THE LUCIDITY OF THE SOUL'S EYE

Just for once to throw caution to the wind,
to let the heart beat at its own true pace-
rumbling, thundering and allegro.

Just for once to cut myself open at the core,
letting the blood run out to every sea
and the Mind beyond all so-called reasonable bounds,
tamed not even by the snares I know to be lying in ravenous wait
within Fear's vast wilderness,
which clings with gripping, merciless tenacity
to the Achilles' heel of the Spirit.

If only Virtue and Joy could reign equally commensurate
to Fear and Despair, then perhaps would the human heart know
how to stay upon its truest path,
and the mortal human Soul could finally meet its noblest task and Cause,
that intangible, elusive thing that keeps it tied and bound to the earth,
while also taunting with promises of Transcendence.

Yet, this is just it-the secret:
Transcendence can only be attained in being, right here, right now.

THE DEVOLUTION (Penned in early 20's)

I walk with the manic pace of modernization,
footsteps thumping the cool Earth
in time to the flickering, hurried heat of the hell-bent Heart.
A crowd of festivity seekers weaves this way and that,
a mercurial mass of "I"-onized energy,
all becoming one amalgam of Form and Matter
not yet made realized by the Master Sculptor's hand,
as they wrestle with the Ultimate Question:
"Oh, how to live as one and One?"

Doomsday sayers exalt themselves upon rusted trashcan barrels,
providing ample opportunity for strict Unity,
as they hand out Salvation & Damnation in one heaping helping,
letting all whom, excluding themselves have sinned,
cast away their own stones of fire and brim.

The streets become a fatal sea of discarded Bible tracts,
blotted with tiny smudges of blood-
the papercuts of overcoercion to rebellion-
"Here is my blood, take of it and lick,"
the formulaic laws of Mortalkind's encumbrace,
a cup ever runneth over.

A young mother strains to the cumbersome gravity of Son & Self,
as she tries to defy her own Youth,
twisting and fidgeting in her own skin to pick up her boy who,
sensing Mother's anxiety through the telepathic tendencies of Mother & Child,
now reaches out a tiny hand, which is creased and lined already
with such Willful Dependence,
to seek out her warm, nourishing breast,
latching onto the cycle of redundant Instinct in a world
pulsating and aching from the perversions of Infancy-
the all-too-early sodomization of those things better left unknown,
morphed into Death's heyday at the first wailing breath.

I am still and silent as I ponder those who ravage themselves
with the ill-paradox of over-population, trial & tribulation,
as they bring life after death after life after death
into this new-old world only to find themselves submitting-
only to find themselves becoming the Scapegoats of all Dire Digression,
as their children grow up/down/every which way that is loose-
and they look on in abject terror,
as all the while, Fate stands by with a shit-eating grin.

THE DHARMA BUM'S PRAYER (Originally published in Nuthouse, 2001)

Oh great Brahma, Vishnu & Siva,
When I remember,
Help me to forget,
And when I am moved to do,
Remind me, to sit.........

Oooooooommmmmmmm.....;-)P

THE EXPEDIENT INGREDIENT

In 1886,
Coca-Cola had the "fix",
To cure all ills,
In the absence of pills,
The secret ingredient,
'Twas quite expedient,
Offered up by the coca plant,
Much better than Gregorian chant,
Ensuring a steady demand,
And many a tremoring hand,
When the last drop was gone,
They all soon filed to Al-Anon,
A communal "high" not to be missed,
Better than a Coca-Cola in the fist,
Resulting in a steady sales plummet,
And a swell new jingle if you could hum it,
For now it was stronger than ever,
A brain tonic for any soporific weather,
The new "secret" ingredient,
Ever more expedient,
To keep working minds alert & keen,
Why the "real thing" now boasted of Caffeine!

THE GAMBLE: An Epigram (Penned in twenties)

Our Virtue defines us
More than our Vice
Except in a World that counts
Only Odd Dice.

NIGHT CLOTH: A Haiku (Penned in early twenties)

Crushed velvety sky
Lofty cloth of the smooth Eve
Suits my soul just right.

TEETER-TOTTER: A MODERN DAY HAIKU (Penned in early twenties)

Teeter-totter politics
In cahoots ethics-
Who's down, must come up.

THE TAMING OF INERTIA (Penned in early twenties)

Why must we shoot popcorn kernels at the moon,
when we know that Salvation is truly
a slow taming of Inertia
by an inside force?
For what is at rest remains so only
through our own will to disempowerment.
And this is so, too, when formulating loneliness,
and the insurmountable gravity we are all irredeemably encumbered by.
Yet still, we seek a kindred galaxy,
when we are all truly lone stars.
And when we come to grips with this solipsistic certainty we cry out-
Shall Eternity be thicker than Time, why must I feel so betrayed?
For when there is no tangible seed with which to fertilize the soul,
a sort of metaphysical parthenogenesis occurs,
and thus is born from this barren egg, the separate Self,
a miracle offspring of the disunified Essence.

Yet even knowing of the fragility of the time-space continuum
of mortal human existence,
which many name Fate,
we neglect it and it soons abandons us,
as our lives are possessed by the laws of Life's inconsistent equations,
all nontheless continuing on a 360 degree axis,
for what goes around and comes around must continually meet at a moot point.

Thus, the synthesis of Realism & Idealism again fails to come to fathomable fruition,
as the Mind passively perceives while the Spirit
and its vehicle, the Body, dynamically & kinesthetically fail to respond,
the eradication of mere premonition coming continually to naught.

For only when the taming of inertia from within begins,
can we be brought to full revolution & evolution,
so the grieving of the loss of any and all former incarnations
may, in due finity be found,
and the loss of our grief, also no longer lamented, find common ground.

And the Laws Of Nature,
and the Philosophical Physics of the Mortal Experiment
may allow the human organism to undergo Gradualism of another kind,
as old traits no longer self-preservatory
are phased out day by day,
by the inimitable laws of Spirit Evolution-
that which will defy all Rhyme & Reason
as it proves someday, beyond the lurking shadows
of any Doubt, that eventually, what goes up, cannot come down.

-Art by Patrick McEvoy "Miss Universe" at http://www.fantasygallery.net/

LIVES NOT ON BREAD ALONE (Penned in my twenties)

Like water to lightning,
a seismic jolt of frisson
rattles and French-kisses the sentience of cognition,
and I am all at once made both fragmented and whole
within the scatter-sighted eye of Lust's suspension of burgeoning.

What is its mystery?
Does it covet only Beauty?
For not all the eye sees does it want,
and not all the eye longs to take in, does it see.

Along with food, sheltering, love and hydration lies Longing,
an essential of costly underestimation and omission.
And truly, is it a matter of what we want, or what wants us?
The latter too often opposes the former.
Is the Who desired any more nobly than the it?
For you see, with Lust, the lusted after is always merely an object
of the subjectification of our need for need.

Without want, we so quickly become wanted not,
especially by those who wanted us only at the very peak of our wanting them.
Perhaps this explains why, even after the had-not is now possessed,
want tends to either completely wane or intensify.

Yet our utmost decline always begins at that moment
when we must ask ourselves what we want,
and can no longer provide the answer, for ourselves.

AN ESCHATOLOGY IN VERSE

The blood toils in longing,
The mind fills with rage,
For want of infinitely wronging,
The false righteousness of the Cage.

1/3 of the sea of the seventh seal one day will bleed,
As the breath of all life turns to poison,
The slaves of the Beast will continue to breed,
Satan's final exert of foison.

In the last days those who have lived under virtuous restraint,
The very same ones with the toiling blood and righteously rage-filled minds,
Will be exalted in immortalization,
In the new bodies granted them, pure, and without taint,
As God grants a final cessation-
The beginning of a new end,
Never to be known again.

A PRIORI (Penned in twenties)

To ask the questions or to live them?
To receive the answers or to give them?
To feud with Day and ally by Night?
Or steer 'round the way, from Sorrow and Plight?
To preserve Innocence at the potential cost of Survival?
To make life your Lover and no longer your Rival?
To love to hate for mere Hate's sake?
Or love only to love and stun Hate right at Heaven 's gate?
To lose to win or to win to lose?
Or see only "good" or "bad" in whatever you choose?
To live whilst ye are young?
Or to remain tragically unsung?
To mate like the swan or to flit to and fro like the honeybee?
To commit to the Dawn?
Or cavort in the Gloaming for all Eternity?
To speak only with words sparing yet true?
Or let loose at every turn, with a loquacious slew?
Thus betraying a heart of wisdom others once thought you knew,
To jump into impartial affusion?
Or riddle the Mind and tax the Soul with hasty conclusion?
What will ye do, of these aforementioned ways to go?
Whose noose-the Devil's or thine own, will ye sow?

ODE TO THE OPTIMIST

Sensations of joy,
Are my main ploy,
I laugh in the face of all adversity,
Love those vs. me,
And never say 'Goodbye' but 'Ahoy!'

ODE TO THE PESSIMIST

Sensations of pain seize far more than those of pleasure,
For the mortal human mind,
Rarely ceases to find,
The seaweed before the treasure.

THE RIVER: A HAIKU TRUE

River rushes by
I am stagnant by its side
yet flowing with it.

BIRDS OF LIFE: A HAIKU TRUE

Mountain birds singing
tiny wings as they flutter

make the air I breathe.

THESE BLESSED RAINS (Originally published in Nomad's Choir)

Sky is crying
its raindrop tears
reflect my solemn eyes
upon the pond
of all selflessness.

These blessed rains,
surge through my veins,
my earth-sunken toes
retap their roots again,
in the absence of Disunity,
my fathomable finite essence
nourished, rehydrated & found,
at once unbound
of the encumbering gauze
of worldly inflictions,
now standing,
a human tree,
awaiting to be sunken
back beneath yet above it all,
nestled within the womb
of the Omniscient Benevolence,
to sprout up in due time,
a new creation,
wielding fruits
to overflowing.

SECTOR (Penned in twenties)

Beaches and once barren, desolate Earth
dessicate and desolate
but if in the womb of God,
surrogate Father of a Humankind
plagued by bias and the insidious Bigotry
of Subjectivity, Relativity-
all so transparently veiled in corrosive cynicism.

Yes, don't get me wrong,
there are just as many occassions for song,
as there are for weeping,
but if we never dream while awake,
we are always,
sleeping.

FAMOUS LAST WORDS (Penned in twenties)

Voltaire once said,
Thereupon his death bed,
"I would renounce the devil,"
"And eagerly bring level,"
"The wayward heart of every rebel,"
"But I ponder I must refrain,"
"In blissful disdain,"
"For though I am a man weak in Death,"
"In Life I was quite keen to see,"
"Inborn as is the breath,"
"That now, especially,"
"' Tis not the time for making a new enemy."

-inspired by a quote that was credited to the French Renaissance writer, historian & philosopher Francois-Marie Arouet (known by his pen-name Voltaire) upon his death bed, when a priest asked him if he would like to confess of his earthly sins and renounce the devil

LOOK BEYOND THE DESPAIR, FOR HOPE DOES LIE THERE (Penned as a teen-I began as a poet/writer composing devoutly Christian verse)

In this troubled world in which we live today,
There seems to be for much to pray,
And oftentimes one is forced to deal,
With daily horrors that prove all too real,
Yet in the midst of one's struggle to cope,
Beyond all despair does lie hope,
For Hope & Despair are both derived from a similar intensity of emotion,
Only differing when being put into motion,
So, before the darkness of Despair casts its self-defeating shadows upon you,
Just remember the Lord's promise and how it still reigns true,
For when you begin, in Despair to cry,
All you must do is look up to the sky,
And reach out and receive the Lord's gracious & healing Light,
For only then can the mortal human Spirit truly take flight,
And although at this moment the tears may continue to fall,
These are made of Joy & Salvation, so stand tall,
Do not allow the weighty mass of Sorrow weigh down your heart's wings, nor the chaotic rumble of inner turmoil drown out your true voice,
Instead look for comfort, hope & security as the angels of God's mercy & amazing grace sing & then rejoice,
For even though this world seems ready to fall apart,
This does not apply to what lies within your heart,
For God made each and every one of His children strong,
And to His Light & Love only do we rightfully belong,
So whenever you begin to feel as if this life is simply too much to bear,

Look to the Heavens and beyond the Despair, for Hope does lie there.

LEGACY (Penned in 20's)

Before I became human,
I was a Poet.
I would swim the streets at Night,
scavenging for Treasure
in those places Most Low which most often called Home,
reaching Fullness Of Enrichment only after I had exchanged all that I had to give.
But, however Noble it may sound, there were no true Vows of Poverty or Chastity taken-
but only the feigned Destitution of a Creature for whom everything was always rich & fully satiating.
For I was a Poet, one of an elite classification of species,
whose sole utility was to speak for for those whom couldn't adequately speak for and by themselves,
Yet in order that we could truly become enabled & ennobled for this Metaphysical feat,
we had to sacrifice ourselves willingly and oft willfully before the Shrine of The Flood-
the Flood of all human highs & lows-The Experience, raw & uncensored, unashamed & unafraid.
In essence, we poets were interpretors of The Wind & The Rain,
keepers of the elusive yet essential,
the soothsayers of oral mediums through which the cryptic codes of the Intangible
could be evenly & justly deciphered.
Although, I, as a Poet was more often than not misunderstood, and even feared & loathed-
cursed in a word-by words-and the Truths which my Works revealed to the Human Heart.
For despite all of our attempts to declare our Citizenship with the World,
we knew we would never fit & would always be few & far between.
Yet, by our nature we were Solitary animals & this alienation did not hinder us in our quest, nonetheless.
We were native & adaptable to Any & All an Inner Landscape or Climate,
however Alone we were in our expansiveness of Mind & Heart.
The Poet is oft romanticized & exalted, yet is also equally Demonized, Pathologized & shunned.

The Poet is all, must become all-thus is the Poet perceived often as a kind of High Priest,
or even a God or a demi-god, crowned in the glory & subtly forging
Omnipotence & Omniscience of The Idea, The Platonian Utopia of Mindstuff as Matter.
As Poet I was:
Muse
Mother
Father
Sister
Brother
Healer
Devil
Demon
God
Archangel
Priest
Priestess
Warrior
Temptress
Martyr
and even Castaway.

And the words which often came to me in the Night,
would greet their beatification
upon entrance into the Temples of both Spirit and Flesh,
all Angels & Demons roused into Dynamism each according to their Intent & my delivery of them,
into countless swooning & hungry human hearts-
hearts hungry for that certain special kind of Hunger, enflamed only by a certain kind of Catalyst.
And often, for those much more renowned of my fellow wordsmiths,
their zealous idolators, teeming with such staunch Idealistic Rage & Fervour,
would often shout these Poet's legacies from dormitory rooftops
or any and all Institutions of Enlightenment & Bohemia everywhere.
And for this purpose only was and is the Poet willing to undergo
all forms of extremity-even depravity-to attain their ends.
For through our words, life can be brought to either epiphanous revivification
or morbid diathesis each and every time one of our works was, or is heard or even silently read.
And perhaps it is also for this reason that we, the Poets,
must spend only the first quarter of our lives as Poets.
For we cannot be both human and a Poet-this goes against our good conscience.
For all throughout history, so many great Poets met their early demise trying to accomplish this.
For though the Poet is hired to best speak for Humanity, we can never fully be, only Human.

Thus, it came to be that eventually, my words, upon their dispersing out into the Atmosphere,
would merely evanesce, and so one cool night, I took my last verbose breath.
I knew that it was time.
It was time to save myself from the eventual Damnation of Exaltation,
from the continual cycle of Extremes which only the somewhat still young of mind can survive.
Yes, it was time to pass on my Legacy to someone else-
someone preferably, I thought to myself, whom perhaps has discovered the Gift for that Ultimate Art-
even exalted above wordsmithing itself-
and even exalted above the art of learning how to not only die as a Poet, but how to live as one.
But perhaps even more importantly, the next in line of poetic licensure and legacy
could finally hone that much coveted yet elusive of all refineries:
The Art Of Being Human.