Anthologies

And I thought I stumbled upon
a pastel field of daffodils
beneath the dreary sky,
which would only be its compensation;
and played by piano and guitars,
by saxophone and subtle drums,
I hear those anthologies from hearts and minds
that seem to keenly grab you;
But if you listen closely,
if you’re merely disinterested,
you’ll find the piano’s jazz unsettling,
the barren antiquity of guitars,
the squeaking sounds of saxophone
and the piercing sounds of the drums;
Yet surely - nevertheless -
they grab your heart, they strip your mind naked
until you are drowned in your own sickness...

And those anthologies keep on,
they play their music again and again
until you wake from your dream, and realize that
you’ve always wanted to be the musician,
to be the musician who’d sing anthologies
for your raven-haired firefly.

In Isolation (Prologue of the Interludes)

In all the depths
of thoughts for my Overman,
I can only keep up
as far as silence can go;
in isolation,
in melancholy --
and insofar as these depths
meander on my abstracts,
I just can't find any word,
and I drop dead like
the butterflies in my mouth.

Memory's Full Circle

In blessed and unfortunate ways --
here I am before you;
distracting,
I am the one that tells you
to smile at the things that kept you for like forever,
to cry at the things that kept you long enough --
and right before you,
I swirl so you'd cringe;
I dance with you,
because you love it when I do,
because you love to hate it when I do;
And when the dance ends,
I die only to be born again,
to dance again,
to distract you,
to tell you to smile and cry
at the things that kepts you for like forever.

Ruthie's Dilemma

[12.25.04]

Swept cyclic zenith in its rush;
everyone unfolds their stories,
All the more Ruthie hides from such and such;
and they listen but feign, their hiss
like transcendental plagiarism...
There, dews pour heavily
and fields of mist blind mysteriously
She is socially uninvited but too aesthetic to give in
But in times of rennaisance,
in case Ruthie comes out in the open,
it’s an allusion, loathing before you, triquetra –
There’re silly astrologers playing with Ruthie...

The Cerebral Poet

On the technology
to provide for a name for a god,
in which the machines of lexis
call for the same art –
for which its creativity is more or less
presumed to be mechanic as means
for expression,
for individual allusions as set by the condition
of the consciousness,
And as philosophical or automatic as words seem,
verses go unbending from accusations
that what the cerebral poet waxes are mere mechanism.

Raven-haired Firefly

Raven-haired's soar unlike oceanic canopies,
possibly indifferently societal
and on the verge of sentimental metamorphosis -
nauseous firefly -
and it owes light with fiction with daffodils,
always dreaming up ahead where the lack seeks completion;
And as much as it flies away from my conscious touch,
it bounces off to the reminiscence of it all

And it's said to be untarnished,
it's said to be precious;
But really it all comes undone like Rushdie's demons,
from afar,
and maybe just a window of what it truly wants to say

And in the stillness that the firefly flickers,
it goes on without saying,
it goes on and on;
because all there's to say are empty and hopeless.

Nicotine

let's call it a day,
and weave words this time instead;
orange sparks of ashfall in its stillness
will only be missed until time comes when the antidote is done,
when the only thing that keeps the world alive
is dyed in the wool with oxygen.

let's call it a night,
and read some weaved words this time instead;
it's always teasing but it reeks upon myself
and this spark will only be missed on another generation,
when the only thing that keeps butterflies on my stomach
is done to death with empty air.

Summer Solace

On my way down the fort,
lights blink like drizzles on summer solace
and rowdy like dandelion on a documentary image
It’s always the same
because it reels like roses without thorns,
of cigarettes without nicotine,
of coffee without caffeine

And it feels odd for all the wrong reasons;
It’s just filthy like chosen truth when it all comes undone

But I hope I’d find my hope so I could walk some more
Darkness overrides ivy and makes it more toxic
because the last time it was blue was seconds ago...
and so poignant on summer afternoons

Parrots of the God

Jazzing it off with discourses on a tight rope of viewpoint
somewhere on the journey of cigars and tirades;
I am like a million pirates
cutting through molds of deviation
because you professed you are a thought on a free riding ecstasy
and I said it was stupid

Metamorphosing Gaiman on the covers for a revelry,
shifty like national heroes of foggy boulevards
But I know if I fart you’ll savor it heartily
so I laugh like hyena

*Thus like anybody’s apple that took innocence away,
it’s a privilege to be the outburst;
I’m like Gary Stu for all its worth –
too real as to reel you like a deity
So you cringe at your agnostics, hole up to metropolitan
and be the thought that you are
Joining “rainbow” delusion and it’s really a mystery,
so they all say,
and the mockery goes on because I raze donkeys to the ground.