POEMS & LYRICS BY JRS XIX

REPETITIONS

 

Act of Defense

Water of Love

Angel Made of Mud

The Girl With One Foot

Recurring Theme

Thirst Was Made By Your Eyes

Lynx

Somebody Who Loves Them (Lyrics)

Sex In A Barren Land

Love In The Time Of Cholera Remix

Lossathon

Artemis

Touch Deprivation

Obsessions Defeated And Victorious

Ground Rules Of The Hostage

Step Into The Clear

The Beaten Army Of Love

Parting Of Old

Red World

Going Blind

Stone Love

Frozen River

Fool

Ten Flights Of Stairs

Call It

Shake Hands On The No

Repetitions In Life

Donít Depend On Me

Wolf Man

The Soul And The Fish

The Wayward Bird

Holy Man, Holy Woman

Repetitions (Lyrics)

A Vulgar Expression Of The State Of The World

For Pablo Neruda 

The Humiliation Of The French Collaborators, Paris, 1944 

Below The Surface 

Congestion

Hildaís Blitz Krieg Of Self-Denial

Personal Paradigm Shift

Room With A View

Soul Proof Window

Another Soldier Home

Captain Of The Ship Of Fantasy

Warrior In A Bottle

The Camelís Back

Science Lobotomy

The Compass And The Sun

What Did You Do With The Magic Moment?

Wise Man

 

Act of Defense

 

Tiger made the arrow,

you made the poem.

 

Itís not an act of vanity,

I have to ward you off -

your absence off -

which is the most powerful you.

 

Tiger made the arrow,

you made the poem.

 

Itís not about being an artist,

itís about not being ripped to shreds.

Iron words wrapped around me

so you canít get through

even though you already did.

 

Tiger made the arrow,

you made the poem.

 

In the jungle your savage grace

mocked my thoughts.

Low to the ground with feline wisdom

in serpent sisterhood

to the earth,

no need for sky,

eagle of the ground,

you sucked the life out of my

mind,

who could run like you,

leap like you,

tear my paper world apart

like you

in callous, self-contained magnificence?

Pages, pages, thick with words

dug from the depths of my mind

like the mind-flash of the arrow

changing man from infant,

forest from grave,

I fortified my paper barrier

against you

with infinities stolen

from your breath,

gave the weight to words

and pushed it off my

broken chest

with poems.

Like Cleopatra smuggled in a carpet,

I rolled you up

inside my talent

and sent you away

from my jugular tears,

I articulated you into harmlessness

one night at a time

before the sun of you

returned to demand new blood,

compelled me to pierce my tongue

with cactus

and drip reflections of you

on pages

of worship.

 

Tiger made the arrow,

you made the poem.

 

This isnít literature.

This isnít poetry.

This isnít art.

Itís you and me,

naked gladiators

in the arena

of love

badly translated.

Mixed-signal mayhem

in our hearts

on the sand of

things that went wrong:

right from the outside,

but wrong,

so wrong.

Who would believe the fairy tale

of what we could have been?

Swords in hand,

love, unspoken, on the sand.

Yes, Iím mad,

condemned to a lifetime

of writing about it.

 

Tiger made the arrow,

you made the poem.

 

This isnít literature.

This isnít poetry.

This isnít art.

Itís an act of self-defense.

Yes, weíre friends.

Fifth column

of the heart.

 

This isnít literature.

This isnít poetry.

This isnít art.

Itís an act of self-defense.

 

Tiger made the arrow,

you made the poem.

 

It never happened

itís all in your heart.

 

This isnít literature.

This isnít poetry.

This isnít art.

Itís an act of self-defense.

 

Iím going to survive you.

 

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Water Of Love

 

Water of love

wanted to go to everything.

 

You made the channel.

You made the channel.

 

Kept it away.

Water of love

wonít flow into your bedroom,

wonít go away.

You built three walls around your city,

three walls of water,

three moats

of me

to keep me away

from your whisper-hungry ear,

your frightened body,

the statue of gold

that turned your eye

into my detractor,

your non-existent man

shaped from dreams,

your dragon-ideal

that guards

the fruit on the tree

that the water of love

feeds.

The rejection tree has

roots

that reach deep

into me:

I give you the strength

to deny me.

 

Water of love.

Water of love.

You made the river bed

with your childís finger in the earth,

drew the map

of our relationship

in the dirt,

and I poured through the wound

rushing towards

the intimate entrance

to your soul

but found myself

meeting the ocean instead

with only a hint of you:

your childís laugh,

your womanís hurt.

Timeís bleeding

from the ground

from the cut

you made for

me to live in:

your cut,

my water of love.

Where it flowed

was always your decision,

from the day

I realized

who you were.

 

Water of love

slowly drained my soul,

trying to reach you

through your perception.

Time to be a

cloud again,

flow up,

the vertical river bed

is mine,

my tears

want an answer

that only I can give.

You had me

and let me go,

will you ever know

the importance of love?

Beautiful river bed,

will you ever know

what passed through

you?

 

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Angel Made Of Mud

 

Angel made of mud

doesnít believe itís mud,

thatís where its wings come from.

And thatís how God made men and women

from clay.

He gave them self-respect

and they rose above their

material,

they believed in the purpose they

invented,

not the destiny

they inherited.

What was inside them, then,

burned like fire.

Who saw the ugly house

with all the light

exploding out of the windows,

with mountains of brightness

erupting like

genies from every opening,

from every hole bitten by brilliance

into the mundane

and the pointless?

Beggars arenít rags,

theyíre the way

they carry themselves.

Walk like a king,

and a crown

will appear

on your head.

Donít let others define you,

donít let them seep into you with

their ignorance;

turn peopleís

judgments

into a gauge of their character,

in the center

of the storm

become the judge.

You wear the robe of authority

when you

irrigate

the accident:

believe me, it will turn green.

 

Angel made of mud,

forget what youíre made of and

where you come from.

Forgetting is the first

principle of

genesis.

Forget.

A halo will burst into being

above your amnesia.

Forget.

God forgot

which is how his divine pottery

turned into men.

His toys became real:

one day his daydream

pinched itself with armies

and said, "Ouch!"

One day his clay woman

cried out in ecstasy and said,

"Thereís something more than biology,

thereís love."

The baby was an afterthought,

and that was

independence.

 

I can see your

face melt

in the

meditation of

sex:

back off, eternity,

the gun of

my second of life

is loaded!

 

Angel made of mud.

Donít be what you are,

be what you hate yourself

for not being,

itís as easy

as shaping clay.

Elope with Godís creative daughter,

divinity is not copyrighted,

imitation is sacred;

for the wise,

it is inevitable.

 

Angel made of mud.

If she doesnít see you,

sheís not the one.

We donít fly,

eyes fly and lift us up into the sky

with their sight.

Once charity

realizes itís only the veil

that hides

the glory of the universe

sculpted into the form of a man,

youíll bow down

of your own free will

to everyone.

Pity is crushed

between Godís hands of reverence

and obligation.

 

Stop this heartsick dismantlement of the self!

You need to find someone

with flying eyes!

 

Angel made of mud.

If she calls you mud

by not rushing into your arms and

promising the night with a kiss,

pray for her,

sheís more alone

than you.

Believe in the

power

of the inside horse,

throw off the imposed rider.

Donít let yourself be invaded,

no matter how beautiful the eyes!

Donít succumb

to your naked imaginary entwining,

donít try to be a

perfect lover to the blind.

If youíre a painter,

remain a painter,

even though sheíll never see

the shouting roses of your soul,

or the blue teardrops of her lost opportunity.

Donít try to convince anyone

outside of your stronghold.

When you do, you just stay mud.

Angel made of mud.

Time to fly away

in

someone elseís flying eyes.

Clay cracked:

something real grew inside

the womb of fantasy.

Angel

come out

and attract your

soul mate,

the days of being made of mud

are over.

Youíve forgotten yourself

into beauty.

 

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The Girl With One Foot

 

The girl with one foot,

when she used to have both,

used to dance by the sea.

The waves danced

with her,

she was worthy of the ocean.

Though it stretched from

Africa to America

it wanted her

for its wife;

she was the joy

of the two continents

it touched,

the light of its life.

"Come dive into me,"

it sang with bouquets

of splashes

thrown

at her feet,

with gifts of fishes

to the hungry

who lived beside her,

and horizons

for poets

searching for a song.

 

"Come dive into me,

Iíll caress you into being a

dolphin, and cover you with love,

engulf you in the

ecstasy

of being a part of me";

but she only dabbled

on the beach,

danced where the white foam

gasped its last breath,

danced where the pounding surf

died

of love,

danced the most beautiful

fear

with all the protection of the

ocean near,

wearing earrings

of seagullsí voices

in the wind

and the jewels of empty shells,

tossed as trinkets

to the child self

in which the woman hid,

never wanting

anything

more than a father.

"Let the woman free!" the ocean

roared, violent only to itself,

with storms of longing

that would not let

the world sleep,

tormented by the

thoughts

of the deep.

But the woman

could not

get past the

child. Not

even the sea

could set her

free, get her to

let her hair down

by the human face of purity:

its need.

And all night

the ocean

tossed and turned

and breathed

with the whole earth

trapped inside its

dream of her.

Until the morning came

and she, who had locked

herself among

strangers,

lost her foot

in an

accident,

stepping on the land mine

of an old war

waged against her soul

as she carried

flowers

to the market

to embellish

othersí

bluffs of love.

White ceiling of pain!

Imitations of doctors

looking down

at her

with blood on their

gloves

and lights,

like they shine in

the eyes of prisoners,

illuminating

their coldness:

all perceived in a helpless

daze.

How much better

to be helpless

in the throes of love!

"We couldnít save it,"

they said

on the way back

to their garden.

 

Now alone,

without a man, without a home,

the girl with one foot

dances with her eyes.

The ocean gently

watches her limping thoughts of

yesterday,

and sighs,

he returns each day to

the sad spectacle of her ruined

dance,

builds the beauty

suggested by it

into what itís not,

connects the broken dots

with the intentions beyond

her reach,

creates her dance again

from the pieces on the

beach.

Though he has other

lands to reach,

in loyalty to the fantasies

of his past

he stays beside her,

promises her years.

He watches the broken

bird fly

in its tears.

 

The girl with one foot

would not,

and then she could not,

for only

dancing

could she live as a dolphin

in his midst.

Now there is nothing

but this; no raw material

for the

metamorphosis.

As always

it was

only in her mind.

The girl with both feet

in her prime,

the girl with one foot

past her time,

never deserved a thing:

thatís where they cut her,

that was her wound.

Thatís

why she always went

back

to her darkened room

after testing the

sun.

 

Ocean still loves her,

watches her dancing eyes

when sheís not looking,

when she forgets.

He kisses her phantom limb

at dawn,

waters her shore,

and then moves on.

The earth wonít let him

stop there,

wonít let him stop being the ocean

for her sad eyes.

It was always her

choice:

to be a part

or stay behind forever

with a

broken heart.

 

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Recurring Theme

 

First there was Eve,

then I gave her a face.

There was the Garden of Eden

and the Fall from Grace.

 

Running under the black clouds

with the

serpent below

and the lightning above,

I hid my shame

in a new love.

I lost the exact words of her,

but Eve remained.

Like hot wax

poured into a new mold

by my need,

I reshaped and

renewed the recurring theme.

The earth moves;

so do our hearts,

towards necessity:

St. George of my nature,

slay the dragon of sin!

When itís knotted around your breath

itís muscles earn the right to

ravage

the gardens of

invention.

Itís too strong to be called obsession.

Our deepest loyalty is to the

thought,

not the expression.

 

And I can say Eve

a thousand ways.

 

Eve, Eve, what faces

will you wear today?

From what naked form

or robe of

maddening discretion,

from what bath you step from dripping wet,

or body beautified by hiding,

will my captivity be born?

 

You are too magnificent

for this to be perversion.

 

From which direction will you come?

Into what night will you fade?

Though I lose you today

youíll never go away,

tomorrow

has a thousand names.

 

And Eve is always first among lost things.

 

Timeless like the pyramids of stone

that faced down

the desert,

like the Sphinx

with its nose blown off by fools

that endured its scars,

the vices of men,

with dominating patience,

broken, forgotten everythings

topping from the bottom of history

with queens who ruled kings

and warriors who carved the

emptiness

into empires

to impress,

to instill willingness into flesh;

mating dances of wars,

inventions, poems to light a fire

in the eyes of the

harem slave,

now burst out of servitude

like the

goddess of liberty

who all come to,

to suckle

from her proud, free breast.

 

Eve was always mistress

of the Universe.

One great holy place

or islands in the sea

that the broken ships use

to limp to port

one storm at a time,

she is the eternal spirit that keeps

the human race

revolving around

itself,

she is our

blindness, and

the door to

God.

 

Eve, who lives half outside me

and half inside my mind,

the burning image

that is the compass of my life,

the dancing rack

upon which I hang

every worthwhile thing I am,

the ground beneath my feet

that stops the falling

and tells me what it is

to be a man,

what she responds to,

what her hands reach out for:

there the earth takes shape out of the void,

there I stand.

Everything else is wind and sand.

 

Eve!

Eve!

Donít leave me!

Break another mask,

make me bleed with poems

for another

lost disguise,

illusions of you,

glances of you in the mirror

that look like her,

youíll never run out of faces.

Even in despair,

if I donít lose hope,

if I kiss the air,

one day, again,

Iíll find you there,

you never go.

She goes, Eve,

she always goes,

but you stay.

The part inside me stays

until it reels in

another match

from the sea of loneliness,

you change your shape

and elude my past.

 

Sad I am

by my broken love,

but Eve you do not cry for me,

you use my eyes

to weep new women

into the world;

like changing patterns

of water rippling in a pool,

you master the momentary

with your depth,

the life and death

of love is just a single breath

of your sleep,

as you dream

the faces that Iíd die for,

as I build and burn down

cities for your masks,

for the mere garments

of the queen.

 

And nothing is as it seems:

as I write another poem

for you, through her,

bound, forever, to this

recurring theme.

 

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Thirst Was Made By Your Eyes

 

Cold winter.

Everything withers away

except whatís real.

Leaves of falsehoods

fall to the ground

leaving only the

tree of beauty.

What do you have?

What have you kept?

Did you choose

the wrong God?

Victim of hollow

things,

victim of fantasies

that hid the water!

Thirst was made

by your eyes.

I passed

through the wall

of your

vigil

like a ghost,

while you prayed

all night

to the candle

of liars.

I could never

penetrate

your gullibility,

never

remove

the nail of

superficiality

which they hammered

into your deep soul.

Last night,

I dreamt you

drowned in a

shallow river

on the way to

the promised land.

And then I was alone.

 

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Lynx

 

Lynx, caught in a trap.

What beautiful fur

someone will wear.

The forest

will spend the rest of time

marking your

grave with deep snow

without your footprints.

Trees will bend down

with the weight

of the white world

that lacks

your eyes,

the wind will cry

to the graceless.

Why did you let them catch you?

Why did you let them

make you into

a coat?

For some bitchís vanity

the woods are mourning

secrets

no one is left

to understand.

The stone face

erupting with pines

is dying

without the soft clever

feet

that felt it

into existence,

you were the self-awareness

of God,

the awakening of the raw power

of the earth

in a body.

Your mortal bounding

brought what is immortal

to life.

But you threw yourself away,

you broke the heart

of things that do not feel,

in a moment of self-deprecation

you chose her over you,

the woman wrapped in a coat

thatís all

thatís left of you.

You gave the stones back to stone,

muted the stars in the night,

killed their language of light,

destroyed the world

by ceasing to catch its meaninglessness

as it fell from forever to so what?

with your strange purpose,

your loyalties blooming from irrelevance

into altars,

your pain-filled ecstasies.

You despised yourself

with the Universe at your mercy,

brushed aside your beauty

with high thoughts that led you into

low peopleís trap.

And now youíre just a coat

on the shoulders of a fool,

while the whole forest

searches for you with snow

and wind

and ancient kneeling trees

and slowly fades into nothing

without your

beautiful small steps,

your dancing invented center;

because you never understood

how great it was

to be a lynx,

hunting meaning in the snow.

 

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Somebody Who Loves Them (Lyrics)

 

Some people have a gold watch

Some people have a silver chain

Some people have a diamond ring

Some people have a private plane

 

Some people begin with rubies

and with emeralds end

Some people got dollars, pounds, and yen

And some people have somebody who loves them

 

Would you let money fall from your hands

and watch it blow away?

You think anyone else

will love you this way?

 

Nobody steps on their gold watch

Nobody breaks their silver chain

Nobody tosses their diamond ring

Nobody blows up their private plane

 

You got love

but you want pain

 

Why? Why?

Whyíd you leave the wallet of love

on the street?

On the money of love

Iím the president

But I canít get past your defense

In your iron world I canít make a dent

 

Green bills of my heart

flying in the wind

of your sad eyes

 

I could change your life

but you just walk by

 

You left your money on the ground,

tears on my face

 

You just let a million dollars of love

blow away

 

And all I can say is

 

Some people begin with rubies

and with emeralds end

Some people got dollars, pounds, and yen

And some people have somebody who loves them

 

Yeah, some people have somebody who loves them

 

Some people have somebody who loves them

 

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Sex In A Barren Land

 

Sex in a barren land

Start with her vagina

forget her lips, forget her hand

penetrate, donít understand

 

loveís abridged version:

the modern man

 

What begins in bed

washes up on the shore of other lands,

her disappointed eyes:

the dead in the sand

 

itís with her body

you learn to be a

beast or man

 

Love her

look for her eyes

 

Create the world

with her

 

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Love In The Time Of Cholera Remix

 

Guerrilla love fighter.

Going to steal a little love

from the night,

going to hit and run

with the love gun,

take the grape

right out of deathís mouth,

kiss you between the skull teeth

then get back to the light.

Youíll bear the child

of real love

in the way your eyes

open in the morning.

Baby of faith

will cry at dawn

with the lungs

of your new gaze.

Clean the bloodstains

off the day.

 

Hell on earth

Hell on earth

Grim Reaper took over the country of the

waterfalls,

but guerrilla lover

can still get wet,

bathe beside the jungle birds

before the mist lifts from

the killerís sight

weíll love and

get back to the light.

Death sniperís scope

peering from behind

ecstasy

wonít see a thing,

trigger finger

stopped by our undeclared

wedding ring,

weíll wrest another moment

from the sorrow

and weíll bring it back to

tomorrow.

Alive and loved,

weíll shine,

survivors of the suicide need.

Caution-euphoria hybrids

still walk free.

 

Hit and run,

touch and love,

Devil below,

God above,

weíll draw a map

through the land mines

of love,

and take back

the Holy Land

between our soulsí legs.

Our lust will lay a golden egg;

body enlightenment

without the curse

will percolate down to

the sacred roots.

 

Zen ecstasy,

Buddha path to release,

condom mind protect the deadly

free-fall thought,

grab orgasm by the horns

and guide the madness

past the incense of the Maenads,

their luscious ambush dance

riding your dim-eyed trance,

tambourines of forgetting

till itís too late

pounding to the beat of

your emptiness;

past the hunger of the

Sirens and the Fates,

their weeping goddess voices in the sea,

we have choices,

you and me,

to spit out the pit

from loveís fruit

by beginning

with

self-respect.

Itís always been the best

answer

to death.

Donít fall all the way in:

too shallow is starvation,

too deep is sin,

wise man faun

will walk the

tightrope

of your invitation.

Snatch the treasure

from temptation

and return

to contemplate the goodness

of quiet things,

tiny carvings on the golden wall,

between the baited jewels,

worth centuries of meditation.

 

Donít erase

your graceful slow demise into divinity

with the flight of loaded passion

that aims to never find

the sacred warning

in the back of your mind.

Donít block the

withering unfolding

with bitterness:

become a skeleton the green way,

in step with your season.

Save every

bound

before the limp,

boil love

till only love remains.

The hottest fires

burn

in the embrace of

coolness.

Just look into

the succubus angel eyes

that steal ecstasy with

frightful clarity

like pearls

from the

death oyster,

that love with self-love,

that fall with wings.

Youíll be freed

without being caught.

 

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Lossathon

 

Whatís going on?

Whatís going on?

My life is one big

lossathon.

 

Love it, lose it.

Itís mine; prove it!

Canít hold on.

Canít hold on

to anything.

Whatís in my hands is gone;

cause Iím the winner

of the

lossathon.

 

Blink and itís gone

Slip through your hands

Hole in the bucket

Castles of sand

 

itís like I didnít want

what I want

 

Would my happiness

sink the world?

 

Does the blue earth

need me down?

 

Did I vex

the wizard of my soul,

hex myself

with the magic

of leaving it all

for someone else?

 

No one will hold it like I can

I want the Three Sisters to understand

 

Blink and itís gone

Night becomes dawn

Reverse the magic

Let the weak become strong

 

I donít need this lossathon.

No, let me come in last place

in the lossathon.

 

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Artemis

 

Artemis,

goddess of the moon

hunts with

hounds of solitude.

She amazes eyes

with the raw light

of the naked moon,

chases away the sun

to become the sun of the night,

takes over the sky

of the sensitive,

then disappears into the forest

with

lethal virginity.

I have spied

upon her

bathing in the river

of my

highest thoughts,

kissed her in intimate places

with years of self-denial,

worshipped her

in the temple

of my poetry.

 

Artemis,

goddess of the moon,

with her broken mind

that became a

million stars,

ideas without a home

shining in the dark,

fermenting my words

into the wine of

poetry.

She is beyond me

and imbedded in me.

Her madness

is hidden

by the breadth

of my vision.

 

Artemis,

goddess of the moon,

scarred by mortal impediments,

cut on the cheek

by the branch

of a tree

that prays

to her.

She drags

her celestial inviolability

across the earth,

limps low

with her lofty principles,

breaking with insights

that became heavy

when a child first looked in the mirror

and saw the tiny blossoms

of her breasts.

Thatís when the goddess was born,

and the woman left.

 

Artemis,

goddess of the moon,

stigmatized by clouds

of ominous misunderstanding

until she uses my imagination

to part the dark curtains

and peek

with her face of light

into the cradle

of her mental child

which I am raising

as love.

Her celibacy,

passing through my loneliness,

is filtered

into seduction.

Her beauty falls upon me

like the night

upon the earth,

abducts me

to the limits

that infatuate me.

She accepts me now

like a tree

accepts a bird,

becomes its stepmother

by the grave of its exhausted wings.

She accepts me like the forest that hides her,

like a green leaf

held back

by a branch,

shaking harmlessly

in the breeze,

beside her discarded clothes

while she bathes naked

in the river

of my eyes

that only see

what will never happen.

So quietly moves my lust,

like a deer

afraid to be

slain by the arrow

of her shame!

 

Like a garment

concealed

by mighty distractions,

by burning suns and reeling winds

and histories

that take her mind from her body

and obliterate

the sensation of being touched

she does not feel me

wrapped around her every

movement

caressing her with the fabric

of my obsession,

she lets me cling to her

because she has lions

in her eyes,

miles of forests

and ghosts

that make me fade,

shielding me with her distant

and embattled gaze.

I am the victim

of her focus,

and saved

by being a victim.

Where dark armies tried to break in

true love weighs nothing,

and what is not said with a battering ram

is inaudible.

My love is not killed

because it is invisible.

I am the pauper of her tumult,

a tiny chameleon,

the color of the ocean

hurling itself against her purity,

I survive because

I canít be taken

seriously,

I donít ride a black chariot,

I donít have the strong arms

she lusts for

to the point

of murdering.

 

Artemis,

goddess of the moon,

blowing the silent horn

of your need

in the night,

I hear it,

thatís why Iíve come:

to offer you

love without blood,

life without surrender.

Iíll leave my genitals

at the door

come in with kindness

behind the soul

you couldnít find

among the killers

you craved.

Iíll contort my lust

to fit the contours

of your stunted glory,

your goddess might

and cripple woman.

Iíll reduce myself to

the size of your wound,

stand naked against the cold wall

while your virtue scourges me

for the sins

of the ones you loved.

 

Artemis,

goddess of the moon,

I love you more than life,

for you I jumped off the mountain

of my nature

to appease your injury.

 

Artemis,

goddess of the moon,

I love you

more than what I am,

but even so,

I cannot persevere to love you

after death,

after enamored nobilityís final breath;

after the deadly ravages

of my new shape.

The world will never survive my alteration

or your escape.

 

Artemis,

goddess of the moon,

I love you more than what I am,

but I cannot live forever

as a strand of your fantasy

as the phantom of your safety.

 

Artemis,

goddess of the moon,

when will you let me

be a man?

 

Back to Top

 

 

Touch Deprivation

 

Touch deprivation,

skin wearing a blindfold

all life long.

Mamaís hug,

lullaby hands

not there.

Special friendsí caress

retracted,

intimacy recanted,

retroactive

starvation of the flesh,

mere impersonation of a lover.

Go back in time

to steal

the context

of the sensations,

reinterpret fusion

as solitude,

youíre impervious even to

the touches

of the past.

 

Cupidsí arrow

is supposed to be

soft

and hours long,

doesnít need

to end with an orgasm.

 

Even held hands

can overturn

the sentence,

solitary confinement

in a body.

 

Sometimes

the candlelight vigil

of oneís love need

can win a reprieve

from isolation,

pardon from the

insurmountable barrier of

obvious damage.

A friend says yes.

 

Just held hands,

thatís all:

a little rain

can make a

parched land

whimper with love

and blush

green thickets.

What kind of cowardice

is this

that keeps us locked apart,

with miles

still

between our

hearts?

 

Back To Top

 

 

Obsessions Defeated And Victorious

 

When you back up from some obsessions

you see a fool in the mirror,

the gun smoke of your heartís war against reality clears

and thereís nothing left but a

white flag

flying above the fantasy.

"She was never the one for me."

 

"What was I thinking?"

the rose on her arm says,

her beauty goes on without you,

love is dead.

 

People who donít love you

fade like flowers

burned by the sun.

 

Sunflowers

that donít follow

the golden light

of your illusions

wither in the heat of

your riderless dreams.

What has your loneliness done?

 

Obsession, obsession,

youíve lost your grip,

her eyes moved past my doomed gift,

my silent chorus of reverence,

my mind divided into a thousand angels

singing by her bedside.

For her, God turned into a pen

and died.

 

Obsession, obsession,

she couldnít pick her child

from the crowd,

she watched the chariot of love crash

without knowing what it was,

thinking it was

some other woman

staining the

church window

of my regrets.

She didnít believe I could be so unrealistic.

 

Obsession, obsession,

when I saw

I was nothing to her,

my unworthiness made her unworthy,

she fell from the pedestal,

became a leper with a bell,

ringing warnings of her color-blindness

to flowers.

 

But that is when obsession falls.

Sometimes it doesnít.

You back off, you rub your eyes,

you slap water on your face,

and sheís still alive, sitting on the throne of your

self-destruction;

you canít snap out of it, canít get away,

canít get past

the beautiful obstruction;

somehow sheís changed the chemistry

of your brain, become the gatekeeper of

all your pain, the ruler of your history of tears,

queen of all the secrets which she doesnít know

but which she owns.

She has power over you which is like the blood

in your veins, youíll bleed to death if you break her.

On the mountain of your capture she stands,

holding your unused genitals aloft like Perseus raising Medusaís

severed head,

with a polished mirror she conquered you

without looking at you,

she killed you without touching you.

Your heart is where she buries her dead,

your imagination is her domain.

She binds you with the chains of your sensitivity

lifting her iron dress to show a vulnerability,

she knows the gullibility of your tenderness;

then dances like your own invention

in the endless square of your loneliness,

becomes the only feature of the earth.

You fall to your knees with more lost days.

 

Obsession, obsession!

She uses your adoration like a bird uses the air

to save its wings

she glides for miles over your infatuation

to more practical dreams.

Your mind sees all; your heart permits all.

 

Will she ever leave me? Will she ever come to me?

Will this obsession kill itself by becoming real, or stretch itself

so thin it breaks? Will I be saved by the patience of my

absurdity, or rescued by the preposterous,

finally vomit up my slavery from the unpalatable extremism of the jest?

Is this bondage, or is this a quest?

Am I devoted, or just obsessed?

Will I ever be free from the one I love?

 

Back to Top

 

 

Ground Rules Of The Hostage

 

Hostage needs

the highest rose,

you wonít kidnap

him with a

ten-foot pole

 

Empty jail

needs a bank full of money

to be its door

 

you want

the standard plan

youíve got to flash

your jewelry on the platform

 

north windís

got to

bend like

the kama sutra

walk the streets

of loneliness

with an offering

 

even spider boy

gets the kindness

of ecstasy

before he becomes

her meal,

before his dreams

are spun into

her eternal maze;

she strips the night

from her body and

he gets to see one dawn

before he dies

she flatters his soul

before she yawns

before his supremacy

kills him

 

In what deluded temple

does this man become yours?

there is always an altar of pleasure

before the throat is slit

 

goddess should know suicide is a gift

 

fierce Kali

dances with all his senses

lies beneath his imagination

one hour

before she takes out

the knife

to protect

the mysteries

of her sacred hurt

 

only gold

sleeps soundly

in the dirt

 

never has so much power

led to an old maid

 

youíve smashed your way through the revelations

of history

to complete futility

forgotten

lessons learned from Salome

 

I know you donít want equality

you want control

and you could have it

if you could just let go

until you fell all the way down

to the throne

 

if you would only let your helplessness

crown you

throw pearls to the fool

lie down, rise up,

reverse and rule

 

The Trojan Horse of love

never fails

 

but your pride keeps you

on the side

of the eternal game

you wonít play the winning card

in your hand

 

the queen of hearts

is going to lose her man

 

you call it dignity

but itís only a self-inflicted wound

 

itís beneath you to comfort the victim

of the sacrifice

so who will walk up the steps

of your pyramid?

 

even those who want you to kill them

will choose the misery of life

if there are no gods

on the other side

of the well

 

lure them to you with a moment of truth

talk to them with

your skin

itís divine and it wonít mind

it wonít be polluted by his joy

 

never, never!

 

you think this is for free?

 

Captives have rights

they exercise through the level of conviction

they put into their flight

 

slow them down with the ancient weapon

of yes

 

turn their thundering departure into a token escape

light the fire that brings them back

 

bargain with your beauty

itís not whorish

itís the law

 

they are giving you a life

give them something

 

donít pretend your body weighs more

than a human soul

 

Hostage needs

the highest rose,

you wonít kidnap

him with a

ten-foot pole

 

Back to Top

 

 

Step Into The Clear

 

Every once in a while

in the daydream daze

somebody needs to step into the clear

and say

I love you,

donít want to lose you in the fog

 

Never trust the obvious

never think she knows

every day youíve got to show her

her name is written in your soul

 

Tired, trite, clichť,

donít let master poet get in the way,

ring the rusty bell of love

over and over again.

You are the sun

you are the rose

you are the angel

you are the dove among the crows.

Been there, done that:

youíll lose her if you think like that!

You can never plagiarize

whatís in your heart,

the dawn erased the tablet

of the gods

and everything you do from now onís

new

 

Youíve got to say it again,

cause she wasnít Juliet

and Shakespeare

wasnít you.

 

Sometimes, the sun donít shine

between the lines

 

Donít lose her

just because your loveís blazing

in the middle of the sky

 

maybe sheís blind

 

Put her hands

on the world

thatís right in front of her,

donít let her walk by

the piano of love

without playing what you feel,

donít leave the music to chance,

donít let her second guess

whatís only in her own mind

and what is real.

 

Write love

on every page

of her world

 

LOVE

LOVE

LOVE

LOVE

 

until she knows what she means

to you

give her a clear space

to decline or accept,

never let her drift away

because you mumbled

deep things

in the mist

or spoke in riddles

to save face

suffocated the cross roads

with discretion.

 

Truth in love

is the greatest bravery.

Clinging to its periphery -

loving your own advanced guard

in her heart

or losing love through misunderstanding

and spending the rest of time

impaled on your mistake -

itís worse than slavery.

Nostalgia for things not tried

while the fears that stole life survive deep inside,

crawling like termites

through your broken heart,

is the slowest death.

Sing whatever song,

however feeble,

can sally from your throat,

and risk no

in order to live.

Step into the clear.

Tell her in words as plan as a kiss.

The Universe has remedies

for every consequence

and for every fault

except cowardice

 

Back to Top

 

 

The Beaten Army Of Love

 

The beaten army of love

is leaving

The beaten army of loveís

retreating

 

The horses are turning

round

winter will be left

to itself

 

The beaten army of love

is leaving

The beaten army of loveís

retreating

 

Young men became old

in the long march

to your heart

Gray ghost soldiers

turn back

at your doorstep

they left behind flowers

and their souls

 

The beaten army of love

is leaving

The beaten army of loveís

retreating

 

The endless continent

of your eyes

will be free forever

to look

out an empty window

 

The beaten army of love

is leaving

The beaten army of loveís

retreating

 

Back across the ice and snow

towards the starting place of dreams:

but theyíve lost the

strength to start again,

they wonít find home

where theyíre going,

only shadows of what you didnít

give them

when their hearts were in

summer,

when they believed

your disinterest

was a test

 

The beaten army of love

is leaving

The beaten army of loveís

retreating

 

Loveís paths are haunted

by the blood of the

unrequited

Loveís dead

are never quiet

they wander endlessly

inside the poems

that took the place

of their lives

 

The beaten army of love

is leaving

The beaten army of loveís

retreating

 

You are the victor

 

You won the war

against love

 

Back to Top

 

 

Parting Of Old (Lyrics)

 

Fare thee well

Fare thee well

might as well be

a parting of old

When letters took a century

to cross the deep and stormy sea
That far away you are from me

Since you said good-bye, love

Fare thee well, good-bye, love

 

Fare thee well

Fare thee well

might as well be

a parting of old

When ravens sat upon the window sill

to watch the pale lover grow deathly ill

That sick your love has made me

Since you said good-bye, love

Fare thee well, good-bye, love

 

Fare thee well, good-bye love

The man dies before his love does

Fare thee well, good-bye, love

It really is good-bye love

 

Fare thee well

Fare thee well

might as well be

a parting of old

Theyíll find my scattered books about

All the pages of happiness torn out

Since you said good-bye, love,

Fare thee well, good-bye, love

 

Fare thee well

Fare thee well

might as well be

a parting of old

Youíll see a lantern shining by the sea

Once for you and once for me

And a piece of a ship lying on the beach

Since you said good-bye, love

Fare thee well, good-bye, love

 

Fare thee well, good-bye love

The man dies before his love does

Fare thee well, good-bye, love

It really is good-bye love

 

Back To Top

 

 

Red World

 

Red light,

red blinding light

spreading through my closed eyes

red, red, dark red

and flaming red hands reaching for something

bright rivers of red

flowing through red

spotted red

age spots in the red

islands of dark red

walls of red fire

crashing against

the red that lisps

lipstick stains in the red

the shape of your lips

kissing the fire

of my closed eyes

 

Your lips

the only things that arenít burned up

in the red fire

red lips hovering

like an angel

lost in Hell

 

Fireproof thoughts of love

staggering through every hall

in the labyrinth of fire

you say no

I try to burn

my desire

throw the incriminating letter

into the fireplace

fiery red

blinding red

canít digest

your lips

kissing the flames

of my closed eyes

 

I see you everywhere in the red

lipstick stains

 

canít burn the letter

like a pervert

caught with his pants down

 

you can make the

whitest horse

die of shame

 

make God apologize

for the sky

 

red, red

everywhere

in my closed eyes

red

spreading over

the backside

of my eyelids

cherries

bursting into flames

red blood windows

with the noon sun

shining through

sun dance

staring into

a red sky

 

eagle dripping

from the red

into my earís eyes

I see red

hear red

taste red

feel red

smell red

my sixth sense is red, too,

red clairvoyance

blinded by you

 

snowblind

with red

 

red, red

I read red

in the red book

 

had sex

with myself

with you

inside me

like a baby

 

red

praying to the red God

 

dying of red thirst

reaching for the red cup

 

Who shot my face?

Red curtain

coming down

over my eyes

dying and flying

migrating to loneliness

f****d by fire

you shot me

with your bluff of

self-sufficiency

naked in the tower

you shot me

from your hiding place

in the red

red woman

poisoning me

with red

red spider

spinning my awakening

into a web

red knife

stabbing my eyes

with your quarrel

with life

fear so hot

turned the world red

flaming red

burning red

insomniac red

that canít sleep

as ashes

 

always burning

red fire

with veins of red

carrying red blood

from the chambers

of my heartbreak

to the pages

of my abandoned body

shapes that come and go

you and your pets

Noahís Ark of rejects

 

dark red is the night

bright red is the day

beaten over the head

by the sun

red shade under red trees

red match lit

a red lamp

red abyss

and red regrets

flaming red everywhere

in my closed eyes

kissed by your red lips

 

lipstick stains

on my loneliness

red world

burning forever

since I met you

 

red lips

kissing the fire

of my closed eyes

 

Back To Top

 

 

Going Blind

 

Going blind.

I used to see your face in the light,

now the sun of my sight

is going down

leaving you in shadows,

I see half of a smiling face,

the dusk of what made you

beautiful.

Youíre fading,

the hour of my love

is growing late,

nighttime is crawling over your face

like the giant spider

who stole my eyes,

youíre disappearing.

The echo of an image I would not recant

tries in vain

to touch up the

gaps in your dancing visage,

I only see the ballerina

shoes

of your expressions

vanishing

into the fog of my tears,

the blackness

of my eyesí blood,

that your indifference

gave to time.

 

Iím going blind,

Iím looking straight at you

and I canít see the one

I love anymore.

 

Where are you?

My wounded heart

canít find you in the dark,

I finally see too clearly

to see.

 

A voice,

thatís all thatís left:

a voice,

your voice

telling me about your day,

your theory

of everything,

which means good-bye.

So sweet, so joyful,

so autonomous,

feeding the pigeons

of tangent lives with crumbs

of your soulís

activity.

I sit now, listening, in the dark

to your world.

 

Iím going blind.

I used to hang

from the precipice

of every detail

of your dancing,

introspective,

outpouring

face,

cling to every frown,

every danger warded off

in deep eyes

by the patrolling angels

of exiled thoughts,

the broad reflections,

the sparks of trying,

the triumphant escape

of smiles

from your heavy flesh,

branded forever

by hands in the

wrong places,

I read the story,

every word

that you wrote

with your face,

your soulís kingdom

radiating

intimacies

to my eagle eyes,

my eyes soaring above

your well-kept secrets

with love for you.

I broke the code of your soul,

read the unintended revelations,

lived transfixed

by the novel

of your moodsí

physical form.

But now Iím going

blind. You

discarded my life

of reverent staring

(I was the Galileo of you,

your children of Fatimah);

you hurt me

by the way

you said no

without sympathy

for your effect,

you threw me back into

the darkness

I tried to penetrate.

Now I canít see what

I used to see,

itís fading away,

the edges of my sight have been

erased by your rejection,

Iím losing my vision

of you. Are you still there

in the blurred smear of hope?

Are you that shape in the night,

that black sun

in a black sky,

the sound of a rustling dress,

the footsteps of my fading eyes?

Now I can only see

inside my mind,

shadows of

yesterday

that are sick

but wonít die,

visions of you

that slipped in

before the gates

of my seeing

closed.

What ever happened

to those days,

those days my eyes

caressed you

softly

without changing you?

 

Iím going blind,

Iím looking straight at you

and I canít see the one

I love anymore.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Stone Love

 

Rock doesnít believe in love

Lifetime of getting hammered and chiseled,

broken in the quarry, dragged off to some high place,

then chipped and battered and smashed and scraped

into someone elseís face

then stood up naked as a stranger

in the middle of the square

for the eyes of people who donít even know her

to grope and stare

 

For Rock kidnapped by art,

love means a sledgehammer

 

She sees your eyes

and runs back to the

primal instinct

of stone

 

Once she was a part of a mountain

 

She doesnít want your love

 

She just wants to be left alone

 

Back to Top

 

 

Frozen River

 

 

Frozen river

 

cold heart covered

the impassable water with ice

 

I walked over it

to my new life

 

Back to Top

 

 

Fool

 

Fool,

too big a fool,

donít want to talk about

my personal mythology

of love.

I rode above

the chimera

on a winged horse,

that was her.

Medusa

who turned my life to stone

with her lovely face

that needed the shelter

of a thousand hissing snakes

so she could kill

us all

with inner peace,

she was another,

coming from another direction;

it was long ago

and she loved

another me.

Then there was Helen

and the burning city

of me in the kiss

I could not refuse,

ten years after my lust

turned me into

a shadow.

 

Like a meteor

falling to the earth

I came with little

from a glorious place.

 

The thousand ships

of my self-effacement

slid into dark waters,

I beat the drum that moved the oars

for her, sailed past green shores

to my funeral,

I fought the war to be nothing

so she could be beautiful.

And yet,

if I sing of the sirens

it is not of her

I sing,

but of another still, who

found an unlocked door

into my imagination

and from the closet of my hope

took the golden robes

of speculations

to impersonate

the resurrected queen I waited for,

the Messiah of my frustration.

I did not see her

switch her throat

for mine,

nor recognize

the singing that

came from her

as the music

of my mind.

She committed no crime

but to be absolutely silent

in the night,

like a robber almost found,

to be still, so still,

a mirror

reflecting

anything I did

or wanted.

Like a bat, blind,

I flew towards myself,

towards my dreams

bouncing off of walls.

She was the walls

and I was the dark.

Together we made a perfect

team of deception.

Donít move, siren,

donít give yourself away,

donít let me see that

youíre me!

Siren only wanted to please:

that was her way

of killing.

 

Yes, Iíve been a fool

with many accessories.

Iíve loved whips

and chains

and flowers

that turn the mind

into a kaleidoscope,

women who were these things to me,

roots of love and delusion

that blossomed into

a personal mythology.

 

Donít judge them by what I write.

I still donít know

who they really are.

I think, sometimes,

theyíre only the

creations of my sight.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Ten Flights Of Stairs

Angel fell down ten flights of stairs,

dented his goodness;

he got up

and first thing he said was:

"Do you love me?"

Girl with a twisted wing blushed

on the other side

of the cracked mirror.

 

Angel fell down ten flights of stairs,

kissed the first hooker he saw

because he wanted to beat the ten-count.

The wind of love

was knocked out of him,

he had to breathe in something.

 

Angel fell down ten flights of stairs,

it hurt so much

he had to hold

somebodyís hand.

Hungry hand ate him

in the river of loneliness.

 

Angel fell down ten flights of stairs,

thatís when mummy girl

began to look so good,

she had bandages to share

and stories about a palace

in the dust.

The synchronicity of

irreparable loss

foretold the kiss of peace.

Each was the embodiment of the otherís limits,

the ocean, in the way, that woke up the roadís eyes.

The only step forward from here

was into the otherís body, the last rites of

their dreams was sex.

They used each other to surrender to God.

Back to Top

 

 

Call It

 

All you have to do

is call it

and the acorn

will fall,

the tree will grow;

the tree that is as high

as you make me

feel low.

 

Think the thought

and the horses will come

running in from the west

to pull your carriage

east,

towards the rising sun

of you.

 

The orchestra waits,

a thousand instruments of

pleasing you are in tune,

ready for the symphony

that will summon the Valkyries

from the clouds

of your soul,

theyíll carry those who died

from your beauty

back into your life,

youíll be protected

by the pleasure

you tower over.

Lift the baton

of the power you misused,

unleash the notes of Heaven

finally becoming realistic,

stooping down

to the earth.

God will kiss you

where he can reach you.

 

Stop this madness of

throwing yourself

to the dogs of loneliness.

Your misery is a haunted mansion

filled with the ghosts

of those who put your

happiness first.

Stare into the candle

of your refusal

and your changed eyes

will see

living men.

The house isnít haunted:

you are.

 

Stop this insult,

this degradation of your heart!

You used the most beautiful tree

of the forest

to make a twisted flute.

Why do you torture yourself

with the sounds of

an insurmountable childhood?

Live!

You donít have to spit out

the cake,

youíre the one who made it

bitter by wrestling its flavor

into the past

and tasting all your sad days

with every bite.

Darkness stays unless

thereís a will

somewhere in the light:

a lion isnít a lion

unless he fights.

When life is deep,

joy only comes to lions.

 

Stop this expressionless weeping!

Stop this ice-cold lamenting,

your unseen tears will freeze you

to death.

You have broken down in Eden,

in the paradise

of being loved;

beneath the fruit treesí

heavy, hanging branches

offering you life.

There is a dance

that will make it happen.

Let your feet move

in an ancient way,

donít worry,

with your fear at the helm

you wonít end up underneath,

thereís room to wince

and fly

in the strange world

of your womanís might,

your beautyís prayers

have been answered

by a pack of

wolves

as soft as silk.

The powerís yours.

 

Call it,

and the world

will fall into place.

Call it and

the slum will put on another face

and bow down

to the queen of the land.

When you want it,

you have yourself

and you have a man.

You have the joy of

all the moments that werenít big enough

to catch in your hands,

spaces made empty

by your ambition;

you have mortal days

of discovery,

and the happiness

of eternity

at your command.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Shake Hands On The No

 

Shake hands

Shake hands on the No.

It was good while it

lasted.

No need to part in

anger

to save my soul.

Mermaid isnít going to lose

her fish tail

to live on land,

Sasquatch is never

going to be a man.

What a beautiful mandala

their incompatibility

made in the sand.

 

Shake hands

Shake hands on the No.

Donít need to defend

myself

by poisoning the

unlikely wine.

You were close to me

but never mine.

 

Shake hands

Shake hands on the No.

It couldnít have happened

any other way.

The sword of my self-respect

can let you go

without striking an unjust

blow.

I donít need to demean

you just to explain

to the world

why Iím alone.

 

Shake hands

Shake hands on the No.

You made life sweet.

Itís up to me

to accept the gift

of a single moment.

To step into the unfinished

circle

and make it

complete

with resignation.

In the face of
your beauty

resignation is

gratitude:

the only way left

that I can

say

I love you.

 

Back to Top

 

 

Repetitions In Life

 

Repetitions in life.

Who doesnít want to turn

their best friend

into a wife?

Gather the harvest

of your soulís bloom,

paint the room

of the beautiful pair.

Then wake up to empty walls.

The paintings have all been taken down,

only nail holes are there,

and windows without shades.

Nothingís left

except a light bulb

she forgot to take away,

just enough to illuminate

the immensity of your self-deception.

But it doesnít matter.

You turn on the switch,

itís the one switch that

will still do something

in a house of darkness.

Shamelessly, you accept the naked

harsh bulb

excreting light

onto your last piece of paper,

tolerate its mockery

of your eloquent naivetť

to write: "No more.

From now on, Iím at war with love."

For a moment, proud and free,

you stand strong "above the chasm

of what she did to me."

But the war wonít last

because of

your heartís

learning disability.

One spring day,

when knowledge thaws beneath

the eternal sun,

sheíll come again

not knowing who she is,

in perfect

loveless innocence,

and youíll not listen

to reason or to

intuition,

your intelligence will be

overwhelmed by wishing,

once more youíll love her

till love ends,

embrace a dream

and lose a friend,

commit the crime of love again,

hurl useless reflections

into the path of impulses

impossible to resist,

be swept aside by the

immortal engine of the Universe

which is repetition.

Caught in cycles

of ecstatic blindness,

who could ever

give in to wisdom?

No, Iíll love her

tomorrow,

rise phoenix-like

from my tears

to be the same fool,

my madness has always

given me a

day of happiness.

I think Iíve written

this poem before

on the other side

of a burned-out sun.

Sometimes I hate myself,

but why?

This is what love does,

and has always done.

How could we ever be free?

Our errors

are the building blocks

of eternity.

And forever is only

the circle

that we make

with our mistakes.

Yes, the road of always

has an end,

itís just by being lost

that we make it endless,

constantly rewinding the finite

to listen to the

same illusion.

The Universe needs

your beauty

and my futility;

the stars are lit by my love

for you,

and after they die,

reborn

by you not loving me.

 

Back to Top

 

 

Donít Depend On Me

 

Donít depend on me,

be your own friend,

when the silver bullet

takes me home

youíll be on your own,

and youíre enough.

 

Thatís all Iím here to do.

To show you

youíre enough.

 

Iíll stand tall once

just to let you know,

Iíll anoint you with

my "I love you" before I go

and youíll know it counts

because Iíll bleed

sunshine

into the life

of everybody

who doesnít know you.

 

In the emptiness

their heads will turn towards you,

theyíll see my soulís last kiss

in your hair

and thank you

for giving birth

to what made me great.

 

My eyes will make

their eyes

be your eyes.

 

Iíll trick you

into loving yourself,

lead you to the truth

in deceptive and

convoluted ways,

you wonít have to

face your self-hate,

Iíll take you in through the

back door

of what others think of you.

They made you hate yourself,

now theyíll let your love

yourself.

 

Iíll lower my lance

and charge

against any worthy foe

more for you than for the world

 

so my eyes

will make their eyes

be your eyes.

 

Back to Top

 

 

Wolf Man

 

Full moon

of social nonconformity

is out

the gentleman howls

 

the hair of all the tools of his

psyche

engulfs him

 

that much hair can only be called fur

 

Full moon got the stamp of approval

from his journey

the early part

held onto by his pack-rat heart

why throw out history?

 

he drops down on all fours

itís how he got this far

though he cuts out paper angels

from daytime expectations

 

gentleman howls

with bizarre games

that need the whole forest

to hide them

 

while the town sleeps

protected by his statue in the public square

he lunges against his tameness

he succumbs to the courage not to forget

 

freedom from small things

breeds competence to defend great things

 

his strangeness is the temple

of his beauty

his eccentricity is growing spiritually every day

 

heíll multiply the loaves

by breaking the law

 

by private howling

that dislodges the magic frozen

by the trauma

 

his aberration

will bear fruit for the world

the ones who hunt him

will eat from his hand

 

Full moon is out

open window

curtains blowing in the breeze

 

a chair and desk wait to receive

thoughts outside the box

that no one could rescue from infinity

who is locked in by the codes of the body

 

bound by the social pact to be pale

 

only by becoming a maddened butterfly

ripping himself out of the cocoon of his slave flesh

can he be free to see freedom

hidden against the background of obedience

 

only be losing control of his human form

can the deadly control of incompetence be broken

 

escape learns from escape

twisted liberation becomes straight

once itís learned how to fly in the night

 

wolf man kissed and laid down his cross

until the dawn

 

Full moon is a

giant circle magic wand

 

cast its spell over his righteous ineffectiveness

 

beast to pull the crippled good man

up the slope

 

thrashing through the woods

scratched by a thousand sins

he felt nothing, he was an animal

he ran through a hundred crowns of thorns

on his way to the blood

the sacrament of feasting on

his innocence

 

without hurting anyone he hurled himself

violently against his halo,

the holy handcuffs of the guards who flatter man

into servitude and dullness

he tasted everything forbidden

wrote the Bible all over again

to see if it came out the same

 

he howled

he howled truth into the world

 

on all fours outran hypocrisy

 

used the night to overturn the angels

until he found one that would not fall

and kissed her with his memory

of being a man

 

as beastís in man, manís in beast

salvation is merely an act of navigation

 

Full moon

wild tracks meet the dawn-eyes of the town

frightened speculations arm themselves

and march around

broken windows and torn branches

but no center to the storm:

nothingís found

 

Behind a closed window

a gentleman gets dressed, hides

the nakedness that knows

so he can bring back light

to the world.

 

Back to Top

 

 

The Soul And The Fish

 

Soul in the body

Fish in the sea

Wonít you come here

and fish for me?

 

Fish with your hands

Fish with your lips

Find me in the water

with your wise-woman hips

 

This isnít the most beautiful water

But in it swims a beautiful fish

 

Back to Top

 

 

The Wayward Bird

 

Chase the wayward bird

and youíll find love.

 

Chase him all the way

to the new

shape of emptiness

and youíll finally see

the bright colors

of the one

who your empty eyes turned gray.

The emptiness is in you,

you donít need the orgy

of a new lover,

you need philosophy;

itís not about kisses,

itís about the night,

make peace with the ghost

youíre becoming,

and the friend you have

will blossom

in your desert eyes,

when you donít need

to weep with your genitals,

to hide from death by

dropping veils

and fleeing from face to face

without waiting

for a shadow to fall,

thatís when you will

look upon her shortcomings

with awe

and realize

there is no one who is not fragile

beneath the cruel mystery,

no one more worthy

than the one

who loves you.

 

Chase the wayward bird

and youíll find love.

 

Go on, sin,

hurl yourself from the parapets

of familiarity,

embrace forbidden lips

with your tongue,

let the demons in;

get it out of your system,

and then you can begin

to live where you are;

on a planet of dirt

that is turning back into a star.

 

Chase the wayward bird

and youíll find love.

 

Chase the question you had to ask,

when you find the answer

youíll come back.

The wayward bird

is the angel

of the unconvinced.

I know, I chased him far;

and Iíve loved you

ever since.

 

Back to Top

 

 

Holy Man, Holy Woman

 

Holy Man

got to go up to the mountain.

Holy Woman

will you wait for him?

Will you let him

throw your comfort

to the four winds?

Will you let him

cry among the pines,

will you let him

stare at the sun

until he can hear

sacred voices dancing

in his blindness?

Will you let him

be touched

by the eagle flying?

 

Holy woman,

can you be as alone

as he is

at the top?

Can you wait for him,

can you let him be alone

and come back with nothing

except the way he walks?

Can you let him spend

four days

times many years of your life

for the people

outside your door?

 

Holy Woman,

can you

breathe the air

that high up?

 

Holy Man

chose the hand

of the Universe,

but he wants

your hand too.

 

Can you help

to bring his

knowledge back

to earth,

or will you leave him

stranded

in the palm

of the moon

and stars?

 

Holy Man:

broken

up there on

the heights,

is it wrong of him

to want a human wife?

 

Holy Woman,

will you

make a place

for him

among men?

Do you love the

world enough

to put up

with him?

 

Can you

do the sun dance

of loving him?

Can you

fast on

the peak

of his search?

Can you

keep house

in one of

his teardrops?

Can you stand beside him

in the battle

when ignorance

comes charging

on fast horses?

Can you ride

the pony

that knows where

the dawn is?

 

Holy Woman,

can you

fix the

broken circle

by loving him?

 

Holy Man

and Holy Woman.

The world is waiting

for what you can give

to each other.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Repetitions (Lyrics)

This song, which got nowhere then, is from the 1980s, when Iran-Contragate burst upon the scene, and it contains numerous references to the political milieu of the 1970s and 80s. Although the emphasis is no longer topical, the underlying theme is, more so than ever.

 

Topics come and go, scandals never cease

the tides come in upon the shore, and in a little while retreat

 

Watergate and Teapot Dome, Whiskey Ring and Tweed,

The Bay of Pigs invasion, the bitter snows of Wounded Knee

 

And each sin rips apart the quiet of the air

but in a while the disturbance fades, and something else is there

 

And Iran is nothing new, just tell me who are you?

 

Oh Vietnam is burning we cried out in shame

and we found it hard to be ourselves again

 

So we stayed out of Africa, it was "hands off" of Tehran

till the hostage situation and Afghanistan

 

Made us feel threatened till we showed we hadnít changed

Grenada proved we do not run from sin but only pain

 

And Iran is nothing new, just tell me who are you?

 

Yes, from the rubble of Beirut and all those young men crushed inside

we lashed out at Grenada to resurrect our pride

 

And in a minute we forgot about dreams of lasting peace

we found an easier illusion than the Middle East

 

And then to hide the failure of our policies

we went and bombed the hell out of Tripoli

 

And Iran is nothing new, just tell me who are you?

 

Then tell me what you think of things that happened long ago

of what we did in Panama and in Santo Domingo

 

And of how Allende fell and Arbenz, too, you know

and what about the missing half of Mexico

 

But now we have the contras and in spite of what theyíve done

how they used never bothered us as much as how they got their guns

 

And Iran is nothing new, just tell me who are you?

 

Yes, though I know that some of you try so hard to see

I think newspaper columns have become prisons for you and me

 

Tell me we donít get lost in them fighting one battle at a time

why do only specifics change never the substance of headlines?

 

Maybe thereís something deeper though I donít mean to preach

that through the issues of the day we can never hope to reach

 

And Iran is nothing new, just tell me who are you?

 

And this is a silent prayer that we will recognize

the deeper reasons for all that happens, the reasons weíre alive

 

That we will reach down into the essence of our beings

and never let activity become another way of fleeing

 

From the hardest fight of all which is to break out of the prison

of effects to find the causes of these endless repetitions

 

And Iran is nothing new, just tell me who are you?

 

And the only way to win is if you go within

And the only way to win is if you will begin

And the only way to begin is if you seek within

 

Back To Top

 

 

A Vulgar Expression Of The State Of The World

 

I came to take a crap

and youíre taking a bath

with rose petals.

 

Locked door,

locked door,

how can this horrible feeling

be on the wrong side

of the door?

 

It would be so easy

to make it right.

 

Locked door

with someone elseís singing

where I only need a minute.

 

How long till youíre out?

Till the incense burns down,

till every nerve

has been loved

like a baby.

 

Youíll step out new

like Aphrodite rising from

the sea,

theyíll bow down to your

self-absorption.

 

How could my crap

get in the way of that?

 

Just tough it out,

give her the towel of

your misery

to wipe herself dry

before she dances into

the worldís eye.

For every dotted "i" of glory

someone dies.

 

Donít knock

too loudly on the door,

donít spoil

my water time!

 

This is historyís

fundamental lesson.

Donít bring her down

with your intestines.

 

God damn it!

I have to take a crap

and youíre taking a bath

with rose petals.

 

Back to Top  

 

 

For Pablo Neruda

The black glass

will be broken on the white rock.

Angels told the dying dreamer

beside his bed.

Fool I was,

whose poems never stopped a bullet!

I saw Eden

and all I gave you

was a rose.

 

The black glass

will be broken on the white rock.

Angels told the dying dreamer

beside his bed.

The sea of evil always comes

onto the shore of hope,

and unravels like a ball of yarn

crying out with

mortally-wounded waves,

it digs with its water fingernails

into the land

but canít hold on;

it slips back into its

frightening limits

and leaves the earth to children

playing in the sand.

 

The black glass

will be broken on the white rock.

Angels told the dying dreamer

beside his bed.

Cruelty grows old

like the human body

until the vultures

of kind thoughts

gather on the branches

of its armies.

Beautiful souls

are like a desert

it canít find water in.

Bullets didnít kill them,

bullets were the seeds

that brought them back:

where one fell, ten arose.

 

The black glass

will be broken on the white rock.

Angels told the dying dreamer

beside his bed.

Men tire of the light

and do terrible things with their

boredom

until they

dig their way back

to the center of the earth

with their sins.

There, the shovel of power

breaks

on a tear

thatís turned to stone;

stolen sons and daughters

turn into a giant mother

who grabs the world

by the ear

and drags it

home.

 

The black glass

will be broken on the white rock.

Angels told the dying dreamer

beside his bed.

There is nothing more you

could have done or said.

Go to sleep,

sweet friend of the orphan horde.

Today the killer reigns,

tomorrow ghosts pregnant with the living.

Darkness weighs a ton

and sinks to the bottom of history

with its iron triumphs.

Justice, like a cork in water,

floats.

God made the one

lighter than the other

so that you could rest in peace

on your bed of

white poetry.

Back to Top

 

The Humiliation Of The French Collaborators, Paris, 1944

French girls

who went with the Nazis,

no, you donít deserve

the lion pit

of liberated eyes

devouring you

with the secrets

that they kept

before revenge.

 

You were traitors,

but still, youíre women.

 

You left the poor boy

standing on the street,

and chose victory

over love.

But the millionaireís house

burned down,

a thousand planes

fell out of the sky,

and suddenly,

the garden of opportunity

turned brown.

The flowers of Hell blossomed

into flames

like Messerschmitts

shot down.

Beautiful, beautiful prize,

clever plunder

landing on its feet.

Your practical mind

doomed you.

 

You were traitors,

but still, youíre women.

 

Some say love is the only thing that counts.

But when your homeland

is shit on by steel,

and the windows of God

are broken,

you donít cross the line

with a kiss.

You donít let a dark soul

right the

insect struggling on its back,

you donít let them stop the bleeding;

you donít smile for a lost angel

when youíre standing on your fatherís grave.

You discipline yourself not to love

the beautiful blue-eyed tool, puzzled by his gun.

He wants to go home.

Donít let him into the arms

of having a reason to stay.

 

You were traitors,

but still, youíre women.

 

You guessed wrong,

so now youíre behind the chariot in chains,

the only one left out of the celebration,

even though itís your

parade.

We were corrupt

before we were free.

Then you arose like Aphrodite

from pieces of civilization

that could not restrain you.

How could we resist?

Now itís our turn to be Germans,

with you.

Shorn like a sheep

with the hair of us-not-being-good-enough

on the ground,

we salivate

alongside your white form

floating by

in delirious helplessness,

the ecstasy of being discovered.

Your fright is like fruit plucked from a tree

and in our mouths,

your outrage, stunted by absurdity,

is like a blush,

your numbness

delicate, like the inside of a vagina:

how well you respond

to our touch of hate.

You are the perfect lover

for a mob.

United, we tower above you

in your pupils.

Weíre your God

because you didnít get on your knees

till now.

How sweet is retribution,

rife with secret chambers!

Forgiven by numbers,

we gather around the chaos

of civilizationís train wreck

scavenging for watches and for jewels,

we must hurry

before Order

wounds us back

into submission.

We never wanted our world anyway,

we just didnít want

Hitler to be the one

to destroy it.

 

French girls

who went with the Nazis.

You were traitors,

but still, youíre women.

 

Now we have our country back:

our country with its dirty secrets.

For this unconscious mind

creeping inside the head of patriotism,

we died;

then we spoiled the victory

with your humiliation.

Traitor, you didnít deserve the gift

of our fall!

We should have left you,

thatís all.

We shouldnít have give you

the shield of our sins.

Back to Top

 

Below The Surface

Darkness under the ice,

black shadow

of the high mind.

What giant columns,

hewed from the ordinary,

hold up the temple roof!

Sheer scream

of the primal heart

convoluted

into the childís hand

gouging meaning into clay,

stamping the same earth

the old man will be buried in

with his frowning brow

focused on thoughts

placed carefully,

like one step after the other

on a slippery surface.

How well

our dancing hand

hides

the stutter

of our desires.

How well the penis

wears the mask of

stylus,

filling the night

with histories of disappointment

and revenge.

A manís love

for a woman

becomes a winged God,

a lion in the garden.

A bed without her blooming like spring

becomes a shipwreck

on the shore

of peace,

a wave of

all the broken antlers

trying one last time

to win her

with the coherent

bellow of an army

or a giant flower

of stone

raised above

a desert of

slaves,

the jewel of my frustration

and your sweat,

your servitude to my

greater sensitivity.

All

the great ideas

move on hooves;

my painting began

on all fours,

but poured out of me

in the

colors of mountain peaks.

My song

was pure weeping

until I put strings in it

and played

it in the key

of the sun.

My poem

was me killing Abel

and burying him in the sky

as the

north star.

Itís all

steps

on the ladder of evolution.

I swing,

branch by branch of my mind,

through the jungle of my first rebellion

towards walking

upright.

I paint over the ugliness

with broad brush strokes of

escape

loyal to

what Iím running from.

I flee

from what I want

by combing its hair

and putting a hat on it.

I freeze the gargoyles

into stone

and

decorate my city

with my nightmares.

The base mire

is where I get all my ideas from,

itís never far

from the clouds

where the angels

play their harps

and dry their wings.

 

Oh beautiful bridges

over the Seine,

listen to the rattle

of the devilís chains,

weíve made him our jeweler,

set him to work

beating the gold

of our emptiness

into priceless tears!

 

Below the surface

we contradict ourselves.

We use our filth to be beautiful,

become prodigies of our flaws,

we make godly faces

with mud on our hands

after dipping our arms

elbow-deep into

the entrails

of the earth,

we preserve our illness

because itís the only medium

we know how to work with.

Can you paint with the light

thatís shining through the window?

No, only

with the milk

of my motherís fear

and my fatherís anger.

Her eyes are like

the lake on which

the dark swan glides,

ready to beat her to death

with his wings.

Itís the only place

where I know how to sing.

 

Traitors to heaven,

we scorned the stairs

that led us away from

the music!

We should hang ourselves like Judas;

except then,

there would only be what is,

and not what could be.

Back To Top

 

Congestion

Congestion in the sky

 

God blowing the mucous

of a storm

all over the earth,

 

today the worldís

a kleenix.

 

Divine nose

blowing our city

to a standstill.

 

Somewhere, Heís drinking

the hot tea

of our limping snowplows

parting curtains of white

 

getting extra sleep

under the blanket

of our spinning nowhere-going wheels

gripped by the bulldog jaws of snow banks

 

even the wild love-making trees

leaping towards Him

with imminent fertility

have to restrain their green ache

with ice designs

like nurses

holding a wet wash rag

to His head

 

their beautiful crystalline chastity pleading for the spring

lets Him take a rest

from wars and human f**k-ups,

the third law of entropy

wreaking havoc on the

sacred

 

For once weíre on our knees praying,

praying for the road to be clear

so we can get away from Him

 

We untied

the shoes

He gave us to walk in

 

but now

weíre all pilgrims in His white

Jerusalem

 

dusting off the silenced

machinery of our sins

with

shovels

so we can hide in its

rumbling sidestep

 

itís so hard to be His children

 

thatís why

weíve run down a thousand miles of our heart

with free will

 

to another earth

 

Echoes of genesis

in our hands

have spoiled the six days

and lost the seventh

 

Poor God can only catch up

with desperate letters of weather

written to our pride

 

Thatís why

youíre not going to do anything today

except dig yourself out

 

reflect with a shovel

 

God made a little temple

in your busyness,

 

a street going nowhere

for a day

 

In an arrogant world

holiness

returns as helplessness

 

baby earth

crawling through the storm

 

Noahís flood

never looked so pretty

 

Sodom came out white

 

For a minute

the purity you left behind

engulfs you,

you slip and fall on virtues

you abandoned

 

Before you can melt them with salt

they force you

to slow down,

to look at every step

you take

 

Sick, sick world

 

God caught a cold from you

 

You made Him sick

and now heís sneezing all over you

with a storm

 

But it wonít last forever.

Stop a minute

to gather armfuls of this white reminder,

the music of everything

being broken.

 

Tomorrow youíll be back to sinning

and Heíll be up out of bed,

trying to love you.

Back To Top

 

 

 

Hildaís Blitz Krieg Of Self-Denial

 

Sheís descended from the Nazis,

she became a flower.

Her defiant, self-destructive gentleness

is a swastika

trying to hang itself

but you can still see

the Panzer Korps thundering

through her blue eyes

chiseled from the sea,

the iron eagles of

being soft,

sheís just falling off the world

in her own way.

One night the Storm Troopers

of fatherís discontent

smashed through

the windows

of her trust,

she fled from her

violated soul

to the angels of

anger,

painted them

over as

love.

She drew a line through violence,

then wrote "God",

with the same ink.

She amputated herself

from my life

with holiness;

she invaded

the world

by withholding herself

from it.

Behind her compliance

with Heaven

there is the SS

breaking down doors,

she goose steps with kindness

that is not natural,

twists herself

from the danger of being human,

inflicts angel wings

upon herself,

murders the ardent by being good.

She has Nazis in her blood,

how could mere clouds

escape her claws?

She can only save the Jews

by playing a broken harp,

only escape her diving Stuka thoughts

by strangling herself with the

opposite,

by bottling up rage in someone else

with her

ineptness at living.

 

Sheís cursed,

generations are needed

to dilute

that fatal uprising of

confidence,

that fury numb

to the dead.

Himmler saw her,

a little girl in pajamas,

and sheís still burned

by the love

in his eyes.

How could

her benevolence

be taken seriously?

No, it must be

the demons at work,

riding her horrified conscience

off the cliff,

making paradise impossible

with unbearable purity;

inner terrorists

infiltrating her heart,

hiding explosives

in the trash cans

of everything sheís

thrown out

to be redeemed.

War will come to her soon,

or to those she did not touch

to keep her hands clean.

 

Hilda

of the Niebelungelied,

horned-helmet goddess

of the

Rhine,

suppressed a sword

with stolen angel wings,

and turned me into the sword

she renounced,

by saying no to love.

What else could she do,

with Nazis

in her blood?

 

Back to Top

 

 

Personal Paradigm Shift

 

Personal

paradigm shift,

the Copernicus of

mortality

just moved my earth,

my immortality

cracked like a

mirror,

I couldnít blow out

the candles on

my cake,

they just kept on

burning

with my age,

shrinking under the

weight of the fire

that wants to

live forever,

too much

for the wax body

to bear.

Atlasí shoulders

are melting

under the burden

of longing

not in harmony

with the earth,

dripping back in time

towards

before me.

I got lost

between the cracks

in the spheres,

the mechanism

left me out.

Iím going to die!

I just woke up to it,

memories of extinction

triggered by the celebration!

My blinders broke,

and I felt it deep inside.

Time just started

to tick today.

For the first time,

my name

was posted by the clock,

a hole was blown in

my fantasies

by the universal

lightning bolt.

The legs of my denial

are too old

to keep on running,

and my life is too barren

to interpose any compensation,

when I ask to stay

the stars only look away

with another morning,

thereís nothing written

in the book

and only one more

empty page!

Birthday from Hell!

Never remind me of these years

again,

Iíll smash the faces of the ones who love me

and stab the birthday cake!

After the party,

Depression,

like sad sun rays on the water

held me prisoner for days.

I became filled

with what I had not done,

an embodied tear

sitting by the sea

waiting to go back

empty-handed.

Until the pitiful

breach of duty

stirred what was left

of the inspiration

that made today

seem a tragedy,

the remnants of

hope and genius

not strangled by

overprotectiveness.

And I made a resolution

by the oceanís

calm and deep reproach.

To make a banquet of

this final morsel of time.

To own what is mine

and be generous

with the gifts

that courage

loans

to the clear of mind.

Iíve got

to show God

He wasnít wrong

to put me here,

Iíve got to

give him

the best of the

autumn.

 

Back to Top

 

 

Room With A View

 

Tiny, dinky cramped room,

refugee rat hole,

depressing reminder of loss,

geometry of the mid-life crisis,

architecture of dreams

too big for their shoes,

barren, pressing walls,

plaster hands squeezing

on the windpipe of hope.

Walls like this

are the fire

of the Hell

of misfits;

the unstoppable foe of rebels

without a punch,

who just keeps on coming,

landing body blows

to the soul.

The length, width, and height

of your flaws;

the prison the worldís built

around your cause.

Room of destruction,

room of defeat,

room of humiliation

room of an unjust peace.

 

Tiny, miserable little room except

for one careless oversight:

a window! A window with a view of ships!

Tiny little room I live in: Iíll never be vanquished

with a view like this!

 

Back To Top

 

 

Soul Proof Window

 

Soul proof window,

looking at my people

from the other side,

tapping on the glass.

They donít believe

Iím who I am.

I canít get through

after all this

traveling

in disguises.

Essence lost its

credibility,

they still remember

how I would have

hated who I am.

Elk who strayed from the

herd looks like a sick wolf

now.

Whoís going to

stick around?

 

Sometimes to live

youíve got to

react to a shape.

A whole flock of

birds will fly away

from someone

who loves

with a heavy

footstep.

Because the

slow one dies

you canít wait for

first impressions

to change course.

You canít wait for the snow

of what you see

to melt.

I understand.

I would look at

myself with hard eyes, too,

impenetrable with loyalty.

 

Soul proof window.

All I can do is look,

love my wife

across the rift,

my daughter

and my grandfather.

Fight for them

without touching them.

Talk to myself

with them in my

heart,

feed them from far away

with good deeds,

without being believed.

Never break the bond

even though

itís only in me.

 

Soul proof window.

Separated

by being gone

too long.

Who wouldnít

shoot any stranger

walking down the

trail of deceit?

Sometimes

good men

come from the

wrong direction,

theyíre victims

of where theyíre

coming from.

The benefit of the doubt

isnít worth more than

your familyís life

so you strike with the

lightning of coldness,

blow love away with a shrug.

What we went through together

is to blame.

It all makes sense,

by the blood.

 

Soul proof window.

Mixed-up memory

canít prove a thing,

truthís got the stealth

of a wild cat in a

forest of mistakes.

You give up

on the ghost of your brother

because all you see

is trees

that got it wrong.

But lies

were never this strong.

I live halfway between

forgetting and remembering,

without a people.

 

Soul proof window.

Sometimes

the fog sees best.

The mind,

with accuracy,

betrays the

heart of the truth that

beats inside the human chest.

Donít be killed

by your head.

Fight for the strange land.

Itís beautiful to die

singing

unfinished business,

itís beautiful to

come back

with

eternal loveís

new tasks.

 

Soul proof window.

So alone:

no one knows you,

you fell between two families,

two worlds;

you came back riding on a wild horse

they thought was rain.

No one wants

to guess wrong.

 

Soul proof window.

This glass

will only break

if you

donít need to

be loved to love.

If you can

fast on the top

of the hill

of rejection

until you die

and still insist

with the

silent devotion

of a broken heart.

 

Back to Top

 

 

Another Soldier Home

 

Swine pulling the chariot of fire

Howíd you let this happen,

howíd you let this be?

Digging a hole with the shovel of

our stolen hearts

to bury our good will

under six feet of history?

 

When dragons pull the flower cart

the earth spits out roses.

 

When the sun gets caught

in the Hell machine,

the sunrise gets booed

with lead.

The dictionary of trust

doesnít have many words left now:

he crossed them out with the dead.

 

And the white snow just stopped falling,

yesterday still donít know

The white snow just stopped falling

Angel called another soldier home

 

Dog at the races, ran towards Heaven

chasing entrails

 

Good boy woke up wearing black,

somebody poisoned his love behind his back

When your good intentions stand up above the world

and spread a cobra hood

you know your heart is just firewood

 

And donkeyís pulling somebodyís golden plow,

digging furrows of indifference in the earth

The world wonít forgive him just because heís being whipped,

heís working for the seeds of hate

working against his own heart and against his faith,

adding the fuel of his captivity

to the flames

 

Sometimes, it hurts to be free:

bleeding the diabolical loved one out of your veins

But heís not worthy to hold the reins

Donkey, thereís a million brothers out there waiting

Sometimes youíve just got to walk away

 

And the white snow just stopped falling,

yesterday still donít know

The white snow just stopped falling

Angel called another soldier home

 

When I die

I want the world to still believe in love

I want the world to still believe

thereís a God above

Throw me on the funeral pyre of deceit,

burn me with the lies that killed me,

and please tell everybody near and far:

though he cheated, I was an honest card.

 

And the white snow just stopped falling,

yesterday still donít know

The white snow just stopped falling

Angel called another soldier home

 

Back To Top

 

 

Captain Of The Ship Of Fantasy

 

Iím Captain of the ship of fantasy

haunting the sea of reality

with my withdrawal

 

Like a ghost my answers pass

unnoticed through the question,

phantom bullets passing through

the heart of darkness

 

Iíve overturned a thousand crimes with

my candle under a bushel,

rescued the dying angel on the ground

without changing a single word

of the book of sorrows

 

Iím Captain of the ship of fantasy,

powerful like a storm that prayers canít stop

 

I hurl lightning bolts into the empty seas

and invite the earth to sup

at my table of imagined victories

 

Iím Captain of the ship of fantasy,

clutching the steering wheel of my inner world

while the waves howl with hunger

and swallow up the drowning sailors who I saved

 

The sky is dark, the wind is in a vengeful mood,

rain cuts into the foam; the sea bleeds from

the knife-sharp prow of my self-sufficiency

 

Youíll never be more alone than when

I extend my hand to you to pull you from the sea

 

Iím Captain of the ship of fantasy,

ghostly mad amidst the waves,

sowing seeds of gardens that can only grow in me.

Iím here to save you, and by saving you,

to let you die.

Dark, dark sky!

Loving mind, frightened back into itself,

I seized the world in my arms and fled back into the depths of me.

All I could give you for your tears and blood

was a place in my fantasy.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Warrior In A Bottle

 

Warrior in a bottle,

throw him into the sea.

Please God,

carry him far away from me.

So I said, wrapping myself in chains,

until the tears

of someone who used to be mine

became a wave,

and washed the bottle

onto the beach

right up to

my shackled feet.

 

The dance of self-imposed

harmlessness must end,

preening before the mirror of

innocence.

 

The tigerís reflection

on the water of helplessness

is another tiger.

That tigerís me.

 

Warrior in a bottle.

I threw him past the danger

of who I was,

past pride and anger

to necessity.

 

My petals have to fall.

Your tears are stronger.

 

Back To Top

 

 

 

The Camelís Back

 

Weighing down

the dark camel,

piling light onto

his back,

all life long

coward camel

blind camel,

time keeps adding

regrets that degrade

into insights,

like uranium

that breaks down

in 100,000 years,

100,000 thoughts

 

Nightmares lose

their power

once their hands

are on your throat,

youíre going to be strangled,

itís Godís last opportunity.

Youthís doors of de facto

atheism

have been broken down

you canít make it on your own

and youíre not alone

 

your power is everywhere

even on the knife blade

in your belly

 

fears in the sun

warrior, you donít have to face

a gun

bravery is in your eyes

fears die in the sun

and you wonít run

just by knowing

 

Iíve always said

clarity is balls

 

Dark camelís back,

Iíve spent a lifetime

of being surreptitiously

panic-stricken

 

remorse

like the wind

blew fruits from the trees

even when I hated myself

I knew what they were

and I just kept loading them

onto the camelís back

 

one load of light

after another

until itís legs wobbled

under the truth

and the desire:

a holy mix

 

Futile life

of the dark-camel driver

he never listened to my pleas

or whip

just kept me out

in the desert

of my handicap

watching the sand-grains

of great ideas

blowing meaninglessly

about

inside myself

 

I couldnít overcome his darkness

 

But years kept adding bits of light

I was a scavenger of my suffering

and collected every defeat

and clung to it

to torture myself towards understanding

 

Slowly I added the refuse of my

life wreckage to his back,

wreckage so painful

that it began to speak

 

I made all the wrong choices

 

and vivisected myself into light

loaded the dark camel mercilessly with my knowledge

 

still following him about,

enslaved by his audacious indifference

to humanity,

and his devotion to my weakness,

until at last, one day,

my catastrophe changed him

 

a single straw of light

 

the straw that broke the camelís back

 

one more insight coaxed out of nostalgia

and he could not rise,

my custom of losing was surprised by its

unexpected harvest

 

a single straw of light

 

who would think that such a life

could be salvaged

that the endless circle of futility could be broken?

The earth was made

when Godís word was spoken.

Write down everything you hear,

no matter how self-incriminating.

 

a single straw of light

 

the straw that broke the camelís back

 

I spent my long sad life loading the light

of my sorrow onto his invulnerable back,

endured his stubborn love of barren places,

his love affair with my loneliness and his haughty laugh

I followed him, dying, in the desert

denied myself because he was stronger,

the voice in my head that spoke silently through my legs

that wouldnít walk towards gardens

when the time was right

 

I gave up hope, but not my habit,

of loading the light

 

loading the light

 

loading the light

 

without hope,

loading the light

the one instinct that still ran free

 

like a child playing with his excrement

playing with my catastrophes

 

loading the light

 

blowing onto the embers of the sage

in the middle of the masochist

the flame of wisdom

 

dark camel let me suffer, didnít know the gold

thatís in a broken heart

 

loading the light

 

loading the light

 

a single straw of light

 

the straw that broke the camelís back

 

Never give up

collect your defeats and keep on

loading the light

 

a single straw of light

 

the straw that broke the camelís back

 

Back to Top

 

 

Science Lobotomy

 

Science Lobotomy.

Cut out the magic:

 

dead world

 

half-brain hubris

 

evil twin rules the world

 

power comes from the barrel

of a gun

because

angels are not possible

 

slaves make sense

when science has no

counterweight

Darwinís collar

crawled out of the sea

stood upright

around the throat

of the weak

 

no ghost in the machine

 

nothing to the dream

 

probability is king

in the land of

miracles

 

mutations of chance

salvage the wrecks

without God

 

humble the divine messages

 

For every witch burned

for every trial by water

for every tear-shaped virgin sacrificed

there is an atom bomb

 

there is a camera filming

thoughts of liberty

and a computer

plotting mass murder

 

No wires in the sky

no circuits

means no God

 

No genes among the clouds:

no angels

 

For every microbe banished

there is a dance

thatís been stolen

an orphan bound

in chains

 

Inventions fall like iron rain

over the soft skin

of our longing

 

Arrogance cuts whole countries

from our brain

 

Locks us in the poorhouse of the laboratory

reaching for the goddess on the prow

who kept the storm away

 

turns religions into urine samples

and drives away the fairy race

that made the fields bloom

 

pillages the mystique from seeds

and soil

and enriches the artistry of doom

 

The secret eye was closed

wisdom became ignorance

 

The irrational was bleached white

 

no one walked on water

or parted seas

 

rage stayed behind

the pauper of the irrational

 

while the royalty

of the mysterious world

was overthrown

its wild head of hair

cropped by a pretense of light

 

one-half blessing

one-half control

Empowerer of the vestige

of the soul

 

Prove what you feel

thatís the deal

 

no more loyalties to the invisible

no more voices without a body

no visions by the well

 

the days of angels by the door

must give way to the light

of the visible spectrum

of the near-sighted

 

if it does not have a button

or a trigger

itís not real

if itís not a chemical

or a spark

thatís accepted by a meter

 

the gray books of the alchemists

have crumbled

given way to the new

superstition of nations

fed by coal and steel

 

souls gave way to railroads

 

power hoarded by the owners

of mass, brawn and muscle

 

No man with an angel in his heart

would ever bow down to the dark

 

for those on top

to those on the bottom:

ignorance is bliss

 

ignorance wearing the high and mighty armor

of the proud

 

shining with one of many forms of knowledge

 

making war on the rest

 

The net

 

the great wide net of genius

looking one way

 

believes there is no more to the sea

than what it drags up from the deep

 

There is no sea monster

no mermaid singing in the mist

there is the stone we stand on

the dangling light of the sun

hanging from the wire

of a law

and thatís it

 

only one language to speak

and no word for

heart

 

Who touched me in the night?

Who made my hair stand up on end?

It was neither foe nor friend

 

We drove the screaming ghosts away

denizens of the conscience

depopulated midnight with torches

lit by fear turned intellectual

cut through the knot of terror and hope

with a single sword of light

released the iron genie of unlimited might

to bury demons and Gods alike,

threw out the baby with the bath water,

banished the testimony of the ancient races,

the passion in their statues and on their pages,

and the goose bumps on our flesh

to bow down to an emaciated peace of mind,

(ceding everything around the corners of our eyes)

foregoing wings because we can only prove walking

building palaces on physical granite

on emotional quicksand

 

coming to depend upon our rational eloquence

to argue a new compromise

into the fabric of the Universe,

no diabolical surprises

and no Heavenly hand

 

the middle ground of the eunuch

castrated by knowledge

 

hidden by the manly gait of believing himself

courageous

because heís torn hope to shreds

 

driven away divine whispers

with his methodology

his totalitarian hold on the truth

 

His beautiful hammer that smashed

Inquisitions

and disarmed mad priests

 

that brought the singing of planets

into the range of our ears

 

froze like a childís laugh turned to ice

 

the revolution declared a reign of terror

against the dancers in the air

a purge against the past

dragged instincts and visions

to the guillotines

any prophet-eyed believer in the wilderness

who would not wear the yoke

of a theory

 

made the sun once more revolve around the earth

circling to its new music

 

God is dead

man, uprising ,

killed him

using only half a brain

 

No more myths

no more lies

no more priest-kings

leaping through hoops of incense

with tigers in their minds

no more daughters stripped naked

and given to the earth

like seeds

like lovers to the dead

no more nights of pounding hearts and sweat

running from the footsteps

of the wind

the creaks and mysteries

of the dark

 

and great gifts, too,

life for millions saved from ignorance

and persecution

compassion empowered by cleverness

Archimedesí crazed siege engines

used for medicine

and cultivation

 

what a huge boast

backed up by the descendants

of the rescued

 

And yet, beware!

Beware the triumph!

 

In the ecosystem of history

fairy tales are the secret of life,

the pillar of reality

the green leaves

that subtly sustain the lion

who lives proudly certain

of their irrelevance

 

the unseen world felt

is as precious

and as necessary

as the touch of love

that comes between sterility

and the night

 

the dead angel,

the dead fairy,

the dead ghost

leave nothing

for man to live on

 

no plankton in the sea

means no diving dolphins

 

no fly in the pond:

no great-winged stork

 

mysterious connections

enshrined in our imaginations

are broken

 

the soul hungers

in the brave new world

of the mind

 

tradition shattered

by commitment to utter newness

 

the loss of peripheral vision

becomes as sharp as a point

 

and kills with cold genius

 

loaded with all the self-hatred

of a motherless existence

 

intelligence not enriched by

the jests of curiosity

 

reality not enriched by human elaboration

freely spawned in the creative womb

 

become tiresome

deadly with dullness

spiked with the ingenuity of misery

enormous with power

that could go either way

 

we havenít found the brakes in ourselves yet

why uproot the ones we have

 

why disconnect from the personified Universe

 

why stab the bosom

and the face

with conceited speculations

consistent in their own narrow corridor

why smash the inner compass

its directions that resonate

 

to seek our way amidst sharp angles

 

why refuse the guiding warmth?

 

even the viper moves towards the heat of a body

 

why canít we invade the Universe

with our love, and our search for love,

put our hearts inside stones

and make the whole earth throb with our pulse

 

embrace it with the deepest way we have

to understand it

bring back invaluable pieces of it

with our limits

 

why must we sever ourselves

stop ourselves from spreading

outwards and being penetrated

by what is outside

why kill the strange communion

that catches the truth

in a black bag?

 

I do not see it

but I know itís in the bag

of my myth

 

And Iíve never lied

or killed for it

 

Science, youíre no enemy of mine

but donít try to cut the contradictions

from my mind

 

the sacred stories

of my intuition

 

the instincts of my parallel universe

 

the approximations that elicit my

recognition and my loyalty

 

No lobotomy this time

 

No domination of the void

 

Iíll use the empty space in my own way

 

Teach me

but donít come to end my double life,

donít make war on the paradoxes

in which the green grass grows,

the two faces of Janus

my rational and mystic mind.

 

Youíve armed me to the teeth,

enhanced my primitive self

which only my primitive self

can talk out of it

 

Donít give me a gun

without the safety catch

of an angel

 

Donít give me a Universe

thatís nothing but an empty box

in which to scream

donít make me want to die

 

Some say war

comes from the assurance of paradise

 

more likely is it to come from

the pointlessness of life

 

Donít step on my heart

with your pride

donít lay my soul in its grave

 

Science, I truly love you

but youíve killed as many

as youíve saved

 

Back to Top

 

 

The Compass And The Sun

 

Sun sets in the west, rises in the east,

compass points north

towards the cold.

What would you do if one day

the Sun didnít rise from compass east?

Would you disbelieve your eyes?

Would you tell the Sun you canít be you,

youíre coming from the wrong direction?

Would you believe the golden Sun that pierced the air

or the compass needle that said it wasnít there?

 

Some souls stand their ground

and some souls run.

Which do you believe:

the compass or the Sun?

 

Back To Top

 

 

What Did You Do With The Magic Moment?

 

Look the whirlpool

in the eye,

let it suck you into the secret, or

you can say no

and die.

Youíll only have

an instant to decide.

The roses of truth

wither

with one betrayal,

the mountain is fragile

to the touch

of your

consciousness.

You can kill yourself

and forget

youíre dead,

hide inside the numbness

of the collective renunciation;

but fitting in

isnít life,

not when it comes

to something

so personal.

Do you explain away

the invitation?

Itís so subtle

youíll miss it

if youíre waiting

for it to make sense.

If youíre waiting

for the skyís bells

to ring,

for its hardened enemies

to yield,

for it to melt the swords

of cynics

and offer you its love

with safety,

to let you sleep with it

without becoming

the black sheep

of the modern paradigm.

Subtle as a door

that opens and closes

in the night,

you can question it

or go in,

you can let it happen

or chase it away.

Do you believe

what you feel

or what others

say?

The power

of maybe

could make

you live

forever,

or you could sit

in the rocking chair

of those who

became ancient

from disbelief,

solitary unwed

disciples of

of matter,

celibate to spirit.

 

Run after the invisible

laughter!

The ghost child

wonít come back

once you

throw stones at him.

You may not have an answer

but treat him right.

Let yourself be bewildered

towards the light.

 

What did you do with

the magic moment?

Did you bow down

to the mystery

and weave the gold of it

into your life,

or did you bury it

in the night of others,

and sell your soul

for peace?

 

Back to Top

 

 

Wise Man

 

Buzz of the bees

making the honey of pain

fills the earth.

Wise manís always sad.

Joy starts as tears

and is never more

than a beautiful

dance

wearing the chains

of the worldís sorrow.

But the slow and heavy steps

of an open heart

are fleeter

than the agile ecstasy

of the

soaring bird

who

uses the

closed heart

of height

to spare

himself the price of

love.

Listen!

The earth

wonít stop

whispering

its wounds to the

enlightened,

they hear its suffering

with their

trembling closed eyelids

and peaceful pierced faces,

sitting by the

lotus of blood.

They fly

with the lead wings

of terrible injustices

into the fire

of caring

and burst into flames

of understanding.

 

Understanding doesnít sit,

it reaches out.

 

It doesnít offer

shovels

to bury the dead,

it finds

levers to

move

the living.

 

But the fragility of flesh

stops

the plea

from walking

through the desert

of the sick mind

all the way

to the withered

heart.

The beautiful and the broken,

the angels of awakening,

covered the dying

with cloaks of

suggestions

before

history

swept them

back into

the inscrutable depths

of the void

that left its patterns

on their minds.

Wise men know

this is their fate:

to be too small.

To cry away

moments of

happiness

blemished

by the horizon,

to find

happiness in loving,

and let grief

catch up with it

and mix with it.

To stay afloat in the

whirlpool

of euphoria

and despair

that runs circles

around

serenity.

How could a man

who

makes love to the sight of a rose

be depressed?

How could a man

who hears

the moon mother

laying flowers

beside her craters

in the tiptoe middle of the

night

be happy?

 

Paradoxes

are the medium of

spirit

and the wise

hover

between

the two gravities,

overwhelmed

by unseen sources

of joy

and unheard signs

of distress.

 

They dwell

between worlds,

in a

world

of their own

that is

intensely ours.

 

Listen!

Do you hear the drone?

The drone of the worker bees

of sorrow

building the intricate

honeycombs of

our misery?

The dirge of what we have done

to each other,

the funeral of our innocence,

the voice of the earth?

 

The wise man

walks

with his sense of sound

hearing an infinity of

reasons

to weep;

his inner power

pulls him back from the edge,

he doesnít run,

he doesnít drown,

he remains,

slashed by tears

that bring him

into our midst,

buried in our hands,

imbedded in our heartsí lips,

hurled into our soulsí arms.

He caresses us

with our tears,

dances his dance

to the beat of our pain,

dies with us

by the open door.

 

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