Perihelion Interior

 

O exhilaration and exhalation this is my madness

My delight, my intuition of unknown substances

With the sad splendour of helplessness

 

I will be reborn soon, into a new body

With an experience as pure as this

Peace stands with the variables of brilliance

 

We do not know how to accept grace

The transparency of our finite thoughts

The immutable facts of our disintegration

 

Death is an embrace of something cosmic

I do know struggle against her cold neck

There is a motion of silence that spills music

 

And I feel it growing like a being

In me beneath the weight of spirit and matter

I am a joy that knows all creation there

 

My hope is not my own but I partake in life

Momentum, a voice of at the edges of oblivion

Where meaning was all the smiles we had

 

They were metaphors, and women, and sunshine

And that’s all the gladness I possessed

That’s the beauty that possessed me and it was short.

After Insomnia

Insomnia is like, the last episode
The bouquet of roses in sunlight melting
In the mind of dreams that is free
From attachment or the relativity of experience
I’ve been there done those things
I just don’t remember, the sensations
Were like too actual and the feeling of being real
Was pretentious, like the self-importance of
Youthful moments that were as vivid
Made the seasons more bright
Maybe I choose to respond emotionally
Like April, a time of strength where
I could announce to myself my own passions
So sense could exceed all metaphor
And I could change myself once again
To awaken to the wakefulness that is not sleep
To the yearning that makes my soul on fire
To the fate that does not feel unlike destiny
The bouquet of roses then is held firmly
Like a breast, or a leaf or a life bled, breathed and loved.

Sound of the Future Poetry

  To the sound of words I pay homage They could be anybody’s I acknowledge language pierces through me A composite nature of neuron hungry For a world that is describable to sense Not native to noble origin, but Managing …

Transhumanica

 

 

 

Where is the hand, between

The future and the past

The mouth that spells vowels

Of another kind of mind?

 

The hand between the candle

And what was once a wall

Now it’s virtual, an illuminated

Wall between all lights

 

The man in a room with

An image of the world

It’s no longer what the world is

That woman is no longer there

 

She’s somebody and something else

Where is the hand, between

One moment and the next

When time accelerates exponentially

 

The speed of human change

Giving way to algorithms, seasons

Of another kind, and is it lonely there?

As lonely as it was once before?

 

It must be that the hand

Is another kind of intelligence

Permeating what was once dead space

Now space and time have new meaning

But will love grow larger

In this automated android world?

 

Ode to Personality

Ode to Personality

From the music summoned by my birth
I have arrived into this place
The worship of my dearest self
Not but a speck of laborious divinity

That would sprinkle meaning
In the tracks of humanity
And suffer a while with them
As one of them, with a voice

And humility born of years of poverty
And simplicity born of asceticism
And asceticism born of inner spirit
And there was nothing left to experience

Only to be, and that was a serenity
Of aging, where there was no proving
We are what we are and a passing identity
Like silver clouds with a speck of gold

The Gods knew our place in kingdoms
But we did not entertain the status
We were our own theory of originality.

At a certain phenomenon of light #NationalPoetryMonth #NaPoWriMo

At a certain phenomenon of light

In the jazz of listening to your jazz
It was a peacock’s cry
It was a re-statement of romance

When you thought romance was dead
And in perceiving this, I best
Perceive and listen to myself
Nor night nor blue, I exchange with pale light
My needs for the universe

I am an anecdote on how
To address clouds, elicit
The funest philosophers to speak from the dead

I am a promenade in mortal rendezvous
That lead nowhere, essentially
Converging upon oneself
In the streets and orchid sellers
In the women who blow kisses with just a look

They are young and do not hold candles
But I can feel evolution’s
Arrogance in their firm bodies

It’s not divine ingenuity then
To take one last look at the lilacs
Or in the hymeneal air search for a fragrance
That might help me remember
Earth, lavender, fantastic star

Looking for a Saturday metaphor
To describe the twenty bridges of feeling
The nuance of how meaning escapes
And time floods like ancient aspects.

A living mathematics

Life is a mob of music
the sky and memories
full of bodies and wood
the feeling of watching

others, as if we existed
separately, the virtualization
of difference, the illusion
of diversity, the impression

of individualization, but
all the notes move together
in a cadence that is a pattern
where all the variables follow

predictable algorithms
it doesn’t take a computer to
see, life is a volume of designed
potential, impatient for itself

to manifest, for a brief vistas
of glory and effort, to simulate
something of the journey
and evolve a kind of ambiguity

of the summation of experience
which is invariably limited
to conditions imposed upon
the manifestation, and the living

would be speaking
in a kind of daze to itself
sounds over space, that join
to form some brief relevance

like a page of Euclid, a
trajectory of something that
once seemed important or
at least a step forward

In the diction without
A manuscript, a semantics
Of how to breath and what
To want, and how to possess

The moment better, as if
We didn’t all want the same things.

As the Observer Wills

It will be heaven after death
For after death there is always life
The sound of music, lasting in the sun
Voices, in the night like colors

Stars hungry for rebirth
In a prelude to objects
With a womb for evolution’s
Academics of probability

Disclosed in common forms
We design our lives
With mirrors multiplied
Souls sweeping impossible elegance

The tragic sciences finally lead
To mysticism, that’s not by chance
It will be heaven after earth
For after Sol there are planets

Ideas exchanged and sentiments
Glimmering like a study of opposites
Nude pairs to fill all composed curves
Hanging in bits of blue, for
A future as the observer wills.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Pure-438986417

Of Post Modern Poetry

The poem of the mind begins
from imitation, the sufficient finding
of ourselves in others, of language in mind

the poetry of the heart begins
from adoration, the theater of possession
when all the scripts repeat

the scenes shift with insatiable actors
I slowly construct my new stage
the poem begins with delicate listening

a repetition of silence between each vowel
with an invisible audience that cares
the poem of the mind beings after modern poetry

ended with a souvenir of free-verse
when everyone became a sufficient poet
confessing to learn the speech of themselves

now I will never know exactly how to write myself
though it is fun to make metaphysics my business
and in sudden righteousness, pretend I’m more than a spark.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Untitled-402575231

Judgment Day Has a Cosmic Voice

That strange flower, the sun,
Has been speaking in sun spots, solar flares
Telling us the world is looking ugly
Overcrowded, corrupt, without dignity

A massive truft of light
In the pollution of greed
Upon the animal pupil’s eyes
Those strange diamonds, the stars,

Have been talking about shooting stars
Telling us humanity is being judged
By higher powers, and the people are sad
They live in such a world

Economics has become the new dogma
An unholy God that lets a few profit
While people die every day
That ancient body, the ocean, Has been listening to us war for many millennia
Who listens for the snow, finding winter
Worrying about the end-days that are to come.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/West-Highlands-Sunset-399150633

Notes on World War III

God and all angels sing the world to sleep
For the end of the world is man made
With the blue tongue of greed, control
The Moon burns in the mind of history

Where war and politics are the domain of the corrupt
Staring, at midnight, into the Angel of Death
A catastrophic power play of midget nations
Yet life is itself, the fulfillment of petty desires

Money, the pillow of the head in the dark
Power, the bent over guitar of the green day
Organics thick-lipped, riot and rebel
For a new world that cannot be born

Till the old world dies of its own inflation
God and all angels sing the world to sleep
That we might die, for others to take our place.

Art Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/D-R-E-A-M-S-398472986

Salvation of Many Wings

I am content when wakened birds
Wake me from my dream
Before they fly, they test reality

My reality is an illusion
Remote as a vision in perpetual flux
Of misty fields, by sweet questioning

I live a half-life of indifferent blue
Upon the grey and white shores
Of what I call birth and death

The years pass, I am a biological spark
Neither the golden underground
Or the woman of my dreams can release me

I am content when wakened birds
Whisper to me that I may fly too
They wake me from my dream

With feminine whisperings of procreation
A much more friendly part of paradise
Where labor seems natural and eventful

April’s green endured desires for June
Tiptoed and spent on wings of consummation.

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Panorama-Of-Ondic-398431868

The Death of Motherhood

Life contracts and death is expected
As in a season of coming Autumn
Life blossomed and love was had
As last Spring when everything changed –

When the wind stops, when the flowers
Wave their imposing colors
So temporary, like all things
Calling for pomp, begging for luxury

All to be included in the clouds
Nevertheless, life’s abundance trumps
Life expands and beginnings are necessary
As in a season, to break all seasons

The future was an ideal of beautiful proportions
Where everyone goes in their native direction.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/44-398449586