Utter no words, inspired by nothing.
The earth spins. Sit perfectly still,
Not making a sound, only staring at the earth.
Analyze cracks in the sidewalk,
Subtle marks children have made in the dirt,
Drawing pictures later to be erased by passersby.
Do not admire their innocent nature,
Their dirty, grubby little hands.
Do not wish to touch, play with a child.

In the past. Friendly, neighborly,
Go from door to door, just to say hello.
Those days came and went, along with everything else.
Read great books, indulge,
Let the music reach your soul. Those days have gone.

Back to reality. Stare into an empty television.
Look around at an empty room full of things,
See the past life surrounding empty air ---
Cracked spines of books long left untouched,
Dusty keys of a piano that used to be in tune...
Touch them now. See fingertips turn black.
Lack desire to touch again.
No desire moves, no intention stirs consciousness,
No purpose wishes to change.

This world’s clock is ticking,

Disaster around the corner,

Waiting for its next victim.

From what I have seen…

The spider weaving its web.

As you rush through your daily life,

You destroy the masterpiece

With the flick of your wrist,

Or perhaps with your face,

As he might prefer, staring down at you from a tree limb

From which he starts his new venture.

 

It’s a wonder, that such a putrid

Stench could emanate from an existence

That is actually an illusion,

No existence at all, a Superman of a world,

Shadowing a fiery reality,

A matrix, a machine in which we swim like

Goldfish caught in a current, doing what we are…

Told to do.

Apathetic “conformedindividuals”

Abusing ourselves and each other,

Building a structure which says simply,

 

“We are one.”

 

And though we pretend to love this shiny

Silver monument… it does not resemble

Peace, or love, or even entertainment.

 

And though we are made, anxiously,

To agree, further and further we reach

To peel off the shiny silverness of our lives.

 

Eventually, to take a knife, cut shapes into the silver,

And realize…

That it is, in fact, thin as tissue paper.

Shapes of the ocean, shapes of the sky,

And most of all, shapes of freedom…

Black, noxious, freedom.

 

Ashes are falling –
Cinders

I watch the orange bits
Fall through the ground –
An endless hole gaping
Where the leaves part into form
And a body descends

Into a world of nothing
And nothing and something –
Else I must tell you is that

We are dropping, dropping
Like hot sweet honey from
The tip of his nose…
Into the pit – under the ground where hell awaits

This place – completes me
This shell of a hollow skull
Where we keep hidden
And he goes –
Wherever we go, but really
We are his steps
And his eyes
And his mouth
And his honey

We are walking in the water
And slowly, we are dripping

Dripping from monstrous heights

Like cinders from a flame
Every skull on fire as we melt –
And drip – floating always just ahead of him
In the stream of things, but

He will always scream our name –
“Darling, please come back, you are my shame.”