What is the time?
Am I here or should have I been there?
Oh the day when I did not wear shackles
Was there ever such a day?
What is the time here?
Oh surly there was a time when heads were not filled with Iron
Shackled to the feet so we do not go any where quickly
Who did this to me?
When did this happen?
Oh I am just an old man and I can no longer lift my head
I just drag it with my eyes very close to the street
Ah how I wish to see a young man again who can still holds his head up high
What does he see?
Where is he going?
Oh this metal holds such little memory
My thoughts are heavy and hard to move
If I could see anything besides pebbles and bugs I doubt I would remember it
There is such little room for memory, they filled it all up
Who did this to me?
Why did they do this to me?
Oh it’s so hard to lift your head now days
And even if you could it still shackles your feet
Any thing you see ahead would be reached only after a long struggle
Ah…but nobody seems to go any where these days
Everything we need lies in front of our faces
What do I need?
Why do I need it?
What a horrible time it is.
Oh how I wish it were the good old days again
Oh how I wish to be in that place again
When it wasn’t like this, a place where I could look up
Was there ever another time than this one?
Where am I?
What is the time?
Monday, August 30, 2010
Unconcerned
So yeah
I once had this friend
It really doesn’t matter why but we were out in the woods
Snow lay on the ground
Its too bad he didn’t come back from the forest
I kind of miss him
Even though there was nothing I could do
He
Was
By Wolves Eaten
We all parish
He by tooth
O
Well
As we walked among trunks
The pack swarmed around
He panicked
I don’t know why
The situation was unavoidable
Wolves are great hunters
They perform a unified kill
They
Descend
Upon us
I did Not Care
Apathetic
They could eat me if they want
He fought them with his fists
I am passed out of the circumference as the kill circle closes in on my struggling friend
He shouldn’t have fought/He should have known it DIDN’T matter what he did
Doomed
Teeth clamp Each canine Until he One Another Open I watch
Into Clenches Is Mauls Rips Him His
Flesh Limb Immobilized Throat Stomach Up Dismantling
I am left untouched as the wolves walk away with full bellies
It’s a shame I guess
I would have found my consumption\
Interesting A
Change
At
Least
I once had this friend
It really doesn’t matter why but we were out in the woods
Snow lay on the ground
Its too bad he didn’t come back from the forest
I kind of miss him
Even though there was nothing I could do
He
Was
By Wolves Eaten
We all parish
He by tooth
O
Well
As we walked among trunks
The pack swarmed around
He panicked
I don’t know why
The situation was unavoidable
Wolves are great hunters
They perform a unified kill
They
Descend
Upon us
I did Not Care
Apathetic
They could eat me if they want
He fought them with his fists
I am passed out of the circumference as the kill circle closes in on my struggling friend
He shouldn’t have fought/He should have known it DIDN’T matter what he did
Doomed
Teeth clamp Each canine Until he One Another Open I watch
Into Clenches Is Mauls Rips Him His
Flesh Limb Immobilized Throat Stomach Up Dismantling
I am left untouched as the wolves walk away with full bellies
It’s a shame I guess
I would have found my consumption\
Interesting A
Change
At
Least
The Harmony of Livley Music
There was quickness to his step that made him seem to bounce as he left out the studio’s door. He moved down the city streets faster today because he was in fact on the verge of something new. Prancing along in his tapered slacks that had tucked into them, around a growing pot belly, a white button down shirt adorned with a thin black tie, he carried in his hand a clarinet case.
Why he was so happy was because today as he sat in the recital hall in practice with his fellow orchestra members a revelation dawned on him; the perfect cadence. He had been trying for so long to come up with one, and today as he was changing his reed the flutist that was playing in the front row let out a brief series of notes that stuck in his mind, and when elaborated upon gave the impetus for the cadence he had been seeking for so long. For those of you not familiar with the style of sonata-allegro form, one cannot overlook the importance of a good cadence. For classical pieces all start with an exposition of some sort, a signature melody that is repeated throughout the piece. This will be a simple melody, and though it may change keys or instrumentation, the theme remains the same and is played all the way through twice. Then after the repetition of the exposition the development played, and it is the grandest part of the piece, for the composer stops playing the main theme and begins to experiment with all the possibilities of the music. Here a departure is made, the unexpected is sought, and it is in this part of the piece where the zenith of musical potential is achieved. Only the most skillful composers dare write the most elaborate developments, the kinds that challenge the very rules of harmony and leave the ear astounded. But before that can be achieved the exposition must be bridged, and that requires a good cadence.
Because it so happened that Norman was writing a symphony, a personal project of his that he had been working on for a very long time, and he had been undecided on how to approach the development of his first movement. Though, he had written other musical pieces he considered them sub-par, short, and simple works. So, he began to work on a piece that would be his finest expression. The process took much longer than he had expected, the notes came slowly and his commitment to perfection made the composing arduous, but he was convinced that this one piece would be the greatest thing he had ever done, that it would be his life’s manifestation encapsulated in notes.
Now, here he was with the perfect cadence that would lead to the excitement of the development. For he had been mulling over exposition for quite a while, modulating keys, modifying the instrumentation, essentially making the same song sound different, and now he was moving on to the unknown of the development. A new path was turning and he felt a breeze of change strike him in the face. Maybe he would take leave and go some place exotic, like Zimbabwe, to create the right atmosphere to write the most stunning development.
He is so exited with the possibilities of this new phase that he decides to go and buy flowers for his wife, so to have something to mark the occasion when he told her the news. As he walks into the flower shop he greets the shop-owner, a lady he has become acquainted with from his regular visits.
“How are you this lovely day?”
She recognizes him and a warm smile spreads as her eyes grow soft, “Why, I’m doing lovely Norman, thank you for asking. Are you here to pick up flowers for your pretty wife?”
“Yes, it’s a celebration.”
“It always is with you,” the smile grows, “will it be the roses?”
“No, I will take the tulips this time.”
“I’m sure she will love them. You do all the right things Norman. Maybe you could teach my husband how to be a gentleman.”
A forced laugh is mustered by Norman, “I just do what I always have done.” He thanks her for the flowers and continues home.
The cadence still flutters around in his head and he is lost in the dream that is his symphony, playing the exposition over and over in his head as he had thousands of times before, but now with the cadence added on the end it became complete, ready for the next stage. His footsteps make notes and he walks in music, for life is playing for him only in the exquisite tones of trumpets and French horns. For him the train’s whine is an oboe and its pounding the rhythm section both united in a merry joining of tones and percussions of the machine’s orchestra. Here he draws his inspirations, interpreting the world into flutes and violas, not to forget the bassoons, for anything can be translated as one sees proper. And this is why his symphony would be the grandest, for it would take all of the mast disjunctions of the earth and unite it in one beautiful harmony of woodwinds sighs and brass thunder. Oh!
Entranced he reaches a street corner and waits for the light, but as he stands there the placid musical perfection that swirls in his head is disturbed by a new sound.
He recognizes it immediately as his spine becomes agitated and he crunches his head into his shoulder, the sound of distortion, as a convertible pulls beside him blasting hard rock. He detests the music, the simple songs, the lack of instruments, the people who played them. He hates the lyrics and the singers, they just scream or whine about what they hate and what they love; no match for the vocals of a tenor. But most of all he hates the distortion of the guitar. The gritty undefined noise of squared sound waves that roar out of electrified amplifiers sounded dreadful, savage, mostly agitating as the guitarist bended the strings and trashed with abandon. There was no art in this type of music, no effort was given in creating a perfect structure of notes to create a most beautiful harmony, instead three cords where bashed upon at random while a madman screams and wails with unadulterated passion. He looks over too see a foursome of leather clad punks sitting in the car, their heads methodically nodding with the rhythm. As he turns his head to look at them the girl in the passenger seat with the Mohawk and gaping lip ring turns to look at him. She eyes him from head to toe then back again, then her eyes wince, her mouth bursts open wide, her head turns forward as the car speeds away, and laughter drowned out by the loud music is never heard.
He reaches his house and upon entering finds his wife sitting in her chair looking out the window listening to music. She slowly turns to him, “why, you brought me flowers.”
“Yes it’s a celebration, it’s a new beginning. Aren’t you exited?”
“Oh…yes, what is it we are celebrating?”
“A cadence, my exposition has ended, its time to move on to new material. I was thinking we could celebrate with a trip.”
“Oh that sounds lovely I haven’t left the house…in awhile, maybe we could visit my parents, they would like it.”
“Well, I was thinking somewhere exotic, somewhere where I would truly be inspired, and create my great development, I was thinking Africa, what do you think?”
“Oh…that’s so far a way, you are always going so far away…maybe we could stay around here, you know…and maybe, catch up, you know…they would love too see you.”
“How can I be creative there? Don’t you love traveling? It will be great—
“NO! no! I don’t want to go to Europe or Asia or Africa! I want you here! I want you to be here not somewhere far away, Please stay here…” sobbing lightly
“What has gotten into you? Why are you so hysterical? What’s wrong my dear?”
“I’m a lonely old woman! cant you see how lonely I am? Or do I have to write you symphony to tell you that? What do you think Norman? WHAT DO YOU THINK!? Do you think, I’m happy?”
“Well…yes I—“
“I’M NOT! I am dying in here, in these wall, in this silence. I wish the piano would talk to me when you don’t! I bet it could find the time to visit its in laws once in a while, especially when they’re old and dying! Just like I am, just like last weeks roses… its always the same slow dullness…” withering into despair.
“…so…you don’t want to go to Zimbabwe?” he asks honestly.
She stiffens suddenly with a caustic stare, “I’m going to my parents Norman.”
“You are?...for how long?”
“A long time.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Doubtful.”
“Wait!...Do you want me to come, please—?”
“I don’t want you—“ as the door slams. He stands motionless and realizes that Wolfgang’s Requiem was playing in the background the whole time.
He calmly goes over to the piano where the sheet-music of his symphony rests and changes the final chord written on the last page from an F to an D minor. He then sits in his sitting chair that has upholstery which projects out and boxes in his head. He listens to the music and as the development comes on with its sudden rises and falls, its crescendos, vibratos, and trills, an unexpected sound resonates in his ears.
Why he was so happy was because today as he sat in the recital hall in practice with his fellow orchestra members a revelation dawned on him; the perfect cadence. He had been trying for so long to come up with one, and today as he was changing his reed the flutist that was playing in the front row let out a brief series of notes that stuck in his mind, and when elaborated upon gave the impetus for the cadence he had been seeking for so long. For those of you not familiar with the style of sonata-allegro form, one cannot overlook the importance of a good cadence. For classical pieces all start with an exposition of some sort, a signature melody that is repeated throughout the piece. This will be a simple melody, and though it may change keys or instrumentation, the theme remains the same and is played all the way through twice. Then after the repetition of the exposition the development played, and it is the grandest part of the piece, for the composer stops playing the main theme and begins to experiment with all the possibilities of the music. Here a departure is made, the unexpected is sought, and it is in this part of the piece where the zenith of musical potential is achieved. Only the most skillful composers dare write the most elaborate developments, the kinds that challenge the very rules of harmony and leave the ear astounded. But before that can be achieved the exposition must be bridged, and that requires a good cadence.
Because it so happened that Norman was writing a symphony, a personal project of his that he had been working on for a very long time, and he had been undecided on how to approach the development of his first movement. Though, he had written other musical pieces he considered them sub-par, short, and simple works. So, he began to work on a piece that would be his finest expression. The process took much longer than he had expected, the notes came slowly and his commitment to perfection made the composing arduous, but he was convinced that this one piece would be the greatest thing he had ever done, that it would be his life’s manifestation encapsulated in notes.
Now, here he was with the perfect cadence that would lead to the excitement of the development. For he had been mulling over exposition for quite a while, modulating keys, modifying the instrumentation, essentially making the same song sound different, and now he was moving on to the unknown of the development. A new path was turning and he felt a breeze of change strike him in the face. Maybe he would take leave and go some place exotic, like Zimbabwe, to create the right atmosphere to write the most stunning development.
He is so exited with the possibilities of this new phase that he decides to go and buy flowers for his wife, so to have something to mark the occasion when he told her the news. As he walks into the flower shop he greets the shop-owner, a lady he has become acquainted with from his regular visits.
“How are you this lovely day?”
She recognizes him and a warm smile spreads as her eyes grow soft, “Why, I’m doing lovely Norman, thank you for asking. Are you here to pick up flowers for your pretty wife?”
“Yes, it’s a celebration.”
“It always is with you,” the smile grows, “will it be the roses?”
“No, I will take the tulips this time.”
“I’m sure she will love them. You do all the right things Norman. Maybe you could teach my husband how to be a gentleman.”
A forced laugh is mustered by Norman, “I just do what I always have done.” He thanks her for the flowers and continues home.
The cadence still flutters around in his head and he is lost in the dream that is his symphony, playing the exposition over and over in his head as he had thousands of times before, but now with the cadence added on the end it became complete, ready for the next stage. His footsteps make notes and he walks in music, for life is playing for him only in the exquisite tones of trumpets and French horns. For him the train’s whine is an oboe and its pounding the rhythm section both united in a merry joining of tones and percussions of the machine’s orchestra. Here he draws his inspirations, interpreting the world into flutes and violas, not to forget the bassoons, for anything can be translated as one sees proper. And this is why his symphony would be the grandest, for it would take all of the mast disjunctions of the earth and unite it in one beautiful harmony of woodwinds sighs and brass thunder. Oh!
Entranced he reaches a street corner and waits for the light, but as he stands there the placid musical perfection that swirls in his head is disturbed by a new sound.
He recognizes it immediately as his spine becomes agitated and he crunches his head into his shoulder, the sound of distortion, as a convertible pulls beside him blasting hard rock. He detests the music, the simple songs, the lack of instruments, the people who played them. He hates the lyrics and the singers, they just scream or whine about what they hate and what they love; no match for the vocals of a tenor. But most of all he hates the distortion of the guitar. The gritty undefined noise of squared sound waves that roar out of electrified amplifiers sounded dreadful, savage, mostly agitating as the guitarist bended the strings and trashed with abandon. There was no art in this type of music, no effort was given in creating a perfect structure of notes to create a most beautiful harmony, instead three cords where bashed upon at random while a madman screams and wails with unadulterated passion. He looks over too see a foursome of leather clad punks sitting in the car, their heads methodically nodding with the rhythm. As he turns his head to look at them the girl in the passenger seat with the Mohawk and gaping lip ring turns to look at him. She eyes him from head to toe then back again, then her eyes wince, her mouth bursts open wide, her head turns forward as the car speeds away, and laughter drowned out by the loud music is never heard.
He reaches his house and upon entering finds his wife sitting in her chair looking out the window listening to music. She slowly turns to him, “why, you brought me flowers.”
“Yes it’s a celebration, it’s a new beginning. Aren’t you exited?”
“Oh…yes, what is it we are celebrating?”
“A cadence, my exposition has ended, its time to move on to new material. I was thinking we could celebrate with a trip.”
“Oh that sounds lovely I haven’t left the house…in awhile, maybe we could visit my parents, they would like it.”
“Well, I was thinking somewhere exotic, somewhere where I would truly be inspired, and create my great development, I was thinking Africa, what do you think?”
“Oh…that’s so far a way, you are always going so far away…maybe we could stay around here, you know…and maybe, catch up, you know…they would love too see you.”
“How can I be creative there? Don’t you love traveling? It will be great—
“NO! no! I don’t want to go to Europe or Asia or Africa! I want you here! I want you to be here not somewhere far away, Please stay here…” sobbing lightly
“What has gotten into you? Why are you so hysterical? What’s wrong my dear?”
“I’m a lonely old woman! cant you see how lonely I am? Or do I have to write you symphony to tell you that? What do you think Norman? WHAT DO YOU THINK!? Do you think, I’m happy?”
“Well…yes I—“
“I’M NOT! I am dying in here, in these wall, in this silence. I wish the piano would talk to me when you don’t! I bet it could find the time to visit its in laws once in a while, especially when they’re old and dying! Just like I am, just like last weeks roses… its always the same slow dullness…” withering into despair.
“…so…you don’t want to go to Zimbabwe?” he asks honestly.
She stiffens suddenly with a caustic stare, “I’m going to my parents Norman.”
“You are?...for how long?”
“A long time.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Doubtful.”
“Wait!...Do you want me to come, please—?”
“I don’t want you—“ as the door slams. He stands motionless and realizes that Wolfgang’s Requiem was playing in the background the whole time.
He calmly goes over to the piano where the sheet-music of his symphony rests and changes the final chord written on the last page from an F to an D minor. He then sits in his sitting chair that has upholstery which projects out and boxes in his head. He listens to the music and as the development comes on with its sudden rises and falls, its crescendos, vibratos, and trills, an unexpected sound resonates in his ears.
JOKERUS
MAN ON SCENE OLD JESTER
PASTPRESENT FOOLS JOKE
PSYCHOLOGICALLY AS
FOLKS ARE NOW JOKES TOLD
ARTICLELESS AND SILLY
SLIGHLY SADDER THAN
ABSURD FOLLOWERS FLOCK
TO COMMON BIRDS BUT
NO RHYME
SING SONG SLAVE
METER REPRESSING SYLLABIC INDIVIDUALITY
IS INHUMANE TO DUMB UNSPOKEN LIPS
OR THOSE BABBLING RHYTHMICALLY..bump...bump...bumpbump
LAUGH.
FOR PEOPLE ARE PUNCHLINES
AS RED CARPET POETS COMPOSE
FOR TABLOID PROSE
AND LIVES THERE WRITTEN
WORTHLESS WORDS
PASTPRESENT FOOLS JOKE
PSYCHOLOGICALLY AS
FOLKS ARE NOW JOKES TOLD
ARTICLELESS AND SILLY
SLIGHLY SADDER THAN
ABSURD FOLLOWERS FLOCK
TO COMMON BIRDS BUT
NO RHYME
SING SONG SLAVE
METER REPRESSING SYLLABIC INDIVIDUALITY
IS INHUMANE TO DUMB UNSPOKEN LIPS
OR THOSE BABBLING RHYTHMICALLY..bump...bump...bumpbump
LAUGH.
FOR PEOPLE ARE PUNCHLINES
AS RED CARPET POETS COMPOSE
FOR TABLOID PROSE
AND LIVES THERE WRITTEN
WORTHLESS WORDS
Hunger
Profane hunger of
our saints, our saints
hold sterling forknife
strung with silk handkerchief
while criminally wholesale
self-satisfying warehoused
currency pools power in bile acid
Our saints, their plates
We fill
ad fork,
architect porcelain.
We scream they swallow
and screams
now somber sighs,
faintly resonate
from a gaping esophagus
our saints, our saints
hold sterling forknife
strung with silk handkerchief
while criminally wholesale
self-satisfying warehoused
currency pools power in bile acid
Our saints, their plates
We fill
ad fork,
architect porcelain.
We scream they swallow
and screams
now somber sighs,
faintly resonate
from a gaping esophagus
Lecture
Numb lump mass
soaking in a chattering
liquid, a sea of talk
belching from blokes
and webster, their
salty words dry my mind
soaking in a chattering
liquid, a sea of talk
belching from blokes
and webster, their
salty words dry my mind
Epiphanic
All things fall apart
An end
A beginning
A fall
A start
No such thing as sinning
Nihilist vision
Hope apparition
Truth begot
In the design envisioned
“I can see!”
Photons blind
as with sight given
“I can feel!”
So does your dinner
“I Know.”
Hahahaha!
Do you know what the tree thinks?
“No”
Well then you wont grow.
That that is natural
Flows in chaos
Like a mighty mountain
Flattened by a gentle breeze
we fade
Accept it with ease
A fight is not worth giving when
fate has already decided your decision
And may the dirt consummate me
and may others find
this life of mine forgiven
for,
A million pieces is my soul’s division
An end
A beginning
A fall
A start
No such thing as sinning
Nihilist vision
Hope apparition
Truth begot
In the design envisioned
“I can see!”
Photons blind
as with sight given
“I can feel!”
So does your dinner
“I Know.”
Hahahaha!
Do you know what the tree thinks?
“No”
Well then you wont grow.
That that is natural
Flows in chaos
Like a mighty mountain
Flattened by a gentle breeze
we fade
Accept it with ease
A fight is not worth giving when
fate has already decided your decision
And may the dirt consummate me
and may others find
this life of mine forgiven
for,
A million pieces is my soul’s division
T's th' nam'
I T Failed
I
T
Failed
leads me
I
affirmed to a
loss
known
and forlornly
acceptable
Cease
Cease
struggle to project
slight lull in the
sense I detect
Quit I say
do not explain
quickly because
a time is never a time
again
my own sought
something,
extracurricular hysteria
but a stony bust
knowledgeably hard
rebuffed I, T—an F
& I now
Flounder w/
dreams rebuked
having to
wander
an
absence
I
T
Failed
leads me
I
affirmed to a
loss
known
and forlornly
acceptable
Cease
Cease
struggle to project
slight lull in the
sense I detect
Quit I say
do not explain
quickly because
a time is never a time
again
my own sought
something,
extracurricular hysteria
but a stony bust
knowledgeably hard
rebuffed I, T—an F
& I now
Flounder w/
dreams rebuked
having to
wander
an
absence
Letter Number
A dialectic formula creates
organic organization in its fractals
fusion of arithmetic and soul
an end to a blind time
start understand
in between letters
scratchy
but numbers fit
no mortar necessary
joining #i with letter9
its no easy task
free morphing
speech
question arises
organicity chaotic?
not in numerals
not yet?
does:
# + Q
language – random = (organic)
or does it loose something
natured humane
*===============================*
CANLETTERS&NUMBERSBECONJUGAL
8521851293091+80932420918=18932406301
organic organization in its fractals
fusion of arithmetic and soul
an end to a blind time
start understand
in between letters
scratchy
but numbers fit
no mortar necessary
joining #i with letter9
its no easy task
free morphing
speech
question arises
organicity chaotic?
not in numerals
not yet?
does:
# + Q
language – random = (organic)
or does it loose something
natured humane
*===============================*
CANLETTERS&NUMBERSBECONJUGAL
8521851293091+80932420918=18932406301
Linkage
To bring to a
close a schism
of absurdity a
reasonable bridge must be
built
think
carefully about your
materials,
will it be
stone or wood?
do you give regards to either’s feelings?
or how is the span?
will vast sea pass under a thin shadow?
perhaps,
but what is absurd about
a gap?
is there issue with
separation,
a space between?
if so what
floods of
isolation
fell to create
an island of me?
to ashore
a mainstay of land a
distance is
deprivation spanned.
for sanctuary
depravity,
rolling over
dead pine on
dug dirt
foundation,
stuck into a schism
bridging absurdity
so trucks may bring
reason over
a fabrication
close a schism
of absurdity a
reasonable bridge must be
built
think
carefully about your
materials,
will it be
stone or wood?
do you give regards to either’s feelings?
or how is the span?
will vast sea pass under a thin shadow?
perhaps,
but what is absurd about
a gap?
is there issue with
separation,
a space between?
if so what
floods of
isolation
fell to create
an island of me?
to ashore
a mainstay of land a
distance is
deprivation spanned.
for sanctuary
depravity,
rolling over
dead pine on
dug dirt
foundation,
stuck into a schism
bridging absurdity
so trucks may bring
reason over
a fabrication
Call Me Mr. Fudd
Seems like somethings never change
Same time same way
Chasing that fucking wabbit
All fucking day
He so cleaver
and I so lame
the sport of chase
made into a game
If i had something else I'd pursue it
But nothing compares to this hunt
Because he pisses me off so much
Scwewy rabbit I'm fucking Elmer Fudd
And one day I'm going to blow your fucking head off
Same time same way
Chasing that fucking wabbit
All fucking day
He so cleaver
and I so lame
the sport of chase
made into a game
If i had something else I'd pursue it
But nothing compares to this hunt
Because he pisses me off so much
Scwewy rabbit I'm fucking Elmer Fudd
And one day I'm going to blow your fucking head off
Old Soul Window
Inside I see
breath and
heave and
exhale
I ran
blood pumped
and I
sailed on legs like a
gun on ground a
bullet through sand
and now I'm
old and tired,
need you to
wheel me and now
around we move
Inside I hear
ticking
but the peephole in
I lose
with each fear
each pain the window in
slides
down
down
down
Until my head
lies on the ground
breath and
heave and
exhale
I ran
blood pumped
and I
sailed on legs like a
gun on ground a
bullet through sand
and now I'm
old and tired,
need you to
wheel me and now
around we move
Inside I hear
ticking
but the peephole in
I lose
with each fear
each pain the window in
slides
down
down
down
Until my head
lies on the ground
Going Left
I am a Killjoy Man
With Blasphemy and Hammer in hand
The bed soaked in cold sweat
I arise, my intentions are set
Mechanical Murder Madness I take to the street
My hammer is not hard or mean
For in fact it remains unseen
I am a liberator stocking the feeble
The true enemy of all good people
Callously Crashing the Cranium of timid fools
AH!
They scream as I come out of nowhere unseen and smite them dead
AH!
They scream like Dionysus seizing Pentheus head
AH!
They scream as the hammer falls hard and lets out the Red
The weak silly peon lay bashed and battered
Have no sympathy for he did not matter
For a new man is then resurrected
His weakness deceased, his mind corrected
Bold and Born Brave a new soldier has been made
For only once our convictions are killed
Do we realize the scope of the battlefield
There’s a war that to the blind remains unseen
Fighting to live in a world that more resembles our dreams
An Evil Enormous Enemy we battle to free the earth’s treasure
He picks up a sickle, I my hammer, and we will make an army together
With Blasphemy and Hammer in hand
The bed soaked in cold sweat
I arise, my intentions are set
Mechanical Murder Madness I take to the street
My hammer is not hard or mean
For in fact it remains unseen
I am a liberator stocking the feeble
The true enemy of all good people
Callously Crashing the Cranium of timid fools
AH!
They scream as I come out of nowhere unseen and smite them dead
AH!
They scream like Dionysus seizing Pentheus head
AH!
They scream as the hammer falls hard and lets out the Red
The weak silly peon lay bashed and battered
Have no sympathy for he did not matter
For a new man is then resurrected
His weakness deceased, his mind corrected
Bold and Born Brave a new soldier has been made
For only once our convictions are killed
Do we realize the scope of the battlefield
There’s a war that to the blind remains unseen
Fighting to live in a world that more resembles our dreams
An Evil Enormous Enemy we battle to free the earth’s treasure
He picks up a sickle, I my hammer, and we will make an army together
A Kind Boulder
That is a very long hill to fall down. A steep muddy path that snakes up the cragged hillside and continues up infinitely into the black void that is the ceiling of Tartarus. I know every piece of this hillside, each step, every obstacle that must be avoided when tumbling down. The hill is so huge if I did not know the safest route down it would surely mean fragmentation. The top will never be reached, and I’m quite sure that there is no summit on this hill, so I must study carefully every foot advanced up this hill, to note every danger that will affect my descent down. For that is my duty to fall down this hill, his is to bring me back up, we both carry out our tasks to our fullest potentials.
Here he comes down the hill to pick me up again. He has been at this for a very long time, he never stops, I have never seen him sleep or eat. How heavy his eyes must be, how his gut must burn at every waking moment. He moves around me, aligns with the hill and starts to push with all of his strength.
I don’t know why he pushes me up every time. I always expect him to stop, drop to the ground in dead exhaustion. But, he never stops, and when he first starts the ascent he looks at me with a fierce face, entranced in determination. He looks like he has something to prove, I can tell that his heaving muscles are fuelled by anger coursing through his veins.
If I had his job I would have quit long ago. My job is simple, I simply must roll down a hill, remembering the numerous hazards that are along the way, but he must remember all the same hazards and use every bit of his strength to fulfill his duty. We both are ordained by mighty Hades to perform this odd task eternally, I don’t understand its function but I will do it unquestioning if is the will of the gods for me to do so.
The sight of his face begins to disquiet me more and more the farther he progresses up the grade. Stamina drains from him. His determined face is disheartened as his once rigid eyebrows slump off to the side of his eye and his mouth stretches towards his ears. His eyes maddened by anger glow with crimson rage. He grunts and puffs and howls as though he were a head of Cerberus.
He has never spoken to me; in fact he has never spoken. At all times his face is solidified, contorted, maddened, and eventually broken. It amazes me how he on every effort he makes further progress up the endless slope. How he can believe that there to be an end? Will he find some trick to push without rest? He destroys himself every time tries, his face looks like it is about to break, burst open from every bulging vein, crack from chin to cranium, wither up as he blows his last muggy breath against my surface. He will drop me soon. I must prepare for the roll down.
“Damn you Hermes. Damn you for grabbing my right bicep, flinging me into the air to drag me away from sweet Corinth into this hellish pit! What did I do to be committed to such punishment? I know in my life above I was not a purely good man: those poor travelers I killed, how I wish to restore to my brother the throne I stole, and my poor niece….Ahg! The grief!
But that is not what I have been banished here for. No. I have been banished here for being cleverer than almighty Zeus! Because I proved him to be no better than I! He calls me immoral, that I am in defiance of the god! Yet he expects to rape my sister and get away with it without anyone knowing about it! He thought the threat of locking me in the underworld would buy my silence, but I fear no petty threats, especially from a degenerate like him! For when he threw me into this pit before, it was here I found the vileness of all that is godly; the souls of the dead drifting in Styx. As I looked into the gloom green stream I saw young men with lances shoved through their torsos wearing proud armor of mortal glory; for bronze has no glimmer in the river of death. Then the maidens, the young and old with slashing of swords torn across their prone bodies, sailors without breath, and horrible sickness that leaves all deformed.
I would once again despoil the sick pleasure of the gods. Using only my cunningness I locked dastardly Thanatos in his own chains; and in his absence death ceased. I fled to the world above to find it without hatred or disease, an immortal paradise on earth! Only to be spotted upon my return by barbarous Ares and killed on the spot, for he had already freed Hades; and the joy of bloodshed could not be relinquished by the god of war. I knew Hades would not be fooled again so I was then clever enough to trick his wife into releasing me, so that I could see my own beloved wife again and be at home and live without the gods! At that happy reunion, you damnable Hermes, dragged me away with the beats of your absurd foot-wings.
All you gods love to watch us suffer in life and death. There is no redemption in your eyes! There is only submission, and I will not submit to such vile gods, gods that are no more righteous than the lowliest humans. So, I will push this damnable rock forever until your savage humor is placated and you no longer are amused by my suffering. Against all you powers, through all pain I will push this rock farther and farther up this hill and there is nothing such pitiful gods could do to stop me.”
He ceases to move and stands there shaking refusing to release me. I now understand why he will not cease, because manifested in me is all the powers that seek to crush him. That is why he toils and I roll along the ground, he has the weight of cruel earth against him that seeks to hold him down. I have been with this man for a long time. His suffering does not lie about the gods—they must be unjust. I must find a new way down…
I had nicked and shattered my edges as I rolled boundlessly across the broken earth, leaving the fate of my shape in the hands of the fall. He comes down to see a smaller boulder, one now small enough to sit on, and as he sits his perspiration drips and gleams on the side of my newly exposed shale.
Here he comes down the hill to pick me up again. He has been at this for a very long time, he never stops, I have never seen him sleep or eat. How heavy his eyes must be, how his gut must burn at every waking moment. He moves around me, aligns with the hill and starts to push with all of his strength.
I don’t know why he pushes me up every time. I always expect him to stop, drop to the ground in dead exhaustion. But, he never stops, and when he first starts the ascent he looks at me with a fierce face, entranced in determination. He looks like he has something to prove, I can tell that his heaving muscles are fuelled by anger coursing through his veins.
If I had his job I would have quit long ago. My job is simple, I simply must roll down a hill, remembering the numerous hazards that are along the way, but he must remember all the same hazards and use every bit of his strength to fulfill his duty. We both are ordained by mighty Hades to perform this odd task eternally, I don’t understand its function but I will do it unquestioning if is the will of the gods for me to do so.
The sight of his face begins to disquiet me more and more the farther he progresses up the grade. Stamina drains from him. His determined face is disheartened as his once rigid eyebrows slump off to the side of his eye and his mouth stretches towards his ears. His eyes maddened by anger glow with crimson rage. He grunts and puffs and howls as though he were a head of Cerberus.
He has never spoken to me; in fact he has never spoken. At all times his face is solidified, contorted, maddened, and eventually broken. It amazes me how he on every effort he makes further progress up the endless slope. How he can believe that there to be an end? Will he find some trick to push without rest? He destroys himself every time tries, his face looks like it is about to break, burst open from every bulging vein, crack from chin to cranium, wither up as he blows his last muggy breath against my surface. He will drop me soon. I must prepare for the roll down.
“Damn you Hermes. Damn you for grabbing my right bicep, flinging me into the air to drag me away from sweet Corinth into this hellish pit! What did I do to be committed to such punishment? I know in my life above I was not a purely good man: those poor travelers I killed, how I wish to restore to my brother the throne I stole, and my poor niece….Ahg! The grief!
But that is not what I have been banished here for. No. I have been banished here for being cleverer than almighty Zeus! Because I proved him to be no better than I! He calls me immoral, that I am in defiance of the god! Yet he expects to rape my sister and get away with it without anyone knowing about it! He thought the threat of locking me in the underworld would buy my silence, but I fear no petty threats, especially from a degenerate like him! For when he threw me into this pit before, it was here I found the vileness of all that is godly; the souls of the dead drifting in Styx. As I looked into the gloom green stream I saw young men with lances shoved through their torsos wearing proud armor of mortal glory; for bronze has no glimmer in the river of death. Then the maidens, the young and old with slashing of swords torn across their prone bodies, sailors without breath, and horrible sickness that leaves all deformed.
I would once again despoil the sick pleasure of the gods. Using only my cunningness I locked dastardly Thanatos in his own chains; and in his absence death ceased. I fled to the world above to find it without hatred or disease, an immortal paradise on earth! Only to be spotted upon my return by barbarous Ares and killed on the spot, for he had already freed Hades; and the joy of bloodshed could not be relinquished by the god of war. I knew Hades would not be fooled again so I was then clever enough to trick his wife into releasing me, so that I could see my own beloved wife again and be at home and live without the gods! At that happy reunion, you damnable Hermes, dragged me away with the beats of your absurd foot-wings.
All you gods love to watch us suffer in life and death. There is no redemption in your eyes! There is only submission, and I will not submit to such vile gods, gods that are no more righteous than the lowliest humans. So, I will push this damnable rock forever until your savage humor is placated and you no longer are amused by my suffering. Against all you powers, through all pain I will push this rock farther and farther up this hill and there is nothing such pitiful gods could do to stop me.”
He ceases to move and stands there shaking refusing to release me. I now understand why he will not cease, because manifested in me is all the powers that seek to crush him. That is why he toils and I roll along the ground, he has the weight of cruel earth against him that seeks to hold him down. I have been with this man for a long time. His suffering does not lie about the gods—they must be unjust. I must find a new way down…
I had nicked and shattered my edges as I rolled boundlessly across the broken earth, leaving the fate of my shape in the hands of the fall. He comes down to see a smaller boulder, one now small enough to sit on, and as he sits his perspiration drips and gleams on the side of my newly exposed shale.
Incorrect Sonnet
The static roars above all else around
Ten seconds is too long for me to think
The dull glowing light with stereo sound
My eyes become scratchy the world must blink.
My thoughts flicker like a rusty circuit
How is it that I can be so confused?
Memories are wicks that should be kept lit
The things most precious are the things I loose.
Creation is a thing devoid to me
A sustained long effort for all things great
My thoughts are too choppy to form a stream
Channel changing constantly is my fate
I guess I live on a televised stage
The youth are privileged with minds of old age
Ten seconds is too long for me to think
The dull glowing light with stereo sound
My eyes become scratchy the world must blink.
My thoughts flicker like a rusty circuit
How is it that I can be so confused?
Memories are wicks that should be kept lit
The things most precious are the things I loose.
Creation is a thing devoid to me
A sustained long effort for all things great
My thoughts are too choppy to form a stream
Channel changing constantly is my fate
I guess I live on a televised stage
The youth are privileged with minds of old age
41 Thing
#1
In one word
a thing said
will wells
through mud
and if he hears
a stream
will flows
#2
Stab in
and pull juice.
if coolly
stroked
it’ll curdle.
#3
Flannel keeps comfort
‘cause plaid scares cold
#4
Somber sentences
lull a mind
to creep
-where?
#5
Fiddling
fills in
gaps
time leaves
vacant
#6
To wish
dangerous
to dream
sleep
too bad
nightmares
don’t
bear grief
#7
Use get hours
Eat bet dares
#8
We ride on
small ponies,
some break
under our glut,
poor pony
#9
Caution to
those who mull
time is
explicit in speed.
surfaces are all 1 has
to perceive
#10
Lonely little mole
burrowed dirt keeps
blind little varmint
little life
Grounded
#11
a regale
yawn you
earnest
#12
a.path—
#13
sleep
with mines
and
children to
dance
in trenches.
let the tirade of
grey white men
sedate sensibility,
sleep
a barbed wire blanket
#14
Sick hatchet flew
cool cold
#15
Barely capable
of holding label
rather acquire
,in the pen,
dent tricks
#16
Whine! squeal! guitar
DISTOrTION & A#
fissure vox man!
#17
Questioning is
requisite to create
remembrance
#18
Nod my
handsome man
your worries will
rest and not be strife
for U.R.U.
#19
Effort puts
out spends our
strength unsure
#20
Oh heavens see
em make em
mad denying
gosh
#21
I know I know
be timid and let regret
this Time
its expected
#22
I
feel
hollow
like a
tree stricken with
lightning at
random
#23
Stop before you
get stuck
and go when non-gluey or
get stapled
#24
I hate
it it it for
you see three uc3.
their distinction
infuriates me
#24
Save Darfur
is what it said
a cry just
made of words
#25
Never
told
always
revealed
truth
#26
Lewd can’t be
used by you or by
me being bawdy as it is
#27
You still
read
that
makes me laugh
#28
Absurdity
bound
by flesh
#29
Don’t commit
rhyme crime kids,
poetic policemen
will pounce with
crushing boots…grr
#30
Lust progressing requiem
#31
Mour
ning time
in the
win
dow
#32
So hard
so drag
a char
a shad
#33
symposiums of
sound shapes
new lexicon
#34
I’ll tell
ya quick
beforya
ferget
#35
Which
side
is my
face?
#36
Don’t
fault myself in
failure of all
things
matterable
forgiven is my
irrelevance
#37
Slanderpraise
my fickle
tongue
wags
#38
True is that,
thought best
thought first
#39
Change
the
channel and
navigate
another
river
#40
Look at how
small
it is—“what?...cant
understand when over it”
can you?
#41
xli ex-el eye
here a frag-
ment to go on,
to roll blips
for a long time
in short spaces,
tends to an end
for fear of longevity
In one word
a thing said
will wells
through mud
and if he hears
a stream
will flows
#2
Stab in
and pull juice.
if coolly
stroked
it’ll curdle.
#3
Flannel keeps comfort
‘cause plaid scares cold
#4
Somber sentences
lull a mind
to creep
-where?
#5
Fiddling
fills in
gaps
time leaves
vacant
#6
To wish
dangerous
to dream
sleep
too bad
nightmares
don’t
bear grief
#7
Use get hours
Eat bet dares
#8
We ride on
small ponies,
some break
under our glut,
poor pony
#9
Caution to
those who mull
time is
explicit in speed.
surfaces are all 1 has
to perceive
#10
Lonely little mole
burrowed dirt keeps
blind little varmint
little life
Grounded
#11
a regale
yawn you
earnest
#12
a.path—
#13
sleep
with mines
and
children to
dance
in trenches.
let the tirade of
grey white men
sedate sensibility,
sleep
a barbed wire blanket
#14
Sick hatchet flew
cool cold
#15
Barely capable
of holding label
rather acquire
,in the pen,
dent tricks
#16
Whine! squeal! guitar
DISTOrTION & A#
fissure vox man!
#17
Questioning is
requisite to create
remembrance
#18
Nod my
handsome man
your worries will
rest and not be strife
for U.R.U.
#19
Effort puts
out spends our
strength unsure
#20
Oh heavens see
em make em
mad denying
gosh
#21
I know I know
be timid and let regret
this Time
its expected
#22
I
feel
hollow
like a
tree stricken with
lightning at
random
#23
Stop before you
get stuck
and go when non-gluey or
get stapled
#24
I hate
it it it for
you see three uc3.
their distinction
infuriates me
#24
Save Darfur
is what it said
a cry just
made of words
#25
Never
told
always
revealed
truth
#26
Lewd can’t be
used by you or by
me being bawdy as it is
#27
You still
read
that
makes me laugh
#28
Absurdity
bound
by flesh
#29
Don’t commit
rhyme crime kids,
poetic policemen
will pounce with
crushing boots…grr
#30
Lust progressing requiem
#31
Mour
ning time
in the
win
dow
#32
So hard
so drag
a char
a shad
#33
symposiums of
sound shapes
new lexicon
#34
I’ll tell
ya quick
beforya
ferget
#35
Which
side
is my
face?
#36
Don’t
fault myself in
failure of all
things
matterable
forgiven is my
irrelevance
#37
Slanderpraise
my fickle
tongue
wags
#38
True is that,
thought best
thought first
#39
Change
the
channel and
navigate
another
river
#40
Look at how
small
it is—“what?...cant
understand when over it”
can you?
#41
xli ex-el eye
here a frag-
ment to go on,
to roll blips
for a long time
in short spaces,
tends to an end
for fear of longevity
Poem Du
I am what I am
"whats that you say?"
What am I am I?
"you don't make much sense"
It is what it is
"Is it what you want?"
What is it i want?
Too infinite than the
answer taught
accept the check
and swear
to live.
as infamy swells
"EGO"
lives become pompous
we self assess
"Neminem Scio"
You son of a bitch
"I just lay in a grave"
One in which only you made
Shit--
Excuse
lye of life
followed
--but why?
It shall remain
"Shall you remain?"
Is it me?
"It is you"
says who
"Mr/Ms Chaos Truth"
Since when
Since thought began
"whats that you say?"
What am I am I?
"you don't make much sense"
It is what it is
"Is it what you want?"
What is it i want?
Too infinite than the
answer taught
accept the check
and swear
to live.
as infamy swells
"EGO"
lives become pompous
we self assess
"Neminem Scio"
You son of a bitch
"I just lay in a grave"
One in which only you made
Shit--
Excuse
lye of life
followed
--but why?
It shall remain
"Shall you remain?"
Is it me?
"It is you"
says who
"Mr/Ms Chaos Truth"
Since when
Since thought began
Pygmalion Walks
Pygmalion walks.
He walks far and to stars
His eyes see many great things
And he walks to find these great things
In far off places were people say
Glorious treasures of man
Lie in hide and wait.
He walks through the green shrub of the jungles thick shroud, nature envelopes him in bloom all around. Pygmalion walks with knife in hand hacking the vine, the leaf, the lush life of the land. He is modern man, man of the new, lives a life a bit better, where travel is extensive in use; to the forest depth he comes with a change of pace in mind, to view fauna and uncivilized lands. Among trees of century’s he stands, with machete in his hand, the nature all around too rich for him and the thick blood of a civilized man. “The bugs, the pests, the smells, and all of these creatures about, it is a step into a strange city where nature has taken control. Indeed no place for a man of culture like me, the human condition has no use for so many trees.” He sees the life all around as a green bog, a tangled mess of spices trying to survive, no order or place and lacking any intelligent aesthetic trait. It is Darwin awry, a mess, a step behind, the world before the human creative mind. “No place for a man like me, a change of pace is all I need, sometimes my life seems so dull to me. The view here, pretty, the air very clean, perhaps some natural medicine is to be found for an ailing soul like me.” Along he walks beneath a coconut tree and spotted great brown nuts among its’ leaves. Having no hunger, or room in his bag he sought to taste the meat the nut had, he shakes them from the tree with a walking stick in hand, jarring loose the coconuts far before nature had planned. He cracks one with great effort and tastes how sweet, leaves it broken among the others that had fallen at his feet to rot in the soil in the jungles heat. On he walks through the unbroken land to see what else the forest had to offer.
Pygmalion walks through natures green
But the intricate net it weaves lay unseen
He sought to find but he does not seek
He takes what he wants
He takes what is there
Removes from the jungle a piece in place,
Taken for pleasure and left for waste
He walks up to a solemn temple made of intricate stones, aligned for the heavens made by people who prayed and died long ago. In bony ash upon hallow ground, in front of the temple and winding all around, a mosaic of time that lives from the past of people who had painted and had passed, a beautiful picture from ancient minds. Pygmalion step over it with a little glance seeing how the tile was broken and cracked, and how all the dirt was encrusted within. He thought with his little voice in his head, “this mosaic ought to be cleaned and saved, the marvel of modern restoration can keep this in perfect appearance and keep it that way. Away from this dirt that lies all around and protected from the jungle that wears it down, this mosaic is worth saving and worth taking from this god-forsaken place.” The stone steps lay in front of him intertwined with vines, a possession of the jungle for a great span of time. He walks up the many steps with boots on his feet, rushing to up to the top, to be at the peak. Pygmalion finds a large circle on top and nothing beside, no shrine or sculpture, nor scripture or sacred stones, just a worn circle in the bright of the sun. “What a thing to see, what people with such a strange sense of creativity; it is surely something to be seen, to be put on display, pondered over; a looking glass to what has been. A little glimpse of people who could not make it to today, instead there civilization crumbled at the seems, leaving worn piles of rock to be remembered by, nothing that spectacular in my eyes.” He had walked in a circle of sacrifice, of worship, and full-fledged heavenly delight. What meaning it held, what meaning it holds, is only remembered by the worn circle engraved in the temple’s stone. Having reached the top and seen what he seen, he left the higher ground, down the temple into the jungle, to continue his walk around parts he had never been. His eyes see the ancient story this temple holds but his mind refuses to let the story be told, and his leather clad boots trample on.
Pygmalion walks on sacred stone
But he does not know
He walks and sees
The people, the knowledge, the beauty it holds
It dazzles his eyes with a great glow
But it is seen alone
Nothing is to be learned from people who died long ago
He walks into a village were homely people make home, live simple lives and remember what has been known. Here he comes to find food and rest, his walk having been exhausting to be said nothing less. The villagers simple houses stand, ensemble together in a communal plan; together the people have lived, worked, and passed a strong tie like family; a village strong and banded. Pygmalion finds a small cantina to eat were the local dish is the only cuisine, made from people who live off the land making the food they had made with their passed knowledge and their worn hands. He sits and orders a meal from a lady who asks, the wife of the man whose family the cantina had always passed. “A quaint village I have come across here, why there is no technology any where near. I wonder how the people get by without all the amazing things being made in the world by fellow human minds.” He sees a change from his home, a change from what he knows; he sees it a bit queer, a bit brutish and definitely too rugged without the modern conventions he has come to uphold. Pygmalion knows what he likes and loves what he knows however limited the knowledge he holds. The dish came out on a sizzling plate made of colorful vegetables and brown roasted meat with a strange sauce drenching it deep, and he eats. “What unkind food! How can this be digestible so spicy, so salty, so crude! It will surely rot my stomach when I sleep, and the taste is certainly not good. What people live here, in such a place, in such a way, it is the third world what else can I say?” He paid his meal and left in whole on the plate, a sight the humble wife’s eyes had never laid, except from people who come from the other place, who come to see but never make amends, and make her feel hurt and lowly, how they don’t care to understand. He walks on out the village with a scoff on his breath, seeing the world that lies below the rest. Though having a hardy bond and an essence true, the people of the jungle fair no importance in his eyes; they are not with the new.
Pygmalion walks through village streets
But there are people there too
Who have lived this life for a long time
Who know many things that are wise and true
But he cares not
He does not see whom
He just sees what is there and what is not new
Pygmalion walks but he does not see
He does not understand he does not believe
The lives lived and the knowledge passed
Lay enshrined in people who hold the past
There is something to be warned about the new
How it cuts the vine, desecrates the temple, and dishonors good food
How it blinds the holder from what has passed
And infatuates him with that he has
Pygmalion walks and his leather boots trample the land
Pygmalion walks with a stick painted red at its end.
He walks far and to stars
His eyes see many great things
And he walks to find these great things
In far off places were people say
Glorious treasures of man
Lie in hide and wait.
He walks through the green shrub of the jungles thick shroud, nature envelopes him in bloom all around. Pygmalion walks with knife in hand hacking the vine, the leaf, the lush life of the land. He is modern man, man of the new, lives a life a bit better, where travel is extensive in use; to the forest depth he comes with a change of pace in mind, to view fauna and uncivilized lands. Among trees of century’s he stands, with machete in his hand, the nature all around too rich for him and the thick blood of a civilized man. “The bugs, the pests, the smells, and all of these creatures about, it is a step into a strange city where nature has taken control. Indeed no place for a man of culture like me, the human condition has no use for so many trees.” He sees the life all around as a green bog, a tangled mess of spices trying to survive, no order or place and lacking any intelligent aesthetic trait. It is Darwin awry, a mess, a step behind, the world before the human creative mind. “No place for a man like me, a change of pace is all I need, sometimes my life seems so dull to me. The view here, pretty, the air very clean, perhaps some natural medicine is to be found for an ailing soul like me.” Along he walks beneath a coconut tree and spotted great brown nuts among its’ leaves. Having no hunger, or room in his bag he sought to taste the meat the nut had, he shakes them from the tree with a walking stick in hand, jarring loose the coconuts far before nature had planned. He cracks one with great effort and tastes how sweet, leaves it broken among the others that had fallen at his feet to rot in the soil in the jungles heat. On he walks through the unbroken land to see what else the forest had to offer.
Pygmalion walks through natures green
But the intricate net it weaves lay unseen
He sought to find but he does not seek
He takes what he wants
He takes what is there
Removes from the jungle a piece in place,
Taken for pleasure and left for waste
He walks up to a solemn temple made of intricate stones, aligned for the heavens made by people who prayed and died long ago. In bony ash upon hallow ground, in front of the temple and winding all around, a mosaic of time that lives from the past of people who had painted and had passed, a beautiful picture from ancient minds. Pygmalion step over it with a little glance seeing how the tile was broken and cracked, and how all the dirt was encrusted within. He thought with his little voice in his head, “this mosaic ought to be cleaned and saved, the marvel of modern restoration can keep this in perfect appearance and keep it that way. Away from this dirt that lies all around and protected from the jungle that wears it down, this mosaic is worth saving and worth taking from this god-forsaken place.” The stone steps lay in front of him intertwined with vines, a possession of the jungle for a great span of time. He walks up the many steps with boots on his feet, rushing to up to the top, to be at the peak. Pygmalion finds a large circle on top and nothing beside, no shrine or sculpture, nor scripture or sacred stones, just a worn circle in the bright of the sun. “What a thing to see, what people with such a strange sense of creativity; it is surely something to be seen, to be put on display, pondered over; a looking glass to what has been. A little glimpse of people who could not make it to today, instead there civilization crumbled at the seems, leaving worn piles of rock to be remembered by, nothing that spectacular in my eyes.” He had walked in a circle of sacrifice, of worship, and full-fledged heavenly delight. What meaning it held, what meaning it holds, is only remembered by the worn circle engraved in the temple’s stone. Having reached the top and seen what he seen, he left the higher ground, down the temple into the jungle, to continue his walk around parts he had never been. His eyes see the ancient story this temple holds but his mind refuses to let the story be told, and his leather clad boots trample on.
Pygmalion walks on sacred stone
But he does not know
He walks and sees
The people, the knowledge, the beauty it holds
It dazzles his eyes with a great glow
But it is seen alone
Nothing is to be learned from people who died long ago
He walks into a village were homely people make home, live simple lives and remember what has been known. Here he comes to find food and rest, his walk having been exhausting to be said nothing less. The villagers simple houses stand, ensemble together in a communal plan; together the people have lived, worked, and passed a strong tie like family; a village strong and banded. Pygmalion finds a small cantina to eat were the local dish is the only cuisine, made from people who live off the land making the food they had made with their passed knowledge and their worn hands. He sits and orders a meal from a lady who asks, the wife of the man whose family the cantina had always passed. “A quaint village I have come across here, why there is no technology any where near. I wonder how the people get by without all the amazing things being made in the world by fellow human minds.” He sees a change from his home, a change from what he knows; he sees it a bit queer, a bit brutish and definitely too rugged without the modern conventions he has come to uphold. Pygmalion knows what he likes and loves what he knows however limited the knowledge he holds. The dish came out on a sizzling plate made of colorful vegetables and brown roasted meat with a strange sauce drenching it deep, and he eats. “What unkind food! How can this be digestible so spicy, so salty, so crude! It will surely rot my stomach when I sleep, and the taste is certainly not good. What people live here, in such a place, in such a way, it is the third world what else can I say?” He paid his meal and left in whole on the plate, a sight the humble wife’s eyes had never laid, except from people who come from the other place, who come to see but never make amends, and make her feel hurt and lowly, how they don’t care to understand. He walks on out the village with a scoff on his breath, seeing the world that lies below the rest. Though having a hardy bond and an essence true, the people of the jungle fair no importance in his eyes; they are not with the new.
Pygmalion walks through village streets
But there are people there too
Who have lived this life for a long time
Who know many things that are wise and true
But he cares not
He does not see whom
He just sees what is there and what is not new
Pygmalion walks but he does not see
He does not understand he does not believe
The lives lived and the knowledge passed
Lay enshrined in people who hold the past
There is something to be warned about the new
How it cuts the vine, desecrates the temple, and dishonors good food
How it blinds the holder from what has passed
And infatuates him with that he has
Pygmalion walks and his leather boots trample the land
Pygmalion walks with a stick painted red at its end.
Random Parable 2
Confetti is little shiny plastic flakes that we through around at a celebration. Why we throw it at these moments of jubilation is inquisitive to the nature of happiness occurring at any moment of our lives. First look at the nature of celebrations themselves, they are not events that happen every day, they are often spaced few and far between. So to symbolize this sparse nature we scatter to the sky, up to the heavens where dreams reside, confetti, and simply watch as it glitters and slowly fall down out of sight to be trampled upon on the ground. These sparse glimmers are moments of happiness. We spend our whole lives seeking to find these moments we know exist because we see it everywhere. It shines off of so many people you see each day that are happy and like the sun shimmers in front of you the hopes of ascertaining that light. Yet when you reach out to grab it as it floats through the air, you can only grasp a few in anyone snatch. Yet those few shine so little when in the palm of your hand and worse you find that they are made of plastic, nothing of real value. And it falls so thick at times it fills your vision and you can no longer quite see where you are going, blinded by the innumerable plastic hopes that give you a reason to keep looking.
King Done Come
There are savages screaming isocracy in the insular state.
Vanquish the meager, sally the pale, only with magna cum laude
From a person who tries to no avail.
That they claim is very important- the savages- for their trust persons humble are required.
For one who scales the cause far be gone cares more whether it’s lost or won.
Selfless phenomenon, instiller of remembrance
That with bleak fortitude a sunbeam shines on the question of life’s deliverance.
It seems our standing curious and walking a shame
But breathing keeps occurring in spite because an answer reflects in the sight of them.
Savages be named by great blemishing beasts, that sit on the natural seed, swollen with a pestilence of festering greed. Savages squirm crushed in the brush by the rump of this seated right tiger.
No worry at all—the savages will move him with little pointed spears-a million of them- because they are small.
Vanquish the meager, sally the pale, only with magna cum laude
From a person who tries to no avail.
That they claim is very important- the savages- for their trust persons humble are required.
For one who scales the cause far be gone cares more whether it’s lost or won.
Selfless phenomenon, instiller of remembrance
That with bleak fortitude a sunbeam shines on the question of life’s deliverance.
It seems our standing curious and walking a shame
But breathing keeps occurring in spite because an answer reflects in the sight of them.
Savages be named by great blemishing beasts, that sit on the natural seed, swollen with a pestilence of festering greed. Savages squirm crushed in the brush by the rump of this seated right tiger.
No worry at all—the savages will move him with little pointed spears-a million of them- because they are small.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)