refrained eerily,
How in me this disembodiment has caught.

I’ve never heard such this spoken medley,
“Light from off the darkened foreground!” said he,
“Spite the ruffled gravitas, and vague tweet!”
I’ve ne’er heard such this ravened melody.

T’was but on that solemn day’s lonely street,
What so fair a day this voice to me did greet,
I, but some wayfaring stranger, wholly poor,
Was out o’ my superstitious head to meet.

Th’wind wafted wearily anon before,
Like through ancient trees on a windy shore;
Or the blunderings in a farewell to lust,
Wonders twisting to be heard nevermore.

Ghastly-toned from across Nature’s crust;
That which Time has buried in the rust,
This voice, friendship so long ago forgot,
Yet, on a Frequency playing through Dust.

A Toast To The Imbecile

I have diverted syntax in the way of

Drinking; that ‘round the dull’d climax thereof;

Thinking in the way of repetition,

As the Elephants of Inebriation,

Simple-small afloat the daft deluge,

Pining in a refute of discourse;

Justification in the bottle's refuge,

As the ample bite of the Serpent's chord;

We slur obvious ambiguity

With the pleasure of a fiercer burn,

Dexterity in measured levity,

Like Human ash, scorched and weighed for the urn.

Let us go, that we may no longer see,

Cool out of a draft's amber desire;

Within the comp'ny of the Lesser Key,

And Hark the tune of the Stool and the Lyre:

A toast to many a drowned imbecile,

That the Dead may go with such luck,

Out o' Life's tormented spoke and axle,

Let us drink to the comforts o' the muck!

Prophesy

Shall we not take heed this Visions’ call?

Of the lost sons and the dying tree,

In the missing girl and the Great Fall;

Shall we not take need o’ this Prophesy?

Procure the skin-shed as We stand waiting,

Longing for the truthful bones to return.

The sky ties back and juts the clouds raining,

All the peasants call for the Flood Urn;

“Mother, sweet Mother, what hast in time done

We?” they cry, “Mother, o’ Mother, spare Us

Please!” “We know better than to stand alone.”

Adolescent lint denotes th’sandy crust,

Great psyches reach from Forethought’s collective scheme,

(Diverted Mass shall catch the furious deluge);

A Mystic calls through a reed fence meme,

Peckham’s Prophet hast lent a ported rouge:

Alas! Deliver thyself from Thyself!

Canst thou not lie bawdy-faced to the Muse?

Dance the Trickster’s dance; celebrate in stealth,

The worship of the Noble ones’ Virtues—

Naked as the Maenads in ritual,

The Wine sours into turpentine;

Make thy Sacrifice habitual,

Seraphim gestures have turn’d Serpentine;

By all the Nature of things Above and Below

The maiden flower breathes Life’s last breath;

As a token of the Lord’s false control,

Hast put all Beautiful creatures to Death!

Sick Mind

Peoples now-a-days got a sick mind,

I tell you, and ain’t you seen it?

Ain’t you seen it with the Time?

They steal it,

Don’t share it,

And kill with it;

Ain’t you seen it?

The wrong some,

Ain’t you seen the Lost ones,

Who cain’t do nothin’,

Won’t do nothin’

In Life’s garden,

Don’t grow nothin’?

Ain’t you seen them Vines?

Growin’ on the poor fences,

While the Poor winces,

And the rich man rinses

His Red money,

Payin’ for old Honey

The Bees done thrown out—

Done with it—and bears won’t eat it;

Ain’t you seen it?

Ain’t you seen the Fruit Orchard

With all the bird words;

Watch the trees grow ripe and rancid,

Droppin’ degradation,

You seen the lot,

Now watch the dead-rot

Of a lost generation.

Ain’t you seen the Wholly mount crumble;

It tumbles down,

And fumbles

From the White Collar,

In the Black dress,

And the Tall Hat;

Ain’t you seen that Mess,

After Mass?

They sacrifice a Peach

On the peak, in a screech

Ain’t you seen the venom;

In the sermon

Command kids to squeeze the Lemon

Ain’t you seen it?

The Blind Peoples

At the gold Steeples,

Grow feeble,

And weaker

In the old beaker,

And they smell;

They smell cheaper?

Ain’t yous seen the Sick Jokes?

The Dumb in the Throne,

The Wise in the Yokes,

And Time don’t float,

But Age smotes,

And ropes, like the gallows trip;

When understanding is bricked

And turned to Shit,

Ain’t you seen it?

Ain’t you seen the world from your own eyes,

Or just their smiles?

Ain’t you seen what be, or is?

What it could be?

What it should be,

Or would be

If we gave Atlas some relief?

Ain’t you seen them War-birds fly,

And you pray and ask Why,

And there ain’t no answer

So you Cry,

And weep for a Why?

But it don’t stop hate;

It won’t stop a Lie…

It’s just a Hope,

A hope you don’t die,

And when God is speechless;

When he’s deaf;

You say He ain’t got no time

For all us Sinners left;

And you think He’s up there

Smilin’ down,

But He ain’t,

He’s in your sick mind,

Tarnishing your crown;

Ain’t you seen it?

Ain’t you never hear a poor man speak,

In the gutter, or the bar;

Or maybe a dead man weep,

For the earlier moon and star.

Perhaps, take it from the Word man’s beak,

So the Long way don’t seem so far:

Any way learnt dupes an ig’nant-way street;

In the End,

You think it’ll all make sense,

You walk the field

And come to the fence,

But the grass ain’t green,

And you need to sleep

Wake-up!

The way back’s too mean.

Ain’t you seen it?

Are you ready for the loamy nap,

Wait, maybe it ain’t time…

Maybe there’s still time

Maybe Now is just out of line...

Or maybe, you just blind.

Peoples now days is a twisted kind,

Peoples now-a-days got a sick, sick mind.