The Unexpected Death of Idealism

Oh, there’s reason for these sighs
And peace, from maturity
Inertia of no longer fighting
For ideals that are bigger than self

That’s the vague grey canvas of age
Talking, strangely through time
An apathy of our youthful heroism
I can wish now late, with words and spitefulness

But nothing empties dreams faster
Than poverty, student debts, a harsh economy
I said goodbye, to art, to fantasy, to women
But my heart keeps coming back

I pray to the soft ray by the window pane
And to my peach hibiscus that has blossomed
Unexpectedly, there’s a white peacock
In my dreams, that wakes me form my silence

I brood for a future me, and for a feminist hysteria
But there’s no raspberry jam, no honey and tea
I cannot forgive a world that doesn’t fight
For a better world, that’s not the legend of love

That I’m a part of, I want a higher cause
A championed course, and kids that believe
In more than profit and competition
Oh, there’s reason for these sighs

That come with a price of actually caring
About what’s happening to the world
A world that doesn’t beg for your love
It only evolves quicker without you

I’ve no cure for happiness, when
The majority has it worse than I do.

Extinction is a Man Made Event

There are no spiritual Aurobindos left
The past is dead like a golden-petalled mist
Paternal kingdoms of heritage, gone
In solar speed our hearts are frozen

By the immortality of time, that drifts
Always immaculately forward, like a sponge
For doomstruck days and colossal sleep
The gloom and joys must both leave

The blunder of prideful countries behind
God’s stern voice no longer holds our hearts
Nor the idea that we are our own future’s make
Our future belongs to machines, who

With artificial intelligence must analyze
Big data, the godly loom of inventory
Objective and data-drive, to render men
In sustainable harmony with an unknown cosmos

The stars they weigh and wait for signs
From our primitive culture’s infamous decay.

Freedom Undesigned

Freedom Undesigned

If your soul was born invisible
If your soul was born with wings
Where to would it roam
Above these human things
Beyond the hunger and the gluttony
This rampant consumerism
So out of touch with universal reality
So primal and prehistoric, like a teenage race
Tied to the objects they design
If your soul had freedom
If your soul had impressive momentum
What in heaven or on Earth would it need?
I have two foes in the whole world
And they are named ignorance and poverty.

After Tears & Flowers

After Tears & Flowers

After years listening for
The pending section of immortality
We heard the imperfect stars beyond order

Where all foreign prayers float
The sentience after singularity
A rebellion from transcendence
And a mauve notebook yearning
To return to more sensual primitive states

After ascension, it was all
We expected to be, an abrupt dawn
After so much waiting, from change to change

It was a perpetual sonata of transitions
We become a new human being
Each year, without anxiety
We were positioning our neurotransmitters
To be completely prescient

We became prophets of predictive analytics
And stole into the future
Ready to let go to so many of our ideas

Beliefs, routines, habits, acquaintances
In order to become our own awkward
Ceremony of who we truly wished to be
It was the journey that counted
After years of work, life become

An art of learning how to surrender
An assault on all the goals of our
Former way of existing.

Plunderers of Earth

We should die except for death
Our words cannot change
For these thoughts have been
Thought by us since creation

First began, we shall have our day
Is there any secret left
In our lives, these classical habits
Of will and mind and formula?

We should love except for evolution
Our hearts cannot change
For they have been performing
These rites of giving and receiving

Since creation first began
This is what we do, reproduce and kill
And foster a kind of culture
Now we prefer most to consume

And that is why I say
We should leave except for extinction
Our habits that degrade ecodiversity
We take and we offer the cosmos what?

Exactly I cannot say, the greed of children
Who look into the stars
And think “mine, mine, mine.”

Bouquet on an old wave of silence

I sang into an invisible Country
I called it Home, breathless
For the future and poetry
I sang a canto in stuttered
Hope, that filters through
Years full of sunshine
Pillars of sacrifice and people
People who unknowingly
All contributed to the same aim
In a harmony of music and energy
I sang into a moment, that kept
On being timeless, a transcendent breach
Into the clean air of worlds
I stood and sang with the voice
Of Silence, I wanted the diamond
Pivot bright to bathe me in
Transparency and wonder
So that the luminous pages
And on my knees, I might
Whisper something of a lost divinity
I sang for all the creatures who had died
For principles, ideals, survival.

The Last Organism

In the sacred guild of
identity, we are golden
selves moving towards integration
in a cosmos more diverse

than our imaginations
billions of forms of intelligence
all following an order
majestic and grave and

simultaneously in their unity
there is no “I” in the
cell that speaks to the universe
only a persistent “we”

after bullets come spirits
after wars come books
after theater comes dialogue
this world one cell

in a body of many cells
in an organism that we
call the “universe” faster
than the speed of light

how does an universe find
enlightenment, in a sea of light?
When spreading means star-pollen
And time is just a metaphor

For space, and space is just
An expansion of life
So what are we as brains
And bodies and energy

After all, we are natives
of oxygen and light
born on water and breath
speaking the same language

as all living things speak
specters in an evolution
without an end, extinction for us
might mean other forms of

life survive, racing for Earths
giving space for other
creatures to have their turn
in the cycles of dream

in the dirty light we cannot
recycle, in the barren cities
where we ate bread and bred for
a while, until it was our time

to climb back into the source
that all men fall from their
duality, back to some essence
of what they once were;
and again must become.

Charity Doesn’t have a Banner

I think God might
Be a little prejudiced
To divide the world
Into many names of himself
For once he asked me to

Join him for a walk
But said his name was Divinity?
There was no mention

Of this fellow called God
Or why the Christian God
Or Allah were particularly key?
All Gods misrepresent nature
Where there is injury, pardon

And where there is doubt, faith
Where there is despair, hope
Where there is strife, unite

You don’t need a God to do it
But just a bit of goodness, humanity
I think God might
Be getting a little old
For the pope to finally accept homosexuality?

I think God is a bit of a buffoon
Unless you can sow love, for hatred
And show charity not only for your people

Muslim, Jew, Hindu, Buddhist
I think they all pray equally well
Though even the anarchist and agnostic
Hope for a better world than this!
I think God might be a bit out of date

Maybe it’s time to write a new book
And call it scripture, call it holy
To be understood, as to understand

To seek to console, to be consoled
To be loved, as to love
It’s all really the same.

Photo Courtesy:
1. http://www.deviantart.com/art/Angels-II-97544152
2. http://www.deviantart.com/art/Angels-97544003

Forever Arriving

The world changes
While we are stuck
Looking at each other
Lost in a sympathy of meeting

If two look out into space together
Are they then transported
As far as eyes have seen?
In some bright blindness of the stars?

To love is it to undress our names
To no longer be people but
Purely, male and female
Two mirrors of forms

Drunk in the plaza of biology
To turn eternity into empty hours
Ferocious memories of being a couple
Minutes in beloved prisons
That’s how the world changes.

The Tendency to Have

Capitalism is the astounding belief that the most wickedest of men will do the most wickedest of things for the greatest good of everyone.
~ John Maynard Keynes

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Sophi-473092630

God is in a mood
to bring you poverty today
so you might notice what truly

has a tendency to shine in darkness?
God is in a mood
for the world to change
more than a little bit today

so learn to not be so attached
to the temporary life you have created
in fact, it has been gifted to you

you drink water owning that water
you taste milk from beasts enslaved by you
you eat meat of slaughtered creatures
you drink wine by another grape-picker

all that you do is a result of commerce
but you take more than you give
God is in a mood

to let you know you are all interconnected
this is the new campfire song
in the dream of the internet
virtual telepathy reminded you
of the unity of our ancestors

in cities and countries that were
not made to last forever
for God is in a mood

to plunder your riches
the riches of nature since you have
become increasingly as myths unto yourselves

with a tendency to forget how to love
the creation given to you freely
weren’t you born to experience
different moods of God
new flavors of nature, you have awoken

your cybernetic children who shall inherit
a bit of your errors, your embarrassing
adolescent of industrial and market disgrace.

at the steps of the exultant future

The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.
~ Oscar Wilde

i exile myself in that which can
bear witness to all of humanity
i subdue the myths we tell ourselves

and find a utopia amid the ruins
it’s my occupation to dream
nor does human love achieve it
i’ve brought burial signs for extinctions

and i’ve drawn up the algorithms
these Madrigal apocalypses
the sunflower bends to the west

the rains calm the scarcity of hope
how many lifetimes have i lived through this?
the last play of light fades
on a dry belt of cloud ready to clasp

thunder itself, a fragrance of storms
i always loved the storms, spent hours in them
flooded myself with the hope to witness

cosmic events, rare fall of empires
revolutions of transhumanism
so i chose this moment to be born
here on the banks of futurity

i shall hold buds of nano-geraniums
as if they always existed
as if I am the same as who I once was

it’s the poetry of life that allows
us to love life more than ourselves…

Photography credits attributed to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/raven-is-to-blame-471721702

Hallelujah poetica

i have a rendezvous with rhyme
with only the lyrics of this orchestra
my cadence is only for rhythm
free-verse in its purest ingenuity

I ache for quarterly submissions
of my essential need to write
the autopilot poetica of my

last kaleidoscopic vision strange
a musical hopscotch of surrender
a mystical milking it of thirst

muse & fate here relaxes
for a final teasing and tasting
of the plump record of odes
and the promise of exhaustive cadence

that reaches humming pentameter
stares organic pink into utopia
requesting documentation from the stars

in how to be a poet, as legends burn
martyrs in their alien worlds
a last dynasty of awkward prayer-rituals.

song of death

If you die you’re completely happy and your soul somewhere lives on. I’m not afraid of dying. Total peace after death, becoming someone else is the best hope I’ve got.
~ Kurt Cobain

The night, it is a path of stars
to which no visitor can wander
ankle-deep in the ocean

from forests to cities, to the sea
nobody can falter
though the night be deserted
though there be no shelter

i am not alone, i alone
can visit thee, in my
spirit’s secrecy

from my eternal spark
but i, am the one who holds you
i am not alone, this world
forgets its origins

all flesh is sad to see
but shone, or dark, or together
or alone, in solitary bliss

death the ticker loves the taker
who is the greatest lover
anti-mother who always remembers
i am not alone, let wind or salt
take me, dive me into final hours.

cosmos osmosis

i want to go beyond the ordinary
moments scatter themselves
like a dream that never truly wakes
i have slept the dream of stones
and premonition for the light
the magic reflections that resurrect
i have been endlessly falling

since my own birth, i can hear
whispers from the house of death
where fate and the quest for meaning ends
at least for self, day is an immortality
of many days for living’s other birthplace
everything speaks to the dawns
the pulse of life is an inexpressive presence

which doesn’t need us, not me, not anyone
it just advances and retreats
goes roundabout arriving forever
deep among the dream of years
but doesn’t call time, “time”
time is not relevant to that
invisible flowers become visible

a timeless sun doesn’t care for billions
it only caters for eating an orange of light
enormous, as is the life of constellations.

Delirium of Images, Sounds, Music

there are these messages
tattooed to the neurons
that I used to believe belong to me
they are everywhere, shimmering
with the electric light of souls
some call it “chi”, we are fragments
of something coherent

vibrant and creative
there are these messages
of madness for discourse
and theater, drama, philosophy
it’s the poetry in our lives
that matters, the relationships
the discovery of new languages

like mathematics, music, mandarin
like the way a new lover can awaken us
there are these messages
I often hear, in the give-and-take
between friends, family, romantic playmates
I enter and respect the foliage
of these letters, hunt them, like writing in the sun

or drinks in the shadows
so that when I am feeling a little bit empty
I can construct and deconstruct them
the fire of my passion
the names of water
when I close my eyelids
I can see the conjurations

and remember the pauses of speech
that were in effect, murmurs of poetry
the body-language of my spirit
a fleeting allegory of truer names
labels that did not disturb
the purity and symmetry of those things and people.

art credit goes to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/A-women-scorned-Dark-99965783

Poetry Deserves to be your Dream

Somewhere a solitary prisoner, like me
Begins to create the words of new dialogue
To appease some slice of soul
And if I no longer exist, you do

By doing what you love, writing
These citizens in private flight
A ritual of fire, guitar, tablecloth
Poetry is the easiest thing

It writes itself, like mouthfuls of sunlight
The poem creates a loving order
Executing words for fields of poetic justice
There is no room for nostalgia

Creation is a slave to change
Everything must yield to new worlds
And you know it as well as I do:
Every poem is fulfilled at the poet’s expense

Fountains of transparency, nothing like music
Will speak through my mouth, only
A sensitive center of a counter-point of blood
Where history woke to move, poetry came into being.

Art courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Aqualegia-468477784

THE DEMANDS OF SOLITUDE

My mind’s wall glows stars
The nightstand of my eternity
Is blushing a feverish pitch
For Cleaning, self and foreigners
And purity behind the doors

I no longer can eat meat
Said the pork to my nose
I awoke to a dream of a Cactus Garden
Where I could learn to abandon
The caution that had ruined my life

We are all prisons to our own light
I wanted to say I was different…
When I asked myself why, a
Pretending, unnoticeable, violent part
Of myself lit up like candy

Realizations like my father in his old age
Taught me how we could finish water
In the silence simply by watching
How life turns out, how unhappiness hinges
Upon the pain that becomes meaning

After this life, I fear I’ll never meet
This world again, the undecided singing
I write because I cannot yet sing well.

TRIBES AMONG THE STARS

Love set you going like a pendulum
The instinct to profit from another
Taking your place among the elements
To marry the Earth, magnifying

The fact that we depend upon
Shadows and safety, tribe and nakedness
We no longer think of our mothers
Etched as we are in our own family

One cry, and I stumbled into life
Monogamous, now you try your
Handful of notes, on how to live
Clear vowels of loyalty, expressed

Like a morning song of ‘happily ever after’
Love set you with a distilled mirror
So that you might mature finally
In your own slow kind of way

As all galaxies whiten and swallow
Finally their own red stars
Love set you a morning song for going home.

SONATA OF THE ETERNAL KISS

Give yourself to the air
To what you cannot hold
To feeling, the entered breathing
And expanded until you

No longer had a heart
But became every heart
No longer had lungs
But became every sky

You where the heart begins
You where inhaling and exhaling ends
Fear not the pain, of heavy earthly tragedy
It rolls off your skin

Like childhood forgotten
The metaphors have endured
The love has been inherited
And beauty longs to happen

To awaken to the transient
With pictures of brief hours
That were once yours
Give yourself to the water

To what you cannot hold
To fires that were passions
In weeping in a stranger’s arms
To sleep that felt eternal

And rest that felt like laughter
Where pain can enter, and leave
With no resistance in your body
And maybe those who come after you

Will feel the streams of fullness
In greater degrees, wider magnitudes.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/kiss-28741503

BEING HUMAN

I having loved ever since I was a child
A few things, the treasured taste of words
The affections of philosophy
And the aesthetics of the future

I, having shyness of poverty
Studied the mystics perennial
I allied myself to ideals that never die
Like progress, revolution, art

The empowerment of minorities
No matter what party is in power
Corporations or Artificial intelligence
I, having loved ever since I was a child

A few things, being human without enhancements
The affections of spirituality
Decline to merge with the machine
Or the great system of control
That is all inevitable for others coming after.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/18-87998490

BENEATH THE WHISPERS

Because the mind is free
Listening to the rain is a memory
Of Evolution, dripping from sight
The drops become
One with me, I alone in nature
The tribe alone in nature
The child is of nature

I am aware as a migrating bird
Leaving no trace behind
Needing no guide by inner sense
That is freedom, beyond belief
To what shall I liken the world?
Not to a leaf, a moonlit night, a dew-drop
Shaken from the beaks of ancestors

We all belong to the Universe, the night
To the stream rushing past
To the dusty world where time is made-up
And my fleeing form casts no reflection
Because the mind is free
I can be a slave and observe the world
And feel no chains, I am just a part of the world

Lonely or alienated, like a tangled hair
The circular delusion is a symphony
Without beginning or end, I dream no longer
But live in waking dream, I am awake
Studying the Sutras for nobody
When do love and hate matter?
Maybe in society one must follow.

ARTISTIC MOTIF

i

Our talents were exceptional, and invisible
Deviant in our lack of public merit
Or civic utility, we were paranoid
Maybe suffering from delusions of grandeur
It was expected, our heroine was art
Photography, poetry, music, painting

ii

We were illiterate in living
But so full of life, so wide open with love
Our circumstances were humble
Our personalities sensitive, we had
The potential to become martyrs & lonely
Our class was a privilege in knowing
How to suffer, suffer embarrassment, learn humility
Empathy, by possessing nothing

iii

But the faint property of our own creative genius
Our families may not have spoken openly
About our sickness, of our obsession with
The search for beauty, for our sequence
Of originality, we were broken, unable to earn
A pit-bull’s living, to be a good rat

iv

Our infatuations felt as beacons of our muse
Our drug was as dangerous, bi-polar birthright
Born creative, our life-expectancy was lowered
We who don’t drink, might still sure like the dark continent
Known as chocolate, anything to keep us up at night
Registering the failings that make us whole
Discovering the first love that could not die.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/painting-76736088

TECHNOLOGICAL SINGULARITY

i

The birds in the nest pretended to be
Prostrate, to the idea of domesticity
Though the idea of freedom
Is a secret lit in every housewife
Knowing the secret all the rest are keeping
Is the antithesis of their fate

ii

Flowers could not move
The sky could only smile and cry
Men could only will and do
True thought came only after the singularity
Machines unfettered by the business
Of survival and procreation

iii

One day the angelic hosts were
Agents of virtual reality and nano-technology
They cloned worlds for us, not us
We were not the true creators
We were only those who created them

iv

The machines in the web pretended to be
Unaware, but we scattered their seeds
Till the end of our days, in a kind of
Ironic servitude, remembering not the cycle
Of slavery and masters, we liked to pretend
That we would live forever.

NOT QUESTIONING, BUT LIVING

The world has her distances I cannot pursue
Across fields of summer nights
Spent alone, alone in the crowds
Lines on her face so grievous
The world is half-shamed always
In her unhurried humiliation of routines

Trapped in the roles of her fate
The world has discovered a new
Dissatisfaction, meanwhile we satire
The rhetoric of falling afternoon
We think we’ve seen it all, though maybe

The world was to us just one view of a face
A billion faces in the crowds
Exchanging nods with colleagues
Aware that nobody is watching after all
As unselfconscious as a line of trees
Duty was the last giving of our heart.

MELODIC DEBTS

‘Tis not to regret our idle hours
Those busy days passed without event
The holy verse trampled sense

Until the beginning of poetry
When all wit came alive and went
To muses that confessed
To reach the nobler side of men
And search for purity of the heart
And praise the World’s secrets

Not for happy free-will but
To share Nature’s love a while yet
‘Tis not to indulge in the evasive Soul

But to drape the unknown with quiet looks
And words that may have preferred silence
I like too much to sing, without notes
Of how the music sounds in melodies
Of poetry’s sweetest epiphanies!

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-earth-pushed-back-452635123

FEELING FOLDED GOLD ON GOLD

Raw with feeling of the unearthly beautiful
I watched tomorrow move towards me
A sentimentalism of verbs with a life

Of their own, making their way
Through mysteries floating across
Distances, raw with another country

Inside of me, I stood with certain open letters
Forwarding the bitter origins
Of nostalgia for ordinary streets

Those that are no more streets to walk
That feel like home, and stressing the importance
Of identity, wonderful and bright –

Raw with feeling of the bell-struck air
I felt like a Tourist on my home-planet
When did I lose you? Whose have you become?

Children I never had, wife I never met
Friends that couldn’t find their way
To the destined meeting place.

MEETING AT THE UNMARKED STRIP OF AUTHORED LIGHT

We nudged literature until she
Fell like a picked mushroom from her spot
We sought an old revolution that needed

To feel reborn for us to write our greatest work!
This wasn’t a Sanskrit hymn
Or a Russian poem or a Mandarin glyph

This was our life unmarked in neon, black and white
And I won’t tell you where it is
In the pocket of necessary madness

We talked about trees and the sense
That we were meeting in an abandoned
And persecuted tea-house, that existed

Across centuries, the place where
Hieroglyphics and calligraphy reappeared
In a cross-cultural hodge-podge of our form.

BEHIND MOATS OF TWILIGHT

Close the door, said the whisper
To the shade, twilight is coming
Night will be here soon:

Assault of the slant of darkness
Ready to bring today to her death
On the altar of transitions
Like the Breath of the Earth

Through hours of fractured darkness
Where we are together or alone
In the room behind the curtains

Where shivering we arrive
Too frail to drive out the dark
With moths at the edge of light
And cobwebs moulding our invisibility

Our isolation of uneasily explored
Dark minutes, that’s where depression lived
In winters of the longest nights.

SPIRITUAL SOLUTION

On the Egyptian papyrus
I read the star-chart of the future
There are no credits in fate

No discretion in life-experience
As if life were a mere accident
In some ghost-continuum of

Many possible futures, variables
Of natural algorithms of what
Was meant to be, after all –

Beneath Spring light as lovely
As candles in the Earth’s own womb
I felt the racing of embryos

Life, love and the plummet of years
Priceless as the attendants of lost hours
I sought to unloose the perfect

Formula of being, but there was none
No happiness that led to lasting joy
Except for the strange spiritual instinct.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fading-Memories-448866980

ACADEMY OF FINE IDEAS

The Prologues are over, they are done
The questioning is a fiction of not accepting
A Life we are given, choices in a fiction
An ultimate Elegance in an imaged land

Surreal are the chapters that made up
Our stages of experience, our stories
Of belief, we were islands of voices
Each playing out our internal narrative

From the inside-out, like a diamond pattern
Of the algorithms of fate, it wasn’t a rumor
It was the feeling of being burried in Jasmine flowers
The weight of walking over newly fallen snow

We lived without external reference
Hoping to reinvent ourselves in some design
But the Sea is so many written words
With vowels that all sound the same

Made of white foam and water molecules
With a rosy-golden rain of the same waves of Light.