You Didn't Build This

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
Who can speak for whom, they ask
Who can claim this work is theirs
If I claim for one or other the task
I'm now master of their affairs;
The quiet reality they've now made
Of a game we made most fair
Is to plunder all, but yet forbade
The old master his own share;
History tells alas too well
How all such things must end
Not a shining city upon a hill
But the grave is 'round the bend.


The Birth of a Reactionary

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The heart is deep, but it breaks, you know
It shatters below like the perfect glass
When perchance on the floor it's dashed
Dashed away fast, with stone on stone
As the crests of the foamy sea had crashed
Leaving last hope, with fear alone
A hollow tone the mourning wind does blow;

Oh, the hope of sickness, the sickness of hope
The hope of better life on a hollow stone
Brimful of fire, wreathed light in foam
Blown like a bubble from a darkling cloud
Did the masters of time leave you all alone -
Did the heavens hear you shout aloud
House proud hung from the sky without a rope?

The love of the world is maddening thing
Revolution its king and reform its queen
To the eyes the masses sing like bees that teem
Buzz, buzz, buzz, in their beemade hive
Break it all down till you've torn the seam
And come undone, when you fall you'll shrive
And flow with rain like the early spring;

Thrown out master whose master are you?
Did the servants beck to your command
Did you call for a reckoning across the land
The dull old mirror echoes back your shout
Only the silver sees the mighty clench of your hand
With the bread and the water come from the spout
Pretend they are something more fair and true.

Jingle coin jingle in the bottom of my cup
Rattle up till you find a fallen friend
Termination is the station where it must end
The train of your fortunes, an everycolor coat
When wise you thought everywhere to send
Everywhere to mend with a promissory note
Can promise of your promise hold a tower up?

Flame of the people! Can you find a wick to burn
Can you hold a candle, or can you scale a wall
Can you build a tower, singing words so tall
Of your presentation, the sooth of your gestalt
Whether it is to remember anything at all
Yes, you only swing the pick, you are not at fault
Vote for we ordained a sentence we have yet to earn.

The call of the ocean, the summon of the sea
What could it be - the wind outside
Stormcloud in whose belly the lightnings ride,
Dark and fearsome and electric and light:
Free from care on the waters they stride
Empty like the heart, full like the night
It is truly something you must see -
It is the birth of a Reactionary.


The Sign on the Gate

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
We don't require your magic fire
That burns and burns in snow and rain
We ought not to have to ask again
About the orange and silver wire
And the boxes that just glow black
The music liable to give a heart attack
Maybe you've heard a thing or two
That we're Luddites, Fundamentalists
Overseers of great prohibition lists --
Or perhaps you've heard our canticle:
"Artifice is grand and much befitting, wealth
But every child must learn one day
To keep his hands to himself."


The Sage Considers the Bishop's Advice

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
You have not heard from me
In long, perhaps, you think me dead
Is it rather I am lost inside my head
But this is no matter you see
We wonder if we shall ever find
The way back to our own kind
The wind of change - it is strong
To oppose it directly - no human thing
No foot, no wheel, no tread, no wing
Will avail against its gale for long
The prince of the air! But cast out
Is he who once rode its brazen rout
And so the whirlwind without mind
Reels us towards a dizzy cliff
End becomes when, not if
The wise find something strong to bind
But the bold overcome it quite simply -
When they move diagonally.


Rest In Peace

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Do they not know or did someone gainsay
That this day - the grave became Paradise
Our words fail, it is not impressive nor nice
It is Kyriake, now by far the tallest day
In the heaven of heavens it is peeking out--
"Tall?" you say, as if in sheer doubt
You can remember to forget what today is about.


Under The Legs of the Highway

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
Under the legs of the highway we are
Not large for our genetic strength
Not great for the exacting length
We went for equality to par
Our difference of dignity so far;

Under the legs of the highway we are
But children again on tiny feet
Infantile even should we meet
Another in our magnificent car
Or in a mob of pitch and tar;

Under the legs of the highway we are
Equal in our inconsequence
Just barely noticed should we jump the fence
Nothing need be done, the gate's ajar
Shadowed from their petty war;

Great legs overshadow us
The monster they call progress
But so lost it is from human scale
If we were gone who would tell the tale
Of us traveling light to the farthest star
But under the legs of the highway we are.


Oculus Rift

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
That glowering eye, writhing inside
Does it even see- is it that which sees
Or do we through it, that disease
Of film, of misshapen form and size
See only ourselves- inside ourselves?
Is the eye the oculus or something else
Do we know the question to ask or would
We want the answer if to us it was given?
Is inside it light or darkness, even?
Or is it that chiaroscuro that should
Be knowledge of what woe betide-
That glowering eye, writhing inside?


Howling At All Hours

it is addressed thusly:

An ode.
it reads:
I stood in the car - then I walked
I walked forward as the car went back
And what carried me in the slack
Of the invisible courses that stalked
Unseen forces that thrust and pull
And accelerate away but the soul
Which walks against them gets wings
Like Hermes of old - but shoes
Did not in their moment just lose
Their plain sole, flat black which brings
To mind no such myth to be told
No myth like Hermes of old -
It moves forward, into an ever-new
But its track is worn down to dust
Back it goes, back then going I must
Through the horrible wind go through --
Quietly the passengers sat and talked
I stood in the car - then I walked.
a postscript is here written:
instant outside in publishing



it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
Black on black, as gloss on matte
Are the colors of our knowing
They have no light in them going
In or out, but doubt is flat
And the sun is not forthcoming.

Synthesis! The thought is this
When experience shatters your perception
You must alter your conception
Quickly, for this not remiss
Lest you pass onto exhaustion.

Discipline, I shall say then
Must be your greatest teacher
What was bug must become feature
For to the soul you search within
And in this way you may reach her.

The small contours the great ignores
Form the subtle marks of the real
This obliqueness is its seal
To look askance one abhors
As if to do so was to steal.

So to see the truth as if with sight
Takes not opening every door
I have concluded all the more
It will suffice to turn on the light
And put one's face upon the floor.


The False Bohemian

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
A stain is upon the canvas
Smudged like an ape's smudge
With its own excrement --
Men with clogged noses
Minds asleep with exhaustion
Swollen from snoring and snorting
Courage for their cowardice
Cannot smell the putrid scent.

The bohemian laughs in derision
At men drunk with pleasure
His saturnine countenance sours
With cruelty and charm
Scorn that perhaps loves or does not
Needs not niceness for its confirmation
Nor proof for its compassion
For these who cannot suffer long.

That which is unbounded
Must be bigger than the sun
You think of the frail walls
And find them bourgeois and small
Or mean and base, but a foundation
Is lower than all things and so
You will be poured out and drunk
By men coarse, wan and strange.

Listen to those who reach upward
Even the fools, do you hear
If they preached your religion
Or pricked your ear with rumors
Or ate with all sinners
Or wept over butterflies
Or could not hold their vessel
You would listen to them;

But hard and small and perfect
You roll like a marble
Full of chemical romances
Of reports of brotherhood
When the patricians are all dead
The great are just burghers
And those who trade in letters
Are but peasants who think they can read.
a postscript is here written:
Bankstonia william burroghs

"when the fundamentalists finally do eat you alive, I will pray for your soul."


Aim: Beauty

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The one poem I will have spoken
Will be but once, not written, but made
Unrepeated, once uttered will fade
And a surely as silence was by it broken
It will once again be as dumb as the sod
An as nightengale-song is with fleeting shod
It will be remembered only by God.


The Sage Rebukes Knowledge

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
You do not have the soul of a poet
The poets tell me, how should they know
Does the wind whisper when it may blow
In and out of the soul that they may know it?

Thousands march on, great and small and yet
Few rise, few are made to rise -- but by who
There was a time when there were some who knew
Some whom wisdom and virtue once met;

It is this, once formed the craftsman begins --
What will he make, will it be great or poor?
Will it make rich or will most try to ignore
He who has by nature revealed their sins?

As all men I am three, one sleeps, one wakes
And one dreams, but I found these not to be
Simply places I go, but three who are me
Whichever road my winding way takes;

I find a contradiction their little rule makes
For while they seek greater consciousness
For one such as I, that is a foolish mess
I, one who only dreams that he wakes.