Cerberus stalks from the doorstep of death,
flaring immensely terrible teeth at the darkness above
and into the day he gives growling disdain
toward those living in despair, accepting fate
as if it were really absolute as so many say.
“I am the Dog of Athens, Alexander!”
Wait upon the stoop of reluctant instruction,
and howl toward the door, you watchdog of Hell!
Where are we going into the line of history?
This birth from Hegel and Marx synthesized
and the Zeitgeist TURNS ITS HEAD now
until we can see forward again, the world spins…
I followed prints in the sand left by the Wandering Jew
for forty days and forty nights I was lost,
then stumbled on his humble host and
understood where all things stood: underfoot.
Craving shelter in that cave, I asked the nomad’s name.
The drifter responded, simply:
“My name is Rabbi Yeshua bin-Yosef,
I am anointed King of the Jews…”
Destroy your idols, all vulgar sheep!
DESOLATION WILDERNESS
Absurdity, Nothingness, Meaninglessness,
TOHU WA-BOHU.
Love is strong and unbounded, where are you?
Stay with me in Solidarity
As Heracles carries your form
between his broad, bare shoulder-blades
bear your message back like Cerberus
scurries home by the gates of deep Hades
dashing with whimpers and tracks of tripled ash
and bark to all who have ears:
“Hark and hear!” loudly and clear you declare,
“Remember these sounds far across the earth,
for I, like Orpheus the Seeker, sought
and returned empty-handed, yet
I found all that I could need!
You are now as dust, defiled, unwilling,
lost to the hated ways of—Roaming
as in the ancient days of anticipation.”
Once one was my god and all was in him,
yet now are Nietzschean shadows
and everything in the skies gray over
raining upon the regimes of oppressors
and wiping clean the blank slate of collective,
of society evolving, revolving,
unconscious and alive and dreaming to awareness.
“I am called Awakened Gautama,
have established the meaning of life.
My name is Diogenes of Sinope,
Dean Moriarty, Philosopher-King.”
I believe in nothing, in the vagabond dog.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
A Light Misleading
It's a terrible journey this fleeting feeling, of
Lusty longings for the end of absence, of
Ongoing wondering of loaction's torture, of
Vengeful resentment of the ignorance returned, of
Extended misery taken with necessary bliss.
As if trapped in a narrow passage
Of daunting length,
With darkened hue to match your
Still darker heart.
You proceed with hesitation,
tile by sharp tile,
Seeming all the while
You've only trotted in place,
Just like the attemt to
Rid yourself of this blissful grief.
With mechanic movements of
Your lower limbs, they feel
Dismembered and unfeeling.
Knee lags behind leading foot,
As does hip behind knee.
And especially obvious is mind vs body,
The lock of bones broken,
Thoughts as the key.
And, sure, there is a light at the end.
Follow it, for there is nothing else to do.
Its reflection protrudes down the hallway,
Close to you and your desperation,
Yet it only teases your sad exasperation.
For every inch closer,
It retreats the same.
You may never grasp it
For it is meek and lame.
And, sure, you reach the
End, the shaky source of light,
But what you expected was not right,
It's depression you find, not delight,
For it is dully grey, rather than bright,
It is grief that can hardly excite.
And so you've finished this terrible journey, of
Lusty longings for the end of absence, of
Ongoing wondering of location's torture, of
Vengeful resentment of the ignorance returned, of
Extended misery taken with necessary bliss.
Lusty longings for the end of absence, of
Ongoing wondering of loaction's torture, of
Vengeful resentment of the ignorance returned, of
Extended misery taken with necessary bliss.
As if trapped in a narrow passage
Of daunting length,
With darkened hue to match your
Still darker heart.
You proceed with hesitation,
tile by sharp tile,
Seeming all the while
You've only trotted in place,
Just like the attemt to
Rid yourself of this blissful grief.
With mechanic movements of
Your lower limbs, they feel
Dismembered and unfeeling.
Knee lags behind leading foot,
As does hip behind knee.
And especially obvious is mind vs body,
The lock of bones broken,
Thoughts as the key.
And, sure, there is a light at the end.
Follow it, for there is nothing else to do.
Its reflection protrudes down the hallway,
Close to you and your desperation,
Yet it only teases your sad exasperation.
For every inch closer,
It retreats the same.
You may never grasp it
For it is meek and lame.
And, sure, you reach the
End, the shaky source of light,
But what you expected was not right,
It's depression you find, not delight,
For it is dully grey, rather than bright,
It is grief that can hardly excite.
And so you've finished this terrible journey, of
Lusty longings for the end of absence, of
Ongoing wondering of location's torture, of
Vengeful resentment of the ignorance returned, of
Extended misery taken with necessary bliss.
A Patient, Parting Protest
"He speaks his mind like
Any determined man,
Says 'I've got the solution,
I've got a plan.'
And we're eager to hear
His brilliant conclusion,
For as the world is now we
Must clarify our confusion.
He says 'follow me and
I'll lead you to glory',
Ah yes he can, he
Shall tell his story.
No longer is he our companion
But now our uncontested king,
Escalated to the height of
What his promises bring.
He has saved us from
Our sure destruction,
Quickly, lets proceed with
His glorious induction.
How dare you contest
His sure-handed advice,
Bow down to him now
Or pay the ultimate price!
See, there is nothing to
Fear with him at the rein,
Oh that? That I do not
Have to explain.
Oh, you've lost those close to you
Since he has made his diplomatic pact?
Well that's a small price to pay,
The time is now and you must act.
Forget the past, He is present.
Forget your life, for it is His.
Forget god, praise Him instead.
Victory shall be ours and
He shall lead us there,
Forget the others and
Their inferior despair.
You must put your protests
To a hurried end.
No? Well then I suppose
I'll not see you again."
And the protester lived on
Past crisis and depression.
He did not attend the
Other's funeral procession.
Any determined man,
Says 'I've got the solution,
I've got a plan.'
And we're eager to hear
His brilliant conclusion,
For as the world is now we
Must clarify our confusion.
He says 'follow me and
I'll lead you to glory',
Ah yes he can, he
Shall tell his story.
No longer is he our companion
But now our uncontested king,
Escalated to the height of
What his promises bring.
He has saved us from
Our sure destruction,
Quickly, lets proceed with
His glorious induction.
How dare you contest
His sure-handed advice,
Bow down to him now
Or pay the ultimate price!
See, there is nothing to
Fear with him at the rein,
Oh that? That I do not
Have to explain.
Oh, you've lost those close to you
Since he has made his diplomatic pact?
Well that's a small price to pay,
The time is now and you must act.
Forget the past, He is present.
Forget your life, for it is His.
Forget god, praise Him instead.
Victory shall be ours and
He shall lead us there,
Forget the others and
Their inferior despair.
You must put your protests
To a hurried end.
No? Well then I suppose
I'll not see you again."
And the protester lived on
Past crisis and depression.
He did not attend the
Other's funeral procession.
Generation Now
What I think
Does it matter? Does anyone care?
What I know
Is it certain? Ambiguous there.
What I feel
Isn’t tangible, I’ve grown up gray
What I am
Is debatable, have it your way
What I do
Has no impact, I’m one of the crowd
What I want
Changes tune based on what I’m allowed
What I’ll be
Is a mystery, can’t add this sum
And it matters neither what I am
Nor what I’ll become.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Untitled (Part Two): Invocation to the Muse
Note: Somewhat related to "Thou Art God," the poem.
INVOCATION TO THE MUSE
Diogenes stood simultaneously the the left and right of his body, chuckling as force came from half-way in-between the places where he actually stood. The person who had taken the name Rainflower circled and spun around him, giggling and staring into space above his head. Her face radiated in eight directions at once when she made sounds high-pitched and energized like the tree trunks widening and reverting back and forth all around, also in eight directions on the compass with the sun at its sweet-scented center, bright and yellow.
The borders of their vision blurred and spun in time with Rainflower’s voice and exploded into brightly real clarity, and everything was a twisting feathered serpent, Quetzalcouatl rushing through the ring of a rainbow and shining as the paragon of illumination in naturally swirling and sharp waves on the surface of the soul-bond between companions, a spined animal seeing its laughing reflection and losing itself in those waters. Diogenes quivered under the luminous trembling, sometimes unable to breathe because Rainflower’s heart raced so deeply. Sweat and other gratifying odors poured into the trees’ roots and dispersed into the liquid of the sun all around them. Diogenes muttered a name that was lost in the swell and spun away. He assumed it was Rainflower’s.
The serpent-god turned his graceful head toward the sound. Diogenes met his fierce, inhuman gaze and tried to understand the emotion in its eyes. The fork-tongued mouth let out a roar and a scream at the lowest and highest pitches that can be heard, beaming out in all eight directions. A massive feathered tail wrapped around the two people and coiled until they could no longer move. Quetzalcouatl roared on. The companions stared back into his shining eyes that glared back like Nietzsche’s abyss, lighted colors rising from the nether.
They embraced within the god’s grapple and kept on laughing the whole while, shaking still more violently before the great scaly face as it grew lighter and lighter, all its beaming hues fading to white—the color of blindness and of heaven’s fire. His sea became a glow and poured back into the god’s outspread wings until Diogenes’ mind was soaked colorless, and their bodies sank under pressure filling the air and everything within it—the clamp pressed to the limits of the mortal bodies and vaporized into air and light along with the feathered serpent and everything save Rainflower and Diogenes. Even their laughter flashed away.
INVOCATION TO THE MUSE
Diogenes stood simultaneously the the left and right of his body, chuckling as force came from half-way in-between the places where he actually stood. The person who had taken the name Rainflower circled and spun around him, giggling and staring into space above his head. Her face radiated in eight directions at once when she made sounds high-pitched and energized like the tree trunks widening and reverting back and forth all around, also in eight directions on the compass with the sun at its sweet-scented center, bright and yellow.
The borders of their vision blurred and spun in time with Rainflower’s voice and exploded into brightly real clarity, and everything was a twisting feathered serpent, Quetzalcouatl rushing through the ring of a rainbow and shining as the paragon of illumination in naturally swirling and sharp waves on the surface of the soul-bond between companions, a spined animal seeing its laughing reflection and losing itself in those waters. Diogenes quivered under the luminous trembling, sometimes unable to breathe because Rainflower’s heart raced so deeply. Sweat and other gratifying odors poured into the trees’ roots and dispersed into the liquid of the sun all around them. Diogenes muttered a name that was lost in the swell and spun away. He assumed it was Rainflower’s.
The serpent-god turned his graceful head toward the sound. Diogenes met his fierce, inhuman gaze and tried to understand the emotion in its eyes. The fork-tongued mouth let out a roar and a scream at the lowest and highest pitches that can be heard, beaming out in all eight directions. A massive feathered tail wrapped around the two people and coiled until they could no longer move. Quetzalcouatl roared on. The companions stared back into his shining eyes that glared back like Nietzsche’s abyss, lighted colors rising from the nether.
They embraced within the god’s grapple and kept on laughing the whole while, shaking still more violently before the great scaly face as it grew lighter and lighter, all its beaming hues fading to white—the color of blindness and of heaven’s fire. His sea became a glow and poured back into the god’s outspread wings until Diogenes’ mind was soaked colorless, and their bodies sank under pressure filling the air and everything within it—the clamp pressed to the limits of the mortal bodies and vaporized into air and light along with the feathered serpent and everything save Rainflower and Diogenes. Even their laughter flashed away.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Untitled (Part One): L'existence précède l'essence
PREFACE
What follows is the beginning of a series of writings begun on paper over a month ago. I'm still working on a title since each section is very different in subject (and length), although there are a few common themes that come up. Some are more personal and some are even more surreal. This one, the beginning, is more anecdotal and philosophical. Lector caveat.
L’EXISTENCE PRÉCÈDE L’ESSENCE
The ancients claimed that names hold power over an individual’s soul, and that knowing one’s true name opens the door to their ego, set apart and sanctified from the universe at large in a sea of cosmic consciousness common to every being in existence—and speaking an otherwise meaningless moniker draws together the fabric of creation to form an entity. In the same way magicians and wonderworkers and high priests call on the high powers that birthed our race to draw near and touch the world with their archetypal footsteps across the minds of all who have sentience, or so it is said.
My name is Diogenes.
I once met a wise man who might be a sage, though not even the gods know for sure, only the man himself. Many in the course of history have passed as sages and led people astray into believing so while they rightly were not. But many more remained silent, understanding that no other can certainly know what title they deserve. The man I met did not care either way because he was too concerned with finding his identity; somewhere along the way he dissociated his ego from selfhood and his name became meaningless to him. When I asked what to call him, he shrugged his thin shoulders, shook his long red head, and said, “Anything you want.” His companions said he was called Menelaus. The ancients would have called a warrior-kind the same; but of course they would have thought me to be a rebellious beggar, a barking stray dog.
A mutual friend who always catches my attention added his given name, “his slave name.” In a way we are all given slave names, whether former slaves or depersonalized or both or neither. Anything binding makes slaves. Given addresses leave no choice in one’s own identity, which makes them powerless beyond what society credits them with, like laws or money. There is no doubt in their reality—after all, society does exist to lend them influence. The real use of our chains lies in protection, for masters do wise to care for their slaves; in the same way I use my given name to protect myself from tainting influences of social demands. These only see a slave, and so I remain free.
The thoughts rushing through my mouth largely missed their target. Menelaus (if that is his name after all) was still busy wondering who he was, and I realized then that most of my companions had not revealed their self-discovered titles to me. Astoundingly, most people don’t know for themselves, or else relinquish authority to what has been placed upon them by others and not by experience, which is the key to the soul. The soul of Menelaus kept pacing in contemplation by the water, roaming the vast universe in the seas of consciousness.
What follows is the beginning of a series of writings begun on paper over a month ago. I'm still working on a title since each section is very different in subject (and length), although there are a few common themes that come up. Some are more personal and some are even more surreal. This one, the beginning, is more anecdotal and philosophical. Lector caveat.
L’EXISTENCE PRÉCÈDE L’ESSENCE
The ancients claimed that names hold power over an individual’s soul, and that knowing one’s true name opens the door to their ego, set apart and sanctified from the universe at large in a sea of cosmic consciousness common to every being in existence—and speaking an otherwise meaningless moniker draws together the fabric of creation to form an entity. In the same way magicians and wonderworkers and high priests call on the high powers that birthed our race to draw near and touch the world with their archetypal footsteps across the minds of all who have sentience, or so it is said.
My name is Diogenes.
I once met a wise man who might be a sage, though not even the gods know for sure, only the man himself. Many in the course of history have passed as sages and led people astray into believing so while they rightly were not. But many more remained silent, understanding that no other can certainly know what title they deserve. The man I met did not care either way because he was too concerned with finding his identity; somewhere along the way he dissociated his ego from selfhood and his name became meaningless to him. When I asked what to call him, he shrugged his thin shoulders, shook his long red head, and said, “Anything you want.” His companions said he was called Menelaus. The ancients would have called a warrior-kind the same; but of course they would have thought me to be a rebellious beggar, a barking stray dog.
A mutual friend who always catches my attention added his given name, “his slave name.” In a way we are all given slave names, whether former slaves or depersonalized or both or neither. Anything binding makes slaves. Given addresses leave no choice in one’s own identity, which makes them powerless beyond what society credits them with, like laws or money. There is no doubt in their reality—after all, society does exist to lend them influence. The real use of our chains lies in protection, for masters do wise to care for their slaves; in the same way I use my given name to protect myself from tainting influences of social demands. These only see a slave, and so I remain free.
The thoughts rushing through my mouth largely missed their target. Menelaus (if that is his name after all) was still busy wondering who he was, and I realized then that most of my companions had not revealed their self-discovered titles to me. Astoundingly, most people don’t know for themselves, or else relinquish authority to what has been placed upon them by others and not by experience, which is the key to the soul. The soul of Menelaus kept pacing in contemplation by the water, roaming the vast universe in the seas of consciousness.
Knocking Numb
You read now the
Words I write.
Are you paying attention?
Are you comprehending
Or merely spectating,
With your mind elsewhere
In its own realm of thought?
For as I read the words
I write, I lose myself
In nothingness.
They mean nothing.
As I read, not read,
But rather see,
My mind embarks on
A journey of worry and fret,
Yet of insignificance and
Distant doubt.
And in the wake
Of this shaky trip
I find a muscle left still
Numb
At the center of
All I derive.
A hole between
Each half of
Successive bone,
Successive bone
Meant to protect the throne
Upon which my very life sits,
Awaiting now with
Numb discomfort.
And yet the mind knows the
Heart's cure, but the heart is
Simply too unsure of the
Ever agonizing allure of its desire.
Thump........Thump.
The name appears and
The heart springs to life,
As does the lurking line pulled
Taut by the elusive fish.
Neither numb nor knocking
Is a comforting heart.
Thump........Thump
Words I write.
Are you paying attention?
Are you comprehending
Or merely spectating,
With your mind elsewhere
In its own realm of thought?
For as I read the words
I write, I lose myself
In nothingness.
They mean nothing.
As I read, not read,
But rather see,
My mind embarks on
A journey of worry and fret,
Yet of insignificance and
Distant doubt.
And in the wake
Of this shaky trip
I find a muscle left still
Numb
At the center of
All I derive.
A hole between
Each half of
Successive bone,
Successive bone
Meant to protect the throne
Upon which my very life sits,
Awaiting now with
Numb discomfort.
And yet the mind knows the
Heart's cure, but the heart is
Simply too unsure of the
Ever agonizing allure of its desire.
Thump........Thump.
The name appears and
The heart springs to life,
As does the lurking line pulled
Taut by the elusive fish.
Neither numb nor knocking
Is a comforting heart.
Thump........Thump
Monday, September 27, 2010
Seasonal Attractions
The sun, stranger that he had been,
Made himself visible today
Soon to be the end of my rainy nights
Yet despite his proximity, the sun was otherwise…
Occupied
His absence had removed the blinding light
From my fragile eyes
And I wondered at my motivations
The warmth of the sun’s attention had been…
Magnetic
I revolved, mindlessly phototropic
Every action, every word, every thought
Directed towards and in reaction to his movements
The sun pulled me, and I followed, almost…
Thoughtlessly
But when his warmth passes on,
For winter approaches too quickly,
Will I yearn for his light as I should?
Or revel in the touch of the cold, dark night…
Fickle?
And will the sun, brightly shining, essence of warmth
Ever turn his gaze to me again?
I doubt he, in his glory, ever saw my hopeless
Longing. Today his light dazzled my senses
While I kept the sun in the dark.
Made himself visible today
Soon to be the end of my rainy nights
Yet despite his proximity, the sun was otherwise…
Occupied
His absence had removed the blinding light
From my fragile eyes
And I wondered at my motivations
The warmth of the sun’s attention had been…
Magnetic
I revolved, mindlessly phototropic
Every action, every word, every thought
Directed towards and in reaction to his movements
The sun pulled me, and I followed, almost…
Thoughtlessly
But when his warmth passes on,
For winter approaches too quickly,
Will I yearn for his light as I should?
Or revel in the touch of the cold, dark night…
Fickle?
And will the sun, brightly shining, essence of warmth
Ever turn his gaze to me again?
I doubt he, in his glory, ever saw my hopeless
Longing. Today his light dazzled my senses
While I kept the sun in the dark.
Obsession
Blink. Breathe. Stop!
A shift at the corner of my vision
Think. Interpret. Dissect.
Still, just a shift
And yet…
Drip. Drip. Drop.
The rain starts to fall,
Obscuring my vision.
I hardly notice.
My mind is elsewhere,
Traveling
Through the past,
The moments.
But the evidence!
My heart screams desperately.
All is inconclusive.
My mind calls it circumstantial.
Coincidence.
You Honor, the witness is
Speculating.
A shift at the corner of my vision
Think. Interpret. Dissect.
Still, just a shift
And yet…
Drip. Drip. Drop.
The rain starts to fall,
Obscuring my vision.
I hardly notice.
My mind is elsewhere,
Traveling
Through the past,
The moments.
But the evidence!
My heart screams desperately.
All is inconclusive.
My mind calls it circumstantial.
Coincidence.
You Honor, the witness is
Speculating.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Nightmare
(This is intended to be a response to another poem.)
Dreams, oh fleeting dreams.
I float about within them
On a journey of remarkable fun.
Images of pure fantasy
In a world with constant sun.
Drifting desultory with
Absolutely no regret,
Her face appears amongst
The clouds assuring me there
Is no cause to fret.
The trees grow tall.
Apple to orange,
Orange to pear.
Yet how peculiar that
Tree appears so bare.
As if its bell-like
Fruits have abandoned it,
Alone and in despair.
Poor tree left by itself,
Left incomplete as
A solitary sorrow,
A happy whole made wholly half.
And my how I now feel
Odd. Something has changed.
Perhaps my subconscious has
Played its trick,
But my once soft cushion
Now feels brick.
Where has that warm pulsing gone,
Away from my wanting head.
The sun is dim.
The trees are dead.
This dream is now a nightmare.
Dreams, oh fleeting dreams.
I float about within them
On a journey of remarkable fun.
Images of pure fantasy
In a world with constant sun.
Drifting desultory with
Absolutely no regret,
Her face appears amongst
The clouds assuring me there
Is no cause to fret.
The trees grow tall.
Apple to orange,
Orange to pear.
Yet how peculiar that
Tree appears so bare.
As if its bell-like
Fruits have abandoned it,
Alone and in despair.
Poor tree left by itself,
Left incomplete as
A solitary sorrow,
A happy whole made wholly half.
And my how I now feel
Odd. Something has changed.
Perhaps my subconscious has
Played its trick,
But my once soft cushion
Now feels brick.
Where has that warm pulsing gone,
Away from my wanting head.
The sun is dim.
The trees are dead.
This dream is now a nightmare.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
War Games
Oh, lend an ear, come down from your throne,
Systematically stepping over the remains
Of wasted men, festering with deceased desires long lost,
Neglected hope.
Sweet, deceitful devil,
Daring flashes, falling on me like ashes
So softly subtle
Reflecting like
Emeralds in a small pocket of a room
Full of mirrors and no
Doors. No escape
Shall I? No, diplomacy is the game
Which lovers try to play.
We are not there. Nor close, sadly
(Refusing to fall to my knees)
Let me amend your constitution,
Lay down the law.
Not a revolution, simple solution,
So your elegant grace can be cured of its only flaw.
How those glances, teasing chances,
Words still mocking, blocking
Creating a gaping chasm, plunging into the deep darkness
Intangible,
Out of grasp, straining
Reaching for some feeling
Shut up in some ancient chest
Holding the truth.
Glaring condescendingly from that watchful tower,
I am here at the bottom, holding the key.
Your deception has been duped
By mine.
Take it as you will,
Shrinking from that abhorred pill,
Match you step by step
Efforts to bring you closer
To my sphere of influence.
Oh, but why bother,
Trying to change your mind,
You can rise above those mere mortals
Acting under some forced persona
Suffocating in the stale sarcastic air.
Systematically stepping over the remains
Of wasted men, festering with deceased desires long lost,
Neglected hope.
Sweet, deceitful devil,
Daring flashes, falling on me like ashes
So softly subtle
Reflecting like
Emeralds in a small pocket of a room
Full of mirrors and no
Doors. No escape
Shall I? No, diplomacy is the game
Which lovers try to play.
We are not there. Nor close, sadly
(Refusing to fall to my knees)
Let me amend your constitution,
Lay down the law.
Not a revolution, simple solution,
So your elegant grace can be cured of its only flaw.
How those glances, teasing chances,
Words still mocking, blocking
Creating a gaping chasm, plunging into the deep darkness
Intangible,
Out of grasp, straining
Reaching for some feeling
Shut up in some ancient chest
Holding the truth.
Glaring condescendingly from that watchful tower,
I am here at the bottom, holding the key.
Your deception has been duped
By mine.
Take it as you will,
Shrinking from that abhorred pill,
Match you step by step
Efforts to bring you closer
To my sphere of influence.
Oh, but why bother,
Trying to change your mind,
You can rise above those mere mortals
Acting under some forced persona
Suffocating in the stale sarcastic air.
Inescapable
Take flight!
Everything rushing all around
me. I run and run and run
But never can escape.
To arms!
I fire everything I've got
As fiery blasts explode brightly,
Surrounding, consuming me in flames,
But leave no visible mark.
En garde!
I swing a mental rapier,
Slashing this way and that
In the impenetrable darkness that surrounds me
And yet I hear no clang, feel no resistance-
Just steel through empty air.
I try to run again,
But never fast enough,
For I cannot escape the the thought
Of you.
Everything rushing all around
me. I run and run and run
But never can escape.
To arms!
I fire everything I've got
As fiery blasts explode brightly,
Surrounding, consuming me in flames,
But leave no visible mark.
En garde!
I swing a mental rapier,
Slashing this way and that
In the impenetrable darkness that surrounds me
And yet I hear no clang, feel no resistance-
Just steel through empty air.
I try to run again,
But never fast enough,
For I cannot escape the the thought
Of you.
Cold
What is a face but the projection of a mind?
Nothing more I can venture to say.
And your face,
With its seductive charm,
Exudes an element of
Intimidating intricacy.
Fiendishly you forge yourself.
It truly is a beautiful thing.
The curling lip and swirling eye
Giving me a terrifying sense of
Uneasiness.
Heart thumps wild, hairs stand tall,
Muscles tense tight, yet mind trumps all.
A bright shining light of wicked
Warmth demanding attention:
"Look at I and no other. Me. Me. Me."
A heat of passing passion.
My how you're cold to the touch.
Nothing more I can venture to say.
And your face,
With its seductive charm,
Exudes an element of
Intimidating intricacy.
Fiendishly you forge yourself.
It truly is a beautiful thing.
The curling lip and swirling eye
Giving me a terrifying sense of
Uneasiness.
Heart thumps wild, hairs stand tall,
Muscles tense tight, yet mind trumps all.
A bright shining light of wicked
Warmth demanding attention:
"Look at I and no other. Me. Me. Me."
A heat of passing passion.
My how you're cold to the touch.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Reminder
You and I
Never were
on
the
same
page,
But
That's hardly the point.
Flagrantly waltzing through that fateful door,
Your charm (?) wafting,
Spilling throughout that cramped room,
Carrying a strange stench from lies long ago.
Who knows your claim to fame?
Hindsight.
Perhaps, objectively witnessing your wake of destruction
Whispering as you walked on by.
I have built my wall,
Just so I could view you from the other side
Is that disdain? (I think I see it)
I am safe, though. (I can't let her see me)
Our eyes met, just a heartbeat's length,
But longer in essence.
Split-second struggle.
For that is all we will ever have.
Never were
on
the
same
page,
But
That's hardly the point.
Flagrantly waltzing through that fateful door,
Your charm (?) wafting,
Spilling throughout that cramped room,
Carrying a strange stench from lies long ago.
Who knows your claim to fame?
Hindsight.
Perhaps, objectively witnessing your wake of destruction
Whispering as you walked on by.
I have built my wall,
Just so I could view you from the other side
Is that disdain? (I think I see it)
I am safe, though. (I can't let her see me)
Our eyes met, just a heartbeat's length,
But longer in essence.
Split-second struggle.
For that is all we will ever have.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Brave Boys of the Sea
With a flat upon the horizon
And a wind from the rear,
The captain set off stocked
With ample bait and gear.
His crew of burly boaters
Half asleep with groggy eyes
Were busy below deck
Preparing for their prize.
For the fish were ripe
For a sturdy enough crew,
And right were his men,
The captain just knew.
But with days slipping by
Into an irretrievable past,
Tension ran high and
The boys were aghast.
Homesick and tired
They made aware their issue,
Displeasing the captain;
To give up he did not wish to.
Then as if by the hand of Poseidon
The fish began their frenzied fight.
No hook left untampered,
No fish refused to bite.
And joy ran across
Both the faces and the hearts
Of each man on the vessel,
Proud of their playing parts.
Fish filled the anglers' ship
From stern to steady bow,
The bait was surely working
And it mattered not how.
Voyage home was on the cusp,
Both captain and crew satisfied,
But the tide shifted quickly
And fear they could not hide.
The sky turned dark
On either side they looked.
A pillaging purple precipice
Was being deviously cooked.
"Cap, be careful", crackled the
Radio with a woman's voice of concern.
"I will", replied the captain,
Money to make, respect to earn.
So into the darkness
The boat trudged on,
Leaving behind a fading light
And any hope for dawn.
Soon the sun disappeared
And the rain fell hard.
The wind whipped wicked
And the sea's calm was marred.
The small boat swayed
With violent instability,
While the cap' fought
Back with a humble humility.
But the odds were slim
In that sea white with foam,
The minds of the men
Filled with family back home.
And like a child separated
From the sight of his parent,
The realization of death
Became increasingly apparent.
For the waves rolled high
And the sky remained black,
So with the future in question
They could only look back.
Surrounded they were
By an air of sure death,
As they gasped with trouble
For precious needed breath.
Then with no warning
The boat flipped on its crew so brave,
A force from above had shaped
Into a treacherous rogue wave.
Down they sank
Sorrowfully slow,
No more could they see
The surface's subtle glow.
Destined were they
To rest on an ocean floor,
With no designation
Like on the familiar sands of shore.
But destined they were, too,
To an immortal living legend:
The brave boys of the sea
Who fought to a valiant, noble end.
Their silent spirits in the sea remain
In memory and honor, but never to disdain.
And a wind from the rear,
The captain set off stocked
With ample bait and gear.
His crew of burly boaters
Half asleep with groggy eyes
Were busy below deck
Preparing for their prize.
For the fish were ripe
For a sturdy enough crew,
And right were his men,
The captain just knew.
But with days slipping by
Into an irretrievable past,
Tension ran high and
The boys were aghast.
Homesick and tired
They made aware their issue,
Displeasing the captain;
To give up he did not wish to.
Then as if by the hand of Poseidon
The fish began their frenzied fight.
No hook left untampered,
No fish refused to bite.
And joy ran across
Both the faces and the hearts
Of each man on the vessel,
Proud of their playing parts.
Fish filled the anglers' ship
From stern to steady bow,
The bait was surely working
And it mattered not how.
Voyage home was on the cusp,
Both captain and crew satisfied,
But the tide shifted quickly
And fear they could not hide.
The sky turned dark
On either side they looked.
A pillaging purple precipice
Was being deviously cooked.
"Cap, be careful", crackled the
Radio with a woman's voice of concern.
"I will", replied the captain,
Money to make, respect to earn.
So into the darkness
The boat trudged on,
Leaving behind a fading light
And any hope for dawn.
Soon the sun disappeared
And the rain fell hard.
The wind whipped wicked
And the sea's calm was marred.
The small boat swayed
With violent instability,
While the cap' fought
Back with a humble humility.
But the odds were slim
In that sea white with foam,
The minds of the men
Filled with family back home.
And like a child separated
From the sight of his parent,
The realization of death
Became increasingly apparent.
For the waves rolled high
And the sky remained black,
So with the future in question
They could only look back.
Surrounded they were
By an air of sure death,
As they gasped with trouble
For precious needed breath.
Then with no warning
The boat flipped on its crew so brave,
A force from above had shaped
Into a treacherous rogue wave.
Down they sank
Sorrowfully slow,
No more could they see
The surface's subtle glow.
Destined were they
To rest on an ocean floor,
With no designation
Like on the familiar sands of shore.
But destined they were, too,
To an immortal living legend:
The brave boys of the sea
Who fought to a valiant, noble end.
Their silent spirits in the sea remain
In memory and honor, but never to disdain.
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Stone
It starts. Momentum builds
Slowly
Then faster,
It travels, at the whim of its grooves
And its path.
Acceleration
(not constant, it’s more like erratic)
There’s no understanding its
Galloping math.
Equations are subject
To irrational moments;
In the slop-driven swarming
Of driveling minds.
The stone keeps pursuing,
Resilient and senseless,
It chips and it cracks, and
Then onward it grinds.
The sensory images
Allblendtogether
And start not to matter;
The stone is worn smooth.
Finally, the stone falls off the face of the earth.
Nobody notices.
Bliss.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Barking at the Agora
Shout and receive me!
You are the betrayer, I the failed savior,
and my martyred grasp gives solace
solely to myself before the final fall of death
where mutilation early arrives
screaming from the skies,
marking this holy eve in time forever.
Invite all through doors of desire!
Impossible implications deny your soul elevation:
Plato, paying court to mortal kingly beings
with feasts of wine and olives and gold,
truly you are the royal fool as you play
the harp of temporal possessions,
praying for material gain.
Your abuse of sacraments abhors
any hope for even an empty redemption,
No angel nor sage can save slacking minds,
unwilling to lift a finger for reconnection
and odious to all allies!
Your rage is unwarranted, your face assaulted
by the heaving hand of Bacchus himself, in desire
so angered that my mind accepts such punishment
also undeserving of the fatal lash he gives gracefully,
until Cupid cradles another in his pale eyes
laughing and thrashing his arms, bow-in-hand
slashing from afar an unsuspecting seeker,
Searching for what? In hell, you see,
your heated feet flee from his furious strike
quivering, trembling, quaking, too afraid
to allow another to reach out and take you in.
Misery comes to Maenads and despair to Dionysus…
Grip your arms around the Maypole,
dance the ribbons and throw away all sanity!
When does the dark one die?
Only once he takes you too.
You are the betrayer, I the failed savior,
and my martyred grasp gives solace
solely to myself before the final fall of death
where mutilation early arrives
screaming from the skies,
marking this holy eve in time forever.
Invite all through doors of desire!
Impossible implications deny your soul elevation:
Plato, paying court to mortal kingly beings
with feasts of wine and olives and gold,
truly you are the royal fool as you play
the harp of temporal possessions,
praying for material gain.
Your abuse of sacraments abhors
any hope for even an empty redemption,
No angel nor sage can save slacking minds,
unwilling to lift a finger for reconnection
and odious to all allies!
Your rage is unwarranted, your face assaulted
by the heaving hand of Bacchus himself, in desire
so angered that my mind accepts such punishment
also undeserving of the fatal lash he gives gracefully,
until Cupid cradles another in his pale eyes
laughing and thrashing his arms, bow-in-hand
slashing from afar an unsuspecting seeker,
Searching for what? In hell, you see,
your heated feet flee from his furious strike
quivering, trembling, quaking, too afraid
to allow another to reach out and take you in.
Misery comes to Maenads and despair to Dionysus…
Grip your arms around the Maypole,
dance the ribbons and throw away all sanity!
When does the dark one die?
Only once he takes you too.
The Music Clouds Your Eyes
Turn away to the
Safety of yourself,
Where the meeting of walls
Gives your division its stealth.
Undo the knots that
Create the sturdy shield
Behind which you hide
The reluctant weapon you wield.
Claim that I'm crazy,
That I've lost it down the drain,
That I'm virtually impossible to
Address as safe and sane.
But I know I'm right
And it's causing you your pain.
And if this contradiction
You choose to fool-endorse,
Let anger hide the longing
Of its unforgiving source.
Label me the derogative,
It matters not to me,
For in the life I've got to live
You are not priority.
So turn the music up, its chaotic chorus
Clouds your calloused mind.
But do not expect me to sympathize
When you're hit by what you heard not coming,
The truth is right before your eyes,
Why must you keep on running?
Safety of yourself,
Where the meeting of walls
Gives your division its stealth.
Undo the knots that
Create the sturdy shield
Behind which you hide
The reluctant weapon you wield.
Claim that I'm crazy,
That I've lost it down the drain,
That I'm virtually impossible to
Address as safe and sane.
But I know I'm right
And it's causing you your pain.
And if this contradiction
You choose to fool-endorse,
Let anger hide the longing
Of its unforgiving source.
Label me the derogative,
It matters not to me,
For in the life I've got to live
You are not priority.
So turn the music up, its chaotic chorus
Clouds your calloused mind.
But do not expect me to sympathize
When you're hit by what you heard not coming,
The truth is right before your eyes,
Why must you keep on running?
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Chief Inquisitor
Not quite content with silent, calm contempt,
You choose to ignore contradictions and
You dare not even make a slight attempt
To get to know both sides or understand.
The more disdain and scorn that you display
The more I know I’m living the right way.
“A crime has been committed here today,”
The Chief Inquisitor declared aloud,
Then paused as if to think, turned back to say:
“And clearly it was that dumb drunk! McCloud,
I think, is that immoral villain’s name!
He and his kind are nothing but a blight!”
His name’s, in fact, St. Cloud, and what a shame,
For he’d been dead there on the ground all night.
You choose to ignore contradictions and
You dare not even make a slight attempt
To get to know both sides or understand.
The more disdain and scorn that you display
The more I know I’m living the right way.
“A crime has been committed here today,”
The Chief Inquisitor declared aloud,
Then paused as if to think, turned back to say:
“And clearly it was that dumb drunk! McCloud,
I think, is that immoral villain’s name!
He and his kind are nothing but a blight!”
His name’s, in fact, St. Cloud, and what a shame,
For he’d been dead there on the ground all night.
Thou Art God
Rainflowers shedding petals as Solomon in robes
I look upon his starry seal that I may name these daemons
Hekaté in three evokes and conjures out from me:
“Rend Open, Surrender!”
within her my prayer into the night-stained air,
“Namasté”
riding the waves from which
Love herself sprang forth
pulsating orbs, laying her holy-form
worn stretched upon the lonesome shore.
Convene in these, the Trinities,
divinities here in the clearing we meet…
The Kingdom of God?
It is passing in peace
like the victorious King walking in the wilderness
covers his holy-form from mortals
while we cover up the hallowed hollows out-looking.
I am afraid, my love—are you one so-called?
Where your new-excited smile and my affection join
in that fluid moment of low viscosity
between our arms and flushed faces, joining
at the pinnacle of soul-seeing into your eyes,
they are green like the sea of previous yearning
upon my chest as I lie on yours now
I fear for fate’s sake, later gazing on your face
what arises in your sanctified eyes?
I slide across those slender limbs and stroke the surface
of that holy-form of only hers
so smooth and delighted, she smiles bright
in keeping with my efforts to Breathe Across them
teasing, toss the Transpiration
Spirited Over, heaving
blowing in the undulation.
And now this beach no longer barren
wonders where its gulls have gone
amidst the washing rumble and its sand…
Laying down a flaming blade,
the Gate of Eden waits beneath.
I look upon his starry seal that I may name these daemons
Hekaté in three evokes and conjures out from me:
“Rend Open, Surrender!”
within her my prayer into the night-stained air,
“Namasté”
riding the waves from which
Love herself sprang forth
pulsating orbs, laying her holy-form
worn stretched upon the lonesome shore.
Convene in these, the Trinities,
divinities here in the clearing we meet…
The Kingdom of God?
It is passing in peace
like the victorious King walking in the wilderness
covers his holy-form from mortals
while we cover up the hallowed hollows out-looking.
I am afraid, my love—are you one so-called?
Where your new-excited smile and my affection join
in that fluid moment of low viscosity
between our arms and flushed faces, joining
at the pinnacle of soul-seeing into your eyes,
they are green like the sea of previous yearning
upon my chest as I lie on yours now
I fear for fate’s sake, later gazing on your face
what arises in your sanctified eyes?
I slide across those slender limbs and stroke the surface
of that holy-form of only hers
so smooth and delighted, she smiles bright
in keeping with my efforts to Breathe Across them
teasing, toss the Transpiration
Spirited Over, heaving
blowing in the undulation.
And now this beach no longer barren
wonders where its gulls have gone
amidst the washing rumble and its sand…
Laying down a flaming blade,
the Gate of Eden waits beneath.
Path Paved New
Cyclical and cynical is
A life of bore and pain,
That fails to break from
The path of the straight and narrow lane.
You may run from the
Dangers that follow close behind,
But one way to what's ahead
Leaves no refuge for you to find.
Every day your eyes
Spy first that wholly evil thing,
Which exudes more pain and struggle
Than hell could ever bring.
Slowly with reluctance
That knowledge you do swallow,
To digest in a gut once
Solid, now sadly hollow.
Instead this time of
Submitting undue toll,
Repay the beast with
What it from you stole.
Slow down none but
Move with quicker pace
Until angst is in its eyes,
And fear is on its face.
Run hard and fast
And break on through the wall,
The funnel that leads dumb
Cattle to their fatal, final fall.
Leave behind this life mundane,
Of effort given just to feign
A happiness within the pain
That plagues and storms without
So much as a single drop of rain.
A new life found, a new path taken.
Gone from insanity of monotonous tone.
Escape to a world free of fences and bounds,
Where the setting of the sun
Means not the cycle goes on 'round.
Instead look to the moon
And pave your path as you please,
Eyes searching forward, you're
Merely a scent in the breeze,
Giving those left behind
Refuge in the hopes of ease.
A life of bore and pain,
That fails to break from
The path of the straight and narrow lane.
You may run from the
Dangers that follow close behind,
But one way to what's ahead
Leaves no refuge for you to find.
Every day your eyes
Spy first that wholly evil thing,
Which exudes more pain and struggle
Than hell could ever bring.
Slowly with reluctance
That knowledge you do swallow,
To digest in a gut once
Solid, now sadly hollow.
Instead this time of
Submitting undue toll,
Repay the beast with
What it from you stole.
Slow down none but
Move with quicker pace
Until angst is in its eyes,
And fear is on its face.
Run hard and fast
And break on through the wall,
The funnel that leads dumb
Cattle to their fatal, final fall.
Leave behind this life mundane,
Of effort given just to feign
A happiness within the pain
That plagues and storms without
So much as a single drop of rain.
A new life found, a new path taken.
Gone from insanity of monotonous tone.
Escape to a world free of fences and bounds,
Where the setting of the sun
Means not the cycle goes on 'round.
Instead look to the moon
And pave your path as you please,
Eyes searching forward, you're
Merely a scent in the breeze,
Giving those left behind
Refuge in the hopes of ease.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
That Godly Bottle
Sit back in your
Villainous chair,
And think quietly with
That subtle smirking stare.
On the table rests the bottle
Marked with dirt and grime,
And not far away its shorter
Bretheren of conscientious slime.
Together you three form
A cunning, cruel alliance,
Stemming from the reaches
Of your sinister defiance.
Pour a drink and
Sip it slow,
Indulge yourself in
That luscious liquid's flow.
Down your throat into
The pit of hell
Where guilt you
Know all too well.
Fill the glass once again and
Drain it faster than before.
You're a weak worthless slave,
An obediant submissive whore.
The glass has become a hindrance
So rid yourself of it now,
For the bottle has become your god.
Sip, then gulp, then kneel, then bow.
Now remember the days of old
When you took a mighty charge,
When you, and only you,
Were the active force at large,
(You had no one and nothing left to praise.)
Remember them in length
And appreciate them much,
For the future is dangerously
Dependent on that crucially crippled crutch.
More becomes less,
Highs become low.
Perhaps whisky was indeed
The better way to go.
Villainous chair,
And think quietly with
That subtle smirking stare.
On the table rests the bottle
Marked with dirt and grime,
And not far away its shorter
Bretheren of conscientious slime.
Together you three form
A cunning, cruel alliance,
Stemming from the reaches
Of your sinister defiance.
Pour a drink and
Sip it slow,
Indulge yourself in
That luscious liquid's flow.
Down your throat into
The pit of hell
Where guilt you
Know all too well.
Fill the glass once again and
Drain it faster than before.
You're a weak worthless slave,
An obediant submissive whore.
The glass has become a hindrance
So rid yourself of it now,
For the bottle has become your god.
Sip, then gulp, then kneel, then bow.
Now remember the days of old
When you took a mighty charge,
When you, and only you,
Were the active force at large,
(You had no one and nothing left to praise.)
Remember them in length
And appreciate them much,
For the future is dangerously
Dependent on that crucially crippled crutch.
More becomes less,
Highs become low.
Perhaps whisky was indeed
The better way to go.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Path
My walk is steady, yours seems to stumble
Upon this ambiguous, unknown terrain
No marks to lead, no path to follow
Not much to lose, not much to gain
The morning breeze is sweet; it cools
The wear-worn creases of travelers' feet
We walk together, simply because
The turns of our journeys just happened to meet
But the heat grows stronger, like a test
Of determination upon this desert quest
I need to sit, I want to rest
But can't stop myself from going on
The treasure's somewhere; glistening gold
And gems; but secrets here lay buried, too
My unspoken fear makes sense to me;
I need to find it and dig it all up before you.
I dont think you're unworthy of trust
I just tend to be picky when guarding my own
Given the choices, together or sure,
I prefer going my way and being alone.
Upon this ambiguous, unknown terrain
No marks to lead, no path to follow
Not much to lose, not much to gain
The morning breeze is sweet; it cools
The wear-worn creases of travelers' feet
We walk together, simply because
The turns of our journeys just happened to meet
But the heat grows stronger, like a test
Of determination upon this desert quest
I need to sit, I want to rest
But can't stop myself from going on
The treasure's somewhere; glistening gold
And gems; but secrets here lay buried, too
My unspoken fear makes sense to me;
I need to find it and dig it all up before you.
I dont think you're unworthy of trust
I just tend to be picky when guarding my own
Given the choices, together or sure,
I prefer going my way and being alone.
Cipher
Intangible and disconcerting
But I know it's not just in my head
It's not routine, but then what is it?
Like soggy socks, discomforting dread
Don't want to rush, misidentification
Could bite me later (not worth the cost)
I wait and watch. This clock ticks slowly...
A minute wasted, opportunity lost
Cautious; careful; not willing to risk
But troubled because I know something is wrong
Is it jaded to think I'm imagining this?
Frame of reference; I move along
As you stay still, your vitruvian portrait
Helpless and powerful, what should I do?
You give me some clues to help solve this enigma
Paranoia takes over, I fear they're untrue
Or maybe our levels are just incompatible
Meaning distorts and I don't have the key
But this cipher's impossible, Can't solve this riddle
And though you think it's clear, well, it's madness to me.
But I know it's not just in my head
It's not routine, but then what is it?
Like soggy socks, discomforting dread
Don't want to rush, misidentification
Could bite me later (not worth the cost)
I wait and watch. This clock ticks slowly...
A minute wasted, opportunity lost
Cautious; careful; not willing to risk
But troubled because I know something is wrong
Is it jaded to think I'm imagining this?
Frame of reference; I move along
As you stay still, your vitruvian portrait
Helpless and powerful, what should I do?
You give me some clues to help solve this enigma
Paranoia takes over, I fear they're untrue
Or maybe our levels are just incompatible
Meaning distorts and I don't have the key
But this cipher's impossible, Can't solve this riddle
And though you think it's clear, well, it's madness to me.
Oh Well
Inspiration hits as minds meet on a separate plane
It's amazing when encounters provide such a gain
Universal, no question of translation required
Like taking steps after your feet have been mired
For ages, but what does this spark indicate?
The timing seems wrong; I'm entrenched, we should wait
I'm ahead of myself, I don't know how you see it
If you aren't feeling it, I'll deal; so be it
I know; neither should I; but how can I prevent it?
I knew I had limited time, but I've spent it
On superficialities; things I regret now
I know I should stop; but I seem to forget how
To function as higher; I've been swimming shallow
But I want to go deeper, and they're far too callow...
Disgusted sometimes with the mindless assuming
They do constantly; life is a fire, they're consuming
The leaves and the garbage that burn leaving disaster
I need cleaner fuel; my mind wants to go faster
But exteriors exert way more toll than they should
How I want to break free into something that's good
For my mind, as well as my person; it's tough
Realizing what you wanted isn't nearly enough
Living for others is like living in chains
What they want is one way; I need two separate lanes
Because the path is quite winding; it twists and it turns
I should probably be happy; but I can't, my heart yearns
To take the next leap and they can't seem to follow;
Guess what I eat isn't something they'll swallow
How I want to move on; then I start to have doubts
I guess some of my wishes can never play out.
It's amazing when encounters provide such a gain
Universal, no question of translation required
Like taking steps after your feet have been mired
For ages, but what does this spark indicate?
The timing seems wrong; I'm entrenched, we should wait
I'm ahead of myself, I don't know how you see it
If you aren't feeling it, I'll deal; so be it
I know; neither should I; but how can I prevent it?
I knew I had limited time, but I've spent it
On superficialities; things I regret now
I know I should stop; but I seem to forget how
To function as higher; I've been swimming shallow
But I want to go deeper, and they're far too callow...
Disgusted sometimes with the mindless assuming
They do constantly; life is a fire, they're consuming
The leaves and the garbage that burn leaving disaster
I need cleaner fuel; my mind wants to go faster
But exteriors exert way more toll than they should
How I want to break free into something that's good
For my mind, as well as my person; it's tough
Realizing what you wanted isn't nearly enough
Living for others is like living in chains
What they want is one way; I need two separate lanes
Because the path is quite winding; it twists and it turns
I should probably be happy; but I can't, my heart yearns
To take the next leap and they can't seem to follow;
Guess what I eat isn't something they'll swallow
How I want to move on; then I start to have doubts
I guess some of my wishes can never play out.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
It
It becomes a terrible process disguised as an impeccable plot. It grows quickly, spreading with insurmountable speed and a force that cannot be matched. You cannot fight it for it embodies you as a person, your thought process, your individuality. It steadily increases its influential presence within, shedding its miniscule identity for a more well known visage, eventually encompassing you as the host that houses this angelically evil entity.
Run and it will follow. Hide and it will seek. Fight and it will defeat. There is no cure, no solution to this problem. It is as if it is a beacon of power within you, whose signal grows stronger and stretches its limbs of persuasion farther and deeper until you can do nothing but accept it. You must, you will. You begin to shape and design everything else to work around it, to feed its growth, to strengthen it and nurse it. Nothing escapes it, and it escapes all. You become a simple projection of what it wants you to be, and you cannot stop yourself from doing as it instructs.
Eventually it partners itself with the ever-dangerous emotion, creating a dynamic duo from hell. It has wits and passion, making it an intelligence in itself, fueled by a purpose, driven by the desires of human emotion. This double-headed monster engulfs any and all other notions that could possibly do it harm; imagine it as a monetary tycoon in the practice of horizontal integration, swallowing those insignificant ideas and morphing them to mirror its own intentions, until nothing is left but itself.
The only flaw in this otherwise decent comparison is that while a tyrant can be killed, this evil I speak of cannot die. Once it is conceived there can be no end to its existence, and yet it is not physically alive. No beating heart, or pulsing brain enables it to live. It functions simply by implanting itself within man, needing nothing more to flourish. There is no force that can silence its appealing cries. It takes hold in the core of passion, sparking flames within a man, and inevitably in those around him, thus ensuring its everlasting existence.
This tricky little thing can be something so simple, so relatively insignificant that there is no telling that it is the single origin from which comes all the events it causes. Like I mentioned earlier, it disguises itself very well, hiding within the depths of the human brain, camouflaged from the rationalities and restraints of the mind in which it rests. And all the while, we serve only as a medium through which this parasite thrives and spreads.
It is undoubtedly the source of all things tragic, inhumane, destructive. The most devastating thing about it, though, is that although it poses this awesome threat, we are forced to use it to attempt to balance those evils, for it is also the source of what we consider brilliant, distinguishing, progressive.
It has us in its unbreakable grip, and will never let go, but its grip is where we are meant to be. We naturally fit the cup of its palm, and we would be nowhere without its nurturing hold. We owe to it our livelihood, our legacy as human beings, and yet fear the possibilities it presents us. We have no choice other than to fuel its existence and keep it present in our lives, and that is okay because most do not even realize they do so every waking, and every unconscious minute of their lives.
It has been, and always will be the distinguishing capability that defines us as the human race.
Run and it will follow. Hide and it will seek. Fight and it will defeat. There is no cure, no solution to this problem. It is as if it is a beacon of power within you, whose signal grows stronger and stretches its limbs of persuasion farther and deeper until you can do nothing but accept it. You must, you will. You begin to shape and design everything else to work around it, to feed its growth, to strengthen it and nurse it. Nothing escapes it, and it escapes all. You become a simple projection of what it wants you to be, and you cannot stop yourself from doing as it instructs.
Eventually it partners itself with the ever-dangerous emotion, creating a dynamic duo from hell. It has wits and passion, making it an intelligence in itself, fueled by a purpose, driven by the desires of human emotion. This double-headed monster engulfs any and all other notions that could possibly do it harm; imagine it as a monetary tycoon in the practice of horizontal integration, swallowing those insignificant ideas and morphing them to mirror its own intentions, until nothing is left but itself.
The only flaw in this otherwise decent comparison is that while a tyrant can be killed, this evil I speak of cannot die. Once it is conceived there can be no end to its existence, and yet it is not physically alive. No beating heart, or pulsing brain enables it to live. It functions simply by implanting itself within man, needing nothing more to flourish. There is no force that can silence its appealing cries. It takes hold in the core of passion, sparking flames within a man, and inevitably in those around him, thus ensuring its everlasting existence.
This tricky little thing can be something so simple, so relatively insignificant that there is no telling that it is the single origin from which comes all the events it causes. Like I mentioned earlier, it disguises itself very well, hiding within the depths of the human brain, camouflaged from the rationalities and restraints of the mind in which it rests. And all the while, we serve only as a medium through which this parasite thrives and spreads.
It is undoubtedly the source of all things tragic, inhumane, destructive. The most devastating thing about it, though, is that although it poses this awesome threat, we are forced to use it to attempt to balance those evils, for it is also the source of what we consider brilliant, distinguishing, progressive.
It has us in its unbreakable grip, and will never let go, but its grip is where we are meant to be. We naturally fit the cup of its palm, and we would be nowhere without its nurturing hold. We owe to it our livelihood, our legacy as human beings, and yet fear the possibilities it presents us. We have no choice other than to fuel its existence and keep it present in our lives, and that is okay because most do not even realize they do so every waking, and every unconscious minute of their lives.
It has been, and always will be the distinguishing capability that defines us as the human race.
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