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8

We Worship perfect because we can’t have it

Language, it has allowed me to dream
I’ve never done anything but dream
All experience is a simulation
Of what our senses tell us

We perceive, all relationships
Are 80% make believe
And thus, I come to the point
Where my ultimate concern

Is naturally, for my inner life
Is the book of disquiet over?
Is the meaning found that escaped me?
Are the idols ready to be pushed aside?

And the myths, are they ready
To succumb to new myths, new standards?
To make way for the new
Language, it has allowed me to feel

I’ve never done anything but feel
All thoughts have a quality of feeling
Objectivity is the greatest lie
But subjectivity is an ironic dreamer

Full of queer promises and casual observations
That do not register fully until years later
That I take a certain pleasure in the fact
Of watching daydreams go down in defeat

Words like any truth, are part duality
And what once seemed like a clever remark
Can later feel like the ghost of an imaginary friend.

As the Sun Sings along the Navels of Prophets


Art by: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Prophet-26476972

20

But now he sleeps without end
His potential buried forever
Now the moss and the grass
Flowers the dreams of what

His life would have been
Better maybe than some fates
The dew will simply blanket
Darkness, his soul will retreat

Maybe one day to take form again
And he will seek a confident profile
And his goal will bewilder him
And his beautiful body will carry

The tiger-thirst of the multitudes
And he will play his role
Below the stars like an actor
And the horse-clouds will see him

And the groups of silence
In the corners of the Earth
Will whisper of him
Like Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus

Or Kalki whoever, it goes on
A lament for what a man stood for
A symbol for what truths can mean
Across generations; a philosopher,

A poet, a prophet, an innovator
Because, tomorrow’s love does not wait
Evolution does not falter
Her veins of coral are never mute
But flow with the pride of genius itself.

Last voice of the organics


44

i

There is a river around
Me of love, a writing of fire
A slab of jade on my back
A testament to the love

Of what we do, not why we do it
It’s like God working through
Us, or a snowstorm in August

ii

Or the circular days finding
A year of extraordinary fantasy
That’s art, and that’s also life
Relationships, mutual influences
The energy behind a book

The process of alphabets
Converting on a brain
Unifying incoherent symbols

iii

A language of creation
How birds and stars can meet
And how creatures evolve
There is a river of sound
It’s the narrative of all stories

Of the very act of story-telling
It’s the inheritance of millions
Of years of effort, to grow

And to understand truly
What it means to be human
And now, it’s all changing.

SECRET LETTERS TO DAYBREAK


10

My favorite font would have to be, poetry
Each letter is a gem that haunts
The very notion of memory & attachment
Dark fountain splash cursive

In the breeze of cherished fantasies
The lonely streets of personal dreams
My favorite alphabet would have to be, poetic
The poetic vocabulary, I write without

Knowing the outcome, like a kind
Of experience of entwined sounds
Or water embracing the shores
Or, disembodied soul sick of duality

Craving the original unity before
We had personalities, lovers, children
My favorite time would have to be, writing
In the middle of the night, naked

Literally and figuratively, able to be sensitive
A symbol flirting with the Absolute
A myth-making fiction of a flaming letter
These phrases of burning vowel-shaped-tombs

Where I can belong to Eternity, privately
Where everything is sculptured as it
Pleases me, and I am a part of Free-will
Like nothing else, that is the bliss of poems

The purification of the fever of forms
Where everything is mutable and dissolves
For the good of the white canvas that are
The saints, animals, laughing intangible skies

That are the wandering hours of my outlying districts
Where I run among the villagers, and plant signs
And move in the dark, and speak with you always
Yet there is no light here for the luster of your eyes.

Art Credits goes to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Daybreak-453040055

The Duty of the Poet


16

I will take thee, as a Poet
To candidature for ethereal thrill
Subtle as the inner champers
Portions of visions, phrasing that

Dwell as full as an image – the red Rose
I will transport thee, as a Poet
To Cathedrals of fraught mortality
Joys of darling spontaneity

To risk all for the Scarlet Shelf
And usher in liberty for arcs of white
I will love thee, as a Poet
Until the house is full, that of the dream –

As conquering as love’s palaces
As secure, as divine intercourse
I will lead thee, as a Poet
As a carpenter on hands & knees

With opened palms, known to nobody –
As a stranger speaking of the elder tongues
I will speak of summer fields
And unheralded flowers dropped from memory

As a juggler turned wordsmith
As a prayer turned literary
I will take thee in, as a Poet
As the original artist of creative Vermilion

The pressed dust of symbolic projection
Of minds painted with brief beauty
That warrants pricelessness, with every line
These bards never awake from midnight’s trance.

The Hollows Made By Lovers in us through Harsh Words


27

Once you have learned these words
You will forget silence
Like learning heartbreak
You will renounce love

These are true stories of living
The word hangs like an anchor
It is used against us like a weapon
The very same voice you once served

Once you have learned these words
You will know the language of humanity
They will shape you to be insensitive
And burn a smudge of orange across your face

Every time you forget the rift of inner beauty
You will die a little more to the child you once were
Before language, before symbols corrupted you
You hold yourself between these two words

One silent, and the other an action
So be careful what you say, knowing
How words once damaged you, be gentle
To those closer to the silence
To those more fresh from the source.