Three new ones
Instances of Independence
First there is independence from tyranny:
Harbor filled with embezzled tea
As masked vigilantes spark revolution.
Then there is independence from society:
Evasion of the perpetual punching of the clock
With charcoal in hand and parchment.
Finally there is independence from sanity.
One runs freely through the madhouse,
Gleaning the wisdom of the infirm,
And discovers that the meaning of any life
Need not have basis in the world
That the bankers claim is true and real.
Cosmic Lust from the Pit of the Stomach
There is the eureka moment
In the turnkey palace of death.
What hellish chambers!
At least the rooms are not for want of furnishings,
Not so bare as the many hearts
Who have been shepherded through.
The walls and columns are ivory and marble,
A contrast to the dark souls inside,
Sorceresses extracting confessions
With the most heinous devices.
This horrible masochism
Shall lead the way to a better place.
When constant pain cedes to relief
We will have the greatest epiphany,
Realizing that our path
Must wend through both torture and euphoria
Before we are done.
Something About Rabbits and Hats
I. Meditations on the Tiled Purgatory Illuminated by Garish Yellow
There is a terrible room
Where you cannot tell azure from anguish.
Sensation is so fleeting,
The pleasures of blurry consciousness
And forgotten sight
Ceding to dim terror.
Words must ambulate!
They cannot sit pretty on the coffee table.
Entire locomotives rumble down the track,
Switching gauges between countries,
Passengers waiting for numbers
To turn over and destroy themselves,
For riddles not to be solved
But to self-destruct.
Names are absolutely useless.
Once the mouth is finally satisfied
Ejecting these meaningless syllables,
The heart will rest upon the bed of hay
And its body will relax
And breath become steady before dying out.
An objection to abjection:
Starbursts and pyrotechnics
Test the faith of sheep in the manger
Who know nothing of devils and gods.
I will honor my forgotten brothers
By growing my beard hircine.
To opine without the horror of commentary,
To create without the embarrassment of criticism
Is impossible and impermissible.
A façade of satisfaction is worth but pence
When there are cars in the ditches
And the sirens are blaring,
Desperately trying to alert the people
That this storm may never pass.
Luckily there is the verbal cellar
That will always provide a measure of sanctuary.
Letters band together to keep out the rain
And shelter us from those
Whose statues can never be erected.
II. Monsoon Winds in the Microclimate of Black Bear Land
Language must be extracted
From the mineshaft of time;
Animals must be recovered
From beneath the suture,
The entire history of medicine
Proving to be nothing more
Than the work of charlatans.
The blank canvas of day after day
With no colors for any paint brushes available
Will shred to pieces under the unforgiving light of the sun.
The lesser demigods make the decisions
Whether text ought to be bundled into scrolls
Or typed out on the most modern of typewriters.
Rodents gnaw at the summer wire,
Electrical insulation gone
That had protected us from autumn.
The animals had all been in hiding,
Refugees from the cartel of winter,
But now they come out into the sunlight
Observing how the trees have metamorphosed.
The seasons spin like a roulette wheel or a car tire.
Comedians tell the news of the world
In pantomime and slapstick
But nobody laughs.
The garden of innocence is decimated,
Weeds encroaching on dying flowers,
Petals devoured by deer.
If you can reach very far back,
Forgotten mathematics will reemerge
To calculate the trajectory of the rockets
That will destroy our temples
And create Gethsemane anew.
III. Emergence of the Soul and the Horror of One’s Own Gaze
This old body is carried around like an overcoat,
A conscience permanently marred and soiled,
The luxury of sanity fleeting
As I am perpetually kept underwater.
If you only knew what this mask conceals.
There is condensation collecting
On the inside of the paper bag
And the vinyl is all worn out
Upon which the cries of the children had been recorded.
Shake my soul with ice
To be drunk discreetly by businessmen
Who hope that their wives will never know
What goes on in the speakeasy after hours.
IV. Playback of the Damning Video at Night
The most clever of lies
Finds its way into the squalor
Of a culture of reticence,
All meaning hidden in cyphers
Inside of dusty forsaken books
Upon shelves that creak and crack with time.
A cube of graphite has settled upon my desk,
Improbably filling up the page
With its own futility!
The omission of truth spirals like a snowball,
But deceit is preferable
To the horrible verities that will destroy our brains,
Ceasing respiration of the lungs,
Terminating the heartbeat
Just like love does when crushed.
At least there is no audience for this suffocation:
By some mirabilium my corpse remains veiled
From casualty to casket.
There is an impulse that is impossible to ignore.
This device combining two eyesights has failed,
Each portal of vision now separated.
It is best not to see the most scandalous photographs;
Better not to hear the screaming of victims,
Victims of a horrible force
That tragically repeats itself in cycles ad infinitum.
The details of my misdeeds are secrets
Lodged in diamonds deep beneath the earth,
Carbon that had the beautiful misfortune
To succumb to the pressure of being.
V. Drunk Army Invading the Suburban Supermarket
I crumble under the weight of the stone pillars
That arrange themselves in rows atop my soul,
Crumple like a dandelion under the boot
Of a sadistic gardener.
The key is in the ignition
But the car won’t go.
In silent dreams there are riots
And in rowdy nightmares there is peace.
The elixir is available to all who wish to partake,
Society awash in horrible freedom.
I drink from the cup.
Reality sweetly fades away
Leading to a new kind of existence,
Floating in the air as quantum particles
That will entangle throughout time
And dictate every action
Which we take falsely for independence.
First there is independence from tyranny:
Harbor filled with embezzled tea
As masked vigilantes spark revolution.
Then there is independence from society:
Evasion of the perpetual punching of the clock
With charcoal in hand and parchment.
Finally there is independence from sanity.
One runs freely through the madhouse,
Gleaning the wisdom of the infirm,
And discovers that the meaning of any life
Need not have basis in the world
That the bankers claim is true and real.
Cosmic Lust from the Pit of the Stomach
There is the eureka moment
In the turnkey palace of death.
What hellish chambers!
At least the rooms are not for want of furnishings,
Not so bare as the many hearts
Who have been shepherded through.
The walls and columns are ivory and marble,
A contrast to the dark souls inside,
Sorceresses extracting confessions
With the most heinous devices.
This horrible masochism
Shall lead the way to a better place.
When constant pain cedes to relief
We will have the greatest epiphany,
Realizing that our path
Must wend through both torture and euphoria
Before we are done.
Something About Rabbits and Hats
I. Meditations on the Tiled Purgatory Illuminated by Garish Yellow
There is a terrible room
Where you cannot tell azure from anguish.
Sensation is so fleeting,
The pleasures of blurry consciousness
And forgotten sight
Ceding to dim terror.
Words must ambulate!
They cannot sit pretty on the coffee table.
Entire locomotives rumble down the track,
Switching gauges between countries,
Passengers waiting for numbers
To turn over and destroy themselves,
For riddles not to be solved
But to self-destruct.
Names are absolutely useless.
Once the mouth is finally satisfied
Ejecting these meaningless syllables,
The heart will rest upon the bed of hay
And its body will relax
And breath become steady before dying out.
An objection to abjection:
Starbursts and pyrotechnics
Test the faith of sheep in the manger
Who know nothing of devils and gods.
I will honor my forgotten brothers
By growing my beard hircine.
To opine without the horror of commentary,
To create without the embarrassment of criticism
Is impossible and impermissible.
A façade of satisfaction is worth but pence
When there are cars in the ditches
And the sirens are blaring,
Desperately trying to alert the people
That this storm may never pass.
Luckily there is the verbal cellar
That will always provide a measure of sanctuary.
Letters band together to keep out the rain
And shelter us from those
Whose statues can never be erected.
II. Monsoon Winds in the Microclimate of Black Bear Land
Language must be extracted
From the mineshaft of time;
Animals must be recovered
From beneath the suture,
The entire history of medicine
Proving to be nothing more
Than the work of charlatans.
The blank canvas of day after day
With no colors for any paint brushes available
Will shred to pieces under the unforgiving light of the sun.
The lesser demigods make the decisions
Whether text ought to be bundled into scrolls
Or typed out on the most modern of typewriters.
Rodents gnaw at the summer wire,
Electrical insulation gone
That had protected us from autumn.
The animals had all been in hiding,
Refugees from the cartel of winter,
But now they come out into the sunlight
Observing how the trees have metamorphosed.
The seasons spin like a roulette wheel or a car tire.
Comedians tell the news of the world
In pantomime and slapstick
But nobody laughs.
The garden of innocence is decimated,
Weeds encroaching on dying flowers,
Petals devoured by deer.
If you can reach very far back,
Forgotten mathematics will reemerge
To calculate the trajectory of the rockets
That will destroy our temples
And create Gethsemane anew.
III. Emergence of the Soul and the Horror of One’s Own Gaze
This old body is carried around like an overcoat,
A conscience permanently marred and soiled,
The luxury of sanity fleeting
As I am perpetually kept underwater.
If you only knew what this mask conceals.
There is condensation collecting
On the inside of the paper bag
And the vinyl is all worn out
Upon which the cries of the children had been recorded.
Shake my soul with ice
To be drunk discreetly by businessmen
Who hope that their wives will never know
What goes on in the speakeasy after hours.
IV. Playback of the Damning Video at Night
The most clever of lies
Finds its way into the squalor
Of a culture of reticence,
All meaning hidden in cyphers
Inside of dusty forsaken books
Upon shelves that creak and crack with time.
A cube of graphite has settled upon my desk,
Improbably filling up the page
With its own futility!
The omission of truth spirals like a snowball,
But deceit is preferable
To the horrible verities that will destroy our brains,
Ceasing respiration of the lungs,
Terminating the heartbeat
Just like love does when crushed.
At least there is no audience for this suffocation:
By some mirabilium my corpse remains veiled
From casualty to casket.
There is an impulse that is impossible to ignore.
This device combining two eyesights has failed,
Each portal of vision now separated.
It is best not to see the most scandalous photographs;
Better not to hear the screaming of victims,
Victims of a horrible force
That tragically repeats itself in cycles ad infinitum.
The details of my misdeeds are secrets
Lodged in diamonds deep beneath the earth,
Carbon that had the beautiful misfortune
To succumb to the pressure of being.
V. Drunk Army Invading the Suburban Supermarket
I crumble under the weight of the stone pillars
That arrange themselves in rows atop my soul,
Crumple like a dandelion under the boot
Of a sadistic gardener.
The key is in the ignition
But the car won’t go.
In silent dreams there are riots
And in rowdy nightmares there is peace.
The elixir is available to all who wish to partake,
Society awash in horrible freedom.
I drink from the cup.
Reality sweetly fades away
Leading to a new kind of existence,
Floating in the air as quantum particles
That will entangle throughout time
And dictate every action
Which we take falsely for independence.