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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Asleep in Paradise

Asleep in Paradise

I dwelt for days,
On what I thought I missed the most,
In my hollow existence
I seem to have discovered,
That deep in my memory,
Lies a confused desire for paradise
For a place where I’d feel parented,
Without parents,
Pruned and gardened to exquisite maturity,
Without education
It’s as if an old archaic land,
That cradled humanity,
Has been lost to history
And all our futile efforts at love, care,
Open-hearted kisses to change our culture,
And our endless striving to grow as a race,
Is only so that we could have one more moment,
To dance in that forgotten paradise,
That lurks darkly in our minds; in that paradise lost

It feels, like every verse I bring to bleed,
Speaks of the same feeling
But decorates it with different words,
You see; you mustn’t leave your heart,
To dance too freely with me,
I might break it twice, and forget to fix it
And you might be left drowning in an ocean of thorns and flowers,
Unknowing of who left you there

Our earth dances proudly in her middle age,
A woman with the most nutritious bosom in the universe
A princess clad in green, who endlessly feeds her offspring,
Forgiving, equally accepting, of that,
Which creates and destroys, homing both beauty,
And ugly alike
A queen that will soon enough, be older,
Than history can remember
What will the space around us remember?
Will they remember the pride of our mother?
The magical human race, that dealt violence,
With violence
That even in all its ugly endeavors striving toward eternal life,
Remembered to stoop low enough,
To believe in kisses and roses.
A race that dared behold the treacherous illusions,
Of delusive self-consciousness and cursed sentience
And still make time to mourn and weep at its imminent mortality,
What shall the space around us remember?
When our mother meets her deathbed,
Chiseled with cold rock and sunless winds

As humans, we seemed to have cared too much,
For the victory of good, and the perpetuity of civilization
We have spared too little time,
To understand the nature of all ugly things
To bring our vision to the wisdom of evil,
And the delicate balance of light and darkness
Have we strayed too far in one direction?
Have we lost our senses too much to daylight?
So much that we seem to leave our intelligence,
To rot in the delights of wonderful things,
Chocolate cake, love-making, champagne,
Expensive watches, carefully-pruned bodies,
And perfume made silky with orchids and lavender
What of tears? And the ugly faces of the contorted unfortunate?
What of the cold skin of the dead?
The painful memories of broken love,
And the fearful sights of tortured animals,
The ignored impoverished, and the un-delightful?
Do not wait to care for the delinquent nature of our existence,
Instead, behold it; don’t beat it to your meek intellect,
Instead, understand it.
We seem to waste much in grasping life,
When all we were born to do, is experience it

When we meet hurt, we seem to fall asleep,
Like a little child that closes its eyes,
When it sees its skin torn by a gruesome throne;
Hoping, praying, that this pain is just a dream
But like humanity is made of men and women,
And the earth dances between the sun and moon,
Life is a waltz between bliss and brutality,
Delight, and moroseness; faith and fear.
And we, so that we might be the gods we always were,
Need to open our eyes, when the day seems dimmest,
And the worst of our own selves is made plain,
Before our waking eyes

If you look hardly enough, with a mind sharpened,
With humility, and a tinge of compassion;
You might just come close enough to see,
The playful nature of all things; even death,
The greatest player of them all.
I cannot spare even a wink as I kneel,
Before the simple wonder of it all.
The wonder of my own self,
And my own doing,
This whole immortal universe,
Seems to be nothing, but a playground,
That I create in a secret sentient way,
That is of such glorious intelligence,
That even me, the creator,
Always fails to see it.

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

My name is Wit Warrior,
83 years, 13 months, and 32 days old
The world doesn’t seem any older to me,
Than it did, when I decided that I was bored with it
The many myriad images,
Of desolate forests and broken souls of flowers,
Are but a tiny flickering to me,
In the endless expanse of space that I access

I broke the boundaries with old friends,
All those many years ago
We, like kids in a candy store,
Having a go at every molecule we found colored,
With even a tiny ounce of rebellion
I’ve seen things, heard, loved, and hated,
Opened avenues within me that,
Only the skies can know the true nature of
That sweet word, REALITY
I stitched the fragrance of it fibrously onto,
The deserted canvas of my imagination
And how I’ve danced with its many meanings,
Throughout my years

I’ve seen so many children in the sunshine,
Making choices, that broke them, that made them
To live on omelettes, chai, and rolled cigarettes
To scale the soft cushion covers in high penthouses,
Drinking bourgeoisie wine and making love,
To plastic dolls and rubber toys
Men drift too much to the east, and sometimes the west,
Some choose principle, honor, patriotism
The others choose love, madness, dancing, and rum
The few choose polished shoes and trimmed beards,
The many choose daytime jobs and evening whisky
Men choose too much, but me,
I’ve been as clueless as the sea waving blindly,
With open eyes, at the sky

There is a dimension to living,
That my way of mind has opened to me
It is, a kind of secret door in the psyche
There are two intelligences
One made of numbers, analysis,
Endless counting, metallic, perfect
But the other, is mine
It is untouched, yet entirely felt,
Ungrasped, yet so tangible
There is a kind of style in this way of life,
To groove on the edges, of risk,
And yet stay unbitten, unsmitten,
By it all
To notice the leaves dancing in fall’s death rhyme,
Is one aperture for human eyes
But to see, the sweet untold songs of death,
Being sung in the silence of red and yellow leaves,
To see the sweetness of death’s ugly feminine touch,
To waltz along with the absolute meaninglessness of existence,
That is the other aperture
Through which all men find a strange,
Lasting peace

The language of poetry only creates walls,
Around the sting of life’s true touch
But all men must write, for it is the only medium,
Through which our thirsting aches for expression,
Find fruitful waters

When I watch the news,
Have a little conversation at the grocery store
I cannot help but perceive,
The separation of my soul from the rest of it all
It is not, that I loathe it,
Or that I wish it was otherwise
Perhaps it was meant to be;
The flavorless tunes of loneliness,
The dull vibrancy of a settled happy life,
The absolute security of a lovely damsel,
And the cherishment of fresh, beady-eyed children
I construe this universe to be a great chaos,
Through my melodic explorations into the endless psyche,
With molecules, shortened breaths, and simple silences
I have seen this chaos, and the choice to find melody in it
Men are too lost in choices,
Our confusion is too great to truly communicate
You see me? I walk the middle, the inside path
I am neither this, nor that
I have no principles, I am bound by no reason
But I am reason

I watch the dabbling noisy ocean of humanity,
Striving to induce meaning,
Into their words, their treaties, their theories
So many men who are so convinced,
So sure, that death can be avoided,
By chasing some great dream
I saw it the day I opened my eyes,
With the molecule, without it
It didn’t matter, my eyes were open
I was looking at an old friend,
Death, dissolution, end, finale,
And it felt good.
All men must die, that is what they are born to achieve
There are some things, however,
That last forever
Like questions, born from old answers,
What is man? Who dies? What dies?

“The seeking must stop!”
We’ve heard that before

And all those many years,
As I swayed into those dangerous realms,
Of clear tangible beauty,
And little sweet droplets of tormenting wisdom
I felt it for the first time,
I felt the weight of being alive
And it released me,
Into a blissful corridor of absolute delight
And I saw the origin of this entire cosmos,
It came from, why ‘ME!’

There is an art in life that too few men find the time,
To discover and master;
This art is ancient, so ancient,
And yet so timeless
That drives us to live with magic,
Crawling and battling at ease,
To birth ecstasy in the concrete manors of mundanity
And find fullfilment in the smaller perspectives of movement

We set ourselves goals so high,
And parameters too unreal to be tuned into our realities
Men live with such delightful theories,
Of perfection
It is not that we need change in this world,
You see,
As it is; this cosmos is splendid
This little earth with its little germs,
Creating war, endless murder,
The perpetual social catastrophes in our communities
Lovers appreciating intricate architecture,
Thieves and rapists, terrorists, and masked bombers,
Milkmen and prostitutes,
Drunks and drug addicts, conmen,
The children of midnight doing business at dawn,
The machine maker, the code cracker,
The marketing maniac, the suited salesman,
The suicidal, the ambitious, the artistic, the calculative
I see them all as one creative movement,
One explosion of life
Ah the several aspects of living,
The numerous creaks through which we find expression
These are the lovely little acts of living,
Are sweet scenes in a delightful drama,
And it makes no meaning,
To proclaim the elements of this drama,
Within the drama itself!

But well, that is the folly every poet must turn to,
Every artist, artisan, and engineer of innovative living,
To proclaim the drama, within the great act

We must, so that a few men,
Might wake up to see,
That life after all,
Is quite an intricate thing
Quite a complex thing
And, is quite worth living
Whether entrenched in meaning,
Or abandoned to oblivion

It is not, my friend, that these things,
Might come to your understanding,
One great eventual day
Most of these things are left to die,
Without finding the halls of universities,
And worse, the hearts of living sentient beings
But, what drama is there in understanding alone?
What adventure will we find in complete revelation?
What joy will we discover in eternal clarity?

The dance is in the chaos,
And the truth in the laughter,
That erupt from our untouchable innocence
My friend, it is sweet when we look at the colors of living,
The delectable opportunity for eternal exploration,
Answering the mating calls of the unknown
And yelling, “That’s fucking psychedelic, man!”

artwork: Archan Nair – Alchemy Resonance

Cloudy Lines

Cloudy Lines

Entrenched and aching,

In a mild prison, that is barred by soft breasts,

And visions of a delight that never arrives

If you can look into the darkness,

That I have erected in the midst of my perfection,

You might tumble into rapturous laughter,

Gently urinating on my funny dreams

 

There’s a girl who lives in a cottage,

That stands beside a thin river

She lives alone, she smiles,

She bakes bread, has a dog,

Drinks whisky every night

She spares no mercy to offer her heart to the world of men,

No time,

To lend her ears to the tremors of fear that rule our world

No television, no radio, no internet,

Just her whisky, dog, and bread.

She’s happy, I’ve kissed her, loved her in summer,

Hated her at fall, touched her warm skin in winter

I’ve known her fears, tasted her dreams,

Drank her whisky, stolen her wine.

Her life rolls on toward oblivion,

Like the stars do at dawn.

She spares no thought for tomorrow’s possibilities,

And dies to the whispers of midnight light.

 

Lyrical delight leads us to naught but damnation,

Too much I have kept my hopes in verse

Invested my heart in beauteous tones,

Strung my heart to give life to words.

I have no complaints. Just a broken heart,

And a mind too small to hold and embrace,

Its endless frames of melancholy.

 

Words exist to tell lies.

There is nothing a word can tell,

That is anything but a lie.

Can you see? Look far into your mind,

Can you see?

Without words, our lives are nothing,

And yet everything, and nothing.

Without words, these constructions of color,

Have no place in existence.

Our world is a world of words,

And we, the most gifted of all liars,

We wondrous tellers of verses,

We poets, we dreamers,

We weave the deepest,

And most elusive of all worlds.

 

I feel like my soul empties into the night,

As I give birth to more verse.

You cannot see, no looking into me.

I bleed. A blood that has no taste,

From a spirit that has no breath.

I am the messenger of death,

And I say to you,

“Go now, live. Tomorrow is a tearful thing,

Death is our blessing. Our end, our gift.

Tonight you see only the endless sky,

So, that when death comes,

You might see beyond it.”

Puppets in Paradise

Puppets in Paradise

Dwindled in boredom,
Aching for feminine touch,
Salted in pretense, rage, and fever,
Aching,
For all things dark under the sun

Come now, hearty one,
Who lost his laughter in the rains of time,
Who has given his humor to idiots and thieves,
Come lay by me, and rest beneath the moon,
And find your solace in a dreamless sleep

You cannot go searching for Canaan with an empty heart,
You cannot dance if meaning is your purpose
I have beaten senseless to pulp your notions,
Of grave family, ambition, thieving religious greed
I have removed the division between your Science and Love
How many years through which you will sell yourself to this prostitute?
These equations and symbols that swerve in ignorance

Kiss rain,
Before it slips like dust,
Through the dreams of the stars
Hire the scent of the wind,
Before she lays once more,
With your enemy laughing,
With another damsel in his arms,
Who you fucked last night
Dip your arms in this bloodstream,
And let it turn to a lily farm
Come leave your melancholy at my doorstep,
And run to your wife before it’s too late

My heart only aches with more lizard tales,
Reptilian nonsense about aches and lost lakes\
Can you come look into my meandering self?
A little fading dream in a colorful adventure
I have heard the fools bring color to concept,
The blasphemers with beady eyes selling their shit,
To cravers and ravers on these shit streets,
People simply seeking some last inch of archaic wonder
It won’t come with your words stupid wonder child,
Leave this place,
My whisky loses its charm with your senseless ramble

The heart seems to be a hole for treacherous things,
So come, let’s behold treacherous things
Let us glorify the sickness of our glorious race,
Let us decorate our dysfunction with inner murder,
I will teach you a new yoga. Would you dare to hold my hand?
I will bring you a breath that will tear your limbs,
Cut your tongue, burn your hair, break your heart,
Do you dare to know this magic?
These old fools sell you their ecstasy nonsense,
Let them rot in their white light and saffron-robed kindness,
Let them rot in their godly folly, their selfish understandings
I will give you the very edges of darkness,
I will kick your innards into that maddening awakening
Over there, in that dark place, you will find yourself,
On the razor’s edge, where you will lose me,
And I you
And us both, find ourselves, and never look back again

These folks don’t dare the infinity of the human being,
They will bring you to a hurtful finitude
Where your endless potential becomes an endless illusion
A thirsty search for some great money dream,
Where these losers bow down to you,
As you are puppeted on a plastic box,
Doing things that make them laugh

You derelict soul, you broken mind,
You are here to be whipped into a mold
Like butter into cake batter,
They will make you thick and tender,
But you will be dead

Who dares look into the workings of anger?
Who dares kiss him before a mirror,
And shed tears of rage for all cosmic life,
Do you remember tears? I wonder.
The world’s evil is a mere comical folly,
In the eyes of the eternal cosmic darkness
And we waste our years with the plastic box,
In drama, rage, and childish conversation
Go live! Stupid wonder child,
Bring yourself to open capitulation
No one cares for last night’s visions,
No one dreams of you. No one cares for you.
So alone, the snow comes down,
And we’re drenched again in yesterday’s dreams

We must rest now.
We’ve beheld enough treachery,
On this useless night
Ah! The stars seem to have not moved.
Things shall remain as they are,
Tomorrow.

 

artwork: Enchanted Doll – Maruhana Bachi

Slaves of Eternity

Slaves of Eternity

Look at the things that we’ve got used too,
Spilled livers and hearts of stone
For the whims of invisible gods,
And the comic fashions of human vanity
Bring out the guns and shoot our darlings,
Tell them, on your knees, proclaim our shit
Tether your cows to your clean wooden doors,
And feed them carrots, cane, and juice
And as your children dance around them,
Pull out their hearts and wipe your brows
With holy ash; wash your feet,
My pious child; but let the sewers loose,
Within the temples of your soul

Pull out our grenades for holy war,
Our prophet speaks from upon his tower
The Earth has come to crusading oblivion,
Here’s to a great leap into the past
The future eludes every dreamer,
Our tears serve prophesy to our accepted demise
From our plastic boxes come sweet noises,
Of decorated ignorance and famished intellect
Come preachers of the dawn,
Steal the minds of our children
Teach them the ways of our wicked fathers,
And feed humanity with drunken destruction
For what, did our mother bless us with conscience?
I see none; I see the calls of hungry cows,
Coming from the mouths of men
Selling their children to broken ideology,
Settling for colored paper, cheap security

I rather starve than eat of this soil,
That fragrant with the blood of crying children,
Tasting of goat’s balls and blood ketchup,
The stench of all humanity’s history
Our severe lies and endless violence,
Seeming to see some glorious future
That never came, never comes,
The final sonata has begun
The end comes not from the sky,
But from the work of our own hands
Maybe, one last breath, we might give,
Our children a little chance
To redeem themselves,
But no, pull out their hearts,
And tie their corpses to stone
Hail that same old wasted ideology,
And blemish the new with the whispers of the dead

All these years of the great revolution,
Have come to waste
Our sweet dreams as one great galactic race,
Reaching out for the most distant stars
Our affections as running children,
Looking at the sand as if it were the whole thing
Our great enchantment at little things,
Our wonder at scratches and fire matches
Ah! The sweet gleeful screeches we made,
Our twinkling eyes for touch and trembling
Our love for breasts, windy mornings, rain,
The smell of paint, the whispers of moving bicycles
Our fear of ghosts, our love of smooth rhyme
Our great wonder at the aches of sport,
The movements of our minds in the deepest of night
Our love of food, all kinds of food,
Our fear of pain, simple pain, great pain,
Nail polish, toe nail décor, talcum powder,
Toothpaste flavor, hair gel, fantasy fiction,
Running through the zoo like a new born retard,
Photography, the sweetness of good pornography
Whatever that is
And all things human, truly human,
And yet we settle for ideology,
For gods and genteel mannerisms in this blood desert

Sweet darling, we must be kisses on the wind,
For none last to be immortal
We are passing windows of the cosmic magic,
Little moments of great elation
For this whole wondrous space to celebrate,
Why stick like dirty shades of paint on a colorless wall?
With all these great ideas of eternal life
Why do you want to live forever?
What have you to establish?
Why even be remembered?
Why can’t you be like the wind? Forever glorious,
Eternal without knowing so
Become a flavor for the skies to cherish,
Food for the soil, you endless thing, you wondrous thing,
Come with me and become a whisper in the silence
We have nothing to lose or gain,
This world is a passing frame with a mysterious background
Come live that background,
And see for yourself,
What moves, what doesn’t, what lasts, what doesn’t
Nothing lasts.
It’s dark, kiss me

 

 

artwork: Paul Schad-Rossa – Into Eternity

 

Here Comes the Music

Here Comes the Music

Time feels like a soft fabric, sewed with great care,
Molded into fundamental existence
I watch it slip through my wicked perceptions through day and night,
Through my many calculations and intonations
Through my fiery kisses thrown at the grains of reality,
That find their way through holes in society
Much wine, much laughter, ah, the sweet delights,
Of waking life, of open eyes and sober dancing

Can I drop the waking awareness of myself?
Can I drop myself?
Drop my deadly awareness of you, my notions of you,
Her and him, I, you, them, us, all these slipping dreams
How can I come and dance at your doorstep,
Without a mind for a soul to hold onto
The sweet delights of escaping piano sounds color the space,
The space around me to birth something new
I cannot put forth anymore song that is your story,
A story of your past, of our history
No more music that will stink of nostalgia,
And be beaded in fading, faulty, old décor
Ah! How we dance! Look, its ecstasy knocking at your heart,
She’s come seeking fervently for a lover
And you, a busy snake meandering through yesterday’s dreams,
Sell your heart to sorrow instead

Come look with me into the gaps of creation,
Into the friendly darkness of the void
Come find yourself with me, come, I am
Let us go naked into the sunshine of the lord,
Seeking nothing yet being it all
Being the fabric, the very source of this all,
Of this great endless tale of waving light

We are the fathers of tomorrow,
The children of yesterday, beholding old dreams,
Seeking ancient archaic desires in the wilderness of illusions,
The illusions of different lives, several lives
And how we seek, with throbbing blood pumps and shining eyes
With innocent despair and mindless wanting
Ah, the sweet adventure of it all
The pain, the seething pangs of existence,
And its subtle yet glorious delights
How can we not see the whole cosmic joke?
As it unveils its tremendous humor,
Before our waking eyes,
Before our yearning non-existent selves
Before the dust, the fleeting dust that we are
In dust here I see the beatific vision
From dust I am, to dust I am,
And I am

Some symphonies never began, and they never end
Some take the grooviest turns and some persist,
Forever feeding the unspeakable magic of the universe
Look, there’s great music out there kindling our wisdom,
Great sound, great vision, there’s something glorious happening here
But we aren’t seeing it! We’re lost to clear glass and mirroring windows
We’re lost to hazy dreams of meager delights
We don’t really want everything do we?
If we did, we’d have it all
We don’t want enough, we don’t seek enough,
We’re lukewarm soldiers in destiny’s war
We haven’t the slightest idea of what this life really is,
Not the slightest idea of what we ourselves are
Foolish folk given such tremendous gifts,
I don’t see how these many men walk,
Six feet under into their cozy homes,
Without ever having realized the real spark of it all

Ah! Life, it’s too sweet to taste and too delightful to behold,
And yet! We are it sweet beloved,
We are it all
Aren’t it such a magnificent thing?
Ah! This magic, isn’t it wonderful?
Let’s strum our guitars sweet beloved,
Bring out the grandest pianos into the deserts of our society
Humanity needs no saving, it needs good music

I have heard salvation, but never seen it,
I have let it taste my blood in deep sound,
Kiss and lick my heart in silence,
The soul has ears but no eyes,
The truest of things exist with eyes closed
The deepest feelings, the most magical moments,
Close those eyes my love
Feel that invisible breeze reaching your insides,
Salvation is here. It wasn’t anywhere else, ever
And now it comes as wine in crystal glasses,
Before our eyes. To be drunk in splendor,
And enjoyed, as the sun sets,
For a trillionth time

Artwork: Garden of Delights by Toonikun