Monday, August 2, 2010

Early Poems of the New-Style

Primarily for the benefit of my Mother. These can also be found as Notes on my Facebook page.

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Vicious

Pimples are appearing like spinal notches
down the front of my body. It started
on my forehead. "Funny," I thought
"that is where my Third Eye would be."

Next it was my nose, like Rudolph on the peak
of Everest, standing on his tippy-toes, reaching
up just one more desperate little milimeter,
simply because he was born to light up the night.

My lip is split. A dehydrated slice sits precisely
in the center of the quasi-symmetric curls of flesh
which represent my bottom lip. Flesh most vicious
every morning when it had almost healed.

Shaving today for the first time in too long,
I nicked the newest one. It began to bleed,
red as that original apple for which this lump,
forever caught in my throat, was named.

I suspect my chest must come next.
Welcome! My heart is wide open.
Further down I'll omit for now, seeing how
that's just nothing for public consumption.

One day I will lay naked.
Nothing I can do then.
As it is, was and will be.
I am clothed for now in flesh by highest consent.

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Rant 7 June 2010

How often do we exercise the true mythic form of Freedom?
Must we be so ever fervent, this incessantly faithful to the easy lure of party lines,
assuming some expected trust, obviously now already unearned
based upon the endless litany of false-flag attacks and desperate subversion tactics
to which the population at large has been subjected, agreed to, once upon time,
while demonstrating how scary forced evacuation in the Southlands is or will be,
and how interminable internment camps become, and quickly.

Somehow I never remember offering any sort of submission,
be it to a law well-known to be innately unnatural, nor
to assist in the completion of bureaucratic quota sheets
which support a system designed to promote clones destined
to achieve that status so often sought though only ever offered
to Officials who are (who?) willing to haul all such stinky bait with them
when they go, and go they will, to become lost on assignment,
stumbling blind and deep into the darkness where all incarnate
fish swim and feed, learn to fight, sleep and wake up in time to die.
Like true legends. So who then next will bite said tempting hook?

Okay what, so try Freaking Out today just to see what happens, and then or
ask those folks just home from detainment in G-20 Toronto, not forgotten, if it was fun,
or not.

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An Imagined Apprenticeship

For tutor I choose sea turtle (not Nemo)
so as to learn to surf star-gate currents
zooming just under the surface
of Earth's oceans, those veins of the Divine
floating close to Light-speed, even past it,
no matter.

I'd spend my nights writing (like now)
propping my spine upon the chiropractically-magical
curve of his or her tremendous shell:
the type of exo-skeleton which one day might
sit atop the skull of Earth's one true beholder,
becoming the new crown of Atlas.

Watching whorls of star-coral unfold
amid triple-helix spirals busy
sprouting bouquets above below
around and within us, we slide
across the uncreated floors and shelves
of the cosmic undersea scaffolding.

Having turned through an obscurely curving corridor,
fraught with lost fish lingering in caves
laden with temptation, we emerge from that
shadowy canyon and plunge past the precipice,
flying like cartoon Coyote, only we know not
to look down or allow doubt.

This is how we stay weightless.
Trust us, it's safer that way.

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The Earth Will Not Explode (Giving Birth)


And there: did you sense that subtle boom?
that muffled rush of stardust, a newborn unformed,
contemplating which shape to take?
Awake within the womb, so warm, and then what?

Lava playfully pushed into this ocean of existence to see how plain
dark and freezing it is, so full of resistance, and insistence
on confusion and fear it is at these heavy depths; so hot we streak
toward the surface in as direct a path as possible,

-- though some aberration is expected,
and, naturally, patches of atoms will tend East or West --
seeking to explore those sacred spaces,
places less dense and more rife with light,

impelled up by not-knowing-any-better,
yet all the same, always weighed down by a pervasive blur,
this fresh molten starflesh, formerly amorphous, stiffens and stops,
still not shallow enough and now growing slowly dead

of separation, having ventured too distant from our core source,
but clearly not yet near enough our local star,
and so caught in-between becomes this infinite range of
statuesque spires, seeming almost moldy through the gloom

though this deep down we know what brittle fossils we've become,
inevitably destined to erode when the oceans overflow
then drain, there abandoning all evidence of man's random art
to wither in the heart of the wind, under the breath of death's sun,

with plans to be reborn inside the final sunrise
witnessed by our shrouded eyes on the blessed being Earth.
Tired of being blind inside a storm of time distortion,
we temporarily chose to be toads so we could watch the earth explode

into life! Finally! enough groundswell has gathered
and our galactic island triad is all set to surface
into the sea of Spirit, a crystal child born warm,
blinking open in the Dawn of crazy new age fame.

Terra, is her name.

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PS Hey Mom, cut my hair today. Here look:

3 comments:

  1. nice haircut. very good poems. good boy

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