POEMS/LYRICS BY JRS XIII

 

A PRIVATE INTERSECTION WITH THE WORLD

Sacred Sickness

Shades Of Gray

Something Beyond

A Place Away From The Torments

Skinny Arms

The Weakest Beast

Dark Creature Of The Night

Identity Crisis

Ant: Engine Of The Dead

Tlatelolco 2004

Fragments On Recovering The Wasteland

The Perfect Blossom

Urinating

Patienceville

You Could Do It Better (Lyrics)

The Experiment Was A Success

Theyíre Not Bad

False Loyalties

Camouflaged Bug

Secrets Of The Strong

Your Unseen Poetry

Verbal Hyperinflation

 

 

Sacred Sickness

 

Itís a road,

this affliction,

a road to yourself.

How long can you stand

to be a freak

before you

take the journey?

 

The tolerance of others,

the pretending

is poison,

you allow their kindness

to keep you

from the terrifying road

back to your

wounded heart.

Somewhere,

something was done,

something was stolen,

and you were an accomplice.

Somehow, inside you,

the sun got turned upside down,

somehow

it became

the monster

that you run from.

And you became

a devotee

of darkness

and danced on broken glass,

you beat your wings

against your troubled head

until they bled

to death.

You gave

the diamond

of your white soul

to the one

who wanted

to marry

your impotence.

 

Affliction.

Sacred road of humiliation

strewn with flowers:

thank you for not

giving up,

for not freeing me

to be free

like they are free.

 

You turned me into a cripple

so I would not be fooled

by my walking.

You made me

live in green disgrace

beyond the barren desert

of health.

 

Sacred road

into Hell,

every hero

had to know

the dead of

his soul

before he could

rise up, and

deserve a song.

Every hero

had to do battle

with the monster

of the halfway point,

the monster of

premature life.

Torments with wings

and whips

drove him

to the depths

others didnít need.

Past fire and mediocrity

and demons in the shape of

reassurances.

Down, to the very top

of the hidden inner peak.

 

Sacred sickness,

thank you.

You that made me stand out

like an animal

left behind by the herd,

like a bird

walking

when it should be flying;

like a tree

broken by a storm,

embarrassing the

forest

with its helplessness,

with its roots growing

the wrong way.

Thank you

for not letting me

blend in with the mediocrity.

Thank you

for making me be

a target

of myself.

Thank you for saying

"I wonít let you

not go."

For rolling the road

before me

like a carpet

welcoming

my disaster,

my holy disaster

of needing it.

 

No, Iím not like them,

I canít

live gracefully

away

from

my soul.

 

Youíve wrecked me,

destroyed me,

turned me into a joke,

a catastrophe,

a form of dirt,

staining

every place that

doesnít know itself,

youíve mixed

the contempt of fools

with the agony

of my inner voices,

the things I could do

for orphans and widows

if I were not

so egotistically

incapacitated:

and yet,

youíve also spared me

from killing myself

with the smile

of agreed-upon

high places:

hills that

gave themselves

the title of

mountains:

conventions and pacts

of stunted growth.

Youíve protected me

by making my

lowness

indisputable.

 

Sacred affliction,

thank you for this road

youíve given to me

in the morning

of my tears

of self-hate,

this long

frightening

dark road

that leads back inside

towards the me

I want to be,

the me that the

me I am

wonít let me

live without.

I canít hide

in incompleteness,

youíve made

my damage

too obvious,

hurled my sick heart

into the middle of the

public square,

left me no other choice,

except to

descend into the pit of black

below the non-stop crash of

my aspirations,

below the blood of my exhibitionistic

discontent,

into the deep internal night

that no one can ignore away,

no angel forgive,

no jewel of pain outweigh

with its sorrow-born

beauty.

"Win or lose,"

the gladiators said,

"live or die":

the songs

that come from my uselessness

arenít worth

the jesterís cap,

the leperís bells.

The dark road

waits,

the black nightís

promise

of the sun

that my disease

is trying

to give me.

 

And my sickness

is only a road

to beauty.

 

And my sickness

is only a road,

a road

beyond the halfway places.

 

And my sickness

is only a road,

a road beyond them

saying you are all right,

and a road past

what they do not say.

 

And my sickness

is only a road

past the clay figure

that isnít good enough for me,

itís a way

of breaking my clay down

and making me

make myself.

And my sickness

is only a road,

a road where

absurdity and pride clash,

like shields that are chimes,

making music

of the new me.

 

And my sickness

is only a road,

a road back,

a road away from the outer roads,

the powerful futile roads

of being lost in sunshine,

back to the inner roads

of fertile quiet

where life is born,

and the godliness of being human

without pretensions of being

good enough,

without being oneself.

My sickness

wonít let me participate

in that sham.

 

And my sickness

is only a road.

I love it for

giving me that road,

and I hate it

enough to

travel on that road.

 

Sacred illness!

I will go now,

I will walk back

from your days of

disgrace

to the place

where pity cannot find me,

where death

stalks the weak

and old selves release souls of

gold

to the brave.

I accept this journey,

this taunting invitation to

brilliance,

this shadow-haunted,

flower-lined

road into the darkness,

the sacred birth darkness

of myself.

 

Sacred sickness:

I can no longer

say no!

Only

thank you!

 

Back To Top

 

 

Shades Of Gray

 

My soul

is a battleground

between good and evil,

and shades of gray

are winning.

My desires

arenít white enough,

my weapons

arenít black enough,

my blood

isnít red enough,

and my Pythia

wonít say

yes or no.

Mazes

wonít become

straight roads

just to appease

my anxiety,

no inner father

lurks beside my spear

to tell me

where the night

came from.

And my imagination

wonít

spare me

from the unpredictability

of angels

or the beautiful clay

that devils are made of.

Peripheral vision:

what a terrible disease!

My light

becomes heavy with thought,

ambushes have been beaten into it;

my darkness becomes

weak with

the

sweat of my anger

which is the

tears of mothers

crying for their monsters.

My sword is paralyzed,

life becomes a cloud.

The hero in me

and the villain in me

die,

the clear trumpetsí sound

is muted

by a mind,

a mind in the way

of

black,

of white,

of power,

of life.

Does gray

make me right?

Or only

useless?

 

Shades of gray.

I wanted a song,

I wanted a dawn,

I wanted to be a color

in the sky,

paint dripping

from the sun,

the wake of a fleeing angel,

a chariot

of losers

or victors

drawing blood

from Heaven.

I wanted to be

a shout from a high place

like thunder;

the sea

with an island

that wasnít there yesterday.

I wanted to be clear,

and proud,

black respected by white,

or white respected by black,

not

gray

despised by both,

not gray

hiding glory

just to be right,

which means

not to know.

 

Shades of gray.

My search for angels,

my flight

from Hell, up to now

this is all Iíve found:

shades of gray.

Shades of gray

as truthís clock ticks away.

Shades of gray:

my little rain-beaten house

beneath the howling storm of

great mistakes,

my little place of justice

not yet born

and monsters

not yet conceived.

 

Shades of gray

that must decide,

or be consumed by

what does not care

and cannot wait.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Something Beyond

 

Something beyond

what I can see

beyond whatís here

beyond you

beyond her

beyond the me of now.

Something

in the fog

thatís more than my imagination

inventing

new sorrows

for itself,

dreams with "broken"

in their genes.

Something stirring

in this dark night

like a rat

whoís not a rat,

like a rat with a halo,

beautiful,

moving

in the dark room

of sleep

with a gift,

with a reason,

with a touch,

it has to be,

it has to be,

because the night

is so dark.

 

Back To Top

 

 

A Place Away From The Torments

 

Itís awful, awful, awful,

what to do?!

 

Go into the patience zone.

The burrow inside your mind,

the peaceful soul-womb,

the withdrawn heart-cave,

out of the light

that wants an answer now.

Go inside the dark,

into the silence,

sleep,

be a ghost,

give nothing but

your days.

What seems to be aimed

like an arrow at your heart

can be like a comet

passing far above you

in the night,

it will not only miss you,

it will miss the planet.

Go into the inner place

where itís

not even close.

Be deaf, dumb, and blind in the city square,

sit patiently

by the oracle

of the wilderness.

Answers

come from the night.

Screaming day angels

only bring

reactions

that build bigger disasters,

like avalanches

that begin

with a single

stone.

Donít listen

to the chorus

of conflicting necessities,

no matter how brilliant

the voices of exhaustion,

donít let torments

overwhelm you,

hide from them,

be a fertile procrastinator.

When the choice

is death by fire

or death by water,

donít choose.

"Now!

"Now!

"Now!

"Now!

"Hurry, it will be

too late!"

 

"Good-bye"

is a good answer

to the

rush.

Things that only

burn you out

arenít solutions.

 

Who jumps up and down

to the point of collapse

trying to grab the moon?

The world is full

of moons

we donít recognize,

and our hearts

are full of things

more beautiful

than the moon.

 

Darkness saves.

Quiet aloneness saves.

When times

are too self-importantly

hectic,

climb

to the heights of humility,

thatís where

the healers

live,

where new eyes grow into the heads

of all those who can be saved

by being unsure.

 

Sight

is the real power

in this world:

the gigantic

muscle

of clarity.

 

It takes time

to arrive

from the faraway

land

of yourself:

Waiting

is the Creator-God.

Trying to be a part

is the

Destroyer.

 

Be content

not to belong,

and that way

youíll never be

swallowed up

by the

brotherhood

of the lost.

Run from the torments,

not to other torments,

but to your silence.

Disentangle yourself,

like an animal that

has wandered

into a

thicket of thorns.

Back out,

back out into your own mind,

your own heart:

strange and abandoned

inner lands.

 

Find the darkness

where life begins,

where you

begin.

Thatís where

youíll rewrite

history.

 

In the dark.

In the silence.

In the depths

that seem

to be on the side

of everything

you should have.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Skinny Arms

 

Thank you, skinny arms,

you made me be the diplomat,

you turned me away

from my ancient path

of war,

you made me need ideas.

You saved me from

the power of my mind

by making me run

past pride

all the way to wisdom.

(By the time I finished making the arrow,

I was not in love with it.)

You buried me under

playground bullies

until I could understand

the tears

of others,

you brought cruelty

out of its hiding place:

I did not have the strength

to uproot it

without feeling it,

to retaliate

before I bled

knowledge of

a billion brothers.

 

Thank you, skinny arms,

you saved me

by not letting indignation

find an escape route

from its full meaning;

by not allowing

the answer

to be bypassed

with a punch.

You stole my spear

but you gave me back

my heart,

you taught me the universal language

of crying

outside the walls of

the strong,

the tongue the world speaks

after the simplicity

of bombs.

You forced the river of

my fury

to go another way,

with the dam

of my own weakness.

You saved me

from making

things worse.

With these skinny arms.

 

Thank you, skinny arms.

You made me weak enough

to find the strength

that strength obscures.

 

The light of oneís own power

hides the existence of stars -

in the night of my defeats,

you showed me

the star-filled sky,

the higher ground;

you made the river of my hurt

flow through fields of

understanding

when they would have

rushed through

canyons of revenge,

you drove me to

the depths

that elude the mighty

with their clear,

shallow answers

sharp as the blades of swords

flashing

with stolen sunlight,

you would not let me

rot, triumphant, on the parapet

of robbersí castles,

nor let me succumb to

the obvious,

which is what is

destroying the world.

You would not let me

defend justice

without knowing

what it is

you made me live

on the wrong end

of power;

and so saved me

from words

that make the blood

go away;

and from the white banners

that lead black hearts.

 

Thank you, skinny arms.

I remember that day,

dangling there,

unable to raise myself up,

that day I thought I lost.

But what I lost

was only a lesser me.

I cannot deny it,

I would have taken it

if you had let me take it then:

the first answer that came

to me.

 

I would have taken it

if you had let me take it then.

But you didnít.

 

You kept the schoolyard gate locked.

There was no way out,

no way to run from the beating,

which was the whole world

being beaten.

You taught me the greatness

of peace,

justice,

endurance,

you wrote lessons

with my weakness

in my own blood

on the ripped pages

of my soul -

it was the torn pages

that made me whole -

you gave me a beautiful family

I never would have had,

if Iíd been strong -

all with these

skinny arms.

 

Back To Top

 

 

The Weakest Beast

 

A lion can beat you.

A tiger can beat you.

A panther can beat you.

A leopard can beat you.

A jaguar can beat you.

A wolf can beat you.

A bear can beat you.

A moose can beat you.

A buffalo can beat you.

A rhino can beat you.

An elephant can beat you.

An alligator can beat you.

A crocodile can beat you.

A gorilla can beat you.

(Even a baboon can beat you.)

A python can beat you.

An anaconda can beat you.

An electric eel can beat you.

A shark can beat you.

A barracuda can beat you.

A cobra can beat you.

A mamba can beat you.

A fer-de-lance can beat you.

A sea snake can beat you.

A scorpion can beat you.

A tsetse fly can beat you.

An anopheles mosquito can beat you.

When you think on that level,

being a "man"

isnít really such a big deal

after all.

 

Itís a worthless metal

when itís not alloyed

with moral value,

with divine discoveries

beyond mere strength.

 

Human muscles

that havenít found something

worth fighting for

are just an

inferior form

of beast.

 

Giant, low-hanging balls,

giant sweaty "Meís" stomping everywhere,

dark pollution

pouring into the sky

of unreached thoughts

from low-crawling beasts,

slimy hate and anger

poisoning the sea of

what this world could be,

blackening the wings of

souls

and washing beautiful dead futures

up onto the beach -

for what?

Is this what "being a man"

has done?

 

Until you embrace

the light

that is the center of being a man,

the reason for his

courage,

you are nothing

but the weakest of

beasts.

 

The dark tavern

ringed with bottles

of self-destruction

laughs at you,

the dimly lit streets

of your threat.

You are a joke,

an insect-beast,

not a man.

 

Beyond your fury,

your storm without greatness,

beyond the bodies

you lay at your feet,

which only mock you

with your powerlessness

to be more than you are,

lies real manhood.

The place

you fear to go.

Destroy all the world

with your soulless bravery,

make yourself master of everything

that condemns you,

hide behind noise and blood

from the one battle

that would make you

be a man.

 

You are not a man.

You are only the weakest beast.

Even killing me

wonít change that.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Dark Creature Of The Night

 

Dark creature of the night

waiting for the light

to hide in,

the flag that will make holy

the hunt.

Running dogs,

go to Church!

Escape from the hare

that could not

escape

from you.

You will find a way to do

what you want,

to live in your excrement.

The mind is beautiful

in that way

like a perfect pistol.

Why struggle to change,

why drag yourself over

broken instincts

when you have

a divine lying machine

between your ears?

All hail

to the murderer [hero].

 

All hail to his

blind inner eyes,

his perfect outer aim.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Identity Crisis

 

You are what hurt you,

and the cry of justice

howling over the

land of wounds.

You are the killer

and the weeping mother,

the callous builder

of airplanes,

with a cold untouchable excuse,

and the child

whose home

was just devoured

by a bomb;

and youíre

the avenging angel

of that child.

You are what you are trying

to rise above,

the low, cruel place

of pathological convenience,

and the highest ideal,

the most loving heart

that wants to take the whole world

in your arms.

You are the disciple

and the reaction,

the good son, the good daughter,

and the shining black sheep;

storm trooper of the

Master Race,

and Jew on the night

of broken glass.

You are the giant hangman

with an erection,

thrilled by the sex

of watching other people die:

God of a moment

that preys upon

its own doom;

and you are the martyr

whose crushed windpipe

will make others sing,

whose powerless body

will lead freedom

into dark citadels,

and give birth to futures

of light.

You are the stone square prison

in the heart

of the round city,

and the wild mountains blessed by forests

they could not reel in.

You are wearing chains

and running free.

You are the spinning

roulette wheel

of what they tried to make you

and the you that is not them,

the you that is trying to come out

of what is easier

to be what is better.

Round and round you go,

feeding them and starving them,

raising their flag

and your flag,

lost in an identity crisis

that means so much

more than you believe,

in your lonely days of living

in indecision.

The worldís at stake

inside of you.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Ant: Engine Of The Dead

 

The following poem was suggested to me by a summertime sidewalk scene (looking down)! The actual biological significance of the event was kidnapped for the power of the metaphor. Any number of prophets and heroes who have captured epochs of history, and the loyalty of generations, came to mind as I watched the tiny ant struggling to move the dead.

 

Ant:

engine of the dead.

 

I thought a dried-out

gone-looking bug was

somehow alive,

moving in spite of deathís victory,

until I saw you,

humble,

even self-effacing, beside him,

dragging him along

towards your own destination,

towards your own purpose

(or was it his?),

creating the illusion

of life in him

through your life.

 

Hurling your

tiny great heart

against

his demise,

I saw you propping up his

fallen glory,

his coffin-wings

that used to fly

but now

entomb him

with his

broken magic,

I saw you propping him up

on a summer day

and wondered why?

Why make him walk

as though you

didnít matter?

Why give your soul

to him,

whose time is past,

why become his music,

why let his dead body

be the instrument

of a living thing

and so let form steal substance,

and so let

shape be the thief

of breath?

Is it easier to drag his corpse

than to believe in yourself?

 

Ant:

engine of the dead.

You give life to him,

but at what price?

How much of you

is lost

carrying his stiff body

on beyond its dances,

stretching oblivion thin,

obliterating the renewal

of everything

in loyalty to

a broken part?

How much of you

dies when you

become

the pallbearer

of the once-great:

that giant insect who is now

nothing more than a vehicle

you are driving

over yourself?

Has your war against his death

killed you?

 

Ant:

engine of the dead.

 

The Universe is waiting for you

with all its power,

to begin again,

you are the first day,

yesterdayís nova

remade in your image,

waiting for your mind to

cleanse the putrefaction

of shattered histories.

 

Be brave!

Be new!

Carry your own flame

and leave corpses where they lie,

the ground will know

what to do

with them.

 

Ant:

engine of the dead.

Itís time to be yourself.

Know yesterday,

but never be its slave.

Todays

are killed

by yesterdays.

Use that power,

that beautiful strength

you have given to the dead,

to meet the now,

to be among the living,

to be for the living:

to live!

 

Ant:

engine of the dead.

Be yourself.

 

Be the engine

of yourself.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Tlatelolco 2004

 

Look at me.

Read me.

Last time.

Last time to go

through this same

shame

of standing by

the blood,

the stolen flowers

when time stopped,

and apologizing

with my body

still in the world

of their killers,

the world they ran from,

the world without beauty,

the traitor-world

that let down

the vision

on the mountain top

of the heartís

truest moment:

the moment

where mortality

equaled

eternity,

weighed just as much,

because of the fragile, unconquerable

nobility

of what was doomed,

the flowerís moment

of crossing paths

with the stone.

I wonít let it happen again,

this hollow solidarity

without an act of courage,

on the road

they hallowed

with their premature

metamorphosis

into half-angels,

before the gift

of millions of faces

never knowing the pain

of being vivisected

for one manís jewel

could be dug out of their

minds

and hearts

and given

the tomorrow

which was supposed

to be today.

They left holes as altars,

and a recurring day

the earth brings back to the sun,

a ghost that every year

walks

without me,

still the coward

loving them - saying he loves them -

on the other side of their

idealsí price;

not yet ennobled by

a plaza, a dream,

an accident,

a night consecrated with injustice,

and a will

stronger than bullets:

a night when

flesh

defeated

steel

with the sacredness of its

vulnerability.

 

Last time.

Last time

I face this day

without being able to say

"I am one of you.

Today I am one of you.

I am an ideal walking,

my life is no longer mine,

but the lightís."

 

Back To Top

 

 

Fragments On Recovering The Wasteland

 

Donít give up the day.

Look for its flower color

and land on it,

find its buried nectar

and bring it to your

dying heart.

 

Rework

the wasteland.

Be an artist.

Take that dark soulless material

theyíve given you,

find the weakspot

in its lifelessness,

and destroy it

with beauty.

Give it back what

was stolen from it,

so it can keep

you company.

 

Honeycombs

or catacombs,

your choice.

Itís all in what

you go to,

the flowers

or the tombstones:

in what you bring back

to the hive

of your own

self-construction.

 

Iíve chosen to be dead

for a long time.

Iíve been on a life-long

hunger strike

against the injustice

of this

imcompleteness.

But their insensitivity

has an iron will.

They wonít give in.

I can only start

to eat again -

to eat the scraps

left behind by lies -

or leave the world

forever in their hands.

Itís time to break the fast,

and be strong

in a world of sin.

Which doesnít mean

to be dark,

only to fight for the light

with imperfection.

To live somewhere between their

thoughtless power

and my powerless

thought.

Itís time to break

the fast.

I was never an angel,

anyway,

and trying to be one

has only made Hell

stronger.

 

You matter too.

My noble impotence

let them rape you

through my own

self-destruction.

My high battle

was an abandonment

of the one I loved:

the center of the earth.

From now on,

Iím going to let the world

begin with you.

 

It used to be

a beautiful beach.

The sea came here.

Birds arched over it

in a

singing rainbow.

The sea sound kissed your soul,

and your bare feet

could step anywhere

on the beachís joyful receptivity,

the sand between your toes

seemed to be the whole earth loving you.

Now this place is dirty,

the color of a smokerís lung,

and you can hear it

wheezing

with its absence.

It seems hopeless,

dark,

without darkís mystery

and hint of birth.

It seems over,

gone.

But not far away

the seaís still strong,

it protests your sunken heart

with giant waves

coming in from

the unconquered blue:

the sea beyond,

and the sea in you.

Its strong enough

to reclaim

the dead,

to clean the world

that comes from

your heart.

Itís not too late

to love each other

again

on this beach,

the way we used

to.

 

Back To Top

 

The Perfect Blossom

 

The perfect blossom:

what a tragedy it is!

Itís on the edge of its beauty.

One step more

and it will fall off of its

perfection.

One more morning

and its colors will begin to fade.

And the rest of its life

will pass in being compared

to this day.

Tomorrow

its bowed head,

pardoned by nostalgia,

will not be the same

as this proud unwilted glory

matching the sun,

God and subject undifferentiated:

one.

Then charity and remembrance

will replace

awe

and the altar

will

belong only to the

faithful few,

falling with her

from being the heart of the world

to the

dark sad place

where greatness goes

when its

work on earth

is done.

 

Its work,

but not its longing.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Urinating

 

Urinating,

writing a poem

in yellow.

Commonplace

hidden away,

left behind,

who would write

about that yellow stream,

quite miraculous?

Giving me life

by leaving me,

carrying away

what would

be too much for me,

beautiful

in its disowned way.

So easy

to be an artist,

to paint a moment

with this shining color,

this unneeded ray of light

that is needed.

Strange

intimate time,

sequestered

in the seraglio

of the bodyís

constant brush

with death,

this is the color

of the will to live,

salvation

without a thought,

rejection meeting pleasure,

decay

held off for another day

by the little music

behind the closed door,

by the color of the sun,

a fleeting stained glass window

illuminated by life.

Before the quiet,

the disappearance,

the reemergence of the

myth

who hidden things

sustain:

dirty

sacred

things.

 

Back To Top

 

Patienceville

 

All right,

back to Patienceville.

This guy

is maddening, but canít

take a frown.

No need to break him

down, for what he canít change.

Once again,

itís up to me.

The high ground

is a bitch

but I canít stand

to see

the carnage of feelings

which being right

can bring.

So Iíll let it go,

go back to my room in

Patienceville;

suck it up, and

live with his wrong:

because sometimes

a soft wrong

is better than

a hard right.

 

Back To Top

 

You Could Do It Better (Lyrics)

 

You could do it better.

So why should I?

 

You could do it better.

So why should I try?

 

Doing nothing

is what I learned,

whenever I lifted a finger

I just go burned.

By the God of Everything.

By you.

 

No one can do

what you can do.

Why interrupt the spectacle

of perfection?

Applaud and bow

to the one who canít wait

to set things straight,

donít make a mistake,

donít get in the way,

just watch,

it can be a way of life,

like people writing about history,

standing on the side.

 

Always standing on the side

for you.

 

Our lack of education

is your power

Our paralysis

is the wings you use to fly

And criticism

is the weapon

to keep us locked inside

 

You hoarded action

and left only inertness

for us -

and the curse of never being

good enough.

You left only inertness

for us:

the inerntess of being

swept along

by your limited genius,

your one-color rainbow -

your pilfered genius

stolen from a frightened child -

your dark-shade genius

that wouldnít let anything else grow:

the secret to your unrivaled height.

Didnít you take

my light?

Tallest tree

in the forest,

father of asphyxiated

saplings:

our failure is

your might.

 

But no use

sweating the past.

You are first

and I am last.

 

Youíre the best,

canít deny it.

No one sees how

you got there

and I didnít.

And thereís no balance

that weighs

what isnít.

 

Nothing more to say,

it will never go away.

 

Please let me watch.

Please let me watch.

 

Show me how itís done.

 

Letís do it again.

Letís never let it go.

 

Show me how itís done.

 

Please let me watch.

 

Back To Top

 

 

The Experiment Was A Success

 

The experiment was a success.

Talent can be

neutralized,

no one is any longer

doomed by nature

to be great.

We were post-genetically engineered

to be disasters,

destiny was extracted from us

and our double-dream chromosomes

were spliced

with pigsí genes.

Symptoms of discontent remain,

but itís better

than that terrible shining.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Theyíre Not Bad

 

Theyíre not bad,

just morally disoriented.

Up and down -

whatís what?

Theyíre lost

in the vertigo

of convenience.

 

Back To Top

 

 

False Loyalties

 

False loyalties

built empires of blood,

made slavesí chains.

Good hearts, blind eyes:

armies loyal to

false fathers

who thought for them,

beat their lives into

dark swords,

turned off weak souls

with a lie,

stole the hero-wish

to write a book of shame,

used one good

to create a thousand

evils,

sharpened beauty

into a blade,

tampered with the inner

dictionary

of right and wrong,

pulled triggers

held up to the head

of babies painted black,

engendered martyrs

who interposed their bodies

between truths they did

not know and

lies that took the form of

their mother.

False loyalties.

 

One little weakness in the mind

stole all the greatness,

misused the trust

of blunted angels,

destroyed the world

with those who wished

to save it,

deceived the beautiful ones

into throwing their lives

away

for dogs.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Camouflaged Bug

 

Camouflaged bug.

Green like a leaf.

No one sees him.

Not the hungry bird;

not the Three Magi

bearing gifts.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Secrets Of The Strong

 

Secrets of the strong

need someone

to whisper to.

Itís not what it seems to be,

this being strong;

and where itís not

what it seems to be

needs you.

 

Secrets of the strong

need a soul

that can take

the concealed crying

thatís needed to

make the armor fit.

 

Secrets of the strong

need someone

behind the game face

to bind these gaping wounds:

because silent blood

wonít coagulate.

 

Secrets of the strong

need to tell all

to the loyal mute one

of the shadows,

the one who could destroy him

but wonít.

 

The soft underbelly

of never being beaten

needs a kiss.

 

Secrets of the strong.

The real meís not on

the map,

I need someone

who knows the way.

I need someone

who can handle the

hypocrisy of

my strength,

and sleep beside my weakness

in the night.

 

Secrets of the strong.

All the magicís just a lie,

itís only her,

the one who makes the spells,

who puts the dragon who guards the gold

to sleep.

 

I canít be strong

in your eyes, or Iíll die,

you need to be

the place

where I fall apart,

itís the only way

I can ever

reach the mountain top.

Itís the only way

I can ever

cross the sea.

 

Secrets of the strong.

Iím nothing

without you

seeing that Iím nothing

without you.

 

Secrets of the strong.

Iím not afraid

of anything

except not having you.

Because

I canít be me,

all by myself.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Your Unseen Poetry

 

Some minds

wonít see you friend.

They just wonít see you.

Your truth

comes in a wavelength

that their

senses canít catch;

your beautiful roses

are all in ultraviolet,

your Taj Mahal

was built in infrared.

The wings of your genius

beat too fast;

for those without imagination they seem

to be air.

The power of your thoughts

travels in waves

too long,

like whales hidden for hours

beneath the surface of the sea.

The world looks elsewhere,

stops believing in the deep still waters

where you vanished,

they run to splashes,

bow down to splashes

of little things

by the shore.

 

My friend,

the stadium of love was built

in the visible spectrum:

histrionics

and futile inventiveness

dulling the edges

of truth

with brilliant play time,

words turned into Gods

off the road of human

life and death.

Itís not you.

Hyperbole -

gargoyles of vanity

nested in the architecture

of human contemplation

and longing -

tears that run from themselves,

cried too cleverly

to give birth to hearts.

Beauty

hidden underneath

jewels,

eaters of

divine faces.

 

Itís not you.

You were always to the side

of the circus

doing your own thing,

dying and bleeding words,

dreaming paradises into being

behind doors you could not break,

loving and mourning at the same time,

always real,

too simple,

too true:

a straight line,

never a curlicue.

 

You.

Not in the visible spectrum.

You.

 

How I love you!

So alone.

Always writing.

You.

 

How I love you!

Poems

knocking at your door

at every moment

and you letting them in

in the middle of the night

when others were fast asleep.

You letting them in from the rain,

dripping water all over

your house

that stayed the same,

your little

unloved house

that your invisible glory

could never

change.

 

You.

Always alone

with this wild

unseen beauty about you,

your phantom wife,

your lover and your

aura;

always rich in treasures that

bought nothing,

sitting on trunks

filled with shining gold

that no one else could see,

until you began to

wonder if you

were hallucinating.

A world blind

or one man deluded?

Hard odds to beat.

 

And yet

your pen went on,

valiantly true

to the flood you could not

restrain,

nor change

just to fit:

forever faithful

to the nude heart

that would not hide itself

underneath the

clothes of

what they called

poetry.

Does blood

lack art?

When words turn the lights

off, are they better

than silence?

You never believed

in these ingenious silences

built with words,

no,

you wandered alone

in deep nights,

half-street, half-God,

a solitary wolf with wounded feet

who could not stop running

after your own broken heart,

breathing feelings

into the darkness,

pursuing beauty

to the end

so you could have

a place to die.

Too single-minded

for applause,

too proud

for a roof.

 

You, my friend.

You.

Killed by the realness

that would never submit

to the distraction

of cleverness.

To the slavery of

craftsmanship.

You were always a Sibyl,

never an engineer.

 

You, my friend.

You.

Living,

yet dead,

except for the poems

that keep coming

and coming,

the poems

that have replaced you.

Poverty-stricken,

alone,

helpless with your beauty

that uses you and

destroys you

to adorn the deafness

with unheard sound.

Your altruistic ME

that carries the whole world with it,

because of the accident of your

honesty.

 

You.

Giving star-filled nights

not hidden

by temples.

Giving fields without cities;

giving uncut forests.

 

You.

Uncluttered.

With metaphors

like engines,

like angels,

labyrinths turned inside out

with the raw you,

the unbroken you

that would not yield

to the rules

of beauty.

The rules of

their beauty:

the beauty of

camouflage.

The beauty of

tangents.

The beauty of

cushioning

a falling soulís

cry for

help.

You would not let

anything

hide the scream,

which contained

the hope.

 

You.

Unpoisoned by feathers

that win mates

but donít

know the sky.

 

You.

Cleansed by

the exile

of being honest,

but filled with unending sorrow,

the terrible price

of your purity;

fasting

on the moon

of truth,

which circles

the deception,

refusing to live that way

yet unable to escape:

always in the orbit

of what you were above,

which was stronger than you.

 

You.

Without a nation,

only the country

of a pen;

and the flag

of your art

beyond art.

 

You.

The one I loved, and

will always love.

In spite of your maddening

demise,

your self-destructive

blossoming,

that does not know

when to quit.

In spite of the pain of

seeing you

devoured by your poems,

dropping your heart

into the dirt

of unreachable clouds,

refusing enlightenment

because it would kill beauty,

refusing the pain-killer of

surrender

and torturing me

with poems of

unsheathed longing,

making me bleed

your blood,

die with you,

need what you need,

which is what neither one

of us

can have.

 

You.

How I love you,

because of you,

in spite of you!

Raised up to the level

of the flowers

that must be cut down.

Yet I would not

go back.

For this vision

you have given me

I would stay

in this place too high

to live in.

As long as you are here,

writing poems.

 

You.

Not in the visible spectrum.

 

Not for them.

 

For us.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Verbal Hyperinflation

 

Hyperinflation

of words,

wheelbarrows full of them

to buy the same thing;

devalued

by emptiness

that thrashes about in desperation

to equal what has already

eluded it.

Another age

where form

has taken over.

Another coup of facades.

Decorate with unbearable newness

the old, which is the always,

which you canít feel.

Cover it over with

colors that hide

your absence.

Hearts donít have

to beat

anymore,

or even fit

inside a human chest,

hang them from the

ceiling

of the popularity contest,

giant, pink

unusable hearts -

clap,

donít live,

masturbate

with the gift,

despise the seed,

donít plant it.

 

And no,

itís more than bitterness.

Itís a world thirsting

for words that matter,

words that go straight

to the truth,

words not in love

with themselves

but with the life

they were supposed

to bring.

Itís a call for

warrior- words,

mother-words,

field-of-crops words.

Life-of-the-party

doesnít belong

in the sacred seat.

The prophecy awaits!

The fate

of worlds,

beyond

the stolen

way.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Poetry/Lyrics Contents

 

Creative Safehouse Contents

 

 

 

 

Site Contents