Sunday, March 1, 2015

In The Arms Of Betterment

The earth it claims a thousand forms
How every face our ways define
But it's better when the winter's fruits
Garnish the lonesome, whispering pines

In some matters placement matters not
Whether capitols low or choirs high
It's better that thy love be there
To raise the world, to bury time

And if on some cleft and conjured plane
Too vague to touch, too wide to spy
Thy love shall not be present then
I'll not concede it's well designed

Though shapes in ours are loathsome most
They grant a charm to finer finds
And grieving well the species knows
Wanes mute beside a luck like thine

And anything the stars may hold
Shall change not how they're quite aligned
By fate prescribed, 'nd thy love ordained
The world is raised, and buried's time

Friday, February 27, 2015

Haast Oud Amsterdam

Submerged in the tar of the city
Consumed by the blacktop metaphorical
Dissolving outside in, or is it inside out
That's poetry talking, not science
Ain't it a shame how society
Amplifies the force behind the spell of our vices
By mesmerizing us with temptation
Constant temptation
It knows us so well
By design it does
Give up on morality whispers modernity
Let the worst things within you frolic madly
We can manage their consequences
In the global garden of funky pharmaceuticals
I have danced
By dint of my misery
Synergized with a sickness
Part cultural
Part indigenous
With an ample contribution made by human weakness
I will dance again
But it's never copacetic
Not entirely anyhow
Years ago
I ran from the city of paper
To the city of trees
With the utmost celerity
To escape an ecology unbefitting my taxonomy
But their trunks have been toppled now
In the name of development
Which seems far more practical than ideals are by nature
How the East creeps West
Like the hemorrhagic fever in Africa
Consuming the countryside like a brush fire
And all things untainted
Eating at the nation as it always has
But more thoroughly now has it infiltrated the host
Its tentacles have reached every fiber, every cell
Of a once thriving organism
Poisoning it
A am a child of that virus
Of that great caldera of the Northeast
Which billows a contorted, perverse non-Western ideology
So adept at imitating wisdom and progress and Westernness
Which I have risen above on many occasions
Beyond the flames and the heath and the flows of human debris
Wading through the fresh vapors of my dreams
Willfully blown
Though not deftly so
I was always more misunderstood however
Than incapable
And never shall I transcend in full
The range of my origins
I am ultimately its
Possessed by the infrared
Of the urban
Never could I completely be
Something other
Than the smouldering ash of the American cauldron
And I often pay reverence to its hedonism
With mine own
I lie as a lamb before its agnostic altar
And I plunge myself as I must
Deep into the fire of humanity
Down into her magma chamber
Like my predecessors
To scald myself permanently
By desires that compel me
As I transmutate into something both greater and lesser
At once
All at once

Friday, February 20, 2015

Imagine, Imagine

She whispered so sweetly in vapors so wistful
Of futures quite concrete but surely quite fissile
Of gardens and children and houses of white trim
And as my eyes heard bright words, their blues went on brightening
But down to the heart the wend's not an arrow
Through decades of doubt in the vent and the marrow
Fall the daintiest melodies by the load of the cynic
As the highs of a rube by the base urban critic
Who's witnessed the death of too many ideals
The coerced pragmatist's ally's only the real
He grinds up the raw in his gears unforgiving
Compressing immortal concepts down to the living
But sometimes may downgrade the hope and the promise
To less than the truth though no less the honest
Omitting uncertainties so subtle and volatile
Do not confuse improbable and impossible
There's far more to man than a vain mind's pretensions
But if you see just the least then you must expect it
Don't maim by excess faith in thy crass descriptions
The soul by which progress must breathe and be driven

Thursday, February 12, 2015

The Gift Of Purpose

Swipe down at the crystal stream now running
Past thy paw but never past thy cunning
And pluck your dinner from the architecture
Of the inner life that chose your venture
Every dawn I set my ear to nature
A precious piece that shan't make it to later
As dew long gone at noon by 'vaporation
Like so from us the robin's tune is taken
Oh, to never examine thy purpose
Yes, steady as good gravity to worketh
Muddled by the depth, socratic humans
How for the blind there's no descent there looming
All to know is known and driven duly
As thy instincts speak they speaketh truly
But I am a morass of circumspection
And I have not a cause nor a direction
And I long for the feline's noble clarity
She stalks the hills in perfect linearity
And never questions any of her aims
Or turns back on the path from whence she came
To be just who we are is quite a gift
't preserves one from the white and blowing drift
The beautiful, severest arctic clime
Where light and print 'lone lead to warmth in mind
In the winter of the soul so cold and desolate
Thereby have great men been left desperate, penitent
But grafts does it fine traits into some beings
Which make the social 'quations less agreeing
By putting us at odds with commonality
That in turn irks its foe potentiality
By which each calculation earns some liberty
Though with the outcome's width can widen misery
See wisdom mind you isn't always gainful
Since earth's ruled by the staunch and the disdainful
'nd am I more than a man with absent purpose
Bleeding in the plutocracy's service
Only time will tell I know not now
And to overthrow the plot I know not how

Friday, February 6, 2015

From Lesser Yet

A mediocre repertoire
But an outstanding heart
What is it but toil for
The sating of the are
Or is or who or what
Or anything the nature of
Disserts, reveals, must not be shut
As ideas form, as flowers bud
Just a need, a vulgar need
Begetting the less vulgar
Feeding on the life of life
See my corpse now moulder
The better heart, the passion's depth
May maketh more, from lesser yet
The rest is moot, will go, is gone
Such types just type, were all along
And if every soul's sweet vim doth still
Well cease then through thy spirit's need
Expire by the tiring will
'pon which each finer work must feed

Sunday, February 1, 2015

The PC Brigade And Allied Totalitarians

Truth and courage are ever intertwined
To conquer one, well first conquer the mind
Culture is at base a mass delusion
A twister of the head, wreaking confusion
The neurons' count and moreover their fineness
Will nary once trounce cowards' fixed blindness
A supple mind will writhe from even data
And conjure up some theory on the matter
As abstract as it is so optimistic
Serving psychic needs like slicker mystics
I've seen this kind of drifting in the open
Upon the flaking crust's offerings coasting
Scrumptious yes and saccharine as always
But keener heads prefer a hint of saltiness
Infused with nuance and an ounce of harshness
Despised by common men who loathe such tartness
And can not comprehend some queer complexity
So foist 'pon strong-weak minds a phony bettering
A garbled creed with reality immiscible
Less spooky than the truth but far more terrible

Friday, January 23, 2015

The Utopia That Never Was

Life'd be a jaunt 'round the isle of my pleasure
On blue derm of a face fairly rare
No aegis of warmth would surround something lesser
Though angels do sometimes seek despair
If love was the kind of potion so written
That the heart was the king of our whims
'nd once imbibed then intestinally smitten
The smack did not so often dim
If all of their talents ran to my clumsy fingers
Without so much as a strain
And passion flowed forth like the bellow of singers
From my soul streamed apt, fragrant refrain
And the maze of my mind held the light of belief
That guides men astray gaily
In one thought alone lay for me arrant relief
From a fog of bad cues daily
If life'd be a jaunt 'round the isle of my pleasure
I'm not still quite so sure I'd be pleased
The bank's running juice might not yield any pressure
But my mind might as well be deceased
Because without the trial there's surely no wisdom
And no value if it all's only play
Needed behind the scene is a heart's imposed rhythm
So each bit gets revenge in its day