For Fear Of Being Forgotten

How many lives must one live
Before their coal may be forged to diamond?
If it is true we are all stars
In the eyes of God,
Please allow his Angels of Inspiration

Into this humble human form,

With the gift to exceed gilded on wings.
Then once freed from the mundane's fettered shackles,
Might I fly high into the bardic stratosphere
And express that which is exceptional,
To comply toward my purpose, to be yet ever more...

I ask this in earnest
Knowing I am nothing but a mere man
Whose rights, rank and stature
Are of no consequence when I am claimed
To die to dust and shake this human shell.

It has been said on life's trek we must climb
To the highest pinnacle of our endeavors.
My only desire toward this course
Is in word, to place my flag,
High atop the mountain of my plebeian post.
Only by drawing from all generations prior
And thus imparting to all generations forward
I pray that I might accomplish
That which leaves mark.
To thus etch my name in stone,
And state with a profound voice
'I once lived.'

For fear of being forgotten.

The Next Dimension

If I sit in silence
Aware of only my breathe,
Relinquishing all other demands,
Thoughts float upward.
They sway high like
A wavering piped note
That holds the heart
Of my cerebration together
As a symphonic piece.

Release is imparted
Only to dissolve high
Into the all-nothing.
Suddenly insight strikes
Like a grand crescendo.

A white blue light
At once temporarily blinds
This new found inward eye.
Forthwith I catch a glimpse
From the outside looking in.

My room and figure
Appear flat and limited
Inside this expanded space.
Every angle is now available
Beyond my former perspective
Of linear reference
I feel like a thousand orbs
Of all shapes and sizes,
Connecting and dissolving,
Growing large then small
At equal or various rates.

I witness everything from
The reflection on these myriad
Of spheres invisibly
Dotting the landscape.
My attention grows far and wide
Encompassing an almost
Inconceivable grand ascendancy


What amuses me most
Is how I am at this point
So intimately connected
To everything seen
And yet still completely
Autonomous and contained.

Just as quickly as this
Strange viewpoint began,
I find myself nestled back into
My common visual helix.
I have awakened from
A lingering sleepless dream,
Which has offered me
Only the slightest glimpse.
Of unfathomable
Journeys to come.

Storm Riding The Razor's Edge

Fear settles in ever more, on belligerent,
Raucous, incarcerated youths.
Anxieties are accelerated with observation,
By the antecedent coaxing, of Mother Moon.
Inside honey candles burn in low light,
Forgotten for their grace giving flame.


A healing elixir pregnant with virtue,
Awaits the ointment’s bearer.
Once applied, they are freely
Given onto their inamorato.
The cards hold, a future told,
played on the plane of divination.
Desire is lost at the highest cost,
With no back track means of exit.

Halcyon infected wails waft on the wind,
From woman’s subaqueous source.
With tears engendered from Eve's outset,
This reservoir mists into thunderstorms.
When over suffused with tumultuous pain,
The levy torrents forth rain,
In railed, rapid, downpours.
With drenched heads our drained tearducts,
Are again replenished, emptied in overuse,
From humanities many woes.
This why we cry, when emotions brim,
With a sudden need for an overt culvert.


Tableaus full of chromatic tales
Tell of times unknown, except
By archaic interlopers. They by trade,
Are trained on a thread, to trudge,
And tread, a different path.
Their interstellar employer, only accepts
An adepts creed for world dominion.
Throughout holes arranged in
Subquantum space, leap these Lords,
To keep watchful rule, over all
They call, their galactic, colonial estates.

Vessels bespeckled by multicolored
Jewels, are filled to the skirt
With miscellaneous aromatic oils.
Attar collected over millenniums
From lands both afar and near.
Each is aligned or arrayed
In a most pleasant, precarious way,
As if to affect vices sway
On the sinner as well as the saint.

Elemental ideations unseen, unknowingly
Incurs a scar on any curious onlooker.
Unable to move, touch, feel, or flinch
They are clutched up in a duty
For an outsourced Agencies' task.
They, the marksmen have the self
Scoped at the end of
The cross haired site,
In a hall of mirrors, within
The carnival house of life.

Truth in beauty being
The beneficent means,
And most ennobled measure
For the inspired mind;
One might well ask
'By what standards will we agree
On true art’s form?'
And 'Who are we to gauge
The muse’s high provocateurs?'

Grandfather clocks snug against
The walls, click the clack
Measuring moments lost
To the intermediary tick of time.
These chronikers are sluggish and slow
In recounted details. Experiences fragmented
Away, in the free radicals of absent years.

Hell’s kitchen bubbles a brew,
On smoked cedar, of true ambrosia.
It tastes like an acidic absinthe.
Lurid enough it just might have been
Imbued by Shelly, Byron, or Keats.
A tonic true enough to take one high
On a cloud, when the wellspring breaks.

The Night boat ferryman is gone.
In his place resides a near empty shore,
Save the haunt on these banks,
Of a heinous hollow form.
A late caller, who embraces two coins.
The black water, cataract and sodden,
Conscripts the nature of this hellion’s hand.
Will this drama suffice as written,
And amble in step, to the mark of his brand?
No. He is too eager for a meager gambit,
Who will play cataclysm's part.
So neither man nor beast
Make his audition. Temperance prevails,
With none the wiser in the zero hour
Of this phantom's thespian yarn.

I move and wiggle, giggle then smirk.
My backaches until my legs jerk.
I sit writing, like an unwelcome guest,
Seated at my own table
During a Sunday feast.
Urgent erratic motions, move me
Close to solicitations of graces.
Glory is sung, until the word is heard,
How my largess goes undeserved.

These expeditious adroit undertakings
Are marred to a snail’s trail
In over ebullience. Anticipating
The outcome only breeds
Unaligned circumspect ambition.
I push, pull, and then pollute my lungs,
So I can feel the unreal reverie
Of ingenious thunderheads,
Outpouring their provenance’s
Flux animus deliverance.

Simple herbal extracted tinctures
Given under the tongue, tide my ambivalence.
How much my myopic sight is in need,
Of supereminent cognizant spectacles.

The Terra, bottomless beneath my feet
Billows and embraces me under each
Intentional supplementary step.
Strong Earth Guardians escort this trek
With bone, wind, antler, water, fur,
Fire, tooth, clay, claw, voice, and wing,
In many masks the Medicine-Man, Healer
Prankster, Angakok, Tutor, Shaman,
Counselor, Priest, and Teacher’s sing.

Let us at end take in a show, entrenched
By lengths only the lunatic is sure to go.
The drapes draw open, lights flash on.
A simpering slender gentleman
In a black top hat, and long tailcoat,
Out upon center stage, he walks. In rote,
He announces loud, to the bristled crowd,
‘Please may I have your attention.
I invite you to watch tonight’s performance
Of high drama, humor, suspense, intrigue,
And a few things not fit for perception.’
The audience howls, cackles and gasps,
Watching their lives which came and went.
Such merriment spent in recreavtive bliss,
Like levin unveiled in a tight cross knit.
All, at once, are awestruck and given a stirring
Toward perdition’s road, in alluring hurry.
What high precipices in chime, they climb.
What lascivious lows are enjoyed,
While enjoined, in complete abandonment.
Then the curtian closes with violet palls.
The viewer is left wandering
How they ever made it out.
But this was only Faust’s first act,
With many staid solecisms still to follow.
So they tighten their tie, their sash,
And uncomfortably adjust their collars.
For the grand price paid forth tonight,
This may well be, the only sane offer.

Streaming Dream Of Conciousness

I stare at this blank sheet, incomplete
Blindfolded, numb, gas doused, and meek.
Suddenly words erupt announced
Competing to tell their tale
And have their meaning brought out.
Feeling as if I am a star in the firmament
I’m lit on fire, a funeral pyre,
With a Buddhist monk as my guide on high.

Quasars and tangerines take my fancy
Like a child to cotton candy.
Picked fresh like Georgia peaches,
I am fed full with the meat and potatoes
On every form of dialectic reason.

Still my ideas are ever fleeting
Like White Wolves overfilled
On fields of golden fleeces.
These filigree sheep are
Soon clipped postmortem,
Under a Sumerian sunset
Without so much as a protest.

I am subdividing Quantum Fractions
Moving ever faster into the never year after.
It is a dream of sunbursts purple and orange
For as long as this day will allow,
Temporarily set in the here and the now.
Here I find my astral self cast,
To and fro and refracted all about.
My mind's fueled so full of flower head sparks,
That they can't be doused, or even burnt out.

Suddenly I am stripped naked
Of my standard logic dress code.
Pushed further into the unknown.
I am left allocating allotments that are
Siphoned from lazy lumbering lifespans.
These are lives so quickly forgotten,
Upon the blinding of birth’s awakening,
For which I must now suddenly repay.
Lest I forget and the interest will climb
With exaggerated sets of karmic debt.
And then instantly I find myself homeless,
Happenstance plugged, for the full Dharma sum.

Is this where I get my groove back?
Out among the groves of figs and pears,
In hologram visionary back flashes?
Can I widen, stretch, and bend, beyond
This mortal nebulous hand?
Here where Holidays are over celebrated
With quaint, sentimental soundtracks?
In this large arena of civilized nonsense,
It begs a soul to lose commonsense,
And abandon hope or cave in,
To the dieing dreams erected
From within, this 'Temple Of Man'.
Just say no, and go; exit the amphitheater.

And you the apple of my eye,
Are you this paradise’s serpent,
In disguise, for my demise?
As Eve’s unbridled passion, come hither thighs
Your fruit has ripened and cannot be denied.

And who is this jester tormentor,
This heckling, feckless, Heyoka
That taunts me like a laughing hyena?
His Quicksilver contemptuousness
Is an inherent antagonist
That rearranges my gravitational,
Atomic rotational sphere.

But I am not one to be held down
Or be made the ceremonial clown.
So let me stand up on my soap box
To split the seam of this slender seam
We call by name, our reality.
Lend me you’re your ear so I can clean
Up a few facts, from the past. Listen close,
The truth I pray, may come to bear,
For those who might hear.


This tunnel is dug down so deep
That even with a thousand point floodlight
You may not again see your palm read hand,
Rent forth in front of your,
Dissipated, formless faces.
Fate lies dim and gravely concealed.
'The Devil may care' is concisely wise
In all it states, and when unveiled, might reveal.
Hope's near lost, moreover flung from sight.
Contra to providence's promised entitlement
All bets are off, when you take your stake
When anteing up on your lives investments.

Here I reload my imagination
With rapid fire three round bursts
To reengage a fallen nation.
One caught in disillusion
From this war on everything
That has shredded our constitution.

On our news the residing of names
Tells a tale of thirty-two dead
At the hands of the thirty-third
In a degree of depravity.
One our United States heretofore
Disbelieved, it would one day come to see.
All for naught, In a game well played,
Called 'The willing of the way
Toward self annihilation'.

A bloody ritual has resounded
To keep the April ceremony alive.
Bell’s ring out like atom bombs
In our collective memory halls.

Easter season is always about
The greatest sacrificial, glory.
So let the May pole be raised
Encircled by ribbon bearing maidens, fair.
For fertility rites require their damsel's due.
The Earth turns in time yet again,
And we are but bit players among
The corridors of our generational peers.

Be sure, the rock of ages has not fallen.
In utter silence you will know your calling.
Forfeit all extemporaneous forces.
A candle may still light the world’s torches.
The day is yet young though night will come.
So we must stand at the ready
To answer the bugler’s song.
This tale is old and the list is long
And now has come the time for my curtain call.