The Democratic Creed

 

I.

There is the grandest nobility in our purpose,

But have another glass

And see another show.

The monkey-man is dead, and the mouse is on the move.  

Don’t worry where we’re going;

We’ll take care of you.

 

:[((Keep them drinking; kill their shame.))]:

 

II.

Leave to Europe what is hers,

Sell yourself to Caesar,

And give to god no more than what he asks for.

Don’t worry where they’re going.

Just look into the bulb;

The spots will go away.

 

[((Keep them dancing; kill the Jews.))]

 

III.

These poets and their siren verse,

These writers and their temptress song,

These actors and their cursed sins

Are all a stain upon your face.

So clip your nose

And smell the sweetness of the purge.

 

((Keep them fearful; kill the foe.))

 

IV.

Light another hit

And draw another line.

Listen to the king beyond the pool

And the man above the stars.

Don’t worry where they’re going.

Their lives will live forever.

 

(Keep them dreaming; kill the day.)

 

V.

Forgive us fathers

These things that we must do.

Man is a necessary evil.

Would that this cup of Cane could pass.

But it is laid upon our table,

And we are noble men that drink.

 

Keep them silent; kill their sons.

 

VI.

She’s in good hands.

That’s where we left her anyway.

Mark these times;

They were the best that we could do.

Don’t worry what’s in the blood supply

The dead will bother no one.

 

Keep the fucking; kill the fags.

 

VII.

 

Would you like to see what men can do?

Would you care to take a look?

The rapists, whores, and pedophiles

Are all a click away.

So have a seat

And just forget to care.

 

Keep them watching; kill the mind.

 

VIII.

 

Come sing amongst the dead.

Come join in our crusade.

We’ve gathered all the old rewards

To play the game again.

This time it will be better;

This time we all will win

 

Keep them waiting; kill the past!

 

 

Deuteronomy 8: 11-20

 

Around the scaffold steps of Babylon,

I wandered through the wake of Heaven’s wraiths

And wondered where my clement God had gone.

 

When Fortune’s pride once wished to blight the dawn,

It aimed two metal figs in virtue’s path,

Within the scaffold steps of Babylon.

 

The angry God then sent his soldiers on

To purge their sin within a smoky bath

And wonder where their humble god had gone.

 

Yet God’s design did not predict upon

The evil that survived the aftermath

Above the scaffold steps of Babylon.

 

The idol trade, across the fertile lawn,

Grew tough to break the blade off Samson’s snath

And wondered where the warring God had gone.

 

From ruins of the heathen Pantheon,

Our sons exhumed the Sacred of the faith

Beneath the scaffold steps of Babylon

While we wondered where our gods had gone.

 

 

Impressions of Mad Men

 

As ocean air from senders east

arrives to warm the western high

and windy alleys turn the breath

of patient pines to clouds of death,

the modern seers see the least

from floating mirrors in the sky.

 

The layman watching heaven wind

without the godlike glassy eyes

cannot foresee invented hues.

The blurring gray of lucid views

will hide the motive of the mind

to show mere symptoms of its size.

 

From towers on the local front

the storms appear to seize the walls

and wage without a promised end

a war of seldom certain trend

that men with silent waves will hunt

and turn the trembles into squalls.

 

 

Falling Through the Springhouse Floor

 

Behind the splintered springhouse door

A widow, once embraced with air,

Is falling through the springhouse floor.

 

A leisured stride against the shore

Revealed the resting absence there,

Behind the splintered springhouse door.

 

And should the living search their store

To see her flight from fate’s despair

Is falling through the springhouse floor,

 

They’ll likely chew her salted cure

To fill what vacant stock is there,

Behind the splintered springhouse door,

 

Preserved within the frigid pore.

The pregnant pace of pain’s repair

Is falling through the springhouse floor.

 

The torpid weight of lover’s lure

To soothe the shame of need, somewhere

Behind the splintered springhouse door,

Is falling through the springhouse floor.

 

 

rumble strips remind me of your face.

 

There is a piece of road along the longer ways to you,

And on a certain stretch a wiggling groove abides.

So often have my wheels embraced this flaw

to wake me from my daydream of your face

and leave the lucid beacon of your stare lingering in my eyes,

that soon some lonesome synapse, shocked with hot soberity,

began to join the memory of your cheek

with any harsh vibrations of any rugged road.

This simple marriage, now so soundly set,

awakens all my thoughts of you when any ridge it feels.

Alone and driving to all my random destinations

I sometimes leave the confines of this thoughtless lane

to tease the highway’s edge, feel the rumble in my spine,

and hold the comfort of your grace within my mind.

 

 

I love you too

 

Today

you said,

“I love

you.”

I

haven’t heard

you

say that

since the day

you said,

“I’m sorry.”

 

 

The Plight of the Divine

 

The ruddy point is lit and loved.

The latter to the lips is shoved.

The healing mist erupts and flies.

It dances on the air to rise

Toward the godly clouds to mix

Which angels suck to soothe their fix.

 

A foamy face entreats the lush

To kiss and kill the careless crush.

The spilling mouth releasing pains

Till emptiness in one remains.

Off drunken lips the spirits burst

Which angels sip to soothe their thirst.

 

An ardent look of love is known,

And pilgrims play when often shown.

An aftermath of sin ensues,

And longing do the double lose.

The curtained eyes reveal their trust

Which angels spy to soothe their lust.

 

The heavens hold their virtues well

As angels sigh to soothe their hell.

 

 

The Happiest Place on Earth

 

Poor Mickey has to masturbate,

‘Cause Minnie hates the taste.

He sleeps alone as virgins wait,

‘Cause Minnie must be chaste.

Poor Mickey doesn’t read the line,

‘Cause Disney hates his voice.

He dances well without his spine

‘Cause Disney leaves no choice.

Poor Mickey has too many pills,

‘Cause Mickey hates the fame.

He seeks his vice in lusted thrills,

‘Cause Mickey needs the shame.

 

 

Once Upon Maternal Bliss

                           

Within her primal worldly womb,

The mystic birth began

As ruddy loins released the doomed

Into her fertile hand.

The naked babe sat quietly

In puddles of her dress

As lustful eyes made silent pleas

To nurse her ample breast.

A dimpled teat to quell the cry

Of early morning blur

Let thirsty lips leave mother dried

And weary from the work.

An arid spring of withered worth

Sweet Africa her name

Forgotten mother of the earth

Whose children die the same.

 

 

All the World Asleep too Early

 

All I wanted was some condoms

All I wanted was too late

All I got was this fucking pig at my window

All I saw were his blues and reds in my dying eyes

All he wanted was my name

All he got was his quota filled

All the stores are closed

All because that spineless bastard fogged my window

All because his flashlight stung my eyes

All the stores are closed

All, the gas stations sell, is three packs

All the time was wasted

All I need is waiting

All the people want safe sex

Yet all the stores are closed

And all, the gas stations sell, is three packs.

 

 

Once upon a Shopping Cart

 

Across the vacant parking lot

This mother and her child depart

As prudence else had not forgot

The mittens hold the shopping cart.

 

Fettered by fear to metal haste,

This babe is bound in impotence

As mother holds his courses chaste

Toward a baneful innocence.

 

The siren voices sing their dare

Across the painted asphalt plane

As woolen will feels mother’s stare

And heedful hands crack silver rein.

 

Returning swift returning blind,

What grievous flight had split apart;

For mother’s words need not remind,

The mittens hold the shopping cart.

 

 

Poem # 198

 

The following masturbatory frustration

is brought to you in techno-color

through a joint venture

of the porno-graphic

motion picture association

and the poor old lady in front of you

who is driving too fast for her own good

and too slow for you

to get home in time to watch No Man’s Land

before your girlfriend gets off

work.

 

 

Heresy

 

My heresy is borne by your perception.

All your golden words are tested by my sin,

And God becomes your reason’s last election.

 

The bastard bares his mother’s first deception,

(a virgin’s never worthy once she’s broken)

And God becomes a lover’s last election.

 

When papal kings bemoan for God’s protection

And worship the world with hate for godly kin,

Their heresy is borne by their perception.

 

The injured faith repents its guilt’s inception,

(the cross befits the pious widow’s token)

And God becomes a sinner’s last election.

 

When holy eyes behold their dim reflection

And fashion absence where once a will had been,

Their heresy is borne by their perception.

 

When heathen verse has pierced divine direction

(a sin is never silent if its spoken)

And God becomes a poet’s last election,

His heresy is borne by your perception.

 

 

 

The Marriage of Madelene

 

Beneath the gods of recent time,

there ruled a race of mortal kings

who looked with scorn upon the crime

that shared the source of virgin springs.

And in this land of moral men

a King of ample rights and reign

decreed his daughter, Madelene,

the bride of he with best campaign.

Across the globe, the suitors came

to match their worth against the mass

and prove their case the rightful claim

upon the prize of honored class.

Yet none who were of noble birth

would win the maiden’s promised band,

instead a man of average worth

would buy this love at second-hand.

By diversion and disguise,

our anti-hero gained the King

and set his speech to demonize

the woman he was coveting.

So quick did rumor of it spread

that Madelene was soon condemned

to spend the days before she wed

within her sleeping chamber hemmed.

And dressed to mock the maiden’s nurse

the selfish witness used her rage

to focus her disdain, to curse,

her father’s right to lock her cage.

Such eager evil did he find

beneath the veil of sullied white

that she who men had once enshrined

was stirred to swell her father’s spite.

So often did she nightly flee

from her wrongly bastioned borders

to serve her hasty lover’s plea

and purloin leave from weary warders.

Our common man by wicked means

designed her legs of lust to learn

till all her sins were worn routines

and every suitor had his turn.

To all the royal ears of men

a whispered welcome bid them come

to taste the favored Madeleine

who sold her virtue for a sum.

At last the King of high degree

found Madelene, the maiden douce,

was good enough for none but he

who had disgraced her sovereign use.

The King with pointless dowry sold

his broken daughter to her groom,

who sleeping in her callused fold,

had dreamt his wife a waxing womb.

 

 

out of Their favor

 

Unlike the devil and all his fallen sort,

I shall sing, when I see the dark and fiery court,

that I lived to fight god’s evil with my sin

and with my heresy did many converts win.

The depths of hell my silence my offenses

for those whose humble hearts demand divine defense.

I shall know the virtue of my heathen hymn

is bourn of truth when vengeance soothes his seraphim.

Black flames will whip their sting upon my senses

and burn my pride in plumes of fetid incense,

which heaven will receive as tainted tribute

from broken chords no longer listing on my lute.

The father’s hate will know the mettle of my will,

and all the Dead shall see what wickedness can kill.

 

 

Measured in miles and calculated in accordance with the posted, highway speed limit, the average life span of a human being is approximately four-hundred and eighty-four million, five-hundred and seventy-six thousand eighty miles. Life is always longest when traveled by the shortest means.  Death would be a smaller price to pay for immortality.  But I am much too old to live again and much too young to understand why men will never cease to seek themselves within the bounded means of their perceptions.

 

The Stages of Man

 

I.

I am the ugly youth

within the foreign forest of my life.

I bring unwelcome words

and unwelcome wealth to this world of distant tongues.

I leave unsettled froth within my bended wake.

I am the walker of the woods.

I care not where my footprints fall

nor what my insults rise.

My steps reveal the presence of dry leaves

and the silent graves of rude branches.

I come to a place where water runs beneath the risen ledge of the woodland windows

and recedes in shallow brush along the other side.

In the distance a father calls

perhaps in coded pleas to join or just in voiced concern.

I am the river jumper.

I clear what snags and verdant greens delay and

launch across the ample fall toward the lower land.

I conquer what at once returns to me,

the fear that I am not a worthy

trespasser.

 

II.

I am the muddy-footed gait

that sticks with rubber soles upon the rushing bottom of the

quaint and calming stream.

I watch with ignorance the routine marvel of

daily inconsequence.

I soak my ankles with the flood and feel the

cold return an unfamiliar warmth.

I slowly venture by the curves and down the winnowed water’s edge,

where the exposed roots of tired oaks hold hopelessly upon the fading banks and bend because the wind believes they should.

Sometimes straying in the current or standing on the stones

sometimes pausing on the river’s mire mounds,

I have no hope of destination nor reason to believe that one exists.

I am the climber of the cliffs

that are no more than rocks.

I see a father robin glide to his risen home.

His subtle grace of gray regains the peace of privacy

as vibrant limbs recover hidden wings.

I am the darker child.

The crying birds cease their call

for they no longer wish to warn what darkness

will not wait to show.

So I return.

 

 

III.

I pass the sylvan hunter

who sets his snaring limbs to catch the trophy moon.

The attic grays release their fleet upon the balding leaves, and sorrel shells of doubt besiege my borrowed course.

I sink within the sullen dent of patient rain

above the softer mud.

As I seek the safer place to cross,

I see the tadpoles feeding on their tails

and the older bullfrogs, who have often craved the guilty taste,

leaping for the safety of the lake, strangely startled by my actions.

The unseen fingers of the rain strike silent measures upon the scenic keys of green.

The swirls of discolored lake lay un-rippled and untouched by the raindrops falling elsewhere.

The knee-deep meadow harshly rustles as the salty wind pushes through the fog.

I race the steep incline leading to the street and mount its open rim.

The hopeless refugees

returning to the shame of their retreat

have greater will to raise their unused eyes toward the failure of the crime.

I wander through this world like a mid-day dreamer,

upon whom night has descended unnoticed,

walking through awkward halls of doubted darkness,

lost in the familiar.

I am the son of a worried father,

whose inert pride would not allow him

tell me he was frightened by the rain,

and I am much too wet to sympathize.

 

IV.

My vintage eyes are drowned within a lunar lens

of drunken impotence.

The rippled rings around my arid sight reveal my darkened age.

An antique color slips across my empty scenes with stubborn strength

and glacial ease.

A childish thunder stains the sound that sires lustered wreckage.

With sudden taunts, the tempest cry insults my tempered will.

No courage stirs,

And I remain amongst the safer sides.

I watch the window world as crystal streaks of rain bleed colors from my view

into a muddy pool beneath my bed.

The wrinkles from the rain no longer fade completely from my skin.

Each drop is echoed in the record of my hands

and lost within the memory of my feet.

I am the distant voice who calls without a cause

to children running through the rain.

I hear the muffled pitch return,

and I am reassured the basic tone of safety.

A wealth of weakness swells my shame

To urge this dim confession

I am the tender relic of an aging ancestry,

and all I have to offer to the faculties of time is

this litany of late discovered lies and half forgotten truth.

 

 

A Study in Black and White

 

These sable words of pallid print upon the hostile page

seek subtle ways to kill their father

and rape his older ease,

to lure his love into his bed

and fuck it while he watches.

But meek returns of humble praise

breed malice while he watches.

They are his hands that teach my own

to slap his fatted cheek.          

Awed submission lined with lust

and prepubescent rage

converge upon these lines of subtle death.

Immortal fathers, of stubborn sons, whose impotence I fill,

may now return their widows’ dirge, the silent black and white.

 

 

  a-r a k ni d  an a -lôg

 

Knowing nothing of the web he weaves within

nor caring of the code the plastic cords can catch,

this noble hunter nests within the recess of our scene

and feeds upon the substance of our play.

 

As the wired system sets with inconsistent strength

attracts and fetters favored morsels of the mind,

so he creates to serve a need as fundamental

and saves his sometime soul from starving.

 

A moment of reflection and the function is betrayed

as greater than the pleasured palate claims

and equally essential to the well proportioned frame

of both the predator that fashions it and the quarry that it kills.

 

 

A Lover’s Response

 

To the rapist of my love:

I respect the animal in you.

The disconnection you reserve toward your crime demands no less.

I see in you a purity of passion that only true thieves can attain.

While your virtue is not foreign in my age or vacant in my eye, I cannot redeem your impatient youth with praise.  Yet I can forgive your incivility and kiss your rebel wound.

The intemerate prize that bears your feral stain has not been cleanly

stripped of my affection or my audience.  Rash Virginius is dead

as is his daughter’s worth,and all that swells within is pity.

Yet I do not bemoan my own injustice, for I had greater penances to pay

 to greater gods than I.

And as for judgment of your crime, I do not now enforce a verdict on your term.

I leave your torment to the crows, whose dark song shall be your silent dirge,

and the mortal ties, whose guilty strength shall be your study’s scourge.

 

 

theroad

 

i

the

road

thepath

theendless

thesilentlane

thebegInningsend

thevalleythatpeaks

thestretchofyesterdays

themigratIonfromtomorrow

thememorythathauntsfortoday

theroutetonothIngbutguIdetoall

thepresentrelatIonofpastandfuture

thereflectIonofyouthandImageoftheaged

  InevItablyfInIshedyetImpossIblyInfInIte