Circuit Cision

My senses are bloodshot, 

Power lighting sacred raped like lancelot’s fantasy, 

Diction on your word selection’s

Bodily dictations for your immediate satisfactions, 

The red dot binds the moving soul, to fashion the dissatisfaction

of unlimited control,

the wasps of lust’s winters,

cast the dusts of commercializing Love’s 4 hour takes, 

till the marrow of the thing breaks,

ulcerations on my eyes,

the public begs the charades, 

when caught in the adrenaline maze, 

since when consummation came assembled like a swiss army knife,

and intimacy got quartered, and privacy  got beheaded on Louis Phillipe’s Guillitone, 

My heart is bursting at the seams, 

cause our perceptions are dancing on their daydreams,

Like rupturing levy’s in New Orleans, 

sucking clouds in the jet stream, 

Lost at sea in the Gulfstream, 

Where does the cross pollination of humanity’s humiliation stop?

Story and a rhyme

“You see, the point in that you are wandering would allude to the fact that you are lost….” the chaplain grimaced again

for this counsel so easily given was the cause of many of his necessary pains. The boy stared back at him, sweat

streaming in the teenage crevaces of his face. No words were found by him at that time for such an appropriate

response. “So where exactly are you headed, I mean that is where you were hoping to get to before you arrived at the

point of being lost”. “Nowhere actually”, the boy replied. “I mean my soul journey’s within me,  but the fact that I can’t

go home again, would reveal that I just let my feet go where the pilot took me. Sometimes all you can do is walk, it

takes away all the speaking choirs in my head.” the chaplain sat down, “Hmm…. It sounds as if you are at a place where

I cannot help you. You haven’t mentioned God, Your letting your flesh guide you, and If you aren’t going anywhere

and content with being lost…. well I have no advice except for a warning; you would most likely not heed.” The boy

stepped back and walked off, looking back at the chaplain who had his eyes closed.

Emotions and commitment, the pain and the resistant, the juice of abuse,

trickles down my throat,

I am at no opportunity for delusional interlay’s of thinking that thanksgiving means anything,

diamond chicken bone ring for deceased manic europeans, with scattered beliefs,

Native Defeats and who are we who need more space than europe’s never ending plains,

I think this winter my heart has stained my white t shirt,

By tragedy I am hurt, but those with skirts never understand in which manner they should reply,

those who get by, and I the eternal questioner asking why?

No more empty rooms,

Finally weaving looms of uncertainity,

no firm realities of anyone or anything,

But music is married to my soul,

It takes someone else but they will pay a toll,

Put in your verbs! and heartfelt prepositions in the offering bowl,

But such a elevated narrcisst would ask for so,

Enduring breezy winds and breezy months,

The sun shines at a degree freezed in its postings

I am not at any more desire to be involved,

and am resolved to not fight the battle of hastings anymore,

If that means tours will happen then so be it,

at least the ending followed soon after,

with such smaller encounters,

Spin Cycle

Blood that pulsates, incapsulates,

The moving mind, engrossed in the urban chaotic grind,

stress grinding the heart like an adamantium french press,

The less is more, more is less mentality,

Pride new twenty some found reality,

Charged on some borrowed cash razor slim Superficiality,

Green government checks spread like monopoly pieces,

Friendship 10 centimeters deep ceases,

Ripped by a plastic knives bound by cheap adhesives,

Communities hidden in the hearts of the aggregate

Torn feuds ancient as the Capulets,

Entitlements, consignments, Redifining designer religion realignment,

Media Flash, Information splash, Computer glare rash,

Sickens the soul’s needed impulsive acidic appettite,

Garbage bags with half used bounty,

In the people who wear their bilboards, introductory popular monologues,

sticks to the waxy worth public’s sinking bogs despondency,

Me the world, Me the tragedy, Me the current annual philosophy,

Primary color seems to topple me,

Caught in the blood stained manufacturing,

of comforts demon, of europe’s stillborn guilt,

Your not always afraid to be wrong,

sounding the ego’s eternal gong,

till you bring the voiceless eardrums splitting,

arguing biblical technicalities,

easier than rescuing the bleeding man,

outside the courtroom podium stand,

realizing words are wary,

and more is than whats typically scary,

spin cycle, clothing in a dryer,

america’s bank security on a funeral pyre

Disaster in a striking fist,

With kindness being a healing blam compared to a cyst,

long rain days drop my eyes to free fall,

I’m too poor to by uv light rays,

to cure this compressed daze,

you wear thick rimmed glasses,

to view the masses, do you see them,

or are you separated by fashion’s fickle,

I’m constantly cut by the sickle,

named with relationship separation, emotional degradation,

complete manipulation, extreme sensations, made for my escape station,

cause when the storm hits, I’d rather be removed by forty proof,

cause it makes you aloof though

I’d prove my solitary walk with strength,

hanging for her left me immobilized,

This circular merry go round

An open wooden floor,  with a burning stick of Oriental smoke,

Stars fly in an open space in this ballet hall,

dancing with the kings that sit in their three legged chairs,

Moving feet in New York city, Or sales in Bejing,

Enslavement of the selfish soul with the circles of self binding satisfaction,

I’ll rule the world on my personal computer,

Delve the musical sphere with a sand composed hand held,

type my feelings out with a paralyzed mouth,

I guess vocalizing truth is better with no tonal textures,

I’d rather see better than 20 20 and hurt my eyes,

Making appearances with another version of myself,

She hugs me…..with a way to frame a different shape,

Cause I’m in a thrift store of beauty with a hundred different bodies to choose,

So many High defintion Portrayls to turn another technolgically trained eye,

Such pain! I get a headache without my newest edition of cool,

Love lost its meaning when sacred scarcity broke its leg and fell down the stairs,

It’s all for entertainment, the people need their bread and beasts,

the arena’s will never die until we’re satisfied,

Roman Metropolitan subway, and your hands  getting worn and red,

Sand blows in emptied hollow empires, dying like atlantis,

Greedy Like America, Fierce Like Greece

I see everyone with their serious faces newspapers, traces, combined with computrized Jackie Drapers,

In the day where you are mine, and mine is theirs, and ours is yours, and we are owned by the spectators,

and enterained by the use, abuse, misuse, super imposed on drooling lips and reprogrammed

to stick a gaze, and privacy is nowhere,

chemical, recreation of the rainforest in  a secondary sim city, I am your blog life,

your eyes do nothing but sit,

fading muscles, addicted,

Decay

They speak in a circle, hearts so constant, passion completely unequally

grouped they walk with a holy line scattered amongst the city,

we’re here to save you! Or maybe you’ll see our piety by a time slot

45 minutes to make you feel better about yourself,

If We gave it a few months or some other shining year,

It might make you lose your faith, or maybe you’ll become soul educated,

“We’ll surround you with smiling faces doctored up with torn bandaids

and pereforated dimples taped onto our faces,

I was inspired by some speech……. mobilize, purify, transform,

when all they needed was some friend to sit in the rain struck city,

share a smoke, or wait the storm out with him…..,

the truth is his presence has faded from my open sight,

I no longer feel you from afar,

Here we’ll hook you up with some solid people…..

as if I needed some assured, confident, bastard telling me how spiritually mature,

he is……

I can’t pull that face, when I see my friend my father dissapear,

Obsessive introspections of development….. torn me out,

restrained contained, insanity, I care not for your holy wars with

meaningless prayers, my thoughts might as well kill me inside now,

rather falling fast on stairs no handle for my hand to catch,

a man so collapsed no hope for some irrational community,

go out and carry an old lame man home, and buy him a couple meals,

stop speaking with your mouths and f****** help those you hate,

if actions give you any consolation eat the benefits of that,

I fear I was predestined to be condemned,

For those who don’t understand what par he’s playing,

or how many yards he’s ahead,

But I stay stuck in the circles of sand,

Once Finished, I find I played the course too late

with no cart to drive me home,

the truth is bitter soaked apathy leaves me disolved

separated from what once was….

Epilogue

The rain fell in on the wood named a puddle,

on my chair I sat with blank eyes so blank a sheet of white,

kicking up sand as the winds tugged at my shirt sleeves,

My love Burns,

Battered as a heartbeat at a slower rate,

torn apart in a hot debate,

those steaming words so quickly kindled,

fires woven by thick gloved hands inferno chasm kingdom of hate,

dervied division,

My Love Burns,

Mind in a circus gym,

competing for the razors slim, of how a face can show a craze,

or digging fingernails, she sees illusionary worms eating the tips of her toes,

and a sphinx archaic decay one broken nose is chipped,

My Love Burns,

A woman at the penance box, to drag a family round Salem’s lot

the pious sing a raven’s cry,

of all that’s about to die,

below a world condemned,

the secret’s closer in the dragon’s lair,

the darkness carved with lights the other side and the combative turns within,

My Love Burns

We told the golden lies of common man’s hope,

and sowed the seed of one who saw the greater end,

friend’s held hands to carve a hidden slice of heaven’s scent,

a crack in between hell’s corrosive toes, to hide an imaginary side,

My Love Burns,

Cause we’re on the road to nowhere,

a happy bandwagon religion’s dissenters,

there is no tommorow and wasn’t a today

in a goldrush they ran with slated pans their minds in their hands,

only cutting casting shadows of meaningless rabble

My Love Burns,

And I’m crying and I’m grinning

cause we’re losing and we’re winning I can’t tell the time

and what’s the hell in a watch,

they blazed life’s trail, I’d rather fall off,

the dice just came out this way,

But he’d rather fetch a clock,

just embrace the maze,

My love Burns

Tears in mixed concrete

The unforseeable future, prods on worrying minds these days,

dropping down, spiraling round, this mess of a market,

Sellers look on negative white boards that tell the open foreclosures, kicking them to the curb,

broken dreams on broken dashboards, stolen hopes on shattered beams,

Looking around as the currents of information, and tides of discourse run through and through,

telling me and telling you the fear that the banners say we should have,

coke cans lay against the empty streets which speak of emotional vacancies,

and lowly held dreams that reached only so far against the stratosphere,

the people go out in droves searching the bins for food, for such is the life of the freegan,

when it comes cut to the chase, and the red light turns green there and off they go,

like rodents in a electronic modern cage, so is the life of the postmodern man,

cycling on and on between action and emotional passion, between vagrancies , and unspoken abominations,

that light the skies like the northern lights, and the fireflies that come out on the cold winter nights,

walking distantly amongst the cracks of this mixed concrete, he spends another day on her,

not knowing how much he puts in and if she cares,

another fight on his doorstep, another slammed door shut, another broken vase by tripped impulse and anger,

that rips at his soul,

another night ends in drool, another tool in his statue like hand that rusts with the coming of the rainy weather,

its these passions, these feelings that overcome us, this art of talking and silence practiced by men, and the tears we

mix in our concrete of effort that seems to be thrown as waste upon a scattered heap, burning in infamy,

Free to be

 

Tic tac toe, cross me from below, so I can prove my religion,

these days and times run with the ryhmes of the hurting, confused and broken,

running here and there, to office max, sharper image, to fill our hurting hearts,

there’s talk of a storm, like large waves that crash on castles built of silt and sand,

like graven images embedded with copper, gold and silver to make a better man,

we are all worshippers , and with sundry hearts we bow down to our fake falsetto voiced idols,

to fulfill a need for fake striving piety,

or a large dose of heathen rites and ritual,

what I need and who owes me what fill’s the head of an unsuspecting public,

the rush of traffic on  an noonday, the hurriedly bought coffee to wake a day for the making,

to do well, and how just how is life measured? By deeds, by thoughts or by actions?

It seems absurd the rushing around we do, driving round corners, walking up buisness stairs,

making deals, selling buisness, making profits? Whats the point? Just to fill a days time?

the clouds of storm line on the horizon’s face, begging the question to ask, ready to see rain fall,

and banks fail, and humanity become humbled? For I know that it is not money, It is not indulgence,

it is not bliss or heartache that will stop me, For I am free to be, free to be in the one who knows me best,

free to live regardless of whatever this world bears, free to know I am his, and that when the lightining and storms come

I will be still on his rock and ground, still and yes and will be found.

Through the times

He sees the rain falling, a drip and a drop on the cold hard wooden bench,

looking to and from where the storm began,

the dark shadow filled clouds line the skies of the day,

he wonders whats with his mind, why so complicated, and why so blind,

sensory queues turn him inward, to the vacant spirit that held his hand,

whats the point, and why are we mad?

finding questions, leading like a ball of neverending yarn,

connected are we? Or is separate from eachother the more meaningful term?

Walking on, he trods through the wet damp mud that soaks his boots,

each step a concerted effort to get to the end of the trail,

The struggle, … we all have it, we all fight it, it is this walking through the times,

it is this questioning and wondering of who we are and are we fine?

it is the hours at cafe’s and lectures at schools…. who will find… the answer

not so easy but a large challenge, like red large bricks that stop the individual,

like oil on a linoleium floor that cause frightened gait,

walking ever so slowly, ever so slowly,

ever so slowly and on and on,

He looks at the expanse of the heavens before him, it’s night now,

the stars shine and glimmer,

he wipes his boots off with a red cloth,

looking and staring up and on, tired from the walk he dozes off…..

Lessons

I have learned many things on this journey,

learning to be quiet and silent,

to let go and give up on fettered complaints,

for the future awaits and healing begins, where the sand meets the shore,

where the water meets the wind, and what blew around before,

for we are so wrapped up in the hurricane of constant plagues of self absorptions,

focus, lack, delayed happiness,

there is more? Is there more?

Than turning around streets and asking questions, summarizing problems…. gone

memories and thoughts to form the steel bars to block peace and rest from the tired man,

 

I have learned many lessons,

taught on walks to the lake, and by the colors of the sky,

by the wilderness and the mountains, by the days gone by,

by love and acceptance, by time, and quiet bandaged wounds,

and to see the choice to smile when all around is gloom,

I have learned many things,

in this world so chaotic and fast,

to sit and be still, embrace mystery rather than fact,

to let the fall’s leaves cover me, and the moss to grow black,

to liberate the mind from the needles, not so comfortable like acupuncture on the brain,

that accuse us and condemn us, leaving us so lame,

To sit and see the stars circling, to smell the fire burning, to walk the voyage further,

to carry what is with me, to learn new lessons, to love in new ways,

to share, to recieve new things,

to take time, to rest, and feed hope’s coals to faiths fires,

to burn a little brighter in the dark of the world,

which fumes might guide the lonely traveller and bring the outcast home,

and yet the mystery continues, my body rests again….

yes I have learned many things….

yes I have learned many things….