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 Posted: Mon Jun 21, 2010 1:21 pm
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Posted: Mon Jun 21, 2010 1:56 pm
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Posted: Thu Jun 24, 2010 10:13 pm
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Posted: Fri Jun 25, 2010 2:37 am
『Only through new words...
And out of the sun’s gates come little girls in dresses of fire wearing pigtails of braided smoke which stem from their moon-cratered scalps.
The glowing seeds of a nightly garden that will blossom into full moons regardless of the sun.
They know the night and the seven names of the wind through the tails of their windblown fathers.
Who will father these mothers of light?
And what will become of me, Children of the Night?
Only some will star the sky, only believers in death will die.
And fathers must feather the wings of women, for the unfeathered masses dangle ridiculous.
Carrying crosses to phallics-filled tombs, the future sails silence through blood rivered wombs that ripple with riddles of cows and spoons and births moons and earths suns-centered at noon.
She buries her eggs in the soil and plants her feet in the sky.
Soil seeds a circus of carrots and clowns and menstrual shows our desires.
And here I stand, court jestering infinity, fetal fisted for revolution, but open hands birth humility.
Now what is the density of an egoless planet? Must my spine be aligned to sprout wings?
I’m slouched into sling steps and kangoled with gang reps, but my orbit rainbows Saturn’s rings.
Mystical elliptical, presto polaris, karmic flamed future with saturn’s and aries.
And now I’m a fish called father with gills type dizzy, blowing liquid lullabies through the spine of time to tranquilize the nervous system’s defeat.
At the feet of forever the children are gathered or rather buried in that mass grave sight of the night.
They are the seeds of light planted in the sky, but the nights and skies are meaningless to their unearthly eyes.
They are our children!
Playing chess on the sun-burnt backs of one-eyes turtles, check-mating a lifetime slow crawl to enlightenment.
Cashing in their crown and glory for magic and contradiction.
The children of fiction
Born of semen-filled crosses thrust in Calvary’s mound with memories of mañana's millennium.
The gravity of the pendulum, the inscription of the grail.
The rumors of war and famine, diseases, and storms of hell.
All hail the new beginning! behold the winter’s end.
Bring on the puppets and dragons, let the ceremonies begin.
For they have come to shatter time and bring back the dead! newborn, an army of me.
Bearing change in the front lines and shadows in the field mines, to wilderness the lights of the city.
I have seen them! a tumultuous army of bastards and beggars, madmen and idiots, witches and harlots, dancers and lunatics, sinners and singers, losers and lovers, students and teachers, poets and priests.
Orbiting the realms of the ordinary through the ordinances of those ordained by the beast.
These are our children!
Love-laden life lanterns casting shadows that Shepard the flocks, crying wolf in the moons full, as sirens of love’s lull, the offspring of Gibraltar's rock.
Who will deny them and thrice crows the c**k… will it be you, Peter? [Matthew 26:34]
Decked in day mare’s denial masqueraded in matter over mind under trial.
Self is the servant to serpents with wings; three is the beginning of all things.
Triangles and rectangle your wings.
Let vision blur out your deservings; pile stones to unearth ancient learnings; see self as the ghost of your servings.
If you’re serving the father there’s no son without mother parent bodies discover water bodies and drown.
Wade me in the water ‘till Atlantis is found.
On the sea floors of self I’m starfish and unbound.
Heard the name of that mound is Stone Mountain.
Underwater volcanoes erupt water fountains of youth, lest this carnal equation cancel out wind and truth.
Throw me beyond sometimes, drench me water-proof.
Let eve drop forever rain sunsets on my roof.
As I sit on the front porch of my sanity, deciphering hambones to van Gogh this vanity.
Oiled egos canvassed and framed, to be reborn unborn unburied unnamed.
A reflection through a blood-stained glass window of souls gone yellow round the edges.
Carbonated dreams and blurred daily lives, but let family bring focus.
Out of swamps blossom lotus.
The muddy water blue daughters of infinity, Gravity we water bodied bodhisattvas our serenity as we rise with the tides towards divinity.
And she will be raised by wolves! just below the Mason Ree Dixon line, where eagles noose the misuse of Osiris’ sake of papyruses in their claws clenched.
So that the vultures of our memories may feast upon the remedies of ancient laws lynched, and flock to the treetops of the forethoughts we have forgotten.
Yes! silence will be begotten of the wind.
The silver eyes of the darkness are friends; they sometimes plant forever in their dens.
On the mountainsides of sometimes now and then, in-between the rise and set of you and I.
May blue visions know the depth of liquid skies,
and some ask me if she cries at night; when it’s is the substance of her tears that drenched the days with light.
s**t you better hope she do.
Because there are women with fur coats and painted faces, dancing on the peripheries of perfection.
They eat Chinese apples that stain their teeth red, and they'll cackle cosmos of chaos,
and in a moments notice the children on the train, selling chocolate with their mothers in the background fundraising their dreams from the dead.
And the authors of order are corresponding catharsis and change the leaves of my needs are in dread.
I need fruit and vegetables, for only living things can feed the span of wings and thus she was born and chartered my flight into the blueness of night.
I am the darkness that precedes the light!
A pupil of the sea’s reflective sight!
Notebook in hand I footnote land and write; plot dot dot dot and dot my eyes is right.
And cast my line amongst the children…
And the night.
...might new worlds be called into order.|
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Posted: Fri Jun 25, 2010 2:41 am
|On the mountainsides of sometimes now and then... The greatest Americans have not been born yet
They are waiting patiently for the past to die
Please give blood
Those crumbled tablets were to share a story with a burning bush
Where is that voice from nowhere to remind us that the holy ground we walk on, purified by native blood, has rooted trees who�s fallen leaves now color coat a savored list of demands
Who among us can give translation of autumn hues to morning news?
The anchorman thrown overboard has simply rooted us in histories repeating cycle.
A nation in its saddened years that wont acknowledge karma
Where is the voice from nowhere, the ones your prophets spoke of?
There are voices from fear disconnected from their diaphragms, dangling from coffee covered teeth that spill into our laps and scorch our privates
There are voices from the sides of necks, some already noosed, dangling participles pronouns running for sentence
Serving life in corner offices and ghetto corners, their voices are the same
Dead to themselves, numb to the possibility of truth existing beyond that which they can palm in their hands, period
There are voices of elders, which seem to do no more than damn us to our childish ways
For in many households, wisdom no longer comes with age
So where is that voice from nowhere, that burning bush, that passing dove?
I hear the voices of generals calling for ammunition, presidents calling for arms, women calling for help
Where is that voice from nowhere, that god of Abraham?
Can he be heard over the gunfire, the whiz of passing missiles, the crash of buildings, the cries of children, the crack of bones, the shriek of sirens?
Or is that his mighty voice
Your angry god craving the sacrifice of early generations sons degenerate
Your holy books written in red ink on burning sands
Your prayers between rounds do no more than fasten the fate of your children to the hammered truth of your trigger
A truth that mushrooms its darkened cloud over the rest of us
So that we too bear witness to the short lived fate of a civilization that worships a male god
Your weapons are phallic, all of them
That dummy that sits on your lap is no longer a worthwhile spectacle
His shrunken pale face leaves little room for imagination
We have spotted your moving lips and have pinned the voice to its proper source
It is a source of madness
It is a source of hunger, of power
A source of weakness
A source of evil
We have exited your coliseum and are encircling your box-office, demanding our families back, our cultures back, our rituals back, our gods back, so that we may return them to their proper source
The source of life, the source of creation, our mothers womb, the great goddess
We will cut through the barbwire hangers and chastity belts
We will climb in and incubate our spirits to the winter
We will wait through the degenerate course of your repeated history
We will wait for the past to die ...In-between the rise and set of you and I.|
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Posted: Mon Jun 28, 2010 5:53 pm
bump
lovely poetry ryan heart
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Posted: Mon Jun 28, 2010 10:09 pm
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Posted: Sat Jul 03, 2010 9:23 pm
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Posted: Tue Jul 06, 2010 11:58 am
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Posted: Sun Nov 21, 2010 3:37 pm
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Posted: Fri Nov 26, 2010 10:00 pm
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Posted: Thu Dec 02, 2010 5:52 pm
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Posted: Sat Dec 11, 2010 4:21 pm
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Posted: Thu Dec 30, 2010 10:49 pm
bump
I am now able to play males as well as females, if anyone is interested
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