Tribute

Lost in flashes of truth and loathing, absorbing the frantic nature of life and fact, I felt the luster and finish of a set of terms for living, an ideal. Poured from a glass of truth, and faded by the fading dreams of his country's glory he crafted words. His words surrounded him with the kind of ironclad impenetrability, that while it could stave off the onslaught of dissentry inspired narcotic fervor upon his body and soul, could not prevent the insult of age. Giving no heed to an order not his own he empowered the chroniclers of his time, the lost beats of a generation in the throes of fear and tyranny, and finally, he empowered himself. He was the architect of his own biography, a litany against the screwheads, a manifesto for the doomed.


dedicated to the Doctor

"one more unheard statement, of another dying afternoon"

heavy beats and thrumming noise shook out the last vestiges of sleep and dropped me rocky and gasping into ambitions sweet release. moveless crowds of jotting brains surrounded and resounded through outdoor inner walls as semi-sweet heartpourings were given to all at volumes greater than human mouths ever worded. insights philosophical surrounded the once cold now bitterless bodies of masses swept here in concerns of commerce now feeding only soul on round chocolate and vibrations and clothes. and into cold clamour we eventually outpoured and tried and travelled and fought to stay awake. and then got home, and sat there, and didn't even sleep.

The Great Bright Nocturne

The turning shivering start,
Easily and with anxiety we twist the path outward,
Weaving our way into the scents of our selves,
"I never meant to hurt you," I shived into the great bright nocturne,
"I was only doing the right,"

The right is all around us now,
A broken burden,
twisting us into wretched loathing,
I beat the ice from my eyes,
And gazed into your halo,

Samsara

The following is my tribute to Ginsberg and his poem America. I wrote this a year ago, I just thought I'd share it here.

Samsara you've given me all and now I want more.
Samsara fifty-three dollars and twelve cents May 28, 2004.
I can't stand my own life.
Samsara when will we end our human suffering?
Go screw yourself with your enlightenment
I don't feel right don't bother me.
I won't live my life till I'm in the right frame of mind.
Samsara when can we be angelic?
When will you take away the woes?
When will you look at yourself through the windows of our lives?
When will you be worthy of your million karmic trusts?
Samsara why are our hearts full of tears?
Samsara when will you send your children away?
I'm sick of life's insane demands.
When can I walk the streets and be happy with everything I see?
Samsara after all it is you and I who are painful, not the next world.
Your machinations are too much for me.
You made me want to be a bhikku.
There must be some other way to leave this place.
Denny is in another body I don't think he'll come back, it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of cosmic joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to take up your obsession.
Samsara don't remind me, I know where I am.
Samsara the warm weather is coming.
I haven't read the newspapers for years, everyday someone goes on trial for terrorism. And all that's on TV is reality like I've never experienced it.
Samsara I feel sentimental about the early days.
Samsara I used to be an anarchist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoked cigarettes every chance I got.
I sat in my room for days on end and listened to violent music.
When I went into town I had fun but never got saved.
My mind is made up, I can't get out of trouble.
You should see me reading Kerouac and Ginsberg.

I feel their mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
I don't think my students think I'm quite right.
I won't say I'm sorry.
Samsara I still haven't told you why you're killing me, my problem is too deep.

I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by an ongoing cycle of solitude and pain?
I've become obssessed by solitude.
I seek it out every week.
It's soft silence whispers to me everytime I slink into my apartment.
I keep it in my office, in the back of my classroom, I leave it in my car.
People are always telling me about seriousness. Other teachers are serious. Hell, even most students are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that i am Samsara.
I am talking to myself again.

Ambition is rising against me.
I haven't got a hope in hell.
I'd better consider my personal resources.
My personal resources consist of four cans of vanilla coke, millions of whispered memories,
a closet full of collars and a personal wardrobe primarily in black.
I say nothing about my frustrations nor the thousands of undesirables who live in my neighborhood under the blue cloud of their narcotic commerce.
I have abolished the ambitions of my youth, middle age is the next to go.
My ambition is to have a family, despite the fact that I'm single.

Samsara how can I write positive prose in your silly cycle?
I will continue like Neal Cassady my style is not as individual as his
but I have been equally unpublished.
Samsara I will sell you sorrowful poems $2 apiece $1 down on your old sorrow
Samsara free my spirit
Samsara save the desire for a positive change
Samsara Free Will must not die
Samsara I am the Boddhisattva Boy.
Samsara when i was seventeen I went to St. john's Newfoundland they
sold us tickets to hardcore shows a face full of fist per ticket a ticket cost us five dollars and the music was free everybody was drinking and fighting to the beat of the music it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing that party was in 1993 my girlfriend was a great girl with steel toed boots broke my heart for the first time made me cry once I saw what was happening there. Everybody must have been high.
Samsara you don't really want us to fail.
Samsara it's them bad rednecks.
Them rednecks them rednecks and them hoodlums. And them rednecks.
The redneck wants to beat us to death. The redneck's power mad. He want to take our lunch money from out our pockets.
He wants to grab our girlfriends. He needs a big red big pickup truck. He wants our homework in his name. Him big bad bully ruining gypsy freedom.
That no good. Ugh. him make punks cut hair. him no need to read.
Hah. he makes us all wear blue jeans and wife beaters sixteen hours a day. help.
Samsara is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the point.
It's true I don't want to join the Army of Conformity ot turn my students into good contributing sheep, We're all nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
Samsara I'm putting my own philosophy to the wheel.

Haiku Tribute

Kerouac wrote it
I try to find a new way
Our Buddha nature

Et tu, haiku

Dream is the safe way
life is illusion and doubt
I need a pillow

Zen Lunatic

A few Haikus, in series;

The Sun Is Outside
Now My Secret Life Recoils
There is No New Way

Eat In The Dark Room
Sleep Will Open Our True Hearts
There Is An Answer

Black Holes Of Lost Love
New Things May Come Someday Soon
There Is No Promise

We Never Change Life
It Is Not Too Hard To Try
There Is Just No Point

I Will Play The Fool
There Is No Real Difference
There Are Too Many Stars

Real Love Is Scary
We Try To Hard To Hide It
There Is No Hiding

You know, I know a number of people who think I'm a bit bitter. Crazy huh?

Yes, I know what the word means, and if you knew me you wouldn't have to ask.

Full of entropic splendor I marvelled at life's twists and penmanships and perversions.
Several circles swirled in a Bogart haze as melodies thrummed through my burnt seemingly sapphic wastelands.
Life does this to the lacquedasical.
I can't spell.

Bearing the truth

And here is the night thing, that open try to emulate the rich beginnings of the creative act. Without true union, only intellectual spite I pour the soiled sparks of my overripe mind into action. Bearing the truth in unconscious flow, ever deepening, ever opening, ever ending.

Ready To Kill

Illusions are crafted in my dim-witted imagination, the last moments of a past time creep slowly beyond my ken as I spin in unfettered instant wording. Without the longing or burning passion of my used up days, I sit in broken conformity, a sad and haggard waste of the time inside me. Peaceful in my lethargy I lie back, reclining, declining into chaos like my lost painter's art. I scramble at the thin threads of my destiny, weeping outwardly at the cause of my soul's laughter. This place is somewhere inside me, waiting, like a predator, patient, ready to kill. I feel it's weight on me always, everywhere.

Everything burns in me.

Plagues of fetid corpses rise like anchors through the softly spoken vaults of my subconscious designs. Filling with strife and longing I tear through misconceived wastes, burning away the long hours of what was meant to last. Everything burns in me, one long lost moment to the next I bleed out the fires of another lost attempt. Pretending to be something else, wishing there was something else, dreaming of illicit sex and the mouths of forbidden women. Lips, beautiful and scarred hold me, wrapping me in imaginary bliss, binding me with unreal rapture, spilling me into empty air. Where reality exists there is no place for those like us. We live in the dark rooms, away from the eyes of convention and twisting in the winds of our imaginary lives. If there was a way out of this we'd find it, but there isn't. It was lost to us a long time ago, when the wax first covered us, swallowing our souls. infamous creatures are we, riding out the burnt husks of the pretend lives we are given by the constructs of someone else's gods and demons. If there was an end in sight we didn't see it. If it was going to come it changed it's mind. And in our end we have to say, it was never meant to be.

A beginning is a very difficult time . . .

. . . full of passion, pleasure and potential, ultimately doomed to be less than it was. We can reach and clutch but soon momentum ends, and drags, and pulls furious discord from the sky by the handful. Saddened and sore we put away the instruments of our creative arts and lament the passing of potential into the dark spaces. We remember these times at their best, but never return them home. Whining and mewling we shrink back and say, "Good bye." Into sperate spaces we move, until at last we are gone, and perhaps, if we are blessed, when we are gone the beginning will remain.

I can barely define the shape of this moment in time . . .

There has to be something wrong with the idea of creating any form of confessional website at one in the morning, in the midst of melancholy while basking in the soothing misery of Roger Waters various related traumas.

I'm not sure what (besides a seemingly fatal and ill-advised obsession with my computer) has inspired this particular venture. Nor can I even say if this is more than the only post that will ever grace this place.

Not prone to reflecting back to my days of adolescent angst, nor of dwelling in such moods now, I nonetheless find myself listening to these words, and realizing that while all things change, some feelings, though they evolve, abide always.

"And if I show you my dark side, will you still hold me tonight?
and if I open my heart to you, show you my weak side, what would you do?"