The Day of The Drone

This Day is growing for the serving drones;

The time of empty homes and worry stones.

Apollo’s ember now burns here colder,

Ragged by Hephaestus’ icy hammer

Humanity’s renowned virtue belies Hope,

Vanity, ousted by a crueler note.

Rung from the un-tuned Bell Tower,

And hung from gallows in the Arty Bower!

Death’s gentle irony affixed pleasure—

Let the Meek take the lead measure;

The hive is ridden of plastic followers,

The Queen has died; the nest is hollow-er.

I Recompense

I reciprocate with recompense

Your racial tone and free two cents,

With idle hands and pallor skin—

I recompense, I recompense.

I recompense for being trite

For all your Hate and all my plight;

To do a job and do it right—

I recompense, I recompense.

I recompense my German-look,

The Dutch last name my Fathers took,

My bloody hands your Devil shook—

I recompense, I recompense.

I recompense entitlement,

Reparations from the Government;

My entire life in sufferin’—

I recompense, I recompense.

I reckon Hell and reel your slack,

As sweat and Pain run down my back,

Pardon me for what I lack—

I recompense, I recompense.

I recompense the Crumbs you drop,

Your Crystal Stair that I ain’t got;

To feed, as you just waste a Crop—

I recompense, I recompense.

I recompense the Laws you bent,

My tired back, my angry vent;

I’m held like you between Their splint—

I recompense, I recompense.

I recompense for being White,

‘Take care of me, no room for I.”

You can’t tolerate my Bitch and gripe;

I recompense…

I recompense this dirty glass,

This depleting drink, the worthless Flask,

This worn-out speech, your tit-for-tat,

I recompense…

I recompense your money stack,

Your racial brand across my back

Fuckin’ A’ that’s where it’s at

This recompense; my recompense.

Amethyst Grave

Her Moonstone Jewel shined nothing like the Sun;

Festoon'd remembrance as the maidens reap-

Cool Jade mind-struck, her ghastly pen did stun,

And pricked my awful finger’s ancient leap.

Mauve—betwixt the Flower’s idle stemming,

I beheld what thieving gems did lie with aim!

And stayed before Time had found me swimming,

About Her stolen pendant all the same:

I said, “it’ll sleep,” anon dying mem’ry,

That hast swooned what Life the Mirror bade;

Beyond my reminiscent Ministry,

I’d betrothed her mourning, amethyst grave!

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!