To Live

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Hieronymus Bosch

I will meet you

somewhere between the

theta waves

and this wounded refusal

to die.

 

But you have to be there,

truly be there

amidst the graves

and the killing laughter which

revels in your

every death.

 

The thefts,

and the burns

broadcast

a sudden madness,

your premeditated

deterioration.

 

Only when I washed up

on these brinks,

did I choke

on the tombs

of those killers.

 

The next storm

has already been planned.

 

I will be here

if you need me

with nothing left

to be taken.

 

OCD

 

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Be warned,

there is something

in the woods

unheard of,

guns loaded,

unborn.

 

Ritualistic death

among the

Ayahuasca.

 

I went there

to save you

from burning

and was

buried alive.

 

 

Growth

Linda Vachon. Tete De Caboche

Linda Vachon. Tete De Caboche

Whatever was left of me/ after the dream/ the night watch prowled/ wolves/ looting uninvited orgasms/ I am still/ one of the hunted

How could those/ so rank with sin/ with misery/ and hopelessness/ claim sainthood/ proffer a living, breathing/ judgement day/ guarding/ no/ this/ this was never about protection/ The disappearances/ crimes against humanity/ unspeakable/ new and improved/ methods of torture/ silenced poets and artists/ sickened the healers/ corrupted altruists and heroes/

The impossible became real/ we didn’t know where it was coming from/ sudden shooting pains/ dull aches/ we were being burned alive/ They called us schizophrenics/ they were stealing our country from us/ we had to find a way/ to defend ourselves/ we had to fight/ an invisible enemy/

These were acts of war/ unauthorized invasions/ turning us against ourselves/ against each other/ the final stop/ complete control/ enslavement/ they had such/ as sense of entitlement/ no boundaries/ ownership/ burning red/ they were stealing our country/ from us/ a burning red flat line/ our children would have to battle/ if we couldn’t overcome/ an enemy/ we could not yet locate/

It was never paranoia/ rather/ it was that we were/ fully aware/ of the capability of evil/

In the absence of choice/ lies enslavement/ violation/ both internal and external/ In the absence of choice/ there is a ravine/ of lost souls/ stolen selves/ and whatever is left/ on the other side/ of this makeshift reality/ is paraded through the streets/ what was once brilliance/ now a laughingstock/ by a torrid, mindless mob/ of witch hunters/ destroyers of dreams/ and potential/

All which was once held sacred/ now disposable/ to a frothing/ insatiable/ void/ of broken killers/

They are everywhere/ the Devil’s Herd/ the bringers of death/ holding/ what Aristotle named/ ‘The Immovable Movers’/ hostage in their own lives/ and make no mistake/ they will break you/ if it is the last thing/ they ever do/

For now/ all we have is our humanity/ that part of us/ that cannot ever be broken/ residing somewhere between/ freedom and struggle/ each/ our own compass/ metaphysical/ free to choose/ our own transcendence/ a destination

 

 

Hermit and the Magic Blue Marble

aab33b40de44ffeea246e0190f5ecbee(Arthur Rackham, Comus.)

Part One

Beyond the pictured rocks

where lichen licks the ground,

beneath the cursed moon

where even wolves no longer howl,

within the hills and valleys

of the darkest forest floor,

lived a man named Hermit

from the gold archaic shores.

He was made of leaves and branches

and the soil he traversed,

he wore the wisest lifetimes

that have dwelled upon the Earth.

From the clearest turquoise waters

in the deep, subconscious blue,

the old time-traveler came upon

humanity’s noblest truth.

It was just a small, blue marble

that washed up on lucid shores,

when he found, next day, within his hand

which wasn’t there before.

He had heard of magical objects

like this marble, often in jest,

still, he wondered how it came to him

and what powers it possessed.

Hermit roamed the Earth with just

this treasure and his past,

his mind was free to wander upon

existence, at long last.

He witnessed wondrous miracles

that most others never see,

felt the depths of empathy

where the mind is truly free.

Part Two

By no means was Hermit a holy man,

yet, he’d seen a time or two,

occurrences lit unexplained,

no words to proffer proof.

He had seen some bearing torches

with their axes and their rage,

half-formed judgments, hunting witches

to their burning, exiled fate.

In a forest clearing where shooting stars

collect like dust,

survivors of the witch trials

piece their very own Sirius.

The walls of cavernous comets

climb the sky in shimmering gold,

each irreparable disaster,

like lotus petals, are told.

Behind tearful, dimming eyes,

they try with all their might

to break free of the hopelessness,

spread broken wings and fly.

Though his marble had gotten heavy

and his feet were swollen and sore,

he couldn’t bring himself to ask them

to bear half a burden more.

As he began to leave, to make certain

he did no harm,

one of the brightest dying ones

took the marble from his arms.

Suddenly something strange arose

like terror in her eyes,

a scorching, empathic realization,

a connection both were inscribed.

The powers this magical object held

suddenly became apparent;

it seemed to absorb the life experiences

of the person who possessed it.

The moment it was passed into

the hands of someone else,

the marble made it possible to feel

what the previous holder felt.

After offering Hermit a place to rest,

the outcasts chimed their goodbyes

as he set out alone, once again,

beneath dying, existential skies.

Part Three

Through the Hawthorne and Clover, the prairies and hymns,

over each disbelieving trespass,

Hermit collected each chaos like a quantum scar,

and with his marble he continued his path.

He was looking for a Queen by the name of Wretch,

for, this Queen Wretch had it all,

she had riches gold, she had tubs without mold,

she even had a dog named Raul.

Queen Wretch’s reputation was luminous,

her tantrums as known as her greed,

though it seemed lately Queen got a bit out of hand

so perhaps she’d need learn to take heed.

On his journey, Hermit saw over-turned tables,

he saw Redwoods and Elms snapped in half,

he saw wolves with three tails, peeped green, slimeless snails,

could have sworn he’d seen a motherless calf.

All the gnomes and elves who guarded the Queen

spoke in strange little symbols and codes,

they had much stranger methods to silence all creatures,

strike fear right straight down to the bone.

The Queen and her minions built castles and bridges,

they sent waves crashing down through the sky,

they trenched one’s worst fears, redirected wind shears,

made sure there was nowhere to hide.

A war-torn world the city became

under the evil Queen’s rule,

friends became foes, so tragic how most

intellectuals were mocked as mere fools.

A practical nature, Hermit possessed,

yet, a seeker of spirit and height,

he knew no one could grow under Queen’s reign,

as there seemed never an end to the night.

 

Across the Skies

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(Wikimedia.org.  Aasgaadreien_peter_nicolai_arbo_mindre.jpg (1600×1082)

I would rather lose
my faith in God,
than in humanity.

I take my son’s pulse
to know
I am still alive.

No one told me,
so I will tell you.

The violations
are premeditated.
All you know, fear,
bury, remember, keep secret
will be exhumed and broadcast
to carrion-eaters.

A ruthless,
truth at all costs,
waves its burning flag.

You will grieve a loss
like death,
a metaphysical chasm.

It stalks subconsciously,
it stalks waves and clouds.

Paranoid,
some will say,
owned,
you own nothing.

As the procession
winds its way through,
‘where is God now?’
no longer permeates.

Straight into the eye
of the devil’s herd,
through tears,
I, too, have
climbed those skies
seeking freedom amongst
charred burial grounds
with nothing,
nothing
but a broken whisper,
something resembling,
‘how could God possibly exist?’

II.

Across the skies,
a rising power.

Most atrocities-
oppression,
enslavement,
brainwashing,
mind control,
crimes and killings
against humanity-
have been done
in the name of what is
best for
‘the common good.’

They found a way in,
unnatural,
ripping,
forced entry,
where science and religion
intersect,
in the wrong hands.

The path of saints
in the wrong hands.

It has all gotten into
the wrong hands.

Violations
against humanity.

You wallow in the
stench
of a rising power
not fit for
human consumption.

I squeeze my eyes shut,
my legs closed,
I brace the doors of my mind.
I hear explosions,
there are so many,
too many.

I look over my shoulder,
they are already in.

All this time,
they are already in.

III.

At each phrase,
a gilt,
more of a warning,
it seems,
to either stay away,
or stay quiet.

Avijit Roy
wrote volumes of
free your mind.

He was murdered
with machetes
leaving a book fair.

Perhaps his murderers presumed
his death would
silence him,
silence us all
on behalf of
those beliefs and those freedoms,
that light and those visions.

Avijit Roy,
freedom fighter,
hero of peace,
we will never stop
climbing the skies
for you.