Towers of Columbia Diptych

Towers of Columbia Diptych
Title: Towers of Columbia Diptych [Twin Towers Manuscript (right); Freedom Tower Manuscript (left)] (left); Freedom Tower Manuscript (right)]

On the Artwork

On the Artwork

The above images are composed of original manuscript art created from the pages on which these writings were first written. The two pieces form a Diptych entitled, “The Towers of Columbia”

Twin Towers Manuscript Art

I am telling a story with this art piece, made of the original manuscripts on which the collection, district.Columbia was written. First off, the emphasis of stream-of-consciousness, spontaneous improvisation in writing as my primary writing practice, is illustrated here with the use of blotter action paint. This style of action paint, where the brush never touches the paper is meaningful, because it further gives importance to the truth of the creator, who is the perceiver and conceiver at once, in relation to the subject.

The destruction of the Twin Towers, was a defining moment in my life as an American youth, however, I only perceived it indirectly, outside of any direct mode of physical inception. The media, through which I experienced the raging disaster, is here given precedence over the content of the subject matter, hence the liberal use of spontaneous action blotter paint using ink. The use of ink is especially significant in that it gives form, in this action painting, to the blood and tears of the victims who were affected by the destruction of the Twin Towers. This includes especially the peoples of the Middle East, and particularly Iraq, whose society was devastated by a flood of violence and misinformation. The blurred writing overlain with blotter ink enunciates the misdirection of media and information with regard to the victims of the aftermath of this tragic debacle in world history. The deep blue sky above is an unnatural blue for the sky, representing an artificial environment with a full solar eclipse, further symbolizing the concealment of knowledge. The dark red underneath the towers stands for the blood of victims seeping underground, out of sight, where the true colors of their suffering continue to pour. The center space is left empty to signify the great abyss or gap which continues at the center of our existence in the West, and indeed all the world, as a result of the catastrophe which ensued in the wake of this infamous event.

Freedom Tower Manuscript Art

In the second manuscript art piece, the ink, once representing the fresh sweat and blood, splattered onto the finely penciled writing, has seeped through the paper. This signifies the fact that even if there is a new tower in the place of the old, the events which have come to pass in the wake of the Twin Towers devastation will appear in the construction of the new tower. Above, the great mystery, a UFO, blinks in a polluted sky, foretelling the haze of conspiracy which will perpetuate misinformation and a misdirection of military technology into the easily distracted, dramatic mind of the American public.

The unpainted manuscript pages beside the tower represent the clarity of judgment foretold and seen by the construction of the tower; that it is supported, in many ways, by the blood of those who have passed while the Death of American Freedom has unfolded after a decade of war, lies, and invasions both personal and public at home and abroad.

Preamble to district.Columbia

Preamble to district.Columbia

Inspired by the pre-colonial and pre-revolutionist metaphor for America, “Columbia,” a Goddess of Freedom, is an archetypal myth, once proudly personifying poetic optimism through feminine form. Through these writings, I personify the process of mythmaking as a dedication to compassionate awe and voiced protest in the historic confrontation with self and nation. The name Columbia was immortalized immediately before the Revolutionary War in 1775 by Phillis Wheatley, the first African American woman to publish her writing, in her poem, “His Excellency, General Washington.”

Written primarily based on a visit to Washington D.C., this collection is a vocal reclamation. These chronicles present a visitor returning to his home country, where visitation is defined by traversing an international land border. I represent my struggle to reclaim and recognize my unique voice. In these pages, I confront the realization that I am, in certain respects, an inheritor of the American way of life. Regardless, the inheritance is fraught with the psychological complexities of exile.

In this reclamation, I throw off vestigial principles of experience. I attempt to revision a new way of being through the living temperance of the written word, and specifically, my own practice of stream-of-consciousness writing. Such revision includes confronting a natural process of self-awareness, whereby self-expression revolutionizes into an identity with nature as a self-perpetuating source of renewal and life.

Spontaneous word creation, or improvisational writing, is a natural activity of the human mind. There is a power within that endless fount, that when regularly tapped as a spiritual practice, unleashes one’s surroundings with an ever-renewing energy. Such a practice motivates one personally, to interact with one’s immediate environment in dynamic ways. The reason for this effect is because in this practice, which actualizes into a way of being, the present moment becomes central. When the present is cherished with just significance, the mundane begins to breathe with new life.

The practice of improvised writing, in this sense, outlines a processional transformation in throwing off sterile notions of self and environment. district.Columbia begins by defining autonomous interactions between self and environment (as to parallel notions of the “New World” for pre-colonial Europeans and pre-revolutionist Americans) and ends with a declarative pronouncement; to create an openness to uninhibited spontaneity in personal creativity and a diverse awareness in social activity in our public spaces (as to parallel the current fomentation of creative social activity blurring the lines of public and personal art).


“For when the power of imparting joy
Is equal to the will, the human soul
Requires no other heaven.”

-         Percy Bysshe Shelley; from “Queen Mab” part III

Fortune's Glutton

a glutton
gasping for air in the cool darkness,
brushing loins to the thin-clothed whereabouts
in post-midnight memorandum mirage,
a charged restless dynamism,
that answered at last

a reach
to touch Love's palpable drift
in the body of one Northeastern life
slipping softly from consciousness
into the unending scream of ignorance
as waves of ghosts piercing the cracked, loose air,
and our lonely exit comes to fruition
with busty orgasmic lights
shuddering in awe of the deep waking fortune
that awaits the patient lover and his incendiary pair of eyes
dreaming soundlessly into the never-ending swarm of heart

a lust
torching the bleak smiles of Jewish God Saturday with bottled blackberry wine
and the drizzled avocado page
that sends un-coddled thought onto a turn-style table of a comedic backdrop
sensitivity under the 95 year old skin of true feeling
resonating in the earthy hair of guitar & piano strings, cut
burning in the night's long internal ache,
that fires the ebullient seed in grass-thundered vocalizations
giving melodies to ancestral brother and sisterhoods
calling throughout
the music of surprising beauty

New America, Go Forth!

a picturesque blare
in the growth attack spotlight
owning the North-coast

in a ruckus of jeering talk,
the bloated dish-turning gazes bleed fixedly
into a wide outpouring shore
still towering over an African haze
thawing the greedy

names tearing at the throat from the machete claw
breaking apart the vocal chord forests
dreamt in saw-cleared eyes
during the infamous winter of English settlement
from the prized mouth and stomach of burnt corn
and lacrosse pages, ruffling in the French-Canadian afternoon

who remembers with sterling grace
and an ease unbeknownst in the blank wilderness of Western memory,
the oral grave of intergenerational strife
digging itself extra corpses to save face in the final rain of time,
commanding the blind ruthless execution of the utmost,
the most fine,
coercing the black hawk’s smothered and festooned plate
sealed over the top of the asterisk helmet at noon-time email remorse,
to send negligent hate into the Muslim morning
and take advantage of war
while cursing the émigré poor
who climb the ladder to your third story bedroom
with a sharp quaking mind's eye

peering into the holy unknown,
a clear emotion
offered plainly to the free will of un-survived human freedom
in childless futures,
go forth!

I, Internalize My Body

my stomach,
stained with blood and coffee,
and I drink with a consumptive gaze
greedily at the tip of the root hanging from Earth's core,
the Indian tree,
swelling as it sways
to the rhythmic tuning of the cordial universal spring,
and so the strung chords of the world's birthing are plucked
duly, with grand motion over the starboard ocean rains
tunneling into a thunderous vision,
the pierced hawk
eyeing ground from atop the archaic skies of timeless dream,
the soundless above slips beyond the social canopy,
and Confucius prays for love
in the Taoist grave of Saturn's eyeless pupil
memorizing the pages of our life's trunk become engraved
with a stoned ape's tug,
at the hairless chord,
our once upraised wilderness
now chained
to European drug lust

Assimilating America-Asia

a maimed fork-tongued spine,
billowing in the majestic heat
as a feather in the dim predawn moonlight

choking cry,
the rasping imperfection in ecstatic beauty,
momentous experience beyond human conflict
in the word and sound of a throat-muted music,
the play of life
final and resounding
in a tumult of white haze
around the English nape

croaking in the sharp whispered present,
fuming dry-eyed numberless fingerings
before a trickster’s Goddess tree,
pained to an ink-smeared fire on the blistering urban horizon

gone into aged reason
and the ethos of undreamt madness

teeming over drunk
soups creeping into the mattress womb of a lover's unthinking, catastrophic island
in pursuit of man
and the thankless awe
imprisoned by the fornicating asp, embraced and sure,
calmed by the dragon's unbelieving Asian energy
a toxic gladness in the opiate museum,
struggling to remove the raised animal-child
and her round face

channeling the circle's parallel doom
that puzzles and quickens fate simultaneously
in an overwhelming urge to kill and boast murder
in the gambler's vacation
over failed modernity,
a nightmarish vision of the weak American brain,
coddling electric misdirection
in the worried and unplanned savagery of war story lies
answering in all profundity
questions on the meaning of life
with vindictive cynicism
and a laughable crusade of assimilation’s values

on white-washed dread
tuning all the fork-tongued & glue-stained hearts with copycat branded smiles
and ear-pinched mamas, craving for a dose of humanity
in the engine of more bloodshed

around the knife-edge corner
that prepares a boiling pot of human waste
for rights

moving the home of family wisdom
into the cinematic backdrop of misinformed god-awful dramascapes
plugged into the cliché ride to the store
of perpetually thawing,



Listen to Your Self

listen to your self...
until the round waterfall empties all Earth,
cleansing the porous beyond

in a fire fight, clambering up broken stone
and rushing past with notes in blue and white,
forming spontaneous lines
that end brush strokes in a black obsidian plush,
creasing against the mountainous fold
with a calligrapher's mind

written in the rocky glove of unsettled wild creative youth,
those two pair,
growing in unseeded soil
as a weed tossed into the vibrant dark matter of infinite bliss
by the great American eagle
flowing into the future of Vietnamese bathroom floors
swept of children and memory
to change the tide in New England Hebrew martyrs of spiritual play
chiding glorious phrasings in the Algonquin high of a green environment
hiding with chilling valor in the mindless now,
blessing the gaping lung of the Indian tree
with sacred breath
on the poetic tongue of a changeless need
to create from universal love the bedding of an epochal foment
in song
and inflame the passage beyond body
with an unnamed right to live as is

in the crab-scuttled grass sands
itching our newly aged feet
to see past random necessity
with light on the ethnic blood-touched proud
in ancestral family,

the road,
now faded with an overwhelming sense of Love
for all creation,
buried in the mass grave of a secret lunacy
hidden behind the bed-mask of traditional sexuality,
and yet untied
the knot stifles truth and freedom in a frantic pause to strengthen terror's wave
crashing in the lonesome authority with tasteless glamour
reflected off the stretched mirrors of the disadvantaged, ugly, poor,
and our fate, unified into first expression,
to cast away all memory
and become plainly seen in the absolute center,
mind's eye of the Pacific, drenched in wandering,
an unworldly guise,
blended into worthless machine-eaten jungles
fried in the oil of littered rubbish
alongside a fixed marriage highway

to an undreamed following,
a place deeper than hell,
frozen in the backdrop imagining
where the burned order breeds asinine judgment
flowering into bitter hate for the lost
who stare remembering at the speechless knot,
held in minds full with blame and newly felt sorrow
for ancestors mourning what's to become of their kin
tied in fate with breathless teachings

Sculpting our Music

to empathize with space,
emptied learning
devoid of causality,

to exist in nonsense happily,
with or without means to find the light to continue
and realize that meaning prevails in the ability to emancipate need into desire
and transform desire into being,

to see you,
in the flap of a wave thickening
in a sky filled with stars aglow
in the insect's wing,
eaten then,
raw in the toothless humanity
forming on the tip and base of the tongue
with each word-stopped breath of compassion

"subsist without things,
yet do not merge one with sheer being,
there is no escape from right,
take time to see,
play aloud to the soft distance
in each touch
on the eternal book
resting coolly
on the back of every pulse
moving through fingertips pressed over reality."

simply unlearn doing
by giving into the peace already;
know your surroundings,
truth does not move,
yet there is mystery in sound's effortless becoming
around and within the hand that pulls time into the heart
and plays breath
in tune to the sun's round birth canal of thoughtless entry
into an orbital law,

a return to archaic wisdom
in ancient instruments
and the rare music of inward listening
that shares all in the act of creative wondering

to explore the mind without friction
against the beat of our one heart,
drained now by love's unknown pleasures
offered to the inescapable friend,
who appears as death at the beginning of night,
freezing time
for a moment's celebration of temporal freedoms
grinning out of sight

None Superior than No One

a racial pornography
full with brutish lies
that carefully whispers a song of superiority, stigmatized,
and the random tear, breaking at the seam of the color line
brackets, the argumentative congress
in sparked ruthless struggle
to follow the skin as figment of national imaginings,
brought forth out of the soup of paper, signed
and dashed to the brink of monotony
in the white drama
played on the silver screen’s temptress beginnings,
the luck sworn lady,
proud to crave angelic rushes
into the all-evading non-stop traffic of superficiality
raining down mellow unborn savagery
over the traumatized hearth

broken fire
bursting reckless
in the shaking grave of early centuries,
where settling became a full moon practice
by dim ugly war signs
embraced on African shores
and in the deepest south of colonial homes
filling beds with elevated mores
seething at the brim of an enraged foment
between men and women
in the racial pang of color and word
touching on the endless cry
that festers as a boil into the unpronounced identity of comparative modern division,
a social history, mismatched at the raped womb,
that turned aside
and hid its darkest pull into all blackness

at the tip and infinite corner of universal brilliance,
a feature in the personality of a momentary god
breathing in the light proverbial wisdom of dream talk
from ancient suffering,
an eloquent sleep, reading into the deep listening core
from wild earth and her still shore,
reflecting the inmost forbearance of her lore
as a secret in conflict with the perfectly reflective mirror
in nature's great gaze of mind
as equal in time and space with all creation
in a flash of spontaneous appearance
that glows in a taught nudge

forsaken as murder into the fated night,
a cold lonely break between choice,
and patient intuition

in the one voice of our common human home
as purposeful presence
pregnant with the meaning of art

in our head and eye
who self-formed, began as a creative laboring
in the strong brush with a peculiar kind of will
that worshipped a diverse issuing of the ten-thousand tongued iris
performing for the blessed worldly guest
as a vaginal cavity pulsing to a white noise
flecked with the opaque snow of a newfound conceptual electricity
melting at once in the off switch unction towards a motionless upbringing

growing up in the solitary profundity of man, alone with nature,
wherein lies our humane passage
through social obstacles
in desire and the restrictive curse
in fear for the child
and her sanctified birth

Drugged Love, Seated Life

drugged love,
timed passion,
and the remorse found

in a quick resourcefulness in arms,
the distributed poverty sickens the dirt
into our net worth enslaved

in the ruddy mirth,
a deportation masked

in the swallowed fruition of the blossomed nun
and her Buddhist sisters
who betray their folk chiming

in the shamanic din of civilized inclinations
to become the oldest persona of grace, emergent
of land intoxicated by the avian lords
who roam tearfully in landless bush
above the streaming Pacific's current
fanning to seed
 atop island exotics
and breach the blind exploration
from nothing

to an essence of discovery
in the learned,
seated life

To There…a single step

to the core,
the middle,
the center,
the point,
the crux,
the meat, bone and heart of the matter,
to spend aimless time
gazing at monetary colors
in the upturned sky
blank with a serious face

to guidance,
in a selfless haze of red and green,
light with an intimacy for a sun ray's touch

in the atmospheric jazz cool
inside family exercise
toward introspective hallucinations
in the communal stroke of luck
with a faceless ordeal
met only in traveling
and going beyond the space of rhythmic stress

coursing through the married rings of male-female becoming
like an ageless fight
against the cruel daze
with monotony and clever denial
bequeathed to the jealous children of war
boiling over the holy boom pot of re-created American cookery,
to flash discolored eyes
suddenly into the empty well-cast light
and sense a bravura of internal awakening without respite,
that judgment, cleansed from humanity, will see its day reborn

on the naked steps of Greek antiquity
coming to life in the nude breath
heating the strong will to escape,
to flee from earth's modern gravity,
and quake the rules of science
in an act of preposterous impertinence
with reality in a sand-fired glass shore
sinking into the elegant lunar tide,
of eastern sorrow in music
written with voice to bespeak the voiceless friend
who plays spontaneity in the formless kiss with human wishes,
at home in the awake blood of non-political growth outside skin

and the rusty match,
raised to presidential beginnings
at the final tuning
beyond a slow curve of national despair,
and the answerless dread, washing over the religiously tired
whose mouths sink into the sea
and blame the faithful for their troubling sense of diversity,
whose risen heart failed to beat upon hearing
her single step

Morning Dew

your eyes crack open
with subtle wanting
in the cold



filling your smile
with dawn's twilit dew
in the rush and pour of warming lust
to be near and speak loving endlessness
into your responsive tongue
that clings eagerly
to the rolling birth of tragedy
in my arms
pulsing with exotic love
to cool the diligent reckoning

with the unforgiving pull,
a soft whirr from the sky's clear vacuum
the rusty kisses of lips gone stale
with a life
lived too long

Along My Own Shore

Buttressed against the sign,
The medieval wave foams over the cup of a lovely breastfed nose
Exhaling the Jewish nostalgia of mournful local upbringings

In the reared tragedy of common history
Gone from the Irish shores that reach into the heart of a small mayflower
Lore teaching the youth and middle-aged men of their rights
            And losing fate in the unreasonable song

To play out our entrenched groove that rides into spherical motion,
A dreamless awe maintaining the earthy power to cool enraged throats
                        And impress a soft layer of peace on the back
            An all-escaping flesh
                                    Of our siblings who praise the sun
                                                And its ever-flowing majesty

As we drink clean the greatest bled bowel, stirring all life
            Into a swarm of negligent dearth
            Strengthened by the mother mage
                        Feeding her feminine premonitions
As vulnerable as a dragonfly bubble collecting under glass-blown facades
            Over childhood ignorance
                        Now translated into memory and anger

For the righteous who sweat uneasy in the rain of God’s unwavering brow,
            Quenching the sweet lust of a tongue touching air
Breaking out over the raspy law
            Stressing oral vernaculars in this southerly pressure

On the winded tune
            Calling lonely flints to breaking stone in the fireless birth of electric streets

Cowering in the name and number of a modern fear
            As troubling and apparent as the street’s end in wilderness

Post-office calling on locally made children,
            Whose strength lowered into oceanic depths

At this point, along my own shore

Borrowed from the Ancients

An unseemly drink
Borrowed from the ancients,

My uncouth vocation
Feeding its own pride in a mundane host

Now calling
Sure in the wild dirt

Following the wave’s break
Chilling the surf in its open, living mind

Shedding tears
Upside into the sky’s unbroken cavity

When fish jump
And break surface of mental clarity with life’s untamed spontaneity,

When life emerges
And takes of its observant few what prophecies are foretold by nature

And her swan glazes over
On the picture board

Hot with fangs of ice and a sudden peering
Into human evil

As a featureless rock
Craving a home in the swallowing dirt,

A ruthless desire
To unite with physical being

In the cavernous play
Amid the muck and cry

Fraying at the end of a lost piece
Strung around the backbone of a house emptied by work

And the second family, recalling memory from grandparents gone
Into the naked beyond,

Whose swaying grieved for the longing that rustled sheepishly
In the bed of an unmanly heart

And drank from the undone wilderness
As a bush of masculine hair stroked in brevity

Upon the ash tray mug of plain sex
And the attracted flower of gender

Flipping across duality’s lofty existence
In our upraised addictions

Failing our deepest intuitions
With personified haste

To die the impatient death of youth
And brush past the envisioned self

Struggling to go together with soul
To the summit of human glory

From Behaved Freedom to Absolute Nonsense

I go from a behaved freedom to absolute nonsense
            Without friends yet steeped in family love,
I publicly play and proclaim the monetary divide
            In my rich eyes which disguise the poverty
            line’s frozen glare
In Canadian expatriate stench, painstaking
            To be fugitive without mind 
            to the loosed volley
Cracking against the one shield fortress of Mattapoisett
            One place of rest made into settlement with guns
            and stolen disaster
Ripped from the bosom of Europe’s scheming
                      English name
            Now massacring the playful
            artistry of our own inborn life

On this impossible continent
            Freely taken from a gamble and faith
In blond-headed angels
            Whose divinity was parted
            by the bald imprisoned hallucinations
Driving out demons with Masonic symbology
            Over the infinite sands of civilization,
            breathed and created out of time
In the sun’s ravishing corner of a universe,
            un-tempted and forever at a loss
                     Between the child’s two eyes
On death and the holocaust of our forsaken government
            Laughing at the trees’ roots

When stretched to the bottom of India’s or Africa’s wells
            Ousting up the belief in life as a drunken tragedy
                                    Yet, be not humorless
                                    nor without comic sophistry

In the dance and song
            Come alive by the sexual majesty
                                    In theatre’s delicate ways,

To present the creative being
as one with truth’s bold and upheld music
            Reflecting back in the caged mirror
                                    A creator anew

With Still Unborn Eyes

A presence belied in the soft air aglow with diligent drizzle
            From this, our American lighthouse heaven,
                        Alit with dream
                        in stories told by great-grandmother’s   
                                    Life lived outside the pages of the “true”
                                                And into the truly earth-quaking
                                                of dream,

A silent praise now unforgiving in this one unkempt death
            Blowing past the burly crevasse of a listless youth
                        Climbing up past the gold icon in Biblical temptations
                                    To screw women into their darkest pain
                                                In a house filled
                                                with the semen of timeless wandering

Men whose throats burn with the soil of their unloved mother
            Croaking up agro-fossil drains
Reaching from modern skylines to prehistory,
issuing from our Christ-death

In the end of an age
            As inevitable as the reptilian fate in the everyday brain
Expanding with the feared herbs growing
like weeds in our Western mythology
Built in smoke
and the knowledge of Earth’s ever-forgiving
                                                Bringing America’s children reason
                                                to explore mind
                                                            In the socio-pathic
                                                            lie of success and money
As we corner the livid
daze of the booming war
                                                                                    Fertilized wombs

In the housed mystery of our yet undiscovered world
            Beneath each colonial home
                        Shot out of the ugly worldview
                                    Misplaced over the moral genealogy
In an ecological philosophy
            To dry the eyes of our spectral hosts
                        Who watch and wonder
                                    With still unborn eyes

Improvisational Brevity in the Public Eye

What shared outpouring wore down the iris and pupil
of the already blind
            And cut out of the legs from the paralyzed
            street of ghost walkers
                        Who hang onto passerby cars
                        with historical envy and thick desire
                                    In the burning legs
                                    that carry our men and women home
                                                From the taxes of war
                                                In terrorist fires
                                                            across the Fourth of July
                                                            Crying for Chinese tears
                                                            to put out the flame
                                                                        With workhorse hands
                                                                        over the Maoist grave
                                                                                    A permanent red

To divulge in a communal sense of suffering
            With the Islamic world
                        Now enmeshed in divided hatred
                        with their Asian brothers,

An incantation’s break
            In the collective hymn learned in distant rally keeps
                        Among the exotic foreign faces blurring
                                    As the weak perceive undead minds
                                    clinging to a cold unknown,
                                                An as yet unseen possibility
To come near to the landless hole
            In our improvisational brevity in the public eye
                        Through an unlearning in the exotic pull
                                    That fired the imagination
                                                With natural fuel
                                                from the hand of a single lawless tome
                                                            Sung breathless from memory

Behind the sanctified veil of a deserted humanity
            At Earth’s surfaced core,
                                    The central heat of language,
                                                As the untold mystic
                                                sweats over the reeds       

To make permanent her words
            Impressed against the chest of Earth’s skin
                        Where beauty’s seed first sprung
                                    From the mouth of an unformed animal
Desiring to be part of the universal
wave of continuous expression
Toward unified presence
with astonished deathly bliss
                                                                        And awe 

Holy Rope

Holy rope glean
            Setting off the executioner’s raffle
                        In a dream state turning the mind
                                    To a pentatonic, indigenous scale
                                    To the antique buzz in our lonely natural surroundings
                                                That prepares a decadent life

Amidst the misty hilltop laughter
                                                            That echoes in the contemplative breath on high

A Dark Glory

There is a dark glory in the aftermath of a life lived for the mundane,
            Powerless quickening to family’s ghosts,
Pursuant unto human failure
            So astounding as to thicken the blood with grave’s seeding,
A morbid host flaunts my presence on this night,
            A fortune’s boast ruins the ego-driven trivialities of white-milk mentalities
Breathing in the hoarse visions,
            To announce:

“Wisdom is dead, yet why do you flee to such eternal misery?”

“Where in your graceless fornication with speed did you create to destroy and listen only to silence?”

A great tormented void rings over the binding salt of my sleepless thoughts        
            Called forth into being by the bone-skinned drum of life’s flow,
A drawing
A sacred heat
            Below the eardrum’s fall to a coarse truth;

                        “We all feel undone by shameful tragedy.”

A distinct forging into the now dizzy percepts of a lingering eye
            Finding beyond the brush stroke predawn –
The blinking heart of the drum impresses the joy of the animal womb,

To dream anew

A Joke Downstairs

Downstairs there is a joke
            That emanates as a vile curse
Into the cellar’s lair,
A gourd filled with smoke speaks in a voice,
A mindless bowl
of mirth

glasses grow cold in the unheated concrete glue,
            a fixture of the dead past,

a golden consumer begs with a throat full of tears

in front of speakers
            throbbing with broken-hearted names
            burning up in a heat of worldly instrumentation,

transcending this same-self curse
            with a storied high
                                    of nameless voice

carrying through the skin of animals,

            and the fibers of mountains’

flipping up to atmospheric light

in a shrouded daze
            of infinite flame
                        to universal stature

            beyond the mold of unbroken life
turning the heart of man into the cold dead stone of ethereal triumph,
a spiritual womb formed
                                    at the fingertips of an artist healer
                                                                        pursuing the groove of an epoch
                                                                        stolen from the mind
of silent law

in a world’s motionless yearning

                                                                                    from afar

in the dark

America! America!

America! America!

America! Why have you buried your deepest, darkest secrets in whispers unheard? Yours is a truth disguised in a white blur as brilliant as the green-footed greed of mad industry. Why do you never step lightly off the strength of Europe's forests, onto world mystery reduced to cartography?

What is your name? And since when have you dreamed so shamelessly without thought to the diligent right to be in peace on Earth? Where is your life, if not in the decadent splendor of your shared riches? Why have you become poor with anger, and offered only suicide to your stout-hearted mob?

I have been known to conceive a country out from the spotless lie of hidden wonder, yet I cruelly disembark from the gross unlearning of my future's childless offspring. I cook for days over the melting pot. While my stove is cast aflame, I remain transfixed by the looming sky, eclipsed under a bloody moon - The Springs foretold.

Belly Up

A thinking man came to pass rule. He blew his own on savagery - staggered in mocking local camaraderie.
His failings show like diamonds in the lacerated hand of a slave.

Bonds and kinship here have no name.
The human is a black being, cold with impotent arousal.

Our modern lives run clean through this cursed river
Our blood dirties, streaming from the porous core
These are wounded oceans.
We sink, while the light of the world floats amiably to the surface
Belly up.

Feel Old, Death?

I can feel old death rising,

My pulse sears with an internal flare,

The spit cackle drying across the elderly facial tissue,

A green-throated hollowing,

Readied by a sun-made gesture,

To recognize the north and its slovenly border enclosing the volatile station of enmity between the once revolutionary slaves and the Queen’s vile whores

Witnessing the continuance of an apocalyptic crusade on these modern shores

Breaking open the earth-less ocean unto the final turning of Europe’s last romantic page,

Closure to the novel convulsions of a people well-practiced in ethnic cleansing and rife with general ethno-cultural frights,

A personification of madness in a room filled with the posthumous ghouls plugging away at their savage spoils like follicles bending to old age in a mindless instant,

Only to wonder about the eternal forms of a blessed imagination,

To obscure shadows with neglect and endure the ritual heights prescribed in local law on this night

Gazing at Love's Face

A hotel muse glimmers off the unwritten pages of mind's pen -
Gazing at my Love's face, I see through the apparent reality to a frameless art. A sacred geometry in the flesh. A timeless elision, going beyond spent energy.

To consume a day; imagining with laughter in the midst of family. A painstaking curse of matrimony. I confront a diabolical trance. The infamous quicksand of Divorce - This is her land. She rules. Matriarchy's divide and conquer seed has fertilized my hungering artistry - To create connection, a primal state of need, growing beyond cultivated dependency, to a meaningful joke, heard within as your inner smile. A sinful poetry of the wandering eye. While hers remains ever-closing to the dry, modern outside. I contemplate the fate of words frothing at the lip of internal expression in a surge of self Love.

My Love's gaze goes unseen. Thoughts drool onto the unanswered bed sheets, a drivel of gladness mixes with an urge to speak in visual humanity. I can't stop.

I Have Fallen

Breathe with deviltry’s whore.
A ruinous attraction, scapegoat of lifeless furor.
Rumors of famine, gross suffering and the pantomime of foreign judgment.
Where am I falling?
Who do I call?
I have fallen, I am getting small.

My name

Where does the apple fall?
From a rootless tree?
A groundless source?

A calling to nothingness - Transitional misdirection in a voice devout with vagrant travesty.

This is my name.

The Pleasant Man

The pleasant man across from us hears us mumbling softly and responds, a time passes in brief interspersed conversing, his thick Francophone accent emerges, with the name "Montreal" - jazz in my headphones - his mom lives an hour above this still as yet unknown Québécois cultural Mecca. My wife stuns in gorgeous Laotian black and gold, her fabric and complexion conjures ice storms and the frozen rain - memories, images and impressions of the old country in the North. Moment's seasonal greeting, here in Virginia the human weather anticipates unprecedented climactic shift. We are aware, N. Americans, ready? He closes, "I'll be home for Christmas."

Lugubrious Background Nearing an Electromagnetic Haze

A paradigmatic focus
            Careening into the absolute beyond
                        Across a Zuni passageway to the pueblo god,
A local currency in stonework and mud-laden factories of 4 and 7
            Meandering into the nervous plug of human fire
                        Uncreated instantaneously
In the muddled birdcage wandering off a steaming factory
            Unplanned off the aspiring edge of small town fame
                        Glowering in the lugubrious background of a juvenile
Staved off in matter’s roving blockhead gourd body
            Plunging its eyes into acid water full with psychedelic vibrations
                        Nearing an electromagnetic haze
In wonderment by lost forsaken pride
            Seated behind piano benches creaking
As Monk sways to the jazz tonality in the bridge beyond NYC night divide,
The lightless ruins, now golden by African wives
            Challenging the gunshot parade of men with sex slaves and witch doctor friends
                        Making films and records without shoes
On the medieval sands of the Islamic family and the eternal human tradition of bondage
            Throughout the sanctified fields of one human home
                        Lived to the final digression into creative madness and the right to be
As connected as all beings
            With electric happiness

Daily Bread: Drug of the Illiterate

We drank in the rains
            Big drops that fell like ignorance
            over the spout-stopped Manhattan rubber
                        Atop the fashioned grave, splitting at the seams
                                    To unravel the blistering mummified dives
                                                In the panegyric future
                                                of the African ankh
Performing enchained
            The loosed rope, taught between the urban lyre
                        Craving divorce
                        from this our brandished sky
                                    Merged by Brooklyn Bridge
                                    & Hudson tides
                                                Splashing with lusty galoshes
In the breastfed porridge soup American city,
            Our children bred to be poor
                        After the Baby’s boom
                        turns to the Baby-bust generation
                                    Busted all in green Muslim chains
                                                From atop terrorist minarets,
                                                looking for a spouse
To return from the global American war
            Sucking dry the work-a-day pockets
                        Kneaded into Italian dough
As the Russified Jew speaks
greedily over the loudspeaker society
In esoteric Egyptian and Greek architecture,
            An eternal light carries a brilliant meaning
                        In the purpose-woven building,
                                    A monument in memory
To the silent soldiers of youthful mind,
            Acting on subtle principle
            against the machinated heads of the ruthless, glowing
                        Into the veteran
                        white-witnessed drug of the illiterate
                                    And the populace, suddenly aloud
                                    to all storming Egyptian heights
In the modern soundscape
In our brutal love enslaved
            By the oceanic war of historic time,
                        A personified treasure keep
                                    Wherein our grandchildren lie
                                                Sleeping off the perplexed philosophy
                                                in street gore
                                                            And racial poverty
Breathing up the neck
of white niggers in Quebec
Engraving graffiti on the politician’s neck
            Whose lysergic stirrings crept back
                        Into a nailed beauty, waking from orgasmic thighs
                                    In the homeless bed stoop,
                                    grabbing at foreheads
                                                Wondering and bleeding into the rain
A daily bread, for they
            Who are in the New World

Impassioned Road to Being

Dance, simply to dance to the dream
            And drink in old memory
From a song in tune with the starless beyond,
            A song to enlighten the ghosts who pass by mind
With a being so heavy as to weigh down their piece of the heavens
            Down onto earth for another eternity
In the lifeless trap of dream
            Yet to dance, and eat words meant only in songs of steam,

A dripping hunger instills those following to go beyond sleep and be
            In conscious wonderment, in the living dance
Dream today in a new and timeless breath,
            To stave off the mindless, parasitic asp
Climbing inside mind through dreamless eye-shutters
            Blocked by old-fashioned stone, brick and wooden carved hands

Holding my dancer, lover and beauty
            To the song of my dreams
Woman of my life
            Who holds no passion in sleep, and dreams awake

The intoxicated & impassioned road to being,
            One being, in a dance together
Raised to the motion of an all living heaven
            Where no ghost calls home
And only the living wake each day
            To dance outside a dreamless state
Where the green play of God’s earth heightens the key and swing
            Bringing each disaster to shame and criminal to speak
On the pedestal of a forlorn warning
            That no shore is safe in this dreamless state without dance,
Yet to sing and become a new dance and dream anew
            Before naked freedom announces song’s ending

Ancient Soundscapes, Scholarly Jazzdoms

Drift of a fist to the sky
In the activist’s pause
Before standing unannounced
At the gates of eternal misery
Where strife finds embittered ground
And the inglorious suffering breeds childless offspring
Mourning for ancestral greed
Sprouting from a native gourd
With cracked shell
Lying abandoned and weakened at the skin
With taught shell-string clacking
With fortune’s boisterous western noise
Shrinking into the mist
Without echo
From musician’s deep sleep
Over the ancient soundscapes passing
Through electric wilderness
To heart
Where the slow & quiet grasp effectively
And mix with outstretched hands
Molding their pots, bold in the mud of a sacred womb
Shaving off the tasteless surroundings
In scholarly jazzdoms
Peaked by suburban afternoons
Where business as usual survives ‘til end of time
In a hypnotic state
Casting generations in a mold of marijuana magic
To break free and stash the Graecian pride
Animating our first 20 years with a stamina to behold
By the psychedelic pop folk music
Frozen as beer in winter’s unforgiving kiss with sanity
As the stone cold sobering recedes into marriage with money and preconceptions
In the angelic snowball, carving into the strike zone of a forsaken American childhood
Uncovered now
So timely 

Blind Daemon

“Answer to me blind daemon!
            In a song that corresponds to the unanswered spring,
                        A ruthless account beyond seasons,
                        Dazzled in blue drink,”
Aloud, the angered temptress with lonely hands,
            Rumbles in the soundless maw
            of an un-beholden future,

The western pathway to slavery lies feebly
over the chasm
            As a vile whore reminds us
            to put grace before prayer

In motionless wonder,
personifying the lush diligence of an ancient society
            Dismembered at the plan of a cursed monotony
                        To stare into the black façade
                        and feel dreams slip through sleep,
                                    In and out,
                                                As the rousing
                                                conscious blare
Golden unknowns
through the pockmarked
adolescent streets,
                                                            And my dearest love
                                                            damages her home
In the slightest wavering
over forlorn hypnosis
with me
As we ride
into the pond’s silhouettes
                                                                        Breaking borders
                                                                        and walls
                                                                                    With one
                                                                                    anxious crush
                                                                                    with failure,
            To round the painless bend and see cold ruins
            burned to ashen faces
                        Breathing in the dust-felt stone
                        of our sculpted female icons,
                                    The paralyzed Earth
                                                Battered from pieces into an Act
                                                            For the intuitive goal,
To reach beyond sanity
into a realm of threes,
                                                                                    Where complex
                                                                                    nature thrives
                                                                                    And the dual
                                                                                    spring subsides
                                                                                                a heart

To the beat
of one verse
                                                                                                                                                                                          Unifying all