LEPT

Hope & Love are symptoms of the same wellness.
Slowly, we remember our deficiency.
It is very soon felt, not so benign, idiopathic.
Slowly, we begin to feel again-hence, to be, & hence, to live.

We all wish a gentle, gradual coaxing to bloom,
like that of a Rose which knows only of its own splendid Design,
and how it is best nurtured within Sunlight.

Yet we, too, no matter how rough-hewn our Journey may be,
are always a part of that Rose,
which has so patiently slept by the nearness of that endless reservoir
of the tears
the fears
& so many years
no longer wept,
for we had always already, learned to accept. 

WALKING DOWN THE DARK, MISTY ALLEY OF APATHY

Death is light on her feet again tonight, and so is God,
as I am irretrievably seduced & lured down the dark, misty alley of Apathy,
which is littered with teeming possibilities for Illusion-fix.

My senses are wonderfully assaulted with the mingling scent-sations
of fresh, crisp bills, patchouli incense, vinyl shower-liners, lilac fields, fringed suede jackets, Snuggle fabric softener ( Original scent), gasoline (courtesy of Xelco), and the light, musky emmolience which earth & air lovingly emanate after a fresh summer rain.

Yet these olfactory titillations, with melancholic bliss will soon altogether elude me,
for soon enough, the only thing left to intuit will be the seething envy of the Devil as his obsession becomes my bribe.

I am a being likened to sentience & skin, but these roots run much deeper than old money or any anti-enviro-bureaucracy.
I am an anachronism-out of my time, going out of my mind-so much for the dwindling of adolescent Rage & Angst, huh?
For if there is one thing I have learned it is the indisputable fact that there is Angst & Rage, at any age.
Ha! I know-such Outrage! you cry! But what else is Rage supposed to be-Inrage?
For here, is where it becomes something totally estranged from its former purity-and even innocence of incarnation.
Yes, here is where Rage Kafka-esquely transmogrifies into slow & measured, but nevertheless insidious self-annihilation.
And worse yet, it is also reduced to a corny spin-off of its former glory-for Rage is & forevermore will be, a Classic, baby.
And Blake was right on the mark when he realized imitation to be not one of the sincerest forms of flattery, but to be an insult.
For it seems to get to the point in this human existence, where even what we think of as "me" begins to feel contrived, as the inevitability of cognitive sophistication goads us ever nearer the rough-shodden tombs of its Indignities.
For we all may indeed be seekers of Truth, but the part of ourselves we seem to lose grasp of first, feeds most nourishingly upon the manna of Oblivion-of which, by a rather tender age, there is, a famine-legitimate lack.

Yes, I know my consciousness of all of this in a very tangible, real sense is that which condemns me to my own slow but sure demise, but as I cry out to the Fate which mocks me with both Despair & Hope, my voice echoesechoesechoes-Yessss! It echoes! Only to find my ears all-too-eagerly upturned to merely loathe & cringe at what I hear.

And so here I have let myself be led down this Alley of Apathy, over which lurks the air-
"To care or not to care?"

Neither is a piteous state nor is it a question, for there is only one thing:
The Answer there, so tightly ensconced within The Choice.
And, my fellow Melancholic friends, that is all that there is.

KING OF THE THINK TANK

Extreme conservative goldfish faking left-
then looping right,
to feed on stale flakes of stodgy logic
as they swim in a breeding tank
of libertarian piranhas,
now eating the goldfish alive-
soon to excrete the constipated matter of them both
in one volcanic dysentery of shallow sophistry,
as the muddied aquariums of public debate
fill to overflowing with polluted politics
and the bloated, rotting remnants
of toxic rhetoric & staid conviction.

The piranhas open up now once more
to consume their own shit,
a last tank effort at survival,
before those red-mutant-far-right-finned sharks,
smelling the foul air & bleeding hearts of them all,
move in for the love of blue blood-
led by the instinct of pure polemic predation-
blind obedience to the thought-for-food chain.