Oblivious To Be

Oohhhhhh blivion
How I long for thee
And your sweet shady tree
To lie below and dream
The day is long
And so perturbed am I
By distractions great and smiling
Lay me down by your stream
Of lazy coiling waters
Drifting leaves to no end
Will pass beside undetermined
If my languid spell won’t last
Perhaps you’ll give me motives
To stay forever in the sun
Beside the wicked water’s draw

Bring in the Wolf

I want to let in the wolf
To roam the halls
To pull a howling believer into me
To savage the pallid flesh
To wreck the furniture
I trust his style
Unrelenting and wild
It can be difficult to get him out
But while his hoarse cry rings
The world is right

Black Ice

This is it
Have to break the ice
It’s thin anyway
The water is very cold
It contains the necessary nutrients
For survival
Stamp my feet
Spread apart a bit
It groans and cracks
I’m ready to sink
Into the inky unknown
The polar mystery
Of what might happen
Treading lightly is done
Skating is nice but for children
My family is beyond
My universe beckons
My trials await hearing
Into the split I dive

Portable Black Hole

Is the Black Hole here too
Amidst the roll of hills
And still of water
I does follow me no matter
Can it be diverted like the stream
It wants to swallow all my dreams
Maybe I should fall in
Over expose my limited vision
Expand my particles beyond their capacity.
Let the funnel feed on me until the streaks of light are squeezed thin then dissolve into alternation
I should not fear the squeeze but I do
It’s my wholesome nocturnal home
The bridge into the central chamber
From the outermost bad behavior
When it’s done with me
I’ll know

Judgement Is Optional

I look around, see eyes down
Ears turned inward
Not wanting to be disturbed
Or inconvenienced in the least way.

But there are two
Who gaze into each other’s eyes
What lurks beneath this disguise of love

I want to believe that we are not
Trapped in the frame of a robot
Thanks to the children
I see filled with this thing
That seems to harden as time brings
Us closer to I know not what

I will find the beauty in the inward turn
This human tragedy will become mine

Brown is Fire

Why does brown makes me think of fire?
Even though black or red
Should take care of that better.
It doesn’t matter
It’s what the dream said.
As I was laying in bed
The world was descending upon me
As I was rising to the surface.
“Brown is the color of fire”

Is it the end of Autumn
That makes me think of losing everything.
But it’s the start of Spring
When everything is new and green.
Do these words try to convey
Some meaning some command to obey.
Or is it just a dream to be lived as a dream.

In colors in fire.
In everything that mixes together
When I’m away in the hills of slumber
I see and hear things better

I Need an Invasion

I need and invasion. To strike down the division. To unify and collect the sides into a tangible reasonable sensible selection. This cynic’s soul is suffered enough. It’s time to rebel against the moronic incest. My brain is in two, a troubled machine. Let’s bring in the troops to level the field. It’s time to end the Civil War reenactment. I need my country to be invaded.

The incessant neeeeeed to be right is ok, but the rifle butts on the door will perhaps distract long enough to see what’s real. Personal belief is out the window on little tissue issues. We need wood stone and steel again. A purposeful means. People to inspire dreams beside an addicted symbol of insecurity and self centered greed.

I’m ready for the coming invasion. Bring in the hordes to pillage the stores. Turn the fight to an actual enemy, instead of the twisting baby ideals of a televised mind. Sound the alarm and watch the petty fears and differences disappear into a unified front of warriors. Our blood will pool together on American soil as one red wave.

Death of a Clown

Cast down, the full white face of a clown dies alone in the big tent, surrounded by elephants. He’s protected by a mourning shroud of trunks swung low, at half mast, a ceremony for the fellow they knew as Chuckles.

He lay in the sawdust, a fallen hero of the failing circus. A mysterious whim of death unburdened itself upon him.

The sadness is coursing in a wild frenzy around the ring. A gleaming white face is slowly fading into black. The soul of the artist rises fluidly, a tumble, a calculated fall, a snap to attention pop a flower from its lapel. Nobly it drifts up past the trapeze, he always wanted to fly with ease as they did. The company troop cheers a roaring “hoorah!,” and sends the pure spirit of the man formerly known as Charles “Chuckles” Morton, off smiling to opening night at the grand unknown show.

Saturday is the Future

0 4 0 5 2 0 1 2 – the combination to the future. Digits have taken hold, swarmed and calculated our humanity. It’s not so bad, when I can get away into hills out of radiation’s way.

I’m like a paranoid alien-snatched renegade, waiting for the day the operation will be made. For all of us are to be disposed of, like so many articles of clothes of finicky consumer bodies fit with colorful bits.

My courage must be quick, undoubting, or the fans this shit will hit. Keep a low eye on the overhead situation. Always know the quick route to the underground compounds.

I hate to make such frightened blade running sounds, but the sun will start to don a dimmer light. The days will seem like disco Vegas nights, never knowing when to sleep. We’ll step out of body into dreams, regaling memory chips of better days before the neutron winter haze, when flowers lined the steel passageways.

Probe the data deeper still, before when grass coated feet roamed the hill and salvation seeped up from the ground and rained from the sky, pressing hard between this mortal goodbye. The future was so far away, the following afternoon or maybe the day after: Saturday.

Yes, Saturday was the bright and illustrious future. Please don’t make me go back—forward to the digitized black and video sun. I don’t want to lose the inclination of the hill I run. The composite formulation does not compare, nor does the filtered ventilators to this wild grass perfume air. Please, may I stay. Let me live in this state, even though I tremble knowing that this too is an algorithm, a bio-digital meta vision. There is no escape.

[unsolicited hopeful response follows]

If you can imagine what you’ll see, it’s not even close—beyond the construct of a low-voltage synaptic random access melancholy. But I indulge… What if this numero-visual race, and this endless hurtling through black space is suddenly understood to be a great journey, through the mythic dually proven hypothetic plasma-driven emotional magic dream heart, into the bright hot molten core of this Saturday?