Tired

Like a pile of pillows
soaked in gasoline,
I fantasize of easy
transmutation:
heat and smoke,
climbing lightly to heaven.

Rebirth

Thunk and Crunch and silence.
the wheels of time stick for an instant...
it's like deep under warm water.

After a blink like eternity,
The earth cracks skull like a sledge hammer.
Blue and red wailing.
World is waning,
erasing,
erased.

Fade in to the most glorious light
beloved dead are angels
and they're singing in rapturous choir.
Praise God!
Lead the way to his holy chamber
the doors open wide,
and the light gets brighter
brighter,
brighter till it
blinds
...and burns.

Angels are burning
Heaven is burning
God is burning
Soul is burning

Pain is a billion razor blades
ripping through the fabric of being.
Pain is the angel song turning into screaming.
Pain is the face of God breaking into pixels.
Pain is the self burning into nothing
like the human body dissolving in acid.
For eternity.
For eternity.
For an eternity of eternities,
stretching out like a light beam cutting new space at the edge of the void.

Fade out to black.
Fade out past black.

And all is one.

Death's Heavy Glare

All the millenia of chanting,
dancing around fires;
sacrificing livestock, and raising palms to the sky
as blood pours thick down pyramid steps;
copying lines like sand grains under candle-light in fine, tight script
until blindness takes hold;

All relentless expressions, made in desperation
are building traditions to carry the burden
the crushing burden
of death's heavy glare.

Shade

The house is clean and it's only me.
Somehow it's more lonely when I put music on,
and it washes over the delicate hum of the computer's fan.

In vain, in vain, always in vain! I try to pin-point the crucial moments;
I break open the encyclopedia of past indiscretions,
that letter-perfect Rolodex that records Brady's moronic
fumbling for emancipation
from this
vast, gray expanse of being; this yawning purgatory; this polite oh well; this
heavy-hearted sigh and throwing up of arms.

I fought.
Smashed my knuckles in.
Teeth chipped on fists.

Now, age is creeping on, and now even ego is leaving.

Ideas

Imprisoned in an invisible jail
I hang to the wall with chains of Milton,
Wilhelm's imbecilic histrionics,
The formal system of L
and Reza Shah Pahlavi.

I take my rest in the morning;
Mind is clear, colors crisp,
and the air is palatable.

I don't sleep anymore.
I roll around, and struggle with the sheets, my growing belly,
and the automatic working out of proofs in my mind.
Thousands of ideas are struggling to reconcile
like anarchistic limbs of some avant-garde sculpture
made from sheet metal, lengths of wire and various junk-yard apparatti.