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.

Suprise

Millions of dead monks knew it.
We only found it so hard to believe
because we were raised on promises of flashing cameras
high octane sport cars, and looking down on the vastness of Earth
from outer space. And when it all ends,
heaven, forever.

Consider ancient China, and the northern border raids
so terrible, they built a wall in the mountains.
Thousands of corpses lie even in that wall.

Here I am.
Alive.
I have no to do lists
and every day carries a surprise.

Flea

The automatic life of a flea
is dull and fantastic.
He will never feel the thrill of love
or worry about decay.

Survival is instinctual
but he thinks not of self.

How wonderful and senseless it must be.

Zeal

Zeal!
It's a clenched fist
and the spittle that flies out from the mouth.

Zeal!
It's the gleaming of the steel,
when the swords are raised to the sun.
Today we sack Jerusalem!

Zeal!
With all its
laughing in the face of death,
because the time for discussion is over, damn it.

Zeal is not soft or warm.
It's freezing cold, or burns
like lightning.
It is rooted like mountain,
and relentless as a crushing tsunami.

"Right" and "wrong"
are just empty sounds
when the will is focused to a point
with Zeal!

Mad Ramble

Morning burned through the dreamscape
and I woke in seamless transition (again).
I found myself repeating a curious mantra
that echoed through my skull;

"You are the observed
and the observer.

You are the observed
and the observer.

You are the observed
and the observer..."

For so long it seemed the days would stay the same
and I would be stuck,
miserable forever, trapped inside a walking corpse
only to wink out
and be robbed of dreams forever.
Now my whole universe begins to bend.

Let me explain.

I have karma. You probably have it too.
Listen,
my hair isn't dread-locked, and there are no essential oils in it.
I don't have a single pair of hemp pants,
and I wear socks almost all of the time.
I am not religious. I am student, and a realist.
I swallow the proof when I taste it in the pudding.

So believe me when I tell you
I have karma (and you probably have it too).

The strength of my desires was an unstoppable force,
(and this, it seems redundant to prove)
and my karma an immovable object.

So, what does happen, anyway?
I'll tell you, but you're not going to like it:

Nothing!

Energy Tracers

People look at me like I'm nuts
for saying such normal things,
like,

"Strange that the moon is so visible, even though it's day."

Is the moon always so bright
even before the night?

Is everyone
part of some "secret" club,
that meets every second Sunday?
Why has no one told me?
Is this a practical joke?

"I motion that ANY talk about the moon,
ESPECIALLY during the day, be henceforth taboo."

"Seconded."

"All in favor?"

"Passed unanimously!"

Maybe there is no club,
maybe I'm an android.
There must be a a few of us,
otherwise people would be surprised to see me,
as if I were a celebrity.

We're programmed to think we're human,
to see skin and hair and eyeballs,
where there is only really
steel, rubber, and cameras.

Or

maybe everyone is waiting for me at the end of time,
where the universe is cracking.
They are standing at the top of a massive waterfall,
looking out into the cosmic portal,
where we will reunite into one mega-soul,
and re-birth,
in a universe with slightly higher vibrations.

Maybe they are all waiting for me,
and I've ran back
into a memory dimension
where I can re-live a past life.
and all the people here are specters;
they are not here
these are their shadows--energy tracers.