beyond the beyond

sloppily pushed out doors,

drunken saviours stagger on,

wandering through empty streets,

spinning memories repeat like a song,

pouring their guts out,

spilling their guts into trash cans, 

dumpsters and rusty sewer grates,

trying to connect to someone,

failing to connect,

trying to connect to themselves,

trying to connect the broken-in-two-Self,

but all they got is those preachers,

those thoughtless, 

miserable preachers,

 

dividing, 

 

and dividing, 

 

and dividing,

when the world steps out on you,

a poet may step in,

because as the world begins to end,

a poet gets ready to begin.

office man

where you going to go office man?

what's up that ladder?

turn the covers back,

lay down to catch brand new dreams,

let them surface,

grow fresh and strong from unkempt gardens,

a thousand miles wide,

borne of colours and music,

hold on with white knuckles,

for everything hangs by a thread,

try to be alive before you are dead,

then let it go,

forever to slip this faltering vessel,

meanwhile I can see it,

but I need to see that it is special,

when, as I boy,

I sat in church,

listening to sermons,

I didn't understand,

my Grandma,

would quietly lean over,

and slip a candy into my hand.  

Bodhisattva moving on

"people how you doing,

there's a new day dawning,

for the Earth Mother,

it's a brand new morning,
for such a long while,

there's been such a longing

but 

now 

the 

sun 

is 

shining,

let's roll back the awning."

--Beastie Boys (Jimmy James)

immolation

hardened regulars,

with leathered skin,

beaten down,

broken by steady adversity,

team jackets,

dirty brimmed ball caps,

shuffle in and out of the liquor store,

well ashed smokes dangle from lower lips,

they seek comfort,

a safety in an alcoholic daze,

like the arms of a cosmic mother,

protected,

a baby in a womb,

but they know,

and they teach me,

there is an acceptance,

a surrender to contingency,

an embracing of the unknown,

like the fighter pilots,

or front line soldiers,

who fought drunk,

went blind into the fire,

gnarled, shaking fingers turn keys,

unlock squeaky doors,

into quiet, dusty apartments,

to sit in front of TVs,

where they work the liquor down,

drowning down,

into the black,

where we can't control,

I don't fear you anymore,

I know you are waiting,

you've been there all my life,

a ghost in the flames,

a face in the darkness,

we have to live here,

us drunks and soldiers,

courage so fragile,

we don't know why we are fighting,

and we are friends,

they protect me even in the most raging, twisted dreams,

and when it's time,

we will walk together,

through the black,

into the light,

purified.

old tree

I look for meaning,

past decrepit buildings,

and dirty streets,

past faded friendships,

and twisted sheets,

but now I stand looking,

upon the old tree,

slowly dying,

years piled high,

still tall and free,

stop acting weird,

nothing's changed,

nothing's new,

between the "feeling good,"

and the "feeling blue,"

there's a build-up,

then a release,

then a straight line through.

 

Chuck Close

feels like a prison,

some overcast days,

cell to cell to cell,

lunch break and a short workout in the yard,

keep my defenses up,

no eye contact,

home is where I lock the bars closed again,

 

I cut the dreary, drizzling silence,

with beats from the Shaolin slums,

shatter the illusion of ego,

scatter the pieces across a grid,

each a small painting,

in-itself,

for-itself,

only left disoriented,

and unhinged,

 

if you don't step back,

to see the reality,

of the coherency,

of the picture.

 

 

outlaster

angry winds

withhold mercy

dripping sweat

labours on

frigid nights

endless days

long hauls 

stone gaze

sleepless dreams

twist restlessly

tested will

sees demons

break downs

break chains

break open

hold fast

no escape

no questions

no answers 

glory comes

only to

the outlaster

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pop star Orianthi doing Jimi