The Many Faces of God

The Many Faces of God

​ Marion loves to wear her lips in pink, glossed in a manner of delusional innocence. She walks to her daytime job at the newspaper office every morning and decorates the lies of the world with the whims of her boss. She’s been with men before, but most of them were never lovers. She eats popcorn every evening and gives her dinner the accompaniment of the finest of wines from Southern France. She gets the money from her father, who divorced her mother seven years ago. He loves her well and ensures that she eats her meals on time and has enough to buy her pink gloss. Marion is sad that life never seems to take an exciting turn as the months of her years fly by. Marion is beautiful, but Marion is sad. The cobbled streets of Paris give her no more solace than the wide roads that connect her city to the rest of Europe. While the job at the newspaper office does enough to help Marion hide her mind from herself for eight hours a day, she fills her soul with grimace and hatred for life every night when her cheeks touch her pillow. A Christmas came when the wine didn’t do enough and the broken heart of Marion befriended a rope that hung tightly from a ceiling fan. It was not a tragedy, it was a movement of fate and Marion was gone.

Felix loved his usual doses of LSD by the beach every twice or thrice a year. He believed that the mind needed to be reset every time it got too clouded with the mushy movements of the mundane world. But the last time around, Felix was imprinted. Felix had always believed that his awareness was separate from the objective world and he could dip his hands in the water without getting wet. But the LSD had brought him to believe that everybody shared the same ability. This induced a flame of spiritual jealousy deep inside the materialistic caverns of Felix’s soul. So he turned to DMT to find an explosive way out of the confoundedness that kept him separate from his ecstasy. The DMT worked. It gave him peace. At least it did the first time. The second time, Felix was imprinted again. And this time, he was drawn to strongly feel that the human body was an unfortunate bondage and this vacation to the Earth was an opportunity to free one’s soul from bondage. The wrists of Felix met the sparkling sharpness of an unbranded kitchen knife and left his body lying cold and still in his mother’s kitchen. Felix was beautiful and Felix was free. And now he was gone.
Dr. Kennelly was a victim of Asthma and she had dedicated her life to cancer research. Her everyday contact with tragedy had given her the courage to become an alcoholic. Her everyday interaction with death had given her the wisdom to become loose in speech and careless with her research. When age brought the perception of “fifty years old” into the awareness of Dr. Kennelly, she decided that her lifelong rejection of tobacco smoking was a hoax and she let her resistance slip into the delights of spending $200 a month on tobacco. Her Asthma met several instances of acute torment and left Dr. Kennelly struggling for breath in a twin bed in her lonely bedroom. Her daughter would visit her once a day and kneel beside her, reading poetry from Gibran and Rumi trying to give the old woman a sense of eternity. Dr. Kennelly was beautiful, but she didn’t know that. A morning came when breath had become a matter of perpetual endurance. She was a medical lady. It wasn’t much of an effort to find the pills that would bring her peace. Her daughter read her eulogy and seemed to be the only one that wept at her funeral. Dr. Kennelly’s research was taken up by some other team across the country who eventually made progress. But nobody will remember Dr. Kennelly. Nobody will remember the soul that was spilt because of its contact with the mortality of human dreams.
Bobby Dream was a delightful young poet whose verses dared to explore the darker nature of human existence. He left his heart to the safekeeping of his childhood sweetheart, Emily Karma, who ensured the softness of Bobby’s heart when his talent swam swiftly into the spotlight of concrete human society. Bobby Dream’s verses gave hope to his friends and reminded them that life was no struggle to make it to the throne, but instead a dance to make the grave itself a throne. Bobby’s friends implored him to take his literature to the world in a formal, published manner. Bobby resisted for several years but finally found the plasticity in his mind to reject his rebellious human heart. After nine bestsellers, Bobby decided to go on a romantic date with his hypocrisy. He looked back on his teenage rebellion and touched its innocence again. He admitted that he had failed his purpose. Ms. Karma was now married to a man who worked at the steel factory and she had three children. One winter morning, Bobby Dream saw her walking with her youngest who seemed to hop along as her mother smiled in the sunshine. The smile gave Mr. Dream a heavy remembrance of his carefree heart in the days of his youth. Today had become an endless struggle through sessions of book signings and new contracts with the publisher. All Bobby wanted was to lay in Emily’s lap again and listen to her whistling as the cold breezes of winter would reflect off the warmth of their communion. Mr. Dream would never find such a moment again. As he penned down his last poem, Mr. Dream polished the pistol that seemed so friendly today. Emily Karma shed tears on the mud that would make the grave of Bobby Dream. Bobby was beautiful and forever in love. He took away from himself as much as the world had done. Mr. Dream’s poems live on, but Bobby is gone.
They were all beautiful and now they’re gone. Does that mean that the lives that they lived were any less charming? We move and we move struggling through the resistances of our hearts hoping that eternity would kiss us before we meet our doom. Is it that eternity is a gift only for the few? Is it possible that our mortality is realer than we fear it to be? Is it alright to live our lives in an unforgivable vibration of boredom and hatred chasing dreams that were sold to us by people who were just like us? What are dreams? Why do we dream? Why do we aspire for higher states of human living? Let the sound of the sky’s violins create causeways in our hearts and remind us of our inherent beauty. There is a sense of needlessness that is natural to our hearts and if we dare to touch it again, we might meet the peace that we have craved for ever since we left the warmth of simplicity in our younger years. We are chasing the things that we believe will help us dance, but we never see that this is the only moment in which we can dance. I am a man of poetry, music, and other erotic things. I have touched beauty in the middle of the darkness, with the ability to rejoice even when nobody is watching. It has taught me that my mortality is my liberation; the very foundation of what we can deem beautiful in this immense, miraculous life. If all understandings fail, the only thing that we need to remember is that we are free. And our freedom can never be blemished by the streetlights of space-time that help us dance between what is real and what is not.

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The Fallacy of Incremental Well-Being

The Fallacy of Incremental Well-Being

There seems to be an unequivocal conviction in the mind of man that he needs to strive to be better than what he is today. This constant yearning for the betterment of oneself is, undoubtedly, the force that drives humanity’s endless thirst to advance into an eventual technological utopia. The thirst for betterment is driven by external forces and the entire idea of becoming something, or someone, is driven by the desire to add things, whether tangible or intangible, to oneself. These things include cars, spouses, college degrees, trendy clothes, decorated vocabularies, and can range to things as extreme as spiritual supremacy and political correctness. Nobody is coded to find such things strange as the common mind in society is securely entrenched in a matrix of beliefs and convictions that are accorded to a collective human mind. The normalcy of every member in society is usually measured by its degree of accordance to this collective mind. The security that such accordance offers is so immense, so complete, and so intellectually unchallengeable that it clouds the natural intelligence of the human brain and keeps it from recognizing the fact that the collective mind, itself, is a manifestation of a very serious form of insanity. To begin with, very few people have questioned their elders about the validity of obedience to the older generation. While the wisdom of the experienced is sublime and immensely helpful in guiding the human child into a responsible style of living, it is only limited to very basic lessons such as, fire is harmful or wood is not food. The wisdom of the elder might extend to dimensions beyond such basic lessons, however, it has no place in defining the morality of the new age being.

Morality, being inherently subjective and carrying with it high levels of danger, is not a psychological form of energy that anyone must tamper with. Science has induced in us an innocent sensation of awe at our smallness in the universe, but has also simultaneously cursed us with the recognition of our mortality. It has given our mortality an aura of doom instead of an understanding of liberation. The science that is nurtured and advanced by modern man concentrates on a very limited dimension of human existence—the physical. While the play of the physical universe seems to occupy the majority of man’s awareness, by no means is it evidence that the limitation of man’s awareness is an implication of the universe’s limitations. However, the collective human mind, being so childishly infatuated by the physical dimension of existence (and its limitations) has somehow managed to develop an almost incurable fear of its inherent mortality. Such a fear, of course, is guided by the mind’s perception of its separation from the rest of the universe. It is this sensation of separation that leads every individual to believe that more needs to be added to oneself in order to complete oneself. There seems to be a great feeling of lack and negative emptiness that motivates us to strive for betterment, and often times, at the cost of the comfort and happiness of other beings.

We cannot transcend this diseased system of thought with haste. It requires a tremendous amount of clarity and inner observation to even recognize the disease. The regular mind will cease to even spare an extra glance at such an enquiry because it is convinced that there are other important activities to pursue such as finding a good job, buying a new car, finding a reasonable spouse, or visiting the next spiritual guru who can offer a fresh concept of freedom at the price of one’s individuality. Man seems to be too occupied with the games that occur in the physical dimension and will perish as a race if he seeks his survival only in the correctness of outward affairs. It is a fallacy. We have been enslaved to this endless desire to add things to ourselves. If I tell you that you are perfect as you are, you would pant like a dog searching for reasons to justify something imperfect within you.

So, what now? Do we give up our jobs and burn our cars so we can throw ourselves into a pursuit of the unknown? Do we hastily enquire into the nature of our mortality and rebel against the formidable establishment of the collective mind, so that we might discover our freedom before it’s too late? An intellectual mind that is spurned and excited by logic would find only such a conclusion valid and rational. Only an intelligent mind, as opposed to intellectual, will understand that there is no conclusion that is required. The trick is not to change the world, but to discover that it does not need to be changed.

But, of course, the collective human mind will resist the individuality that is inherent in each one of us. The individual mind is alive while the collective psyche is a residue of a million yesterdays. The transcendence from the collective psyche of humanity indicates the transcendence from human history. We make ourselves unavailable to the divine potential of our own intelligence because we are afraid of the insecurity that is kindled by the unknown. You only fear your mortality because you have never walked deep into it and faced it with an open mind. Instead, you have settled for the fancy heavens and hells that you bought from strangers and, at most, have come to realize that if not for the heavens and hells, your life is a purposeless dance into a pointless, hopeless void. Such a recognition has made most people bored of living. The human being is the only sentient creature (I hope) that has reduced the eternity of the universe into time. There are several illusions to be uncovered if only one dares to step out of the collective psyche and shed light on one’s own mind, as it is, in its natural state, uncorrupted and undivided. It takes a courageous man to decide that his freedom lies in his own hands. Do not waste your years on patriotic freedom and social correctness. Why do you so fervently endure the trash that is fed to you from the collective psyche of humanity? You are neither responsible nor accountable for the rash, ignorant activities of your kind. You are responsible to the universe for a far more important thing. You are a creator, and if you waste your years in this beautiful world seeking success, convenience, and incremental well-being, you will meet death in a very distasteful manner.

Creators are not born to be survivors. Eternity is in their very nature. Why do you add things to yourself? You are born to add things to the universe that belongs to you, as much as you belong to it. Why do you so thirstily rummage through the wastebaskets of society’s false offerings of happiness believing that you will find a sense of satiation? The answer is inside, in the very same place that the hunger for truth resides. The only voice that will help you return to the humanity that you so desperately crave for is your own voice. You do not need time to wake up. You can do it right now, wherever you are, whoever you are.

Screamjack

 

art: Real Gold – Sir Eduardo Paolozzi

The Other Side

The Other Side

We need to write imagining that no one will ever read us, because that liberates you, because that frees you from the public’s necessity for correct grammar and appropriate punctuation; that frees you from the enslavement to decent words and appropriate imagery; that frees you from the expectations of people who have previously deemed you to be a good writer, a fantastic writer, a decent writer whatever. We need to imagine that nobody’s reading us.

Pick up that paper and spit it out. Let the music ring out from whatever instrument you have clothed in dust in your messy room and let your heart break before your monitor, your notebook, your friend, whatever you have. What liberates you is the very thing that the appropriateness of society loathes and rejects; humanity is a very subtle prison you see. Every artist needs aloneness to liberate himself. Every artist needs to bleed out the manners and acts of decency that have been cultivated within him by the people he has dearly loved. You need to walk to the places that no one else has dared to tread, you need to find the courage to let your heart bleed when nobody is watching. That’s the hypocrisy of most men you see; they love to bleed, poets love to bleed, painters love to bleed, but they do it only when everyone’s watching. You need to do it when nobody’s watching, that’s the point of liberation that lasts forever, free of time, free of yourself, free of everything.

They’ve created art schools to imprison the few of us who are remaining; don’t go to art school, don’t let that little part of you that is still alive be converted into political vomit and embroidered literature in the museums of the world. Don’t destroy yourself sweetheart. Don’t go to art school. Look at me, a young man who already sounds a hundred years old. School destroys you. Don’t go there. Instead, go to the Himalayas, go someplace faraway, let your heart break into a million pieces when you meet the reality of loneliness in a city that is home to more than a million people. Don’t go to art school, go to the places that you are afraid will kill you. Don’t go to Paris, or Rome, or New York City, or Tokyo. People have been going there all their lives. They’ve been telling us the same old stories; they’ve been regurgitating the same old tales of cultural excreta that every honest man has grown to become tired of. Don’t go to those places. Go somewhere else, anywhere, but those places. Go to the places that you know will kill you.

So many people are sitting before their monitors and begging their minds to shut up for one minute so that they can complete a verse of poetry. Don’t ask it to shut up, transform it, transmute it. Let your confusion become your art. Let your writer’s block become your novel. Let your dysfunctions become your orgasms and your tragedies become your redemptions. Don’t believe in god, believe in yourself. So many people have believed in god; god is yesterday’s delight. Today, you are your delight.

If you write a novel in fourteen days, they won’t believe you; if you spread it over fourteen years, they’ll put you on a pedestal and praise the work that you supposedly strived to complete at all odds, even though your heart kept forcing you to go the other way; if you write a song when you feel no pain, they won’t get it; if you take too much LSD and tell them life is beautiful, they’ll tell you your high; nobody wants to touch roses that have thorns, nobody wants to kiss a woman whose lips are dry, nobody wants gold that doesn’t shine, and nobody wants to be told otherwise. Everybody wants numbers, reason, and solid facts and if you ask them to play with you, they’ll call you a child. That’s why, learning to bleed when nobody’s watching is the artist’s great abode, his temple hidden from the impurities of the perfect world. Don’t listen to them; if you have to go to school, go to school, if you have to love a woman, love her like there’s no other, and when the time comes to meet your broken heart, drink your whisky, smoke your weed, drop your acid, and be on your way whistling on to a new tomorrow that offers something newer than yesterday. Nothing sticks and everything moves like frames on a movie screen; if you have to get a job, get it, work it, lose it. It seems to matter a great deal now, but when you’re facing death a few seconds away, if you’ve let nothing stick, you’ll greet it like an old familiar friend, and that will be your moment of liberation. What everyone considers their damnation, will be your liberation.

Don’t go to art school, go somewhere else. Contradict yourself, cheat yourself, hurt yourself. But in the midst of the chaos, remain honorable. Not perfectly honest, or kind, compassionate, or honorable in a cheap noble kind of way; remain honorable to yourself, that will take you across the fire to the sunshine that you so desperately seek.

Go away now, to that crazy place, that’s not Rome, or Paris, or New York city. Go away to that place you’re afraid will kill you; and when you’re back, I’ll be waiting for you, here, on the other side.

Hurt, Work, and Romantic Things

Hurt, Work, and Romantic Things

I remember sitting naked by that creaking window. It was almost cracking because of the icy winds blowing outside.

Pulling out the last cigarette from the red box on the floor, I heard Mora snoring beside me with her legs constantly tossing about the bed in the most annoying way possible. The sun got through the window and she finally woke up, “Fuck Steven, I told you I’ve got work at 9. It’s fucking 11.”

I moved across the bed and kissed her half on the lip and half on the cheek. “Get away, asshole.” She slid off the bed, put on her skirt and sped toward the kitchen. In two minutes, I was alone at home.

I moved to the corner of the room that had the only source of electricity in my resourceful castle that I had leased from an old woman who needed a regular source of money for her Cocaine. The old hag once even tried re-negotiating the stupid lease because she ran out too early in the month. I opened my laptop and tried finishing what was left of last night’s poem that wrote half of itself as I sat spitting out righteous nonsense over my last glass of whisky after making love to Mora. There was always a sense of space that sex with Mora created in me. I sometimes wondered if I used Mora so I could write.

“I’m on tonight. I left the packet by your window. Don’t forget to bring it,” Mora’s message picked me off my ass and got me to take a shower. I picked up the packet and headed straight to Outland Soup Bar. We smoked the last joint dangling in the packet and Mora entered the bar and walked straight up to her spot and began. Outland Soup Bar was a strange place that served soup, salad, and sandwiches and had a live piano performer. For the last month, Mora had made a portion of her living performing here. Along with her day job at an Indian restaurant as a waitress.

She had the sweetest voice that tickled any pair of ears, stoned or not. The only reason I wasted two hours not drinking whisky and drinking soup instead was so I could hear that voice. A voice that traversed the entire range of human emotion as it moved from smooth morbid delight before the piano at the soup bar to endless mourns of eye-rolling ecstasy in bed.

We left the soup place and headed straight to Marlon Mushroom’s Omelet House. Marlon was an acid head who owned a bar. He loved sticking mushrooms in omelets and served every whisky imaginable from the Eastern to the Western Hemisphere.

“The usual two June, and dark rum for Mora”. It was always just two whiskeys at a time, but June would always pour them like she cared. That was her job. She didn’t care

“Two for me too, June”. Mora smiled at June and turned back to kiss me on my neck as she suddenly remembered, “How was it today? I wasn’t stoned enough to not give a fuck Steven. I hate playing when I care about the folks listening to me.”

“Not too shabby, darling. Drink up.”

I met Mora six years back when I found her crying alone in a corner at Marlon’s. The reason she was crying, well that’s too long a story and it would take us off track. I remember that evening. It was snowing outside, and the perfume on her neck created a strange woody scent as it met the salt in her tears. I bought her a drink and listened to her whining, for three hours. After I decided I was bored enough, I took her home and gave her some Cocaine. We made love for three days drinking the cheapest whisky in town and watching cartoons on my laptop. We listened to The Doors, Bob Dylan, The Velvet Underground, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and as she always loved to proclaim, her favorite artist Wanda Jackson. We finally ran out of Cocaine on the fourth morning. So Mora went home. And as I kissed her on her ears by the staircase outside my door, I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking of coming back that night.

That was a bright time in my life. I worked as an editor at a newspaper that lived on tales from Wall Street. Now, I was just writing poetry on a blog that couldn’t afford the cheapest Google Ad Campaign. I had enough savings to drink and eat with Mora for another year. I’d probably think of a job after I ran out.

We drank for three hours at Marlon’s and headed home. It was cold, icy fucking cold. It was so cold that I could feel my balls freeze as I touched the cold doorknob to open the broken wooden door that led into my house.

You’re probably wondering that this is a tale of love between a man and woman who are too high to understand the hardships of honest romance.

You’re wrong. I was madly in love with Mora. But, for Mora, I was her livelihood. Without me, she wouldn’t eat. She couldn’t eat. She wouldn’t have the money to eat. Her jobs paid her shit. She made enough to buy her weed and get to that important sip of whisky that brought her the little sleep that she found. She was a broken woman. It was hard to say if it was really a man that broke her. Some people, man, woman, child, they are just born to live broken. They wait for a reason to break, and then meet their destiny.

As I cradled Mora that night smoking a long, sweet, sentient cigarette, I heard Mora weep again after six long years.

“We don’t talk enough Steven. When we don’t talk, I begin to remember again. And when I begin to remember, I need to cry. And when there’s no tears left, the madness comes.”

“Let’s talk, darling”, I was bored. I’d heard this hundreds of times. But it had been six years, six years since the tears. So I turned a curious ear to what she had to say.

“What’s there for us? Well, to come? If we have to do the same dam thing every day. Off to Outland, then to Marlon’s, and back home and sleep. What else?”

I wasn’t the best person to solve a woman’s existential crisis. But I did the best I can. “I don’t know. If you try and look back, you’ll see that things keep changing. They just feel like they stay the same.”

“You fucker. You’re as useless as I am”. She smiled. And her yellow teeth displayed the deep honesty that had lured me into her life.

“I guess for people like us, it’s best to fight off our dreams. Our past’s been shabby enough to merit suicide, and our future equals our mediocrity in measures of hopelessness.”

“Ah Steven. You’ve always used fancy words when you don’t have an answer. You bastard.”

We didn’t speak for a few minutes. Poured ourselves another drink as Mora’s tears seemed to resurface. I wonder if she was really remembering again. You see Mora used to know love many years ago. Had a good male partner, a husband, yes, who was quite a nice fellow. He died. She got messed up and her broken heart took her waltzing to Marlon’s every evening and that’s how, as you recall, we met.

Like every good woman would, she missed that nice fellow. He died in some car crash. I remember her describing the event to me several times, but I don’t think I ever cared enough to remember. But yes, sometimes at night, she remembered the nice fellow. And tonight she was crying. I think she still loved him. No, she did still love him! And if he could be resurrected, she’d go back. Give up the piano, the waitress skirt, the whisky. She’d give it all up and go back. But since she couldn’t, she settled for me.

They were married, if I recall, for six months. But it’s been six years. Six years of omelets, whisky, and fucking with a beat poet who left the tales of Wall Street to investigate the horrific condition of the human heart. But she still loved that other guy. The nice guy. Marriage is a strange thing, and it has very little to do with poetry. And that’s why I could never understand it.

“Can you sing to me like he would, Steven?” So I sang for her.

“Could you make those meatballs the same way Steven? Like you did last month? The way I told you.” So I made those meatballs, the way the nice guy used to.

I was crazy for this woman. I stubbed my cigarette and stroked her forehead, knowing that in all her dammed misery, here, for a few moments, there was peace inside her.

“Steven, I want to die”. 3 Am. She was up again. I was still drinking, still trying to finish that supposed masterpiece that I knew was reaching the end of its lifecycle asking to be thrown in the trash.

“It’s alright, Mora.” I poured her another whisky. I never expected her to ask me why I was never bothered with her memories. She never did ask anyway.

“If you or anything in the world could make this go away, I would give you fucking anything. Fucking anything. It’s like a sharp rod, hot, and melting, inside me.”

“Listen Mora, just close your eyes.”

“Fuck you.”

So I did what any man in love would do. No job for a while now. I’d been saving those last two lines of Coke. I took her to the dining table, cut them up for her, and made her snort it and smile. She kissed me and downed her whiskey.

I walked her to bed and we made love again. Half an hour, and she wanted another line. I didn’t have any more. Luckily, she was tired enough and fell asleep.

You’re probably wondering what a terrible bastard I am. You can’t understand. Moments create life. Not stories. This was just another moment. And whether sick, pleasant, or plain fucking ugly, it was another unique stroke on the canvas of existence. As for this story, it’s just another chapter amongst the countless volumes on hurt, work, and romantic things.

“5 Am”. I finally hugged Mora and slept. My left palm gripping her left shoulder reminding myself that I loved this woman.

Woke up a few hours later. Picked up the last cigarette from the red box on the floor. Mora wasn’t snoring much this time and her legs were behaving. The sun got through the window and she finally woke up, “Fuck Steven, I told you I’ve got work at 9. It’s fucking 11.”

Letter to a Girl

Letter to a Girl

I sit by an oak,
A little sadder than I was,
When yesterday told me,
That my memories were beginning to fade

Come sit beside me, my love.
I have a broken guitar, a little cash,
A home enough for warmth in winter.
And eyes that will always see you,
For who you are
I have no plans for tomorrow,
And no dreams for the next ten years.
All I have is a breath stained with whisky,
And laughter soaked in honesty
I can’t get you no Cadillac sweetheart,
But I’ve got something more real for you
I’m a living man,
Who spills whisky on your pretty clothes
And forgets your birthday,
And sometimes even,
Skips making love for more whisky
I can’t get you no Cadillac sweetheart,
But I can give you real life,
And all its broken tunes

They’ve told us about the north and south,
About time and how to tease it
They’ve told us about pretty and ugly,
About the eloquent, and the perverse
I can give you neither of that,
I can’t remember to hold you before you fall,
And surely I can never promise you,
That I will defend your fragile heart forever
They’ve told us about love and music,
About sandy beaches and misty hills,
And the warmth of penetration,
And the security of marital bondage
Can’t give you none of that darling,
All I’ve got to offer,
Is wine, bread, and incomplete music
All I can give you,
Is this moment
And believe me, now is all you want,
Because now is all we have,
And if you take my hand,
I can show you the delightful detachedness,
From all our dreams of a perfect life,
I will heal your heart of certainty,
And burn your vulnerability,
Before the dawn of sensibility comes to steal you,
Away from me

They’ve explained the rules of attraction,
Sold us their biblical imprisonments of fidelity,
And held us captive to sinful monogamy
They have stolen our fragrances,
And given us selective interaction in exchange
Tell me my love, why must I, who beholds your wonder,
Pass you by on the sidewalk, like you do not exist?
Why must I, who is melting before your existence,
Plan a sentence that appreciates your being?
Such a senseless world, with senseless rules;

If you lend me your hand,
I will take you on quite the drunken dance,
Perverse, imperfect, insecure,
But honest.
To a place where you can unveil,
The hidden imperfections,
That feed and nourish your womanhood
To a place,
Where love is undefined
Where we can bathe unclothed,
Beneath a sun that knows no judgment,
In the presence of each other,
Holding our raw hearts,
In the palms of our childish desires
Wild, but not wicked,
Intoxicated, but not asleep
Coming alive together,
In a place where we can find heaven,
And stay there, forever.

Old Man

Old Man

Loneliness is made of scented pine,
A penetrative depth that is never concealed,
By a glorious black dress, or a tinted suit,
Or a sweetened gesture; composed posture
Only a clean mind can truly be lonely,
A mind unaffected by the corruption,
Of man’s sensuous attachment to perfection

I watched a girl drop her empty glass of coffee,
With her momentous existence of a soul within it
As she suffered her way down the sidewalk,
In her needled heels that pierced the concrete street
I watched myself, clothed in tender grey,
Smelling like peach in the pale summer
Entirely sold to thieving dreams of ideality,
Dreams of a fine tomorrow,
That I seem to still believe,
Might be finer than today
You’ve got to wonder,
What a fool I am? Won’t you wonder?
Wonder for me, and for you.

The sun arose another Monday morning,
And we wasted 6:30 – 7:30 am,
Between the shrill annoyance,
Of four alarms, snoozed twice each
And 8:00 am taking us toward another charade,
Between the coffee shop and the office,
And the same old symphony of falsely exciting mundanity
I’ve always pondered, about the frequent visits of elder folk,
To the pews of tall churches,
And the circular centers,
Of dark-walled temples
I’m not surprised anymore; I’d be a fool if I was
Life eventually brings us to this strange place,
Where truth and absolute clarity don’t seem,
To hold such wonder anymore
There comes a time my love,
When all we seek, is comfort
Whether it be in the soft lies of a higher lord,
Or the deceitful embrace of an ancient holy book
There comes a time,
When the only truth in life,
Is peace; Any peace would do.
Such a strange narrative, aren’t it?

I slowly inch closer and closer,
To a place where the thick border,
Between truth and lies dissolves,
Into the heavy sweetness of my memory.
When all I seem to want,
Is to find the threads that make the remnants,
Of yesterday’s passing dreams,
And tomorrow’s lost hopes
So that I may continue to sew,
This fantastic epic of a drama,
That me and you, all those many years ago,
Decided to call a life
I’m inching there sweetheart,
Closer to that place.
When I will become the endless thing,
I never wanted to be.
Much closer. It isn’t quite the tragedy,
I might make it sound to be.
It’s just another page,
Amongst all those other pages,
Ah well, it just might be,
The last one.

It doesn’t take you fifty years to find,
The severe questions of old age.
Look at me, I’ve been here a quarter,
Of a hundred.
And I’m asking questions,
Even your granddaddy never dared ask.
People don’t grow old darling,
Humanity does. And we’ve gotten quite old,
Old enough,
To lay our dreams beneath the floor,
In the attic of our novels and paintings,
We’re old enough,
To waste away our youth,
With strange questions and cheap whisky,
We’re old enough,
To waste whatever we want.

I’ve told you my tale,
And it seems you’ve lived through it.
Get out now,
Go write your own story.

artwork: Alan Watts Quick Portrait – EightBitRemix 

Netted

Netted

We’ve heard much; her hair,
Curled into a past filled with strong hatred,
Spice, ignored interest, and consensual harlotry
Aha! Well, she’s a maze,
Quite the intricate confusion that I desire
The broken piece of human cutlery,
That I prefer to shelve instead of dispose
She’s made of sharp pieces,
Of edges that will make you bleed
That look blunt in the dark,
And sparkle only in starlight
She’s broken, secretly; broken enough,
For me to want to fix her

Too much time sometimes, I conclude we spend,
In the treacherous abstractions of poetry,
In the brushstrokes of unseen colors,
And unread letters
Describing this tremendous woman,
Selling tiny crumbs of our souls,
To find words that penetrate,
The heart and mind of meaning
Sometimes, all it takes,
Is to look at her legs.
Netted in the finest black satin,
Calling out to the animal in you
To forget the mannerisms of polished etiquette,
And unleash the brokenness,
That wishes for nothing more,
Than to simply be heard

Instead of watching,
Her walk down that supermarket aisle,
Picking tomatoes, cilantro, and cooking oil
Staring like an otter in the middest moment of dawn,
At the appearing horizon
Go tell her, tell her about her netted towers,
Of the most artsy glory you’ve ever seen
Tell her how they torment you at 3 AM,
When all you can think about is her,
And how you’re human,
And weak,
And as honest as a summer sunrise

Sometimes, nothing matters,
Except those netted stockings,
That clothe the most glorious art ever seen,
Two legs, two towers, that breathe beauty,
That emanate the cleanest glow light can afford
Sometimes, some things need to be told,
Cause people aren’t erotic enough,
To embrace the sweet secrets of humanness,
That make living, worth living.