POEMS/LYRICS BY JRS XVII

PERSONAL MAN, PERSONAL WORLD

 

Carrying On About The World And My Broken Heart

An Angelís Trumpet

Love Discharge

Wake Up And Smell The Coffee

Cold Rain

Nights In Atlantis

Bad Is Good

Jacobo Arbenz III

Dolphin-Safe Tuna

Tiredness

God Bless The Outlawís Wife

Sheís A Spirit

Little Boat (Lyrics)

Whatever Sh***ís In Your Head (Rap Lyrics) 

Big Fat Holy Man

Sword Of A Thousand Idiots

Hitler's Son

Cannon And God

Experts And Souls

White Crow

Please Like Me

Non-Pride

There Fell The Woodland God

Hate Her, Hate Him

Humpty Dumpty

Dress Well

Funeral Procession

Soldier Fading Out

Flies And Horses

Hitler, Hitler

Megalomaniac

White Horse, Gray Herd

Cleaning Lady To A Spiderís Web

Little Boy Black Lightning (All The Way)

Dead Skin

Sublimated Man

Alliance Of Angels

Jaguar Jade

Thror, Great Thror

In One Night

I Only Believe

Sir Isaac Newton Tropical

Poem Incomprehensible

Slash The Gordian Knot

The Nation

Eye-thumped The Universe

Winter Angel

Light The Pipe

Put Your Feet On The Ground

You Wonít Get Nothing Back

Blessed Is The Soldier

Lori Piestewa

Three Fates

Nations And Lovers

Iron Ring

Ape In A Cage

Road Of No Return

Laughing And Running In The Sun

When You Love Me (Lyrics)

Seven Angels In Stone

Rising Sun Over My Heart

 

 

Carrying On About The World And My Broken Heart

 

Carrying on

about the world

and my broken heart.

This small voice

canít shut up

because crying over nothing

has brought me to

the door of everything.

One woman

taught me about

all the heartache of the world,

the weight of

history

fell on top of me

through her,

in her leaving

the injustice of ages of

squandered lives

I could never have felt

exploded in

my soul,

the emptiness

that came from inside me

showed me the way

back outside.

After one thousand days of poetry,

I was ready to

rejoin time,

to fight again:

for the woman I lost

was everything the world

needs.

Now I know

what it means

to be

a human being,

I know the hole

that has to be filled

because itís in me.

Thanks to her.

The woman who I lost

where the little meets

the large.

Itís the point

where the lever

of my irrelevance

could move the earth.

 

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An Angelís Trumpet

 

Angelís trumpet

in human hands

blew

low places

into the world.

They couldnít hear

the notes of

Heaven,

could only

blow

their falling.

Angelís trumpet

left me alone,

their false understanding

became oblivious,

left me crying

all night

for the light

they didnít have.

 

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Love Discharge

 

Love discharge.

 

OK, Iím good.

Now get back

to killing.

Prove Iím more than

a gun,

give you some pennies

and some tears.

 

To live with yourself

youíve got to

get rid of that

feeling

that you just

donít give a damn,

so find one

zone of caring.

That will let you

freeze the

rest of the earth.

 

Oh no,

got to prove I can

love!

Find somebody,

find something!

Got to prove

Iím not just

about killing.

Loving one person

gives you the right to let

the bullets fly.

 

Love discharge.

 

Get it out of the system

before it cramps

the style of the night.

 

Love discharge.

 

It could even be a dog.

Take him for a walk,

then get back to your gun.

 

Love discharge.

 

Got to love one place

so you can hate everything else.

Sometimes the feelingís

strong,

like some kind of moral

static electricity

building up inside,

got to touch something,

see the blue spark

of your goodness

jump out in the dark

without letting it

get in the way.

Showing it

is the best way

to leave it.

 

Love discharge.

 

Look in your

mirror that one false

moment

of helping,

then

avert your

eyes forever.

Pull the trigger,

now itís OK to kill:

you love.

 

Love discharge.

 

A little love goes a long way

towards destroying the world.

 

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Wake Up And Smell The Coffee

 

Wake up and smell the coffee.

Daddy lied.

Heís got a dark room

out in back.

 

Wake up and smell the coffee.

Donít want to believe it!

Donít want to believe it!

Tears for who Daddy was

could burn the world up.

 

Wake up and smell the coffee.

How do you think he knows

it all so well: the

excretory tract

of Mengele?

Hunt the evil-doer

to the ends of the earth,

far from Daddyís door.

Drown out your fear of knowing

with a war.

 

Wake up and smell the coffee.

Monster-Target-Man dribbling

electric-shock drool all over

the naked Goddess Liberty:

thatís what got me

in fatigues.

Kill the bastards!

Kill the bastards!

How does Daddy

know this kind of stuff?

He speaks of othersí crimes

so fluently.

 

Wake up and smell the coffee.

Tweedledum and

Tweedledee of Hell,

in towers of our sacrifice,

ringing righteous bells.

Tell me we didnít die in vain.

Daddy, I believed you!

Daddy, I believed you!

Tell me itís going to be all right.

Tell me the sun didnít die,

itís still there

on the other side of night.

 

Wake up and smell the Coffee.

Time to leave home, son,

Daddy lied.

A free heart can make a new home

where the dogs pooped.

Everyone else just runs for cover

outside the loop.

For a slave

itís always too late,

Daddy owns Time;

like Siamese twins,

theyíre joined at the mind.

When Daddy matters more than God,

the world pisses blood.

 

Wake up and smell the coffee.

Daddy lied.

Better to cry, than to

close your eyes.

 

Wake up and smell the coffee.

Time to grow up,

leave Daddy at the head

of an empty table.

 

Coffee in the morning.

 

Bye, Dad.

 

Coffee in the morning.

 

Sad, true coffee

in the morning.

 

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Cold Rain

 

Rain

thatís one degree

above snow

 

Freezing

without changing

a thing

 

No new look

 

just shivering

at the last level of

sameness that

you can bear

 

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Nights In Atlantis (Lyrics)

 

Despues de la caida

 

Didnít we have a good time dancing?

Didnít we have a good time emptying the glass?

Didnít we make sweet love together?

Everything good must pass.

 

Nights in Atlantis

theyíre gone, but we had them

No one can take that

from you or me

 

Nights in Atlantis,

we lived to the fullest

till it all

sank beneath the sea

 

Wasnít life like a genie then?

If you wanted something, all you had to do was ask.

What difference was there between us and gods?

Everything good must pass.

 

Nights in Atlantis

theyíre gone, but we had them

No one can take that

from you or me

 

Nights in Atlantis,

we lived to the fullest

till it all

sank beneath the sea

 

Crimes or conscience,

who cares in that golden land?

The stupor called life

makes its own rules for the strong.

God comes later,

but cowards come first,

to defend 4 AM against 3 AM.

Itís all the same till the dawn.

But some dreams sink

and others go on.

Everyone falls,

even the ones who watch others fall.

Some live first.

 

Nights in Atlantis

theyíre gone, but we had them

No one can take that

from you or me

 

Nights in Atlantis,

we lived to the fullest

till it all

sank beneath the sea

 

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Bad Is Good

 

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

 

They think that

hammers

are stronger

than truth.

 

But one day

the hammer

will break

on an awakened mind,

on a heart

that has no door.

 

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

 

The bigger lies grow

the harder it becomes

for them to cover over

what is obvious.

 

Like dead bodies

they begin to decompose

in the soil

of a question.

Enough of God is in us

to ask.

 

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

 

The seas

wear out continents,

lies wear out

themselves.

Something begins to feel wrong.

Cattle herds

are only moments

in time.

Power bases

built on stolen minds

may seem to be forever

like the pyramids

but time turns every top-heavy deception

into a house of cards.

 

Bad is Good

Bad is Good

 

Lies weaken

as blood is lost.

Caged birds

have winged souls,

they know thereís a sky

even if the shades

are drawn.

And blackboards

canít teach over

the divine noise inside;

griping with dreams,

the discomfort capsizes

lessons

of paradise.

 

Bad is Good

 

Says who?

The sons say no.

History wonít be saved,

but it wonít be

owned.

There will always be

truth,

or fighting for the truth.

 

Bad is Bad

Good is Good

 

Weíll get the

world back again.

 

Their lies will give it

back to us.

 

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Jacobo Arbenz III

 

I got the following message,

washed up in a bottle

from the sea:

 

I am Jacobo Arbenz III,

they did it to me again.

My green land

was turned upside down

by a heavy, sunburned hand

that didnít belong

where the birds sing.

For a stolen fruit

they slit the throat

of the boy

who was studying

to be an angel,

they angered blue mountains

in the distance

but flew above them,

owning what they never touched

with a signature,

they deposed the midwives

and turned the magic, waiting for the night,

into endless fields of barren wealth

fertilized

by the bodies of those who came

before the orphans.

Dreams and blood,

theyíre colors that clash,

nothing I wanted was ever

far from my mother's womb.

How did it plant the seeds

of weapons?

 

The soft guitar and

the one night when a womanís face

seemed to be everything,

untouched by the burning sun:

even that was taken

from the flag.

Now, the only two colors left

are them,

and what they can

get from us.

And my palace was

ringed by bayonets

of progress.

Living in the land my whole life,

I didnít know

what it was good for,

they had to teach me

with guns

in my hallways.

They had to

christen the ship

of their vision

with broken streets

and mothers

searching for their sons.

 

And once again,

Iím back here in the shadows,

washed up on the island

of getting

in the way.

 

Iím Jacobo Arbenz III,

wondering when this

dynasty of outcasts will end,

wondering when my green land

will have a friend.

 

Look for me

between the cracks

of the newspaper

in your hands;

all night I weave tears

into spider webs

to catch your awareness

thatís flying away with

my home.

I throw bottles

into the sea,

wondering if they will ever find the shore

of an ear,

hurl a hundred thousand hearts

into the wind:

because I still choose to believe

in ignorance,

instead of sin.

 

I am Jacobo Arbenz III,

saying what I said yesterday,

which is what I must say,

today, again.

 

I am Jacobo Arbenz III

throwing truth

into the sea.

 

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Dolphin-Safe Tuna

 

Dolphin-safe tuna.

Hey, what about me?!

Iím the tuna!

 

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Tiredness

 

Tiredness makes

great answers.

Walls you canít

get over

make convenient

conclusions.

When you canít go faster,

itís a wonderful consolation

to tell yourself

that thereís no place further to go.

Maps of the world

are drawn

by weary spirits.

And we are all afraid

to fall off of the flat earth

of someone elseís

limitations.

 

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God Bless The Outlawís Wife

 

God bless

the outlawís wife.

The one who

eclipsed the hangman

and the cowardly mob,

with a kiss

of thick and thin.

She stood by his

incited pride

before its time,

before "criminal" was crossed out

and replaced

with "hero."

In times of spit

and jeering,

she loaded his gun,

she hid

the ammunition

under her dress,

she said good-bye.

She soothed his last night

with memories

that hateful, blind wrongs

could not

suffocate.

In the dark prison

where they put him

to be alone,

he was not alone,

because she loved him:

something stronger

than bars

and walls

and being born

in the middle of the night.

And then,

after that intended tomb of darkness,

when the daylight

of contempt

stabbed his eyes,

and they hoped

for him to tremble,

pouring all their powerless power

over him

like mud,

he saw her

standing like a light

in the corner

and it was enough

not to break

among all those

brave enough to see another die.

His proud smile,

as the rope whispered

one last chance

to lose

about his frail neck,

was like a final kiss,

a thanks,

and a mirror

that showed her

the power

of her love,

the holiness

of her loyalty

overpowering all her faults;

when there was nothing else to do

she had become a lioness -

she was mighty herself

and mighty through him,

the gallows were his way

of telling her.

 

God bless

the outlawís wife.

As she watched him die

she saw the power of her work.

 

God bless

the outlawís wife.

Holy

as the Mother of God.

 

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Sheís A Spirit

 

Sheís not a woman,

sheís a spirit.

Sheís not a woman,

sheís a spirit.

Donít look at her that way.

Donít look at her that way.

Even when she forgets,

donít look at her that way.

Sheís not a woman,

sheís a spirit.

Sheís not a woman,

sheís a spirit.

 

White Buffalo Woman

came into your life.

White Buffalo Woman

came into your life.

She was never going to be your wife.

She was never going to be your wife.

Even though she smiled like you were the one.

She was never going to be your wife.

White Buffalo Woman

is here for the world.

White Buffalo Woman

is here for the world.

 

White Buffalo Woman

White Buffalo Woman

Mother and Sister of the world

Sheís not your girl

Let her pass

White Buffalo Woman

Mother and Sister of the world

 

Sheís not here

with that kind of love.

Sheís not here

with that kind of love.

Step to the side of her high heart.

Step to the side of her high heart.

Your loneliness is your own concern.

Step to the side of her high heart.

Sheís not here

with that kind of love.

Sheís not here

with that kind of love.

 

Sheís not a woman,

sheís a spirit.

Sheís not a woman,

sheís a spirit.

Donít look at her that way.

Donít look at her that way.

Even when she forgets,

donít look at her that way.

Sheís not a woman,

sheís a spirit.

Sheís not a woman,

sheís a spirit.

 

White Buffalo Woman

White Buffalo Woman

Mother and Sister of the world

Sheís not your girl

Let her pass

White Buffalo Woman

Mother and Sister of the world

 

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Little Boat (Lyrics)

 

Itís just a little boat in a big, big sea

a nice idea drifting on a giant reality

The waves of every defense are rising up like walls

What a time to discover that I really donít know it all

 

And my little boat to make a difference

is being bludgeoned by the storm

Sometimes I want to give it up

and just find some place thatís warm

 

And itís between me and the sea now

darling, with you left out

You donít even know Iím here

or what this lonely death is all about

 

Dreams make hermits and lose love

Obsessions are just victims of the sea

Next time the water rolls up on the beach

please let it touch your feet

 

Let all thatís left of me

apologize for being me

 

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Whatever S***ís In Your Head (Rap Lyrics)

 

Whatever s***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Whatever s***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Bible wonít stop it,

got a bomb, youíll drop it

Koran wonít uproot it,

got a gun youíll shoot it

What a good flag Godís become

now that you killed the Holy Ones

Whatever sh***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Whatever sh****ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

 

Bible, Bible,

what can you do for my trigger finger?

Bible, Bible,

donít say No, take me to an island

in your page

that will my let me build

a bonfire of my rage

 

And God said:

 

Got hate in your aura

go to the chapter about

Soddom and Gommorah

 

Destroy everything below

Be the avenging angel

of things you donít even know

 

Got cruelty in your soul

go to the chapter about

the walls of Jericho

 

kill every man, woman, child, ass, and ox

in the name of what you arenít

go to the doors of happy homes

and break the locks

 

Watch the smoke rise high

cause you got to maim, kill, or own

Sinful city - invent it, then watch it die

 

Love your neighbor as yourself

Forget that part

Love your neighbor as yourself

Forget that part

Whatever s***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Whatever s***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

 

Bible wonít stop it,

got a bomb, youíll drop it

Koran wonít uproot it,

got a gun youíll shoot it

What a good flag Godís become

now that you killed the Holy Ones

Whatever sh***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Whatever sh****ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

 

Mohammed wonít end it

youíll use him to defend it

Jesus wonít curb it

youíll use him to serve it

Moses wonít nab it

youíll shoot from behind his tablets

 

Whatever s***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Whatever sh***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

 

Nothing will hold you back

cause everything flows

through the banks of who you already are

You wonít be changed - youíll change it

Ride the river away from the mountain

to the lowest place

No doubt, no doubt

Jug with holes

only lets the water out

 

Whatever sh***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Whatever sh***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

 

Buddha, Jesus, Lao Tsu, Mohammed and Moses

all came to dinner one holy night

And you poisoned each and every one of them

They came to save you

but first they had to go through you

and by the time they came out

they were just a tool

 

Can you filter out the light?

Can you filter out the light?

Cause someoneís got to die tonight

 

Prism of a dark mind

only lets the darkness through

 

Can you filter out the light?

Can you filter out the light?

Cause someoneís got to die tonight

 

Find the words that kill, and leave them in

Find the words that love, and cut them out

Break the wild horse, the Holy Book,

and ride him to where you already are

A pair of scissors can do more damage

than nine-inch nails

 

And what do you carry God in?

Jug of holes

only lets the water out

Jug of holes

only lets the water out

 

Whatever s***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Whatever s***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

 

Bible wonít stop it,

got a bomb, youíll drop it

Koran wonít uproot it,

got a gun youíll shoot it

What a good flag Godís become

now that you killed the Holy Ones

 

Whatever sh***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Whatever sh****ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

 

The parted seas, they walked into the lionsí den,

they climbed ladders into Heaven,

they multiplied the loaves

but they couldnít raise your soul

you turned them all into blood and gold

Couldnít they see you coming?

Couldnít they see you coming?

Why does a beautiful woman go walking

alone on a dark street,

Why does a beautiful soul give eloquence

to a beast?

They should have left you standing naked

with your hate

 

Go on and pray

 

Go on and pray

that nothing will get in the way

of you and your heart of night

Take a little piece of light

before itís light

it will make the perfect knife

 

Whatever s***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Whatever sh***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

 

Bible wonít stop it,

got a bomb, youíll drop it

Koran wonít uproot it,

got a gun youíll shoot it

What a good flag Godís become

now that you killed the Holy Ones

 

Whatever sh***ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

Whatever sh****ís in your head

is gonna find a way to come out

 

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Big Fat Holy Man

 

Big Fat Holy Man

of the beer-drinking babies,

bring them into the

Church of Pretend

where they donít have to

change a thing.

 

Clap your hands and sing!

Clap your hands and sing!

 

Big Fat Holy Man

of the ticking time-bomb losers,

bring them into the

Church of Carnage

where they can get even

with everything

 

Clap your hands and sing!

Clap your hands and sing!

 

Big Fat Holy Man

of the black sheep nation,

bring them into the

Church of Ease

where holiness is what

youíre already doing

 

Clap your hands and sing!

Clap your hands and sing!

 

Big Fat Holy Man

of the killer deer in the headlights,

bring them into the

Church of you

so you can be the

newborn king

 

Throw out the book of the

naked girl

Snow Whiteís bullets rule

the world

 

Family values start with

guzzling gas

And end with nights of

broken glass

 

Big Fat Holy Manís gonna MC

the holy crash

 

Hallelujah!

Hallelujah!

Hallelujah!

Poke out my soulís eye

so I can join the holy troops.

Hell always travels in groups.

Big Fat Holy Manís easier to follow

than God;

and he hurt less than

the Truth.

 

All hail the newborn king!

Clap your hands and sing!

 

And the firing squad

is getting closer

Holy Manís lining us up

with lies,

just drew an "X"

between my eyes.

Conscience: I deny you

thrice.

 

I donít know you

I donít know you

I donít know you

 

Holy Manís got the keys to life

The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost

just became mob rule,

and theyíre armed with what love

denied you.

 

Big Fat Holy Man

Let him translate God for you

or the lightning bolt of putty minds

in his hands

will strike you down

in the silent space of your

blasphemy

of loving God.

 

Big Fat Holy Man

 

Go into his Church and get the stamp

of approval of the sick

on your forehead and on your wrist

Jesus is the face heís given to 666

And the first shall be last

And the first shall be last

Last in the minds of the deceived

If you got enough soldiers,

you can get through the

eye of the needle.

 

What profits a man to gain the world

and lose his soul?

 

Big Fat Holy Man doesnít care

Thereís lots of clay to shape

before the Pearly Gates

and lots of Heavens

that have no gate

He never saw an angel

and an angel never stopped him

 

Big Fat Holy Man,

for an unholy age

 

Clap your hands and sing!

Clap your hands and sing!

Bow down to live:

all hail the newborn king!

 

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Sword Of A Thousand Idiots

 

Sword of a thousand idiots.

 

Let yourself be used

and youíll go to Hell.

 

Iíve been too soft on you.

 

Loving you,

I forgot who was in the path

of your bullets.

 

She couldíve been my mother.

 

The mother of the me

I need to be,

if I hadnít loaded your guns for you

by trying to understand you.

 

Why did I let you off the hook?

 

I blamed the magician

who pulled you out of his hat:

but rabbits can say no.

 

Sword of a thousand idiots.

You let yourself be wielded,

your broken will fell asleep

like a worthless sentry by your soul,

thieves stole the world

from your murderous innocence.

 

Without you, Hitler wouldíve spent

his life spitting at the statues

he didnít make,

Mussolini would have

thrown stones at pigeons.

What the monsterís isolated genius needs,

your thoughtless numbers always give him.

You are the ones who make the exception

be the rule, the curse of history.

You turn the ruthless loner into

the Queen Bee,

and swarm and sting the world

for her greed.

 

Sword of a thousand idiots.

 

No, youíve gone too far!

 

When you saw the blood,

you still stayed in his hands.

 

Sword of a thousand idiots.

 

He cut and slashed the earth with you.

Without you, he would have spent his life

screaming at mountains that didnít listen.

 

Sword of a thousand idiots.

 

Weaklings always fall prey

to the flatterer

who pets them as they die.

Ignorance loses its virginity

when a child bleeds.

 

Sword of a thousand idiots.

 

I wish I could forgive you.

But the eyes of the dead

are looking back at me.

Tonight, I must

speak for them.

 

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Hitlerís Son

 

Big dog

went ahead

on the path

God gave me

and took a shit.

Now I canít be

myself

without walking in

crap.

 

Itís like being Hitlerís son.

I drew the Hanged Man,

so he could be the Sun.

 

Cannibal ate my heart

to get my courage,

went far in the world,

feeding on what I

couldíve done.

 

Itís like being Hitlerís son.

When I came with the

cure for cancer,

the world came with torches:

burned my house down,

because I was close enough.

They ran from the lion,

and killed the cub.

 

Itís like being the Devilís effigy.

Kick it around

cause he owns the earth.

 

Itís like being an American flag

in Iran.

Set fire to me

cause Iím the only part of it

they can understand.

 

How I hate the man

who locked me out

of my own house

with his sins!

 

I canít get this Hitler mustache

off of my inner beauty.

 

How I hate you!

 

I canít bring more gold

than what you stole.

Iíll always be the grave

of someone they loved.

 

How I hate you!

 

Your life is the

Wicker Man

in which I burn.

 

How I hate you!

 

You sacrificed me,

and God gave you the world.

 

Back to Top

 

Cannon And God

 

Cannon and God.

 

The one didnít come.

 

Crying mother waited,

and the one didnít come.

 

Vengeful brother sat down

by his abandonment

and studied the laws

of gunpowder.

The idea of the barrel

came to him

when he visited

the grave

behind the Church,

the place where his mother

died each day.

How he came to hate

the cross around her neck!

It seemed it strangled her

like the hand of the one

who made her weep.

 

Vengeful brother didnít succumb

to stained glass pleas,

the choir of peace

degraded him.

And one night

he perfected the fury

of his inheritance.

 

The cannonball was like

gold in the rock,

his mind mined it

from the one place

heíd ever been loved.

The flash was his retort.

Heíd invented God.

His enemy screamed Eureka.

 

From then on,

no one ever waited,

the walls came down

because there was no answer.

 

In moments of self-made divinity

the void was filled,

hope returned

as blood.

 

Cannon and God.

 

The one didnít come.

 

Thatís how

the other became

ruler of the earth.

 

Back to Top

 

Experts And Souls

 

Your expert.

Your excuse

not to think.

 

His sin.

Your soul.

 

Ignorance of the law

is no excuse.

 

Your excuse

not to think.

 

One times ten thousand

is one.

Democracy is the bodyguard

of the King.

 

His sin.

Your soul.

 

Ignorance of the law

is no excuse.

 

Book of lies has led

many a good reader

to the grave.

Close the book, write a new one

with your eyes.

 

His sin.

Your soul.

 

Good intentions donít exist

until you own

your

hollow space.

Donít let other souls

fill you up:

itís not a shortcut,

itís a capitulation.

 

Beware the man who knows it all.

 

Beware the man

who knocks on your door

with the truth.

 

The world wonít make sense

in thirty seconds.

 

Drowning men know a straw

wonít save them.

Yet nations clutch at straws.

They canít tell they are drowning

in history.

 

Your expert.

Your excuse

not to think.

 

He spread a carpet

of convenience

beneath your feet.

 

His sin.

Your soul.

 

Angel said: "Birds of a feather

flock together."

Dark mind,

empty mind,

both sink

in the water

of a

burning world.

 

When you wonít climb the

mountain,

you become the killer.

 

A hundred million levers,

but only one hand votes.

 

The one who saves you time

destroys you.

 

Democracy,

Democracy,

what a wonderful illusion!

 

Dictator blossoms, like a flower,

with a million tired people

who climb aboard his mind,

their feet of thoughts

are broken,

they need a

ride

to Hell.

 

The assassin wears a cross.

 

When you think water is land

how can you be anything but a

lemming?

 

Wise within his lie,

because your mind is exhausted

by skies beyond reach,

by iron doors in front of

every heart,

you perfect the logic of the betrayed earth.

You are the angel

he uses to

destroy

what needs years.

 

His sin.

Your soul.

 

God caught you

copulating in the

bushes of

ignorance.

 

The unknown is the

best friend of

the strong.

 

The world wonít make sense

in thirty seconds.

 

Beware the expert

who comes to rescue you from

your confusion.

 

He is an expert of his own lust:

he turns his pleasure

into your truth,

he turns his desires

into the laws of nature.

 

Dictators,

concealed by your

consent:

they rule you

with the bayonets

of your apathy;

your weary wills

are the bombs they drop

on the world.

Have you seen the eyes of the

ones you saved,

staring blindly up at Heaven?

Only you could believe that

rigor mortis

is a form of gratitude.

 

Your expert.

Your excuse

not to think.

 

Put a map on the table.

Open up a book.

The angels have gathered round

your towers

in winged retribution

to watch you

devour yourselves

with goodness.

 

His sin.

Your soul.

 

Like lovers,

passion made you one.

 

Loving what was easy,

you lost the beauty

that comes from struggle.

 

Fever brings the vision.

 

The quickly-healed die

from simplicity.

 

God grows unkind

as the fury of mothers mounts;

their tears weigh more in

his balance

than innocence.

 

There is a point at which exhaustion

becomes murder.

 

No one can be forgiven for the dead child in the street.

You are responsible for knowing

who is driving your mind.

 

Put a map on the table.

Open up a book.

The angels have gathered round

your towers

in winged retribution

to watch you

devour yourselves

with goodness.

 

Your expert.

Your excuse

not to think.

 

Everything you do not seek

can and will be used

against you.

 

Your expert.

Your excuse

not to think.

 

Heil Hitlerís

learned to whisper.

Sleepy Samaritanís

such a good

storm trooper.

 

Your expert.

Your excuse

not to think.

 

One day

the river

of one man

flowed past God

carrying the corpses

of a million minds,

downstream

from conscience slaughtered.

 

Red flowed from the

undiscovered ideas.

 

For one more century,

certainty eclipsed

the sun.

 

But God replies

in the serpentís own tongue:

 

"Conquered ones

are not forgiven.

 

The earth is hemorrhaging

with surrender.

 

The ones who do not defend

their minds

cannot take shelter behind invaders.

 

Stand up for a perception of your own!"

 

The deer who do not run

are the strength of lions,

and the death of deer to come.

 

His sin.

Your soul.

 

When nations go berserk

God has to

put out the fire.

 

They never thought they were wrong.

 

There is no greater emergency

in Heaven

than a little laziness.

 

When nations go berserk

God has to put out

the fire.

 

They never thought they were wrong.

 

Every moment of greatness

made of lies,

has its Noah,

its beautiful exception,

its beloved bleeding one.

 

Youíre no Noah.

 

Empty minds drown with

the wills that filled them:

the Rapture is only

for unbelievers.

 

When nations go berserk

God has to put out

the fire.

 

Time is filled with the pieces

of evil dreams

shattered by

the hardness of

Godís good.

Empires grow stronger

in the time God gives the ignorant

to wake up.

How patient he is with the transgressions

of the deceived!

But finally he must act,

give a weapon to someoneís indignation.

The clock of justice strikes;

it is the hour when the wolves starve.

 

They never thought they were wrong.

 

Is the city on the hill,

or only built upon the pinnacle

of the one who thought for you?

 

Your expert.

Your excuse

not to think.

 

Beware the expert

who stands taller than pain,

and cries from his mind.

Tears that donít wrench a

life off course

are not tears.

 

His sin.

Your soul.

 

The bones of experts

bar the way to Eden.

They were only excuses.

 

Experts and souls.

 

Choose carefully.

 

The darkest sins walk softly

on feet of surrender.

 

Experts and souls.

 

Your mind is the last outpost of Godís will.

Donít let it fall

to an expert.

 

Your expert.

Your excuse

not to think.

 

His sin.

Your soul.

Our world.

Back to Top

 

 

White Crow

 

White Crow

isnít going to come.

Only you

can put your guns down.

 

Angel

isnít going to spank you

or let you drink

from Godís cup.

Youíve got to get there

on your broken legs.

 

Youíre the Sabine women

who were raped:

the only ones who can step

between the spears.

 

Heavenís died

a thousand deaths

between right and wrong;

the signposts that point up

are pointing to you.

 

Crying all night long.

Do you need a sign?

 

Do you need to see her

standing on Tepeyac Hill?

 

The glowing light is your pain.

Sheíll come to you

with a bowl of choice,

with the wine of doubt in her hands:

drink if you donít want to listen.

Sheíll never prove

it didnít come from you.

 

Crying all night long.

Your eyes have given you

the answer.

 

Angel wonít enforce

the obvious.

Sheís no succubus,

she gave you the world

with your name.

 

If you have to see her

not to dishonor her,

you arenít worthy of her.

 

White Crow

isnít going to come.

Only you

can put your guns down.

 

Back to Top 

 

Please Like Me

 

I like yellow

I like blue

I like purple

I like brown

I like red

I like black

I like white

I like green

 

Please like me

Please like me

 

I like hot

I like cold

I like warm

I like cool

I like high

I like low

I like everything

in between

 

Please like me

Please like me

 

I like tangy

I like tart

I like salty

I like bland

I like spicy

I like plain

I like bitter

I like sweet

 

Please like me

Please like me

 

I like war

I like peace

I like truth

I like lies

I like justice

I like crime

I like doubt

I like belief

 

Please like me

Please like me

 

Stone for you to chisel

with my eyes watching you.

 

Youíll never know.

 

Iíll change before

you know who I was,

and I was never anybody

but you.

 

My religion is you liking me,

and Iíd burn a thousand meís

at the stake

to preserve the faith.

 

Please like me

Please like me

 

Such a simple formula to live by

 

Please like me

 

Back to Top

 

 

 

 

Non-Pride

 

Once you bite

of the apple of

non-pride,

you will stand aside

till time

drips every last drop

of apathy

into the grave

of Man.

Donít let

the good Samaritan

take you

by the hand.

You have an appointment

with the

north wind.

 

Walk, Man,

or ride the last

beautiful horse:

donít sit on a wagon

or

the whole world dies.

 

Back to Top

 

There Fell The Woodland God

 

There fell the Woodland God

who never said I canít,

whose toil rang out

in the wilderness

scattering thoughts in stone

upon the hillside.

 

There fell the Woodland God

who made the autumn mask,

who made the smile

deep with woods

upon another face than his,

who drew mysterious visages

among fallen leaves,

awakening spirits

from the footpath.

 

There fell the Woodland God

upon his back,

helpless like a dream

that the waking mind

has lost.

Green leaves about his head,

years of proud labor

like a broken crown

after the history books have moved on

and stripped the king of power,

weeping legs that would not answer,

his heart disconsolate without mourners

to stand beside his overthrow.

Time, at last, caught up

with his fearsome, tender spirit,

his tall standing

in the depths.

Pan is dead!

Pan is dead!

The holy flutes cry out

in language

invisible to the ears

of those

who sat upon the throne

of his self-devouring.

 

You could see it coming

from years away,

hear it advancing down the path.

A man

doomed to fall like a green tree

on a clear day

whispered, through branches,

by the sun;

as undeniable as a snapped twig,

or birds that have stopped singing

above a footstep.

 

A secret of the forest, he let go his axe

that made the trees be born again.

 

There fell the Woodland God,

carried away in the night,

his smile and his death cry

so alike.

Only mute woods knew him -

and those few who were brave enough

not to speak

when he sat alone.

Step softly, friend,

where tomorrowís flowers grow,

there fell one

whose life rang out

in unseen beauty,

a brother of mine.

There fell the Woodland God:

the Woodland God

is dead!

 

Back to Top

 

Hate Her, Hate Him

 

Four

Six

Eight

Ten

 

Two goes into

every one

 

Hate him

Hate her

Hate me

Hate something

 

Hate yourself

goes into

every one

 

Back to Top

 

Humpty Dumpty

 

Humpty Dumpty

hated himself.

Humpty Dumpty

fell off the shelf.

All the kingís horses

and all the kingís men

were killed

by Humpty Dumpty

not wanting

to be put together

again.

 

Back to Top

 

Dress Well

 

Dress well

youíre going to die.

In the clothes of valor,

dress well.

Hold your head up.

Weak knees, go,

I donít need you

since thereís no chance.

The bell rang clearly,

dark and proud,

the bell rang clearly

with every undone thing.

Beautiful broken heart,

donít ruin this defeat

by saying, "PleaseÖ"

Stand up, tears,

now that everything I loved

has fallen from my eyes,

thereís no reason

to say no.

Dress well,

youíre going to die.

Ancient warrior,

walk the path again.

Tall tree

wants to fall

with green still

in its soul.

Nothingís left,

where did it all go?

Nothingís left

but one last thing,

the graceful gesture

of going through the door.

Light is in the dark,

power is in just lying there.

Coffin or vision,

I donít care,

Iím crumbling towards something.

Let me bleed

till I turn white.

Donít try, just fall,

trying is

never blossoming.

Let it come.

The darkness,

the emptiness,

stop pretending,

let it all

fall on your head,

dying in the collapsing temple

of yourself

is an honor,

it is like the moon

not coming back,

waking up the night.

When they cry "fire"

donít run out of your dream.

Itís time to die,

thatís all.

Donít do it for them,

and donít flinch in front of them.

 

Dress well.

Youíre going to die.

 

The Captain goes down

with his ship.

The warrior

goes down with his soul.

Beaten until you canít stand,

the pain becomes a kind of sleep

sweeter than holding onto crap

by your fingernails.

You didnít back down,

you were beaten back

into the earth,

maybe youíll

come back

as a mountain.

 

But first

itís time to sleep it off.

After you get through

the doorway.

 

Do it right.

 

Dress well,

youíre going to die.

 

Walk proud,

make their cowardice rise.

Shine like a star

burning with the fever

of all the light

it canít get out.

A star vanishing from the sky

that has not relinquished being a star,

is the brightest one of all.

Those who could see its absence

amidst all the other burning lights

that mar the night

could follow the blackness

all the way to the

Messiah.

The one whoís sleeping

in the stable

of your afterlife.

Heís not of this earth.

He needs you to go.

 

Dress well.

Youíre going to die.

 

You no longer

have a purpose

or excuse.

Shed the ancient wrinkled skin

of your mind

that led nowhere,

and crawl out new:

or perish!

No compromise,

no compassion,

no loophole!

Fall down, and

die,

donít return

as the one

who clung

to life.

 

Dress well.

Youíre going to die.

 

The bell spoke

in clear words

of gold, ringing

in the ears of fear.

"Your days are numbered.

Be who I put you here to be,

or be no more!"

Dress well,

youíre going to die.

Worms are waiting,

or the wings of eagles.

Tombstones,

or crowns.

The middle ground

is a killing field,

extremes are where truth lies,

after all.

Wipe away the dust

of sweetness to yourself,

climb the freezing mountain

or be frozen

by the shadow

of the mountain

that is too steep for your talent.

 

Dress well,

youíre going to die.

Itís about time.

The angels have come,

the unsparing angels,

and the fierce women

with swords

who flash amidst

the lightning,

the braided ruthless lovers

of greatness.

Theyíve come

to rip you

from the soft harbor

of the earth,

to hurl you

into the night

of screams

and flowers.

The night

of the true self,

the holy nightmare

none dare to dream,

but those who cannot live

without it:

and this sickness

is proof

that you are

such a one.

The chasm

of this spirit sickness

that has opened, gaping wide

beneath your prudence,

to drop you

and all your wisdom

into a pit

of fire.

 

Dress well,

you are going to die.

Soon.

Will she be there?

It does not matter.

You will be there.

 

Dress well,

you are going to die.

The bells are ringing

with the euphoria

of your death.

 

Warriors are born

this way -

and if they should

die, in being born,

it is a prouder way

not to be.

I cannot last much longer

the way I am.

Something is on the way.

And I pray that I will meet it well.

I pray that I will meet it well.

 

Back to Top

 

Funeral Procession

 

My whole life

is a funeral procession.

Iíve been carrying

myself in a coffin

away from pain

towards even greater pain.

Iím the stone lions

guarding the door

to my

tomb;

pallbearer

of a beautiful dream

I wouldnít

risk losing

by living.

Cracked angels

line the way,

clapping hands

they donít have,

cheering

without throats.

There wasnít enough

clay to give them

wings,

I kept it all

for my misery.

 

Ashes to ashes,

dust to dust.

 

Maybe someone else

will do my work.

 

Ashes to ashes,

dust to dust.

 

Once you choose pain

by running from pain

youíll never get enough.

 

Back to Top

 

Soldier Fading Out

 

Persona non grata on the earth.

Ainít nobody gonna miss

this soldier

when he falls.

Friends never came.

Enemies never stopped putting him out.

Conversations hid

in the halfway house,

touches ran till they forgot.

God wrote the word

IRRELEVANT

all over his life.

Divine graffiti,

and why not?

After all,

itís His walls.

Soldierís dreams were used

to fertilize

fields of black flowers,

whoever said

God

wanted roses?

Fools imagine

the Universe

is like them,

maybe weíre just strangers here,

singing beautiful impossibilities

out of tune:

the stars,

and the dirtballs that were left over,

skid forever

past our hopesí

failed brakes.

Paradise is booed

off the stage of reality

by empty stones

we try to rescue

with a chisel and

a motherís face.

Oh Father, Oh Father,

why hast thou

forsaken me?

If we canít make it happen,

why should He?

Warm and powerless refuge,

where are you

to help me survive the night?!

Soldier fading out.

Nobody said stay.

Fighting to the end:

but without a soul country

to defend,

the end

canít be far away.

I wanted your eyes

and what they stood for,

but you clung to our

distance.

Maybe you were right.

Not much left of soldier, now.

Maybe you were right.

Soldier fading out,

fought his war already,

wheelís turning

towards the next generation

of graves.

Soldier fading out.

Nobody said stay.

 

Back to Top

 

Flies And Horses

 

Beauty

standing in the midst

of dirt throwers.

Rise above

Rise above

they say.

Angel mind

will never fall

to misrepresentation,

to label-assassins

plucking strings

of the ignorant mind.

Call the mountain

a pile of dung,

and it will

still be a mountain.

But how many people

have ever climbed a mountain?

How many people really know?

Far removed

from direct experience

with Truth,

lies flourish,

barren lands

blossom with false knowledge,

the world

becomes a

Garden of Eden of

someoneís hate.

 

Survival of the Fittest -

itís not the Fittest -

itís merely the self-destructive

impulse of history,

Godís little joke

hidden inside the brawn

of nations,

and the souls of broken men

who are the dark-eyed engines

of nations.

 

Beauty doesnít fall

because itís weak,

it falls

because itís too strong

to become

anything else.

 

Flies can kill horses.

 

Flies can kill horses.

 

I choose beauty.

 

Back to Top

 

Unsheath Yourself

 

Unsheath yourself,

I need your sharp point

to make the night bleed,

until its face turns

pale

into dawn.

 

Unsheath yourself.

I did not make you

into a weapon

to sleep

through the crying.

I made you to awaken

with the coldness

of love disobeyed.

 

Unsheath yourself.

I did not make them

to be raped and pillaged,

I made you to stand between them

and the ones

who came to uproot them

from the garden of souls

too beautiful

to fight.

I marred you

with ferocity,

to be their savior.

 

Unsheath yourself.

You lament my absence,

but I made you.

You decry the horrors that I permit,

but I made you.

I do not permit anything evil to happen,

you do,

by remaining in the

cowardly scabbard

of avoiding me.

It is you who

broke the balance,

you who did not hold up your end.

You who unbound the misery

and let it run wild in the streets.

Praying to me,

you lost the world.

 

Unsheath yourself.

 

Pray to me no more.

 

Unsheath yourself.

 

Back to Top

 

Hitler, Hitler

 

This poem is based upon the persistent rumor that Hitler actually had Jewish blood, a secret which he guarded and attempted to suppress by every means possible throughout his life. Although the veracity of that rumor is highly suspect (Ian Kershaw, Hitler: Hubris, p. 7 - 9), the very idea, nonetheless, provides a compelling platform for dealing with the issue of self-hate.

 

Hitler, Hitler,

were you a Jew,

did you hate yourself

that much?

 

One night

on the mountain

you met the Burning Bush

of your own self-loathing,

the impossibility

of ever being happy.

The fire of fatherís beatings

and something wrong

inside

spoke to you

in the voice

of a new Reich.

 

Hitler, Hitler,

were you a Jew,

did you hate yourself

that much?

 

You broke the cross

to kill the map

of everything that wasnít you,

and was you.

You never wanted to win,

you had to be

the last one

at Auschwitz,

underneath the ruined building,

the ruined world.

 

The Gods are fated to die,

and you couldnít bear

to wait.

 

So you looked into the mirror

and marked yourself

for death.

You looked into the world

and turned them all into you.

Soldier slaves

ordered into coffins,

deceived by glory,

conquered slaves

painted with the color

of targets

to stand out

in the dawn that

humiliates darkness

with the sun:

the drunk sun that

staggers into Hell

with its

misplaced

rays of gold.

 

You cut your victims out,

like dolls from the paper

of Godís love,

so you could throw them

into the fire

burning in your heart.

You ran from the rumor,

the shadow,

stole light from

the nine candles

to give to fierce

processions

vivisecting the dayís black resting

from itself.

You kicked in windows

and filled trains

but couldnít get it out of you,

couldnít eliminate

every last thought of despair

and doubt,

couldnít turn, into ashes, every last book

that was deep enough to drown in,

every last soul that might say No,

or whose Yes

might prove there was nothing.

You couldnít send it

all away.

Everything you threw out

just kept

coming back.

You couldnít stop

digging graves,

there were so many of you

to bury.

 

Hitler,

crippled Moses,

thief of Moses,

Moses running back to Egypt,

you wanted to

drown beneath the tides

with chariots and horses,

break the promised land

with a lie.

Or just keep building pyramids

for your nightmare father,

bow down to the belt in his hands

while you killed him.

You dropped poison manna

on the desert,

embellished the desert

with desolation;

the black groaning skies

rained all your

contradictions

upon the earth,

your admirable will

and your despicable blindness,

the shrapnel of your inner world

exploding everywhere,

tearing apart

ramparts of wombs,

generations

of children loved by angels,

hated by you.

You ordered the seas

not to part,

forbade miracles

that did not come out

of the steel belly

of death,

that did not have an engine

or a gun.

You made the desert

more a desert,

you gladly starved

the world

to get at yourself;

somehow, your bullet

had to go through

everyone else

before it could finally

reach your head.

You came down

from the mountain

with tablets

from the pit,

commandments of hate

spreading gasoline

over the wood of nations.

You came down from the

lowest point on earth

with your sacred

trigger-happy rule:

Hate others as you hate yourself.

You turned

your suicide

into

a global event.

Your wound became history,

you made sure to share your misery

before it broke you:

you took us down

with you.

 

Hitler, Hitler,

were you a Jew,

did you hate yourself

that much?

 

Back to Top

 

Megalomaniac

 

Megalomaniac.

 

Little Boy

protection.

 

So small:

that big he must now

be.

Turn the ant upside down,

become DADDY.

 

Megalomaniac.

Beat down

so bad

you canít get back up

by standing,

you have to fly.

 

Your past just blew up,

like gunpowder

in a barrel.

You canít ask

a bullet to walk.

 

Iíll show you wrong.

Iíll show you wrong.

Iíll get there.

To the place you couldnít reach,

even though you

made the house shake.

 

Megalomaniac.

Piece of crap

will fight back

with his name in lights,

throw nations around

to prove you wrong.

Tyrants die

when their victims

rise up from the dead.

When they see

moths mating

in the moonlight.

They couldnít stop them,

no,

they couldnít.

Xerxes lashed the waves,

until the ocean

covered the earth.

Iíll kill you

by not dying.

 

Megalomaniac.

Stone walls need a

giant dream

to carry you out.

Smash through

like a battering ram

made out

of his fear,

just walking out the door

wonít do.

Moderation is

anticlimactic,

and that is

lethal.

A slave will never be free

without drama.

 

Megalomaniac.

Theyíll name a town after me,

a town

that will finally

bury you.

Theyíll fight a war

to drive you

out of my brain,

change the map of the world

to leave you out.

Iíll write a new Bible,

make all good things

be the opposite of you,

youíll be last,

even though youíre the angel

whispering holy words

into my ear.

 

Megalomaniac.

The only defense

against being nothing

is

being everything.

No, thatís not quite true,

I have room for them -

itís only you who wonít fit,

except at night

when my blood comes out,

when weíre reunited.

Like a hermaphrodite

rolling about the earth

unto itself,

making love and

hating

with no one else

to intervene,

weíll change the world together,

your power

will become my power,

every time you hit me

Iíll strike back

by doing something great;

compress me

so I can expand,

hurt me so I can run,

tell me I canít like a jockey

whipping his horse to victory,

expose me on the mountain

to die,

so that Spirit

can find me

like the good shepherd,

to turn me into the new King.

 

Megalomaniac.

I canít help myself.

Thereís nothing

in between you

and the Colossus

of me.

I have to go there.

I have to be that.

I have to prove you wrong,

be beautiful and loved,

for injustice only exists

when it destroys

something thatís loved.

I have to turn

what you did into a crime.

I have to rise so high

your lies

canít keep up.

 

Like a gosling imprinted

with a parent,

any dwarf who shows up with a club

can become a giant,

rule oneís mind,

own you and hold you down.

Itís all a question of timing,

a simple matter of

who gets there first.

Only a real giant

can defeat

a giant who never was.

And thatís why.

Thatís why

I have to go

to the ends of the earth,

thatís why

I have

to dig a canal

between the seas,

and walk on the moon,

thatís why I stand here

waiting for arrows of poetry

to pierce my heart

from places

I canít see.

I have to be above you

to survive you.

 

I have to

kill you a thousand times,

to be sure.

I have to erase you,

eclipse you,

obliterate you,

and Iíll use anyone

I have to,

to do it.

 

Megalomania.

The only cure.

I pray that mine

will be useful,

help humanity.

But I have to be great.

Because of you,

I have to be great.

I hope I can control

the speed.

I hope I donít hurt anyone.

But I have to be great.

Because of youÖ

 

Back to Top

 

White Horse, Gray Herd

 

The door of light

opened,

who can go in?

Who can live

in the field

on the white horse

when the thunder

of the gray herd

shakes the food

from the trees?

Who can fly

with butterfly wings

through guillotine

skies,

who can walk

on water

with lead loves,

lead families,

lead worlds on

oneís shoulders,

depending on

lead lies?

Janus Spirit must close his eyes

so Janus Stone

can see the

hammer coming.

 

Back to Top

 

Cleaning Lady To A Spiderís Web

 

Human World

Other World

sometimes donít fit

 

Got to take down

this spider web

or theyíll say

I didnít clean

 

Got to break

spiderís home

so people

donít break mine

 

Back to Top

 

Little Boy Black Lightning (All The Way)

 

All the way.

The ones I like

went all the way.

Past the sign

that said "Turn Back."

Past the hour hands

that said

no more time

for that.

Past the empty glass,

past the parentsí pat.

Past the day

before the snakeís venom,

the day of bites

that teaches everyone else

to be daring

inside a canal.

How rivers

despise canals!

 

All the way.

The ones I like

would do anything for the light,

they never learned

the language

in which "dark"

means "light",

and "good enough"

takes the place of

"Destiny."

They never

opened

the dictionary of numbers,

where the shadow of clubs

that shattered skulls

hijacked by dreams

casts its dark spell

over possibilities,

they never stopped,

never slowed down

so that they might be a part

of the consensus

of defeat.

 

All the way.

The ones I like

went all the way.

Little Boy Black Lightning

is turning off the road

now.

For a while

he was like the foam

that gives the wave pride,

its plume

as it charges the shore

with nothing but its

ocean patriotism.

But now

heís running back

to the ones

he was never going

to become.

How he used to cut them up

with his game

of being different.

 

All the way.

I like the ones

who go all the way.

Brothers

in self-destruction,

because the light

is booby-trapped.

He never should have

come out to play.

Judas

went halfway.

And Little Boy Black Lightning

has nothing more

to say.

 

Back to Top

 

Dead Skin

 

Dead skin.

Wash it off,

shining new sun

underneath

yesterday.

Her or me

or just

a new prism?

Multiply the rays,

let flocks of colors

break free

of the one

word for light.

New world

was always waiting

for the old one

to crash.

The cracks in the window

are like a newbornís cry,

morning and baby

made it

through the night.

 

Dead skin.

Wash it off.

I was always there,

under you

and your terrible pride.

You gave my love

the evil eye,

and used black magic

to keep me

in the closet.

 

New day.

When you said

I was nothing,

I laughed inside,

one too many blows

made me fly.

Sometimes

a beating

is all you need

to

become beautiful.

 

Dead skin.

Wash it off.

Lies,

the fool in your eyes

was supposed to be me,

but I turned the coat

inside out

now Iím wearing my soul

instead of yours.

Some peopleís self-serving fears

can turn a column of dolphins

playing in the waves

into a sea monster,

turn the whole ocean

into a grave.

Theyíll recruit you

to join the crusade

against yourself,

then mask it as

a complex.

Iím not your hand

and I donít have to

go to your mouth.

I picked the grape.

 

Dead skin.

Wash it off.

False meís

piled on top of me.

I donít have to be

what you want,

or where you want.

 

Today,

Iím reclaiming myself.

Deciding to like myself

again.

The subtle, murderous abuse

is at an end.

 

Iím washing the dead skin off.

 

Underneath is me.

 

Back to Top

 

Sublimated Man

 

Iím sublimated man:

I can turn your bed

into miles.

 

Sex-chariot, engravings of winged lions

with your inlaid eyes,

can cut through

hours of history-darkness

without your skin

to take away the charge.

Lightning dies

when you kiss it,

and there are worlds

to scorch.

 

Iím sublimated man:

a giant mental penis

wearing armor

without the danger of

a woman.

Donít throw yourself

in front of me,

the horses

of what you do to me

will run you over

on the way

to Armageddon.

 

Iím sublimated man,

know your place.

I donít need you beside me,

I need you to be my wheels,

and my wound.

Not having you

will make me

want to kill them,

having you

will make me be

their prey.

 

Iím sublimated man.

Perfume poisons lions,

embraces steal

warriors from their dark wisdom.

The spear between the legs

only sets tomorrow

back to today,

the spear plucked

from its source

is free to fly

with all the power

of being empty-handed:

to pierce the future

with a new direction

or catastrophe.

 

Iím sublimated man,

ancient and unsaved.

Your love

is what

drives me,

and what makes

loving you

impossible.

 

Back to Top

 

Alliance Of Angels

 

I belong to an alliance

of angels

who do not want to fly,

we sit each night

and exchange golden alibis.

I will stand by you

and you by me

while the world burns.

Iíll say I couldnít,

and youíll believe me.

Your impotence

will prove my faultlessness,

my concealment

will exonerate your uselessness.

In flightless brotherhood

below abandoned skies

weíll find a thousand reasons

to stand aside,

hidden by the tears we shed,

declaring innocence by mourning

as the world dies.

Below the path of wings

we would not unfold,

who will find us here,

so far from home?

Angels are imperfect,

only men are perfect

and do nothing.

Ten times the light came to us,

and ten times we said no,

because we had each other.

 

I belong to an alliance

of angels

who do not want to fly.

We are the power of the night.

We have each other.

 

Back to Top

 

Jaguar Jade

 

Jaguar in jade

 

held in my hand

 

stalking my heart

 

Devour it

 

make it dark

 

After the eclipse

 

the sun will be wise

 

Jaguar will go back

 

into the night

 

hunt new prey

 

hunt with new eyes

 

Back to Top

 

Thror, Great Thror

 

The following poem is based on a novel I wrote during my adolescence, perhaps based upon an unconscious knowledge of my life trajectory. Thror was an aging and lightly-regarded warrior who rose to the occasion during a crisis in which more socially successful and respected leaders faltered: things left undone in life, powers saved up and not squandered by compromise, all came together with stunning force once hope seemed lost. As such, Thror became a personal symbol of the possibility of redemption late in life.

 

Thror,

great Thror,

I need you now,

I need to become you.

 

The hour is getting late,

the enemy is upon us.

The young ones,

the ones on top,

have failed,

their mountain

has fallen apart

in the rain.

 

Thror,

great Thror,

I need you now,

I need to become you.

 

Old-man-cage,

let out the beast

your love of others

kept contained.

Look at all the blood

you spilled

by letting fools

be fools!

 

Old-man-prison,

let out the sage

you condemned

in order

to protect the ignorant.

 

You burned the world down

with kindness!

 

Thror,

great Thror,

I need you now,

I need to become you.

 

The last battle has come

at the end

of a useless life.

It is time to set free

Betrayalís child

of gold!

 

Rain - cold rain - fall on him,

awaken him!

Warrior, fight your way

out of being good,

God is waiting

for you to fall.

 

Thror,

great Thror,

I need you now,

I need to become you.

 

Bewildered, they stand

like children waiting

to be struck down.

They stand helplessly,

in all their armor,

in need of a thought,

in need of something

which their victories have

crushed.

 

Defeat is the

last garden.

 

His cue

is the rain

that does not stop.

 

Thror,

great Thror,

I need you now,

I need to become you.

 

Thror,

great Thror,

I knew you

long ago,

in lifeís

bright sun.

But you needed storm clouds

to come,

you needed the end of

the earth.

Now, at last,

the door is open.

Deathís nearness

has changed the mathematics

of impotence:

Zero has become

more than nothing -

it has become

the power that makes

One

vast.

 

Thror,

great Thror,

I need you now,

I need to become you.

 

What has already not happened

does not own my last hour.

I believe that the power of the lionís leap

comes from the obscenity

of his hesitation.

Memories forgotten

by not being made

finally catch up with you,

give you the freedom to be a ghost

while youíre still alive,

to haunt the life you should

have lived

with the most precious

piece of what you donít have.

No, I am not over.

There is one more night to live

before the bell tolls.

One last deluge of me

to pour over the earth

for the woman who said No,

and the God who said When?

 

Thror,

great Thror,

I need you now,

I need to become you.

 

Back to Top

 

In One Night

 

Written, in the midst of melancholy over things not done, upon finding an unexpectedly-blooming plant beside the window.

 

In one night

this magnificent flower came.

Still, I will not cry

for who Iím not.

 

Back to Top

 

I Only Believe

 

I only believe

Iím a fish

when Iím in the

water.

Swimming, I believe.

Gasping for air on

dry land,

I donít believe.

What should be

the proof

only makes me too weak

to believe.

 

Back to Top

 

Sir Isaac Newton Tropical

 

Sir Isaac Newton Tropical

under the mango tree.

Laws of Life

are still waiting

to be described.

We know that objects fall;

the earth keeps us

by crushing us,

it tries to swallow us

but the rocks

get in the way.

So rocks

are the real heroes, here.

Some ways of

sheltering

are merely

deceitful ways of

imprisoning.

Some embraces

are euphemisms for

ingestion:

but the rocks

get in the way.

God bless the rocks.

 

One day an apple came

like a secret code

telling us

who we cannot be

and where we cannot go.

Balloons

like angels

play with the destroyer,

create utopias

in our earthbound minds,

rescue us

with the despair

of not

being able to go

where we dream;

all other escapes

depend on fire.

We burn our way

out of our blue home

to take our spit

to the stars,

or else come back down

with nightmares

neatly packaged

in

brilliant steel,

to blind the cyclops-eye

of cities

that donít

know the password.

Apocalypses

filled with demons

need to know the law

of gravity.

Hearts never cleaned out

pull down

intentions,

which makes

world-endings

fly.

And Gravity understands it all,

itís the medium

of unreachable beauty

that wounds us

into doubling

the power

of our filth.

We want

to say

I did it,

so we

become

gravity ourselves,

we race the earth,

try to drag ourselves down

before it can.

We learn how to make our

poison fly

for a moment,

just enough

to empower

our helplessness:

the invalid conquers

his disease

by becoming it.

 

One day an apple came

like a secret code

to the head of

Sir Isaac Newton

of the North.

What if it had

been a mango -

and landed on his heart?

What if the laws of Life

had come instead

of the law of gravity,

exuding sweet juice

and histories of taste,

ambitions of pleasure

and visions of powerless love

while the planets

just watched?

What if the laws of life

had come, instead -

not cold laws

shaping cold plans,

freezing everything

inside the borders

of the mind?

 

Sir Isaac Newton Tropical,

go and sit beneath the

mango tree!

New clocks of

joy are waiting

to be set

by your discoveries.

 

Back to Top

 

Poem Incomprehensible

 

A poem

nobody needs to understand

but me.

Talking to myself,

speaking in tongues.

Itís coming from my God.

 

The physics formula

of my life

is coming out on the blackboard

of my undecipherable exhibitionism.

Did you go to the MIT

of me?

Then you wonít get it.

I just scribbled the Universe

in front of you:

Time being digested in the

intestines of

Space, which is really

only the loneliness

around storms.

Nothingness is the aura

of what moves.

For you, itís only a flood

of symbols and numbers,

even though itís really

your motherís milk.

 

This is my poem to me,

feel free not to understand it.

Thereís no reason why you

should learn Greek

if youíre not going to Greece.

 

This is my poem to me,

Iím dancing with the paper

because Iím alone.

Iím giving away my secrets

because tomorrow might not come.

 

My life is the sound

of an orgasm

meditating.

 

I have come to preach the sound

of the bullets that always miss,

which ring the temple bell

of what the ages

cannot lose.

 

I am the fallen Mongol

awaking as a tear

in the eye of China.

 

I am the broken eagle

of the Chancellery

lying at the feet of

what it soared above,

when, for a brief forever,

the sky believed it

was the ground.

 

I am the kiss

into which the Universe will

collapse

after its fleeing is destroyed

by the thought

of escaping into serenity.

 

The Universe will not accept a

lobotomy,

history will continue to

babble incoherently,

conferring eloquence

upon the brave.

 

I preach in madness,

to myself alone.

Who knows the Sibyl,

but the God

who is breaking her

in his arms?

 

Back to Top

 

Slash The Gordian Knot

 

Slash the

Gordian Knot.

 

A thousand closed doors

stole our patience

until we stopped

saying no.

 

Nothing was left

for the complexities.

 

Grab her,

procreate,

roll over,

watch him hit him,

sleep,

fall from the clock

into the gauntlet.

 

You canít turn this blood

into gold,

sweat out love

in the modern sweat lodge.

 

Nothing was left

for the complexities.

 

The thousand closed doors.

 

Till we said yes.

 

Slash the Gordian Knot.

 

Armies, guns.

 

Baby Zeus played

with thunderbolts.

Then we came.

 

Slash the Gordian Knot.

 

Problems with a hundred heads.

 

Nothing was left

for the complexities.

 

Who was going to say no?

 

When you wait your whole life

for a good feeling,

for a real feeling.

 

Grab your wife in the dark.

Grab a country in the dark.

 

When you wait your whole life

for a good feeling,

for a real feeling.

 

Slash the Gordian Knot.

 

Nothing was left

for the complexities.

 

The thousand closed doors.

Of course

you charge through the one

thatís open.

 

The one they opened.

 

Slash the Gordian Knot.

 

Who was going to say no?

 

Nothing was left

for the complexities.

 

Slash the Gordian Knot.

 

Slash it!

Slash it!

 

Slash the Gordian Knot.

 

Did I say it already?

Slash the Gordian Knot.

 

Back to Top

 

The Nation

 

Man stole fire from the Gods

to make the nation.

 

A hundred million weaklings,

plugged into the wall of history,

can light the world up

in its own image.

The voltage of

a hundred million defeats

can electrocute

the one who is above attack,

in the form

of those who speak

another tongue.

Battered clay

grows invincible beneath

a helmet.

 

I am nothing

said by multitudes

is the secret of

earthly power.

Great souls,

disdaining the pseudopodia

of what is less,

remain emaciated.

Genius

is no match for

an avalanche

of mud.

 

Man stole fire from the Gods

to make the nation.

 

There is no other yardstick,

once stories have been told

around the campfire,

than who is left standing

after helplessness

explodes.

 

Slaves are always the fiercest ones.

 

Beat the bull,

demean him in a dark tunnel

below the sand,

and heíll charge

at any cape

you wave at him.

The horns of

knowing heís nothing

will find the

blood

you choose.

 

Nothing alone

means huge together.

Who else would wear the

single-minded uniform,

and dare to stab the eye of love

with the sharpened point of

his impotence?

 

Who said revenge had to find

its real father?

When you have been

hurt enough,

there is no such thing

as a case

of mistaken identity.

 

Come together,

wounded ones!

 

A hundred million wounds

can be healed

with a transfusion

of the worldís blood.

 

A hundred million wounds

never needs to come home.

 

Man stole fire from the Gods

to make the nation.

 

Was it not said?

The meek shall inherit the earth:

the meek wearing steel.

 

Weak with weak creates a lie

that cannot be disproved

on the earth.

Whip-marks on their back,

but they never turn around.

Itís whatever lies in the direction

their eyes have been pointed.

Somehow, the guilty ones

always have gold

underneath their feet.

 

Come together,

wounded ones!

 

Too late to be you;

still time to be

melted in the furnace of anger

and beaten into

a sword.

Youíll think youíre better

when youíre dead.

 

Man stole fire from the Gods

to make the nation.

 

Have you ever seen

a field filled with blackbirds?

One man comes and claps his hands,

and the birds take off.

In the same way,

frightened souls scatter

into the sky of the ambition

of the one who God cast out.

There are magicians

who redeem the weak

by using them.

It doesnít matter if itís only in

their minds:

phantom limbs

are the guardian angels

of those whoíve lost

their legs.

 

Man stole fire from the Gods

to make the nation.

 

Nations are the bartenders

of the earth.

 

What other invention could have

kept the weak from

hanging themselves?

What other invention could have

kept the weak from

becoming strong?

 

Come together,

wounded ones!

 

There is a shortcut to everything youíve lost,

itís called the nation;

you can serve it without walking,

you can serve it without seeing.

 

And the meek shall inherit the earth:

the meek wearing steel.

 

Man stole fire from the Gods

to make the nation.

 

Back to Top

 

Eye-thumped The Universe

 

Eye-thumped

the Universe,

God is really dead.

 

Or is He only

at the bottom

of the winter pond,

like a frog

buried in the mud

until warmth

returns?

 

Eye-thumped

the Universe,

God is really dead.

 

Or is he only

hibernating at the bottom

of your war?

 

The more you

say itís for Him

the farther away He goes.

 

You both know it.

 

Make the sign of the cross

over a bullet,

and God pukes up the world:

Heís got a weak stomach

for His own name

when it comes out of a gun.

 

Eye-thumped

the Universe,

God is really dead.

 

But itís not your fault.

They put you on the wrong plane,

it didnít land at the reason.

Too late nowÖ

When youíre there,

reflexes take the place of God,

they have to.

Youíve got to be the first

and the fastest,

think I donít know?

No time to check your soul-pulse,

anything thatís not ammunition

has got to be ditched,

even this poem.

And I mean it.

Your mother deserves

a son.

 

But somewhere,

Hell is burning

for those who knew.

 

Eye-thumped

the Universe,

God is really dead.

 

Or is He just waiting

for the world to go back

to the soft eyes of the first deer

lying on the ground,

when all a little boy could do

was cry?

 

Back to Top

 

Winter Angel

 

Winter angel

wearing a snowflake

while God makes a phone call,

hoping to find someone higher up.

Thereís days when God

needs a God.

 

Winter angel,

proxy God while the war

is raging.

Sheís got breasts

to feed the world ice,

but knows enough

to give us each other

instead.

 

Winter angel

in the cold interlude

between forgetting and remembering.

Thereíll always be divinity,

no matter what the temperature.

 

Winter angel,

spread your wings,

love us until the spring.

Love us until

God comes back.

 

Emergency generator.

Emergency god.

If you suffer enough,

youíll never be alone.

 

Winter angel,

spread your wings,

love us until the spring.

Love us until

God comes back.

 

Back to Top

 

Light The Pipe

 

Time to take it all in.

 

Time to sit down

and light the pipe,

enough running around.

The answers are scattered all around you.

You never read

what you wrote.

 

Time to take it all in.

1980 was a big year.

You got beat up

in the first minute,

and didnít let it come.

Beautiful things stayed in the closet.

Then came 1983:

1983 destroyed you

with your complexity and your pride;

and a powerful manís

chance for revenge.

Heís dead now,

but his tower stands over the grave

of one of you.

Itís the year the library

of Alexandria burned downÖ

 

1984 the swans took off,

their wings

drowned out

losses,

became the dream.

But one swan

got lost in the other.

2000:

two swans fell out of the sky.

No Y2K,

just the tragedy of 20 years

of turning into glass,

until one good-bye

could destroy the world.

1989: the blood of lost love

stained the bed

of the wild sister,

I rode with her in the car that night

and became real.

1993: she faded, too,

she was Electra and Clytemnestra ,

she stopped watering the rose

because he was gone,

by her hand of not caring

for ten minutes.

1995: the inner candle was lit,

my soul looked into itself,

and fell in love; God left the back door

to me open.

But then came 2000, the year

already mentioned,

and it didnít matter; I might as well be dead.

Hating myself,

I forced

the horses to turn back into mice.

I didnít want the carriage

to go anywhere.

I put on the rags of

not believing,

because she was gone.

Giant of clay feet -

the woman who was my feet

is gone!

 

I was always propped up

by somebodyÖ

 

Time to take it all in.

Twilightís like a good smoke.

Look down from the hill before

night relieves the vista.

Beautiful, beautiful life

not lived!

Youíve been living something else,

not your life.

A kind of hurtful sleep

of running.

 

Youíre so strong

to endure your

cowardice!

But donít hate yourself,

that would only be the final blow.

 

Time to take it all in.

Light up,

and stop running,

stop walking.

Stop everything!

Even this poem must come to an end.

Smoke and look,

smoke and look,

nightís coming soon

to help you out.

Anything left?

Donít rush to find it.

Wait for it.

The sun disappears:

donít go running after it,

youíll miss

the moon.

Stay out and wait.

Smoke and do nothing.

Stars will appear soon,

the night can

become a kind of day.

Stop running around

and youíll see.

 

Take it all in.

 

You knew the answers

long ago,

you just never took the time

to listen.

 

Back to Top

 

Put Your Feet On The Ground

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

Then you can be

with anybody,

or not be

with anybody.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

Stand on the earth

God gave you

and you wonít ever

let yourself

be ridden away.

You wonít ever

let a fool

on top.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

Then no beauty

will ever make you crawl,

no threat

will ever

make you drop

the gift.

Your legs

meet the earth

like the night

meets the coming sun,

while there is power in them,

all things will be well;

anything that makes

them weak

is wrong.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

Answers will come.

Test her

with the feeling

that comes up

from the earth,

if your legs

lose contact,

say no.

Standing strong

matters more

than happiness.

Birds fly south,

the earth stays;

below the snow

the earth stays.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

If they donít believe it,

donít breathe

them in.

Lies and truth

both wear

a thousand masks,

theyíll fool you

all night long,

only your legs will know.

Walk and tell.

Walk strongly

with the perception

that lets you walk strongly.

Great strangeness

is the birthright

of the earthís

biological children.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

Approval

on the way to death

is meaningless.

Rejection

that comes from the outside

is outside its

jurisdiction.

Inside

youíll know,

once youíre willing

to be the only one.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

Stop worrying.

If she likes you,

if she doesnít,

if she respects you,

if she fears you,

you donít need

to bow down

to her weaknesses,

you donít need

to submit

to his misunderstanding.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

For the first time,

feel you,

be you,

itís your first

obligation,

it comes from a higher place.

Let selfish ones

call you selfish,

let self-seekers

call you egotistic,

let fools,

exposed by ten thousand years,

call you the fool,

because you donít fit

seamlessly

into their poison history.

Sometimes,

you must disconnect

in order

to connect.

Pour out

friends who come with conditions,

in order to pour

the world in.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

That way,

youíll never be alone,

which means

you can be alone

until silence

rises, to create again.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

The Universe

needed emptiness

to be born.

It needed all the suns to go out,

it needed endless blackness

and formless dust

to begin again,

to collect the debris of prisons

into the wombs

of giant spirals,

to hurl new chances

into the void.

Life was always there,

like water is in ice,

like ice is in steam.

Ages of nothing

had to come first.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

Losing everything

is painless

once you know

how to stand

on the earth,

because it is impossible.

Your legs are the bridge

that wonít ever let them

isolate you.

Being a hermit

is sacred

when itís necessary.

With your feet on the ground,

exile is the highest form

of companionship.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

That way,

you wonít ever have to

hate

or run

just to keep yourself

from being killed,

youíll know

how to be yourself

in the middle

of storms

of ignorance.

Since no one

can bring you anything

better than

you and the earth together,

you wonít be overpowered

by things that shine;

you wonít give away

your unknown purpose

for lesser things

that everyone can see.

If she comes to stay

youíll love her to the end,

if she comes to

take you away

from you,

youíll treasure

the color of her wings,

as she flies away.

Beauty was never safe,

why die

pretending?

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

Feel the power

coming up,

the power to be you.

Let them look.

Let them reveal themselves

for who they are,

they donít know

the first thing

about you.

Feel the power

coming up,

itís between

the earth and you.

Only you know.

Once you let yourself feel,

youíll never

make a mistake.

Youíll do and be

everything in harmony

with what is,

they wonít be able

to make you

miss a note.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

Menís greatest weapons

canít protect them,

their armor,

their warnings,

their hiding places,

their threats

are all easily broken,

like the hard shell of a cockroach

on the floor.

One angry foot from Heaven

is all it takes to show whoís who.

 

Put your feet

on the ground,

itís the only path to invulnerability,

which means

youíll never die

the wrong way.

Like King Midas,

everything,

even your death,

will turn to gold.

Once your feet

are on the ground.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

 

Donít try to be

above the earth.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

 

The earth and you

together.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

 

The only secret I

have to whisper

in your ear.

Watch me live

by it.

If I can do it,

youíll know

what I mean.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

 

Then

watch me no more.

 

Put your feet

on the ground.

 

Back to Top

 

You Wonít Get Nothing Back

 

You wonít get nothing back.

Most people are cowards.

People-sellers.

Betrayers.

Run-awayers.

Tough times come,

excuses blossom

like a hydraís heads.

People lose their sight.

The moment of truth almost always

drapes you in a cloak

of invisibility.

The power-person

puts a yellow star

on you,

and friends

run for cover.

Even "Good morning"

seems like an act

of treason.

How easy it is

to become a germ!

No,

donít waste your time

being noble

for insurance,

back-up is something you only pay for:

you never get it.

No, donít be noble

unless

itís what

you aspire to

in spite

of the asymmetry.

No, donít be noble

unless

the beauty of your own blood,

given alone

in the cold rain

on a blind day,

moves you

more than the

contemptible self-protectiveness

of those destined to rot

on thrones.

Nobility is an act of

intimacy

with God,

it has nothing

to do

with the world.

 

Back to Top

 

Blessed Is The Soldier

 

Blessed is the soldier

who dies

for what he believes in,

pray that he is not

wrong.

Sad is the soldier

who dies

for what someone else

believes in

with his blood.

Herded by anotherís

pride

into the killing pen

of mud.

Over the top,

given to guns that didnít need

to be awakened.

Into the uniform

of the hated,

surrounded

by justice,

or just the same level

of transgression,

thatís come to eat him

for someone elseís

sin.

Trapped in the crossfire

of those who sent him

and those

who want to set fire

to those

who sent him.

Theyíre both killers.

Bullets firing

from his gun

are but a coffin.

Bullets

that canít reach

the chess player

reach the

pawn.

All that pain

and fear

and diarrhea,

rat-death in a hole,

for someone elseís mistake.

Good-bye mother,

good-bye girl,

time to go,

nobility locked behind the door

of a crime,

itís hard to die well

in Hell

without Heavenís flag

in your hands.

And you know.

You just know.

Itís like a drowning rat

trying to

crawl out

of rising water.

Itís not fair.

But Godís still there,

Heís not

afraid of

history,

heíll do anything

for a soul.

 

Blessed is the soldier

who dies for what he

believes in,

pray that he is not

wrong.

 

For all the rest,

thereís God

waiting at the end

of the night.

 

Back to Top

 

Lori Piestewa

Mamaís coming home

as snow.

Wear me on your coat.

Go outside to play,

Iíll be falling

all around you,

cover you with love

just like in the old days.

 

Mama was a soldier,

went where she was told,

gun in her hands

was an invitation,

uniform said "Go ahead,

shoot",

mama wasnít mama

over there.

 

Mama was a soldier,

I hope they were right,

the ones who took me

away from you

to fight for something

that seemed so clear

until you were alone.

 

Who will take care of the Earth now?

Who will take care of the Earth now?

Please donít die Mother Earth,

please donít leave your human family.

 

Please donít die Mother Earth,

please donít leave your human family.

 

Mama was a soldier,

brave before the war,

single-mother-brave,

bullet didnít prove anything:

we already knew.

Warrior heart, Peace heart,

Mama fell between the two.

 

Mama was a soldier,

the way I fought for you

is the way I fought for them.

With you I knew

what I was fighting for.

With them, I could only guess.

I hope it wasnít the spirit

of broken treaties

coming back to haunt us.

 

Mama was a soldier,

but itís over now.

Snow is coming down,

pure white, in spring.

Flowers, wait a minute,

let me say good-bye.

 

Who will take care of the Earth now?

Who will take care of the Earth now?

Please donít die Mother Earth,

please donít leave your human family.

 

Please donít die Mother Earth,

please donít leave your human family.

 

Snow is coming down.

Mamaís coming home.

 

The hearts that sent her are black,

but pure whiteís coming home.

 

She might not say it,

but I say it, with an apology,

to her.

Cause I didnít hear her say it.

 

The hearts that sent her are black,

but pure whiteís coming home.

Little sins

canít stand up to forgiving tears.

 

Canít you see her coming down?

Mamaís coming home.

Look, Mamaís coming home.

 

Who will take care of the Earth now?

Who will take care of the Earth now?

Please donít die Mother Earth,

please donít leave your human family.

 

Please donít die Mother Earth,

please donít leave your human family.

 

Back to Top

 

Three Fates

 

Three Fates

spinning destiny,

history is late.

What do you want,

three sisters:

a husband,

a child?

Why take it out

on us?

 

Three Fates,

weaving time

and powerlessness,

why so much death

in the fabric?

You, who have the

colors of life,

why do you dress

the earth

in black?

 

Three Fates,

spinning the wheel

of the future.

Perfect weavers,

why these flaws,

why these heartbreaks

torn into the

winter coat

of the lives

we must live?

What can I give you

to make you

change your mind?

What can I do for you

to make you love us?

 

Three Fates,

spinners of uniforms,

spinners of black veils

of mourning,

spinners of rags

after the Bomb has

stripped us

naked

of the cities we wore,

spinners of golden dresses

that burn the bride,

why do you bind us

in clothes that fit?

 

Three Fates,

almighty sisters

of the cave that decides,

throw out the dark cloth

that goes so well with

our fever-ridden face,

spin us something

we are not ready for,

spin us something

we must grow into.

Give us a chance

to be who we arenít.

 

Three Fates,

what can I give you

to make you

change your mind?

What can I do for you

to make you love us?

 

Back to Top

 

Nations And Lovers

 

Nations draw

lines between themselves.

One colors itself

green on the map,

one colors itself

red.

Beds create danger,

wanting to be "one"

canít last.

Disintegration,

as a moment,

is ecstasy;

as a relationship

itís death.

Nations draw

lines between themselves.

Lovers

must be nations.

Even holding hands.

Walking together,

there must still be

deep solitude.

Orgasm

is a capitulation

that must have

clear walls,

when it goes too far,

the treaty

is broken.

Loveís throat

isnít Lifeís throat,

one of them should be exposed

to wolves,

one should

be guarded

with the fiercest

vigilance.

Mothers donít leave

their children

in dark woods.

Lovers must not leave

their souls

in the wilderness of

a kiss.

 

Nations draw

lines between themselves.

Armies watch

strips of land

elevated to greatness

by the accident

of being between

two minds.

Lovers need armies

to counteract

the foolishness

of hearts.

Hearts

leave souls

behind.

The smile of her face

descends

from Mt. Sinai

with commandments

of self-destruction.

Everybodyís afraid,

everybody

wants to

close the holy road.

With well-drawn lines,

love skirmishes,

and retreats back to

love.

Without lines,

love invades,

and kills.

Souls wake up

in the winter time.

 

Nations draw

lines between themselves.

You and I must be

careful with each other,

thereís too much love.

Weíve got to cool down,

love each other

at the right temperature,

something more than friendship

and less than murder.

When respect begins to burn

like a book

in a Nazi bonfire,

loveís gone too far.

Go on, break in,

take each otherís body

for a joy ride, but donít forget:

there are souls involved!

Be wary of love:

swim in it,

but come up for air.

 

Nations draw

lines between themselves.

Lovers,

draw lines between yourselves

before love turns

into hate.

 

Back to Top

 

Iron Ring

 

Iron ring

stand inside the iron ring

 

Come to me

within the iron ring

 

or keep your tresses of fire

for the dry leaves

 

Ring of iron

around the soulís bed

No whore

whoís after a black horse

No rapist

seeking a low place

to flood

will ever get through

the ring of iron

Godís ring -

for a man

 

Iron ring

love me inside the iron ring

 

Donít give up your wings

but donít take mine either

 

I live inside the iron ring

 

If you want to see a whale

go to the sea

 

You know where to find me

I live inside the iron ring

 

No mystery

I live inside the iron ring

 

"Bring me the flower

from the seventh door"

the priestess said

"beyond the suitors turned to stone

Prove your love

before the judges

of the heart

 

old robed men

who come shuffling down the halls

of desire

with candles of who they were

 

heads of dead lions

and bodies of the young

 

Hurl your ship

into the waters

of my bodyís reign

I am the ruler of the earth

I have blossomed

into godhood"

 

"Goddess" I reply

"I kneel

with a poem only

 

Nothing else can leave

the iron ring

 

Whatever Grail

whatever flower

whatever gold

whatever blood

you seek from me

can come from nowhere else

but from within the iron ring

 

The ring of iron

in which my slave-self

sleeps eternally

out of the reach of powerful hands

like yours

Never can beauty awaken

what the soul

has not learned to treasure

After Godís lightning has struck

a manís weak spot

the skeleton

of his dreams

becomes the

king

of his final days

 

There is no more time

not to be himself

 

I donít know where paradise is

but I know where it isnít

 

Itís not outside

the iron ring"

 

Iron ring

stand inside the iron ring

 

Come to me

within the iron ring

 

or keep your tresses of fire

for the dry leaves

 

Back to Top

 

Ape In A Cage

 

Ape in a cage

Ape in a cage

No wonder

heís browsing through

catalogues

of disease

looking for a way

to die.

Self-destruction

is the only worthy substitute

for miles of green treetops

he shared with birds

that the pale faces

of voyeurs have stolen so

that they can watch him

playing with a tire.

 

Ape in a cage

Ape in a cage

Mountain wearing green,

beautiful face wearing the veil of

a cloud

that fell.

Fruits swarmed about him, then,

serving him joy,

and when the rain fell

it only made the sun count.

Underneath his

hat of leaves

he grew great within the sound

of dripping water,

never dreaming of Man.

 

Ape in a cage

Ape in a cage

What a disaster,

to be saved by bars,

to be ripped from the

uncertain green and

surrendered to the

invulnerability of a

gray box.

Devoured by his easy,

useless life,

heíll spend

the rest of his existence

masturbating

in a corner of his

enormity.

No wonder

heís playing with fire,

jungleís calling him,

last drops of green leaking

in through

dark paths;

when youíre an ape

in a cage

you take what you

can get,

climb any

twisted reminder

of a tree.

 

Ape in a cage

Ape in a cage

Shakes the bars again -

how boring!

No wonder death is growing

on him,

like a cosmological theory

that seems to put

the stars in order.

Green knife,

cut the gray!

Ape in a cage

wants to go away.

Sickness is like a sweet

trumpet,

calling him home,

angels donít look the same

when youíre in a cage -

angels have to change

their shape to

squeeze through the bars.

And your nightmare

is his friend.

Swinging through the

green trees of his will

one last time,

ape in a cage

is only looking

for the way home.

 

Back to Top

 

Road Of No Return

 

Road of no return.

Canít come back.

It could have been another

but itís not.

Three forks in the road

and now itís this one,

this deep hurt road

winding through

a forest

of fallen leaves.

 

Sometimes

one longs for the unknown

of the forsaken path;

the glory of yesterday

does not wear

a crown of thorns,

it moves as easily as an eagle

soaring above

a canyon of pain.

 

But that glory is unreachable,

as is the logic behind it.

 

Blunders

climb upwards

like the steps of a pyramid,

itís the hour to meet the God

of who you are

and who youíre not.

You wouldnít be you

if youíd accepted

the gold coin

Fate put into your hand.

 

Road of no return.

Canít go back.

The fool

got you here,

donít rag on him now.

When the music stops,

sit in the chair thatís closest.

Clay is tired

of the potterís

indecision:

Make me into something

before you die!

Itís a sin

to experiment

with yourself

forever,

better a monkey

than a half-made man,

better a tiger

than a gun without bullets.

Brilliance comes

when perfection

falls.

Youíll never know:

one day

you just have to

plant your flag somewhere

and make a stand.

Otherwise,

youíll only evolve

into what you

couldnít leave.

 

Bad

Good

Better

Best.

 

Aim for "Better",

"Best" is just a decoy

working for "Bad."

 

Road of no return.

Discomfort

proves you are there.

How do you think a butterfly feels

once he has shed

the grace

of being a caterpillar?

Halfway between an angel

and a worm,

itís like being

a teenager

all over again.

The adolescence

of the old man

growing towards God

lacks the endless power

of the young

rushing towards love:

shield of hormones

is stronger

than shield of understanding.

 

Everything sacred is doubted.

Everything else is a blindfold.

 

Road of no return.

If Iíd Only: the God of Collapse.

I Didnít: the God

of Wisdom.

Time says:

put your pencils down.

This is who you are.

Grow within

your current

misunderstanding.

 

Donít rip yourself

apart, and throw

the timber into

the fire of

the new you.

Youíll only burn up

everything

youíve struggled for.

 

Road of no return.

Itís too late

to go back,

one leaf in the wrong place

changes everything.

 

Ancestors walked across

the Bering Straits

when there was land there,

but then the sea stood up,

and said you canít go back.

So they stayed.

Get used to your new country.

Believe in the genius

of your mistakes.

Believe in the hand of God.

Stupidity is the weapon

angels use to slay small visions

that get in the way of great ones.

 

Road of no return.

Youíve washed up on an island

in the middle of nowhere;

you might as well call it home.

Crying for your shattered ship

is a way of drowning.

 

Road of no return.

Stand tall.

Right or wrong

in the
Mystery,

stand tall.

 

Choose boldly

from the wardrobe

of mistakes,

mount the twilight

like the last

rays of the sun.

Give gold to the

night.

Dare to be

half of yourself.

 

Road of no return.

Your only alternative

is to go nowhere.

 

Road of no return.

Take it.

 

Back to Top

 

Laughing And Running In The Sun

 

Swing low,

but for you.

 

Sometimes Iím

ready for the

chariot

to come down

from on high.

Leave cottonís

new face

for someone else

to kiss.

Then I see you

laughing and running

in the sun.

 

You got here

down the road of chains.

Ruined, humiliated bridges

brought you

from the past;

the blood of

the dark continent

was spilled

to rescue

the world

you pass through.

We donít deserve it.

But we love you.

Your beautiful face

is more than a history lesson.

 

Somewhere,

down there in the

cargo hold of what Man

has done to Man,

there was a soul that

didnít have a single reason to live,

except for what you

might be

when God woke up.

Imagination

came in the night

made another slave,

took another step

towards you.

 

I know I canít complain

in the shadow of that.

But slavery doesnít

like whispers of itself,

it wonít mind.

I wonít kill my tears

just to be fair.

I feel like breaking.

Even though the weightís

been lifted,

I feel like breaking.

 

But I wonít.

 

Iíll wear these fetters

for another day,

because youíre there,

reminding me.

 

He wasnít wrong.

His chains were on

the way to you.

 

He wasnít wrong.

 

Iíll wear these fetters

for another day,

because I see you,

laughing and running

in the sun.

 

Back to Top

 

When You Love Me (Lyrics)

 

When you love me

the world will be saved.

Itís a strange thing to say,

but I know itís that way.

When you love me

the world will be saved.

 

Peace and the Earth go together

Moon and Night

Sun and Day

You and Me

 

When you love me

the world will be saved.

Itís a strange thing to say,

but I know itís that way.

When you love me

the world will be saved.

 

All history long,

love has been missing life

and life has been missing love

Eagle wants to know

how to be a dove

Fire feels fine till itís burned away

everything it needs

Victory always becomes defeat

and thatís when angry souls

go deep

 

When you love me

the world will be saved.

Itís a strange thing to say,

but I know itís that way.

When you love me

the world will be saved.

 

When the sun comes back into the sky

When the water comes back into the sea

When you come back to me

The world will be as it was meant to be

 

Peace is the secret

behind the tears

 

And peace begins with

you loving me

and me loving you

 

When you love me

the world will be saved.

Itís a strange thing to say,

but I know itís that way.

When you love me

the world will be saved.

 

Peace and the Earth go together

Moon and Night

Sun and Day

You and Me

 

When you love me

the world will be saved.

Itís a strange thing to say,

but I know itís that way.

When you love me

the world will be saved.

 

Back To Top

 

Seven Angels In Stone

 

Seven angels in stone

the healer made,

a sculptress and a wanderer

by trade,

who stayed in the place

the mountain died

for a thousand days,

killing it

with her vision of the damned,

turning it into faces of love.

 

For their families, they were

like angels fallen,

the sick: ambushed

by ecstasy,

stranded by lives given

to the same half;

fathers caught them dancing

around the golden calf,

and closed the door of blood.

Loyalty blows away like sand

in the wind of pride.

Abandoned sperm sent to war for

the sake of lust,

sons broken by contempt

who lost the force of life.

 

But then the angels came,

from a hand that knew not one of the

dying,

but had looked death in the eye

through the eyes of a friend.

She melted the stone faces and

made them warm,

gave lightness to the rock

and wings more powerful than neighbors and

fathers. She brought her friend

back from the dead with the thought

of keeping him alive in others.

Crouching amidst the hedges

by the fountains of the dying,

the angels sang mysterious tranquil

smiles, offered hands

not cold, like human hands,

though made of stone,

to bless the lost and raise the damned.

When stone cares,

life holds on.

People die

because the whole world

is trying to stamp them out.

 

Seven angels

made of stone

pardoned the tainted lovers

before the bell of the Muse

could toll

for a job well done.

The sculptress vanished,

her work complete,

like a cicada that sings

and dies.

 

But the seven angels in stone remain.

Go worship by them

where an infinite human heart

met the outcasts of the earth

halfway,

in the place where God forgives

what Man has damned.

Go worship by the sculptressí

tender, calculating silence.

No sickness can withstand

love that comes from stone.

 

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Rising Sun Over My Heart

 

Rising Sun

over my heart.

Nightís ending.

Sweated the fever out

with poetry.

 

Rising Sun

over my heart.

Cut my veins

and let the black blood

out.

The first-born of Egypt

were spared.

 

Rising Sun

over my heart.

The dark dug down

all the way

to where the water is.

A lot of people are going

to drink from this well.

 

Rising Sun

over my heart.

Itís over:

the night.

It couldnít break me.

Night is the boot-camp

of the light.

Iím not the same man

who went in.

 

Rising Sun

over my heart.

Sure Iíll cry again,

but tomorrowís tears

will be different.

Now that I broke my

rose-colored glasses

and looked my

nightmares in the face,

I can live here.

 

Rising Sun

over my heart.

Finally, my heart

is ready

to rise for you.

 

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