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.

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