{These are from a bygone era of youthful extravagance, yet i still find them fun for the word flow...}
Oh Dreamer, where flew your Believer?
Here on Earth, lost of fire?eyes burning backward
by the light of suns, just another cosmic observer
sent to Earth to serve here.
Bent over all day, shovel deep in dirt
but when eve seeps over hill into the vale,
upright I come to dance in moonlight pale
Where the ferns flow deep and trees grow old and steep.
These the places witches and gnomes call home.
Where the bees and fairies buzz and drone.
Here is where I?ll roll my bones and start to tell,
first person singular, the tales of this planet that I?ve
roamed So long a vagabond.
Once upon a place, in search of adventure,
I tugged a star built lever that gave me a new human face?
Planetside I land, no claws for climbing, No wings for flying,
two hands and two feet, upon the ground I stand.
And a freshly emptied head hungry for its filling,
Yet unknowing of Life?s new emotional dealings that are
Churned up and burnt for fuel in this new human
Machining?new to me is new factioning and rationing
Of cosmic beauty, like bits of diamonds scattered ?cross
A gem seller?s shelf to be marveled at and polished up
And seen and shown for its singular self.
Love Hate Passion Anger Mercy Curiosity
Want Need Givernance and Grace
Native faces Newbee Immigrant Laces
Sewn and woven in times of ease and in times of
Need, upon roughshod trails of tears leaving
Foot track tales of Hunger and War
In timeless sands around temples farmed up
From the ground in times of Peace & Joy.
Where Quiet Solitude waits and meditates
Upon the fevered madness of Loneliness
Swarming out from unseen places
Where angels and aliens sing songs in
Tongues unknown even to their Initiates.
And now, in a crowd filled coffeehouse
Seeking to achieve some sense of Togetherness
And intimate release, words unfurl, flowing
Into whatever ears bend their kindnesses nearer?
Listening but never hearing anything but tones
And waves of communal energy playing games
With pantameter, wit, waiting for the next line
Of nonsensical rhyme. We live, I think?yet,
I am native borne but foreign to this kiva to which
I?ve come to drink, we live in Time and Space eating
All we can, but not the plate.
Strange bio-mech apetites which infinite Time herself
Cannot satiate, our minds desiring to be All
Yet each end denying the middle, only the extremities
Know there can be no Love without Hate.
So back ?round a timeless campfire I adjourn,
Talk of war and women,
Breathing the smoke of endless embers
Forever glowing, the fire
Colored love in Life like a god learning to create
Learning only when Wisdom tells them
That there are no hands of Fate?
Only the whim, lamb and womb of
Our own mind?s mental master trait.
?WALLOWIN? IN THE HALLOWIN? OF MY HEART CUZ IT?S ALL BROKEN APART?
Have I been touched once, ever after to be deemed untouchable by you?
No, Hanna, the Happiness you perceive me to be is the gallant glassy glaze of jade-rimmed eyes. I have no-one to love, no-one to return it, no garden to grow it. Each and every Goddess goes on her way, gracing her sun upon my shadow for what seems to be but a day singled out from eternity, to be framed in beauty glancing quickly ?cross my face. Again, then gone, Her fancy whisps of magic trailing softly into memory, gone, yet here echoing in the hollow chambers that were once a home to crawl away from the claws.
Naked in the wind am I now, remade from infant flesh into a well woven fabric, the dress and garters of courtesans? reborne a courtesy clerk in the court, a brahman?s bull in a chattle house in Jersey. The bastard son of Kings, placed in the care of the fool to be brought up as a joker?s footman.
From the back of the haycart, no one's sweet linens are mussed by the blood bleeding past my fingers holding in the hole in my heart, hole in my soul, held fast by flesh alone. By my gut I replenish my veins with whiskey and snuff and I ride reading aloud from a book of white fluff. The channels of my tongue vexed and bent into nonsense and rhyme so as not to miff the good wives and hard labouring men rototilling their gold and lawns to make larger the eloquence of conquest.
So sweet Hanna, all I?m saying is that All there is, is all there Is. No thing is mine to own, no Thing is mine to miter my will upon. No Thing and no One living in my loneliness but I ?n I? and occasionally thou when deliverance graces me over my own walls. Happy, Sad, Mad, and Glad; these all have alloyed themselves into one polychromatic oblivion ( heaven ) of acceptance for what I have asked the Fates to make me.
Flow with the flow
Roll slow with a smokin bowl
Need no stick for walkin
When I got a tongue for talkin
& lips for lickin the wick when
the flame?s lept up over my head.
I just run and run,
Chasin? the traces of a dream
That I had when I was seventeen
Young and lean still lurkin
On the fringe of the scene,
Yet forever old and obscene,
Too fragile to be too mean
I shall forever sit on the river and wag
All the tails of all the stories I?ve seen?
Legs of mud, feet of stone, body of bark,
Head in the sky, my senses reel out like
A net over the seas of infinity.
Just another fish swimmin round
Lookin For the hook that?ll kill me.
Lost and longing for the Love that?ll cure me.
Road weary and head full of fury
Your shovel?s the one I want to bury me.
But from the mountain pasture I bring my bull with a casual gait,
Tasting fruit from the trees as we stroll down toward the city streets.
Slow, for I come to sell for a price higher than gold. I am hear
To learn the graces of God?s holy Will.
A whore and a healer am I, but some shall say
A pimp and dealer was he.
Surfing and sailing the big People Sea, seeking
And searching for the equity to be Free.
Till some day some one comes along
To staple me to a tree to bleed.
For now, I walk upon my knees sixty miles to
The Santa Marie, down the sacred stone staircase
To kiss the shroud of Ones who came first to lay
The Word at the feet of Hades,
To breath the breath into hallowed cheeks
Of Yins and Yangs.
?But the decadence of the Dead is rich and full
of splendid spices wrought in a web of lies about
what it is to dye the waters with my teeth and eyes.
Gory and gruesome it may seem to some, unless
You?ve been in all the places I?ve seen and Heard
All the rhymes that enter my mind
Up through my Mother Earthen spine.
In, but no part Of, is the hardest part of Love?
It?s You that makes you a super-sonic Love tonic.
Can it all be expressed; that stuff about living
Here in heaven, riding the Ki train
And chanting ?shanti, shanti? in the pouring rain?!
Can you take another to the table of Lords
If you don?t tell ?em and they don?t ask but for
Your rhyme and fable??
Love, Vice and the Creative Process,
Can these things be taught, bought, or even seen
By one who for these things themselves
Have never sought?
Can there be a willing collaboration between
Creativity?s whimsical change and the staunch
Ritual of fundamental tasks to maintain?
They may acknowledge each other in the halls,
But can they,
Can they occur in the same room of walls?
