it's trending strange
some of us
mentioning
remembering
past lives
even centuries
through millennia
every incarnation
so spirit strives
through inclination
time won't resist
keep on yearning
wanting to exist
needing exegesis
genesis with feeling
freedom to learn
who were you
when this world
first evolved
forever changing
involving me
novelty you
they and those
as good
mother earth
turns quantum clever
moody revolution
no ordinary life
chemistry with dissolution
we keep on trying
where were you
when Pompeii burned
what were you
when Spartacus died
our timeless resurrection
when time itself is born
this is the only way
through every incarnation
we invest to live
revelry while perfect
does regress
disheveled into elements
fragments of levels
when and how
we chose to live
how many times
we close our eyes
waking as they and those
a new born cries
wherever we chose
to live and die
reincarnation chose
being cleverly divine

              * * *

 

while I still
have flesh
on my bones
I want
to know
having blood
life transference
coursing through
constricting veins
while I still
have eyes
true light
to see
I need
to know
breathing air
general life
pumping existence
divinity invading
evolutionary lungs
while I still
have electrons
bounding around
renewed cellular matters
funicular grounding chatter
glued to lucid brain
I require intrepid
concentrated consciousness
reception's entropy
while I still
exist ascending
spiritual revolution
while I am
coherent evolution
flesh and blood and bone
so zone this
vibrational life
reverberates through time
echoing throughout space
while I still am
adherent expression
of who and what I can
considered impressions
of how
I'm human
just why
I am a man

               * * * 

 

it's not
impartial darkness
but fractal light
distracting me
it's not nothing
but practically everything
distractions creating me
what if
I never truly woke
forever fully asleep
so then
what could I feel
through it all
immediate time
adjoined by remedial space
what might I be
delightful or suffering
or is it
just like
night and day
indifference versus compassion
via love and hate
I do think
my perfectionist soul
would not stay
in such a barrage
of harried light
perhaps some
imperfect black hole
variant distilled remorselessness
carelessly even effortlessly
shall swallow me up
just like conditional
sensational darkness
consuming riveting rays
of choice inspirational light
as this world
turns always returning
each assuming day
into the very next
night after presumptive night
entreating curious texture
starry spectacular light
myriads of regal colour
such delirious structure
this creative art display
making us need to see
but what do we want
what does
darkness need
does dark night
require any light
then what is right
still life snuggled
within a struggling seed
death's eternal
reverential fight
everything wanting us
to forever change
entreating volatile light
isn't that strange
fickle darkness
marking some
ingrained place
where steady nothing
is just like silence
we readily know
something was said
echoing some deafening refrain
God's trusting contemplation
forming this and that
first common word
one profound sound
seeking some
future destination
isn't every universe
mainly void of light
isn't each retroverse
every crazy sun
just another blazing orb
yearning for realization
I don't know
what fervent light
would see
what deferential dark
might be
if reverential God
remained unreserved
yet reserving that
initial creative spark
but we
got sentient light
something undeserved
since creation
depends on sight
though insightful darkness
reserves godly right
to eventfully keep
raging suns burning
turning brave day
after each rave night
into something
we all
yearn for
even though
when we sleep
darkness can
be a stark friend
even letting one find
within one's mindful dreams
those yin sounds
of vying silence
resolving creation
that yang evolution
through unglued time
revolving around angled space
where unknown distraction
resolves enlightened absolution
absolute insightful darkness
beauty in that place
refined by mindful God
blinded by truthful light
defined by ruthless creation
still foolishly
we go and do
yet we are still
seeking grace
always unable to see
unfettered and free
that magnificent dark entity
almighty God's unseeable
divine creative face
God's unimaginable
divine wondrous place

            * * *

 

Charles Bukowski
tempted me
to cut open
all my poetry
Bukowski
Charles
swimming deep
in his deep sea
fathoms of bourbon bottles
those constant tidal sips
at times suicidal gulps
griping about human drips
imbibing alcoholic drops
less bucolic than bitter sweet
twitter words in rage-a-holic poems
sometimes homeless gritty
hitting on broken home
those ranting red flags
zones of abject tokens
anti-socially spoken
making me
sit exclamation mark upright
almost ready to bolt
or jump up to dance
even sometimes fly
what the steady hell
or is it chancy heaven
poets with their
relish and pickle poetry
embellished biscuits
sometimes void of savory
seasonally no salt
or reasonable leaven
making me
want to laugh
as well as truly cry
Jack Kerouac
remade me
doing something too
a decade long journey
then forty odd years
imagining modest zen
drunk Kerouac
taking off his monastic shoes
speaking from
between his plastic knees
while all I could do
where all I could see
are callous wasps and fallace bees
still stingers stinging
pollination at its best
my regeneration poetry
speaking about watering gardens
seeking irrigating words
mostly irritatingly rooted
locked in unmitigated war
verse clambering upward
then slipping downward
through hot hell
why can't every sky
be summer blue
why did Bukowski
rip open my flummoxed brain
how did intoxicated Kerouac
coax my optic words
to poetically burrow out
finding some vellum page
to frankly call home
if a speeding meteor struck
what would I
metaphorically write about then
maybe my destructive words
would learn to rhetorically drink
gallons of hard liquor
followed by volumes of dry wine
perhaps my crying poems
would be gallant
valiantly more
theirs and yours
even more elementary tears
more than those
raging rivers of mine
but as I vie
to crazily walk
visiting lazy alien streets
running with sharp scissors
anointed with vain poetry
more train wrecks
in my self-centred dreams
I relinquish help
but inquisitively wonder
if Bukowski and Kerouac
oddly or evenly
thought about
over or even under
thought about  
starlight or grieving thunder
I suppose
desolation peak
taught Jack K
a thing or two
I suppose they
those bums drinking
inside and outback
puking hapless words
into and out of
hopeless Bukowski's
liquored up mind
I can't help but know
I'm not being kind
but my angry poems
refuse to be
anything
but hangman blind
those jittery words
a knotted noose
tightening around
every oh and eh
which I scrawl and write
most will find
garbage and pollution
are those disturbing things
littering my gritty mind
I'm not a fit naked pole dancer
that lewd thought
of being nude on stage
makes me reel and cringe
if Bukowski would see me
he'd call me a wanna-be
like greenstick saplings
wanting to be leafy trees
so you wanna be a writer
what about gaudy and contrite
just another tawdry nobody
if Kerouac were alive
he'd call me unhinged
while my poetry calls me
a total car wreck
I somehow survived
if Leonard Cohen
were standing here
reading my stature
hallelujah
my very nature
might be readily unclear
still I steadily want to think
I'm some portion
of poetic creature
while my crusty poetry tells me
when with my tie dyed words
I must finally fall down
having tried unjustly
laughing and wanting to die
my psychedelic universe
will never be expanded
even considered or ever revived

                 * * *

 

those tendrils of love
I sometimes feel
sometimes felt
render me feeble
speechless in any event
why my emotions
leave me senseless
that avoidance action
defensive with deep feeling
leaving me twisting
reprehensible to even reeling
makes me truly wonder
why should I
open my heart
even could I
when love comes
even loudly knocking
only to tear me apart
maybe I need
to further dig into this
likely a deep hole
try to bury my fear
along with my rusty hoe
so perhaps I could stop
hilling things up
like some consistent
infested spent crop
stop allowing my being
to cower or cringe
at that providential crossroads
with love's deep feelings
revoking my residential confidence
stop thinking that cadence of words
keeping me unglued
stop thinking those sinking thoughts
making me feel like true love
can never will never be saved
let me climb out of that hole
where I buried sweet love
turgidly so very long ago
unlock that fervent trap door
to love's turbid enclave
resurrecting sweet love
letting me crawl out of love's grave

                   * * * 

 

smell that sweet
smoked moose hide
listen to mukluk silence
quaint frozen words
speaking cracking brown
spirit Weasel Woman
telling round stories
founding grounded stars
wisps of teasel legend
ancient willow nips
hand in hand with birch song
myth equipped for rising
from a sacred crackling fire
I hear that wracking drum
mons sweating slowly
ump ump ump ump ump
circling that sacred tree
Gitche Gumee dancing
watching prancing Caribou
trek slowly south from true north
skimming over undulating mounds
inculcating sound Mother Earth
allowing profound undertow
beneath canopies of truth
mystical snow falling
those mythic gentle crystals
frosting brother Wolf
surrounding winter Wolverine
white on black border
touching sister snow
caressing White Ermine
with that still
black-tipped tail
waving pageant poetry
along Winter's ice bound trail
wandering down wild river bank
hoar frost expelled
within that excellent Arctic breath
sneaking up on exceptional Ptarmigan
speaking alongside receptive Arctic Hare
such powerful sweet smoke
pawing next to antlered Moose
redeeming true life
redemption comforting People
deep dreams through igloo winter
those long cold imagined nights
Brown Weasel Woman
Borealis welcome dancing
Aurora perfect as she stands
dogsled good like ancestral snowy right
those starry celestial bright nights
whispering sweet smoke
wisps curling forever upwards
magnificently touching heaven
curled lips beneath furry nostrils
unfurled inside ice and snow caves
Brown Weasel Woman believing
that is how rival Old Man winter
tribally must insistently behave

 

 

                      * * *

 

craven mad hatters
other gutsy ghouls
stand applauding
storm troopers
action marching
parading down
numb city streets
those stomping boots
countless numbers
tromping through
crowded avenues
proud war
studiously bent
pestilent neo-nazis
occupying putsch halls
politicos dripping
with innocent blood
rationale forcefully spent
such international loathing
fashionably paints those
political stone walls
symbols of power
abhorrence once again
relishing visual harm
so residually profound
another individual round up
so fucking charming
disarming parties and masses
artfully considered less
than anything human
so things are alarming
grace is imprisoned
hate remains concentrated
mainly boundaries and camps
hence into brick gas chambers
those tricky buildings
rated as fabulous showers
once again
things are thick
this genetic farming
marking frenetic spots
where hot evil
permanently dwells
sparks lighting up those spots
merging crime with frightful murder
where unrepentant devils
those sentient fiends chortle
such a primitive guise rising
comprising mortal reticent evil
primal beyond anything
adamantly demented
rather than enlightened and deep
doctrine embodied
within another gaudy demon
those tawdry fascist portals
their man-made hell
touting grilled nazi verse
spilling tainted fascist semen
conversely stout
shouting immoral wickedness
such vain sinfulness
spouting so much
vile vicious words
those craven mad hatters
employing ghastly ghouls
shattering peace in our world
those chattering foolish hordes
deploying brutal war's tools               

                 * * *