from Caela’s (sacred) Story

Back at the beginning of her people’s history, Caela’s ancestors were bred according to parameters not interested in reproduction. This genetic weapons project had to be closely controlled. There was no room for rogue breeding. These human weapons were not produced sexually, but technologically. To make sure they were fed chemicals that prevented sexual viability.

Once they became free to live as human beings, they discovered issues with natural methods of achieving parenthood. For many it was difficult or even impossible to conceive. In their captivity both women and men were used to lives of hard work, service, not subject to childcare responsibilities; in freedom they tended toward producing as a community small numbers of children who were cherished by all. Over time these people assimilated with the greater population and took on the more normalized nuclear family patterns. Still a large percentage of these families were career couples without children. Even if a couple were fertile, women who decided they were not ready to take on a pregnancy had the ability to convince the newly forming life to dislodge before any sentience became a possibility. When that embryonic sentience did emerge, the gestating mother found herself suddenly a pair-bond, in total empathy with her developing child.

Caela had assisted with difficult births, calming mother and child as she helped them to separate. It wasn’t until she experienced pregnancy with Felicity that she was able to understand, finally and too late, the answer to her mother Letta’s undoing.
You are Letta. You have known all your life that you have an exceptionally strong sensitivity, even among people for whom hyper-sensitivity to others’ emotions is the norm. You have learned a kind of control, an ability to use reason and rules developed of experience to make of this what had sometimes seemed a curse a gift. You have made a good career for yourself as an admired and respected healer. You have made a good marriage with a man you love and respect who loves and respects you. You have a wonderful, adorable little child and another on the way.

You are forced from your happy secure home into total chaos. You are forced to endure months of hardship when physical hardship is something you had never known. You are afraid; the fetus is terrified. You try to find calm, but instead the terror keeps escalating in perpetual feedback. There is terror all around, within and without. This goes on and on as if it will never change. When it does change, it is a tragedy. The baby dies, despairingly panicked mom trying desperately to protect, give comfort, to that little dying life falls down, down, beyond recall. The march is over. She doesn’t notice. Life is over. There is nothing left of her to return. Some physical form that was once Letta goes through what to her have become arcane motions, when bidden. She swallows food, processes air and nutrients, doesn’t actually sleep because she is no longer actually awake. It’s not that she meant to desert her loving daughter, sever that bond. It’s just that there’s nothing left of her to bond with. There are wounds that never heal, never even have the consciousness to try.

Easter

 *
Easter
 *
Gentle rosy raindrops of a mellow dawning.
Children make the day – it’s Spring.
I thought of Christ in Church this morning,
borne on His cross in long ago Jerusalem.
Jesus, before His Destiny
removed Him from common ribaldry,
shoving banter that scores for a man
his jesting place among fellow men,
Jesus loved the little children even then.
He dared to proclaim a gentle faith, free
from bullies’ shaming, from easy blaming,
from traumatic scars of social war.
He believed in kind justice, respect for
human kin above judgmental sin.
Fatherly humor, the way fathers love
their children, with the pride of
ownership and the slave master’s
secret fear,
God disciplines His Heir.
 **
Arising to new warmth, the earth’s reawakening.
It’s a time for children and games of childhood,
a time for flirting with romance,
secret smiles and daisy chains.
Restorative season, simple, soft, natural,
for anointing damaged souls in peace
after lacerative ravages of winter.
Time for gentle things
like newborn kittens
and flowerbuds after beckon of rain.
I am slowly relearning the healing strength of love,
gladly relearning easy pleasures of humanity.
Life is tender, poignant,
a drifting melody.
 *
 *
 *

SHELL GAME

A mess, better left unbroken;
walk softly, whisper, agree
to be agreeable.
Breakfasting on soggy cereal or
just a cuppa.
Smiling lamely through the
livelong day.
“Please don’t let me be a burden.
Please, allow me, walk upon my
crooked spinal stairway while
I carry your petty parcels
in my cracked, bleeding teeth.”
Eggshells break monthly
inside my womb.
But we don’t speak of that.
Not polite.  Not politic.
Like religion and horse races,
consuming addictions.
‘Cause we’re alright, ya know.
We’ve nothing to complain of.
Got our daily cakes and tea,
obeisance to some faith based Queen,
jolly good, jelly roll.
On Easter, in the blessing of Spring,
we paint sweet pastels
gently upon hard-boiled shells,
promise to be good little lambs.
The crust of the Earth
protects primeval fire and
gemstones.
Seed of the Sun
bears a glorious array of
multi-hued fruits
upon which we feast
for energy.
Part of this complete breakfast
rounded with an omelet
for growth and repair.
 *
 *
 *

SUNDAY PSALM

Am I meant to be
a sacrificial lamb
as the Universe goes about its merry way?
Is this why we pray?
 *
If it’s only me —
the great and wise I AM
engaging in some self-negating play,
what the hey?
Life is whatever you make it.
So go out there and take it.
Never, ever fake it
and you’ll be ok.
Or so they say…
 *
Just a philosopher-poet,
suffered to ply my trade.
Brilliant skies hover nigh;
but, below, fading sight denies
acclaim.
 *
Somnolent glide, sinuous, silvery stair.
Burnt eyes still, closed to the world.
What glimpse might I witness
if only I dare?
Is there purpose to wandering Earth?
Should I care?
But what if I’m missing the thrill?
What would carry me there?
 *
Over the boundaries; into the wild.
Not a safe task to commit to a child.
A quest full of questions.
A fool’s ‘oliday.
And, have I mentioned,
no promise of pay.
Just a born again supplicant
reshaping the code,
creating the tale I’ll tell
when I’m old.
 *
“Jesus wept and died”
I always wondered what that meant.
An admonition to us to do the same?
Like, “Life sucks, and then you end”?
Or, if Jesus died for our sins,
did he first weep for our souls —
a holy pity party enfolding us all?
So, our sins have been wept for, died for;
we carry the blood of the Lamb, like disease.
Perhaps His sacrifice would be better released as
happy laughter; hugged forgiving;
genuine indulgence in feast of experience,
balance to weeping and dying.
For revelry balances grief;
ecstasy balances defeat;
and love, of course,
is the only balance to love.
Spitting on divine art.
Anger overtaking heart.
Ripping the world wheel apart,
invested in childish rage.
“Am I good now, Daddy?”
Purging my animal nature.
Ripping out the devils
under every bed.
I tell them, I tell them
what you said
about Fires of Hell awaiting
devotion to unsanctified ways.
Daddy, will you love me,
keep me safe?
My life, all lives, for You!
I humbly sacrifice
all life to You.
‘Cause you’re my Man, my Holy
Truth and Power.
Elevate my cause; it is your own.
 *
 *
 *

ARIA FROM THE CHRIST

thot games

I have been thinking alot about the fragility of life, the brutality of war, the emanations of hatred, despair, futility, anti-life beliefs, subjugation of the natural world and our natural ways of being, the yin and yang of human power.

They chose Hiroshima as a target because it had not been bombed, was not already disfigured, so there would be stark contrast between before and after.
I’ve been wondering how to possibly have faith in a world where so many suffer so regularly. Do we create such realities? Do we really learn and grow from horror and death and ugly bleeding wounds?
Collective mythology points to a pantheon, whether extraterrestrial, divine, or some other origin. Somehow the group which instituted Judeo-Christian-Islam was able to wield power so that they gained sway over this segment of human history which we call Western Civilization.
I don’t know what this means, but it seems significant. The Jewish god was jealous, arrogant, warlike. These people valued patriarchic hierarchies, perhaps as being easier to control. They instituted strict rules; devaluated bodily gratification, pleasure, fun, intra or inter-species cooperation. In many ways they devalued the Earth, the eco-sphere, the kinds of interdependence that lead to valuing each and all. They favored harsh competition, violent confrontation, us-gainst-them/winner-take-all. They favored the wealthy and powerful whose ends justified any nasty means. Their moral code was about restrictions, not solutions. And Christ-be-damned, this is the god-council the Christian authorities worship. Yet, there are other gods with other values. How did this group gain so much control over man?
What is needed is to go over to the win/win concept where we each benefit when we all benefit, as opposed to survival of the fittest. Then we could do what actually makes sense rather than being preoccupied with a mythical bottom line. We could all be much calmer, easier, more usefully productive and playful. Is this the way it was before the evil gods? Was this the Eden we were booted out of because the gods had other plans? Why didn’t we fight harder to keep a way of life that was good for us? The imbalance is killing us and our home.
Man is within nature. Man’s habitats, no matter how grand and complex we may think, are natural in the sense of being created of by and for that which nature provides.

I have thot of this a bit, in terms of beauty. There is the often grand and breathtaking, often soft and ethereal, beauty of the natural world. There is such beauty as well in the art and architecture of man. Each has its story, its music, its water colour. Each has the power to move the rhythm of my heart and bring tears streaming down my face. Each has the power to make me feel hopelessly inadequate, or to inspire me to reach to the stars.
Mind can be more lonely than body would imagine. Mind can search for answers, for questions, for quests, for endless conundrums, and so enjoy the game. Yet mind wants other minds to play with, to bring in ideas that surprise and excite. It is spirit that knows to blend and meld into all that is. Yet spirit too can identify with loneliness, as an essence, as a way to die a little while caught in the ecstasy of exquisite pain. There must be a very important reason for loneliness. There must be a wholeness of interconnection that we truly need to attain.
I’ve been working the random universe/intelligent design/mystical maya one quite a bit lately. My conclusions are sometimes random, highly emotive, itchy and veiled. However, I had a revelation about the dweller on the threshhold (a revelation to me at least). It’s not about going over the threshhold. It’s about living it that eternal magic between the worlds and enjoying the view from each side. There may be a time when going onward is appropriate; I don’t know. First I have to build my home on the threshhold, learn about living there, learn who I am that I may have myself as a trusted friend on the continuing journey.

Streaming in and out of consciousness, I don’t know what I know. I feel,
but fleetingly. I feel exhiliration and fear. I feel so abysmally sad, so
ecstatically unbound, so small and insignificant, so rebellious and angry,
so tired, so endlessly used up, so guilty, so abused, so resigned, so itchy
to be free, so overwhelmed, so stagnant, so magickal, so impossible, so
dangerously close to the edge yet happy to be here dancing on the head of a
pin too small to do other than fly.
There is magic. There is the ability to send out energy and have it return
as your heart’s desire. There is a magical path that will take us there
once we have the courage and grace to find it. Like the end of the rainbow
with its pot of gold, it’s tied up in koans and hidden between the
dimensions. The only thing I know to do is dance.

We are social beings because we are born unable to care for our own basic needs. In our very earliest experience we learn it is vitally important to behave in ways which will enhance our value to those around us so they will keep us alive. Before we have the language to encapsulate our memories, and therefore subject them to reason, we learn to manifest certain strict behaviors that mark us as members of the group into which we were born. Primal conditioning.

However, our species is not just a few tribes in a small geographic area. There are billions of us, all over the planet. We have a vast variety of primal tribes, each with its own strict behaviors and belief systems. Yet, to each of us, encoded with our primal conditioning, only those behaviors/beliefs that belong to our tribe are vital to survival. Yet, here you are, from another tribe, with other behaviors and beliefs. This is very, very scary. You have no right to exist with such anti-survival ways. You may be a demon, or a test that I might fail.

I was dancing to Steely Dan’s “Katie Lied,” which brings me close to tears as I sing along because of its tale of love and betrayal. I’ve been reading Liz Greene and Howard Sasportas’ “Luminaries” about the Sun and Moon in the horoscope, including mostly stories about family constellations and curses. Thus, I have been traveling through early lessons, about …………………………….
love and betrayal.

Life lessons say trust no one. Anyone I love, anyone who professes to love me, will betray me. So, perhaps I need only learn to forgive human frailty. Perhaps my true love belongs to the gods. Yet, they as well betray me. So, perhaps the lesson is not to love. To be only for myself.

Yet, there is this need for/to love, to connect and share and be more than myself. I also want to feel real communication, that the world is more than me and what I see and feel. Like having a hand to shake the kaleidoscope and find more possibilities in the patterns.

Perhaps the lesson then, is not to have expectations of trust, of permanence, of relationship beyond the here and now. Perhaps love must be free of temporality, ephemeral, rare and precious and of the fleeting moment, exquisite beauty without further responsibility.

Yet again, “be here now” ever changing landscape; ever changing dance of me to you.
I am leaning into the whole illusion theory. Too many coincidences/synchronicities, object lessons, deja vus. There’s too much that makes too much sense in a totally fantastic way. I feel like I’m slipping down the rabbit hole, through the mirror, into the Twilight Zone.
I feel like stuff keeps coming to the surface so I can embrace it, build up my resources of inner allies. It’s moving suddenly, quickly, like there’s not much time left before I need to be secure and strong and ready for the onslaught. “Claiming my life as my own, I turn my demons into stone” I wrote that a year ago. I have greater glimpses, here and there, of quite sensible cosmic truths. My revelations are about magick and those moments, those inebriated feelings of pure will to being that are all that life need or indeed need aspire to be. I feel like I am slowly mutating, part worm/part moth. Sometimes people, just people as they pass before my eyes, seem like some kind of mechanistic cyborgs, biological, but barely. Like beings of flesh emerging from some factory vat. I feel a chronically acute ache within my inner eye. From some chronically fatigued neural net images flash in and out, sometimes clear enough to form impressions.
I feel humble; I feel weak; I feel times are turning, I know not where.

People’s lives can be so sad and frustrating. It’s like we move around with cumbersome weights that just get in our way, sometimes tragically so. I find that so many incredibly wonderful bright shining stars just can’t see their own beauty and crumble into hideous holes trying to hide nonexistent ugliness. And that bipolar thing, it’s like a hungry beast in wait to devour any lucent progress. Very exhausting. But they say some of the greatest have had to work their way through that weight; like wearing weights to increase strength, if they don’t overwhelm you first. Perhaps compassion is more effective when it is dispassionate: chop wood, carry water, dress wounds, listen lovingly to the screaming, understand it as ritual music, keep to the grace and balance of the dance. Yes, we are survivors when we survive. Sad survivors, perhaps wondering what we must do to deserve such fortune. But, yes, crisis shows us our true strength, compromised as it may have become by that very crisis.

So, maybe that is what suffering is about — that we intimately understand the fellow suffering of our kind, that we may ultimately learn to transform the pain into creative healing. I don’t know, but it is a lovely story.

Do you know about Chiron, the wounded Centaur? But he was wounded, accidentally, by a friend. He bore his wound, and made his way becoming a beloved teacher and healer. Eventually he became a hero, giving his life to end another’s pain.
I look for lessons in the myths, archetypes, fairy tales. I don’t know if what I find bears truth, but they can be lovely stories. They can lead me into deep, complicated emotions, into dancing and poetry, into a need to share. Perhaps I am consecrated to beauty, in all it’s terrible majesty. The pain of exquisite beauty is everywhere to be discovered, held closely, and set free. I am dancing closer to the fire. Giant shadows dance with me.
Curiouser and curiouser. Alone on the precipice, while the winds blow, hot, cold, eerily.
I used to feel ancient, slogging through with barely any lifeforce. Lifeforce is still flickering, but the core seems to be warmer, maybe getting ready to ignite.

I got all in a tizzy about trying to make some metaphoric hay, shoot out arrows into opportune targets, or otherwise take advantage to advance. Same old hang-up — don’t know where I’m headed, so advance to where? So then I thot, maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s all about really learning to open up and let the road unroll itself. Maybe if I let go of all the trying and frustration, the space will expand through me in feelings and thots and unbound possibilities. Let go and let Gaia? Then there’s that whole trust thing, or lack thereof. And the whole what does it really matter …

Let the games continue; let it be

Eclipse Season

ON THE THRESHOLD

before the eclipse
before the dawn
before we are given our missions,
sent forward in time
we must be ready
without map or guidebook to prepare
we must rise to the challenge
endure the patience to exercise
control over every capillary,
every synapse,
every atom of our being

it’s not in the believing, but
the seeing
a better world needs a new kind
of ware
be a ware
for peace, for change,
for consciousness
before the wake

ECLIPSE SCRYING

Where’s the fun
in hiding in the eye
of the hurricane?
I want to be bodysurfing
the storm,
madly dancing in the rain,
cast off from restrictive form …
I want to taste sweet grapes
break crisply;
Embark on a journey of ecstasy
to be all I have
thought to be;
yet safely reside
in a place deep inside
away from the prying norm.
I want romance in the sense of
sensation inviting and free.
I want a chance to believe in magic.
And I want what I want to be
crazily in love with me.

between the eclipses
unblessed
with necessities of success
lost, adrift in prophecy

A confluence of ripples
scoops up objects of prophetic reclamation
(seen smaller in the glass-eye of science)
readies to set off more forceful expression
Elemental reaction
Metamagick metamorphoses
any body’s guess
Smooth glide out of cavernous hiding
into buoyant seas
Gala release to navigate (no hesitation) past history’s
sunken shore
— to explore, forward
— captivated, not captured
Fleet from soul to feet, swim enraptured
immersed in the only delightfully lighted path
Form flows with function
at last, riding unprismed waves
gracefully, recreated
as dance

Liminal Spaces
Twilight, the wee hours,
the dark of the moon
liminal spaces,
places where magic reigns,
crossroads, crises, cusps.

There is static on the radio.
A song
my voice was singing
taking flight to surround me,
the sound of music,
a comforter of down
to ease my soul.

I’ve been trying to define a taste,
a sense of bittersweet and salt.
I’ve been trying to find a trace
a footprint in the desert,
a sound, a scent,
a memory.
I’ve been trying to find a trace of me,
a piece to fit the puzzle,
my contribution to the grand design.
Seeking in the shadows,
the space between
myth and matter,
those places words
cannot define.
On those insubstantial plains
of myst and awe,
the stuff of dreams,
threshold of wonder,
creation begins.
ECLIPSE DREAM

Jump! Jittery. Nauseous claustrophobia . . .
l e t t i n g g o s l o o o w
Whoosh leap faster than my breath can catch me.
Dizzily, half-blinded, out of focus,
slant view along tree-strewn path.
Enchanted forest?
Smoke curling upward.
Gingerbread cottage in the woods.
Do I rest here, recoup my losses?
Savory soup simmers over tender hearth fire.
Shadow gloom occludes unswept corners.
Yet the center of the room
is surprisingly clean, radiant.
I sit, mantra embraced.
Nestled by magestic silk wings.
Outside winter is falling.
When I awaken from my trance
planting season will begin.

The wild rains of spring
have caught me napping.
They catch me up in torrents,
swing me along,
a cradle in the sea.
I descry mazes,
wondrous pageantry
woven into stellar stories.
Celestial spray anoints me.
I commence secret ceremony,
believing the Earth to be my home.

Accept (I am as I am)
and flow
silvery sediment
Grand glowing Sun
eclipse on the river.
Caressed by satin water
hot and cold
element controlled, ever free.
River journeys
more sensual than air
more loquacious that Earth
more secure than fire
We can discover,
transmute along the river
never noticing how everything
has changed.
River run true rumination
murky, long flirtation with mysteries
we are born to yearn for.
Consummation may be our last reward.
When none (not even I) observe —
that’s always when it happens.
Feel safe, alone or in good
company. The river loves
in her own fashion.

candlemas

Warm candleglow through the cold windowpane. I imagine gentle happy family life within. Out here, in the dark and vision blurring mist, I feel the sadness, in my throat, welling up in my eyes, softening my heartbeat into tiny bleats of pathos. I am walking without purpose, or with the purpose of walking, movement, letting the evening take me where it will. It is our sadness, more than anger, more than fear, more than love, that bonds us in that chain of humanity. Swimming through our tears, feeling the dense saltiness upon our skin, upon our differentiating shields, we are creatures more profound, more sensitively layered, than in other guises.

Sad songs surprising us on the radio, or played incessantly on the jukebox or cd or other technology, the strains grab us by our groins and vital organs. Sad movies make me tear up and want to hide, or hug someone very dearly, very closely, denying any space between. There is bravery in sadness truly engaged. Essential lessons unwind into wisdom through the loving eyes of sadness. Crying out the pain can reveal beneath a wild wind tunnel of new energy generation. I will sing my sadness to the wind and rain and mist; I will cry it onto dusty deserts and rocky plains. I will wash in mighty oceans of all the sadness of the world.

Tonight I will slowly walk the dark and misty streets, peering into warmly glowing households, dreaming so clearly all the faces of sadness I have ever seen or imagined. I will imagine the beauty of gentle happy people, unaware of my presence outside their sphere. I will take a moment to taste the salt of my tears, which barely increase the misty moisture upon my face. I will laugh, silently, with true mirth, at my sobriety, and continue walking, wherever this evening leads.

 

 

from http://caelastory.blogspot.com/2009/08/manifesting-destiny-pages-from.html

Manifesting Destiny: Pages from Persephone’s Notebook

Something Sacred

time present and time past

time present and time past
(a metaphoric walkabout)
I.

The trees are full of bitter children,
weaned on spite, whipping branch against rigid
branch.
Skylight dimmed to their struggles,
doubt of Sun, of cloud, of Milky Way,
our eyes adjust to follow fortune.

why is it realism to believe in evil intents prevailing
why idealistic to seek power of unveiling to find
we were half blind, the half that grows through kindness
left unseen?
Not interested in listening to the colour
of the bluesman’s skin.
Inebriated with the power of music.
I am that music, not just while it’s playing.
Ordered vibrations, spinal awaken, hold like a
heart-bound twin.
Designations, sad biographies, personalities
grandiose or subdued?
Substitute equivalent qualities, sums
said to prove identity. Mere chatter, in the way,
day by coded day, matters profound or silly, are spread.
Sound thrust from will, music imbues momentum,
fuses with ethos, keeps us
who we become
and overcome.

infinitely adaptive
reshaping, translating
making things happen
Art as bridge of humanity.
I feel aloud so we can resonate, surround
in kind company.
All art is experiment in form and excitation —
how they intersect, and spark.
Intuition escapes: where does she take me?
Am I ready to find out?
If I gamboled past dawn I’d have expectations:
pancakes and coffee
intense conversations
or seabirds whining tales of a glorious archipelago home.

a habit of thought poetic and questing
ever digesting ambient energy,
hoping for synergy,
expecting to fail
(or negate that possibility
by never quitting)
Not clever word play, not only that,
sincere approach to meaning. Transcendent
and intelligent. Solid details commingle with
celestial epiphany, choir of muses.

Beauty suffuses
a chemical bath of pure pleasure.
Intermittent miracles feed grace, temper service
to voracious forever.
No enemy. No dark intrudes; just
silhouette pirouettes to dilute boring vicissitudes.
Serendipity, interstitial bliss but a moment
away.
Any moment, any day could find those
treasures, or blindly pass by in mad
pursuit
of tomorrows not promised, un-portended.
No meaning, no purpose assigned;
no ordained patterns pixilate in barbaric sky
before lines are drawn, memorized, given
power
of law – or power of awe.

When the owner class was more aware of
civility, more broadly educated, sophisticated,
self-assured
Economics of comprehension and balance,
macro and micro expansion preferred to mad gambles,
more likely occurred – is this what we meant
to conserve?
Post-defeat, back in the game penalized
points and their referent power.
Back to the base of the tower, low stall
in the square.
To rise over time, not give in to despair;
but again? No escape without a plan
that transcends all past experience.
Duration is no old friend. Out of bounds instant of clarity
attained, a desperate ploy that could destroy the game.
Let the profiteers leave, and give us back our
common earth.
Let them enjoy the angry rip of tribal sheathes,
repurposed scythes rising against colonial histories.
Let them eat the falsely filling cake of lies, forced miseries
that defile practical fulfillment, and
breathe the poisons they agree fit for our
common atmosphere, elsewhere.
Let us help them out the door, as we make
for ourselves a world worthy of all of our
lives.

We devised a game as drugless school chums,
dubbed “The Question Game”.
Each in turn would ask a question of a philosophical
nature – perhaps a question with which the questioner
had privately wrestled, or not.
Then we all played the question, speaking our instant
associations or tangent questions or answers or
hypothetical tests or suggested scenarios
or whatever we fancied.
Once we had nothing urgently to say, the question
had been played, the next person got their turn
as questioner.
Those for whom a session ended before their question would
begin our next.
We came to know each other very well – how each thought
and expressed, and believed.
We each learned about ourselves – what questions
spoke to us, what they said.
And the wide expanse of answerings.

II.

Words I carry, imaginary traveling friends.
such solemn sensuality,
vibrant air — linger warm and sweet
music of heat rouses a drowsy ecstasy;
soft, moist, slip of merry grin in reverie’s
anticipation
Know what matters
Plate calls batter
Crowds cheer, then scatter after the show
Fade into who they are alone,
between lines.

One reign to rule them all:
Thou shalt not aggress violently
against nonconsenting others.

Government happens.
Power differentials are natural.
Learned leaders attend to these matters
consciously,
rationally.
Hot heads, coarse tongues, flail of arm,
crush of foot, outthrust chest, rancorous
chants
lively show and tell —
Yes, such forceful yell might incite bells
ringing, choirs singing, outlandish pageantry.
After roaring Sun’s descended, crowds
disbanded to public houses, private beds;
lusty victories
or licking injured
histories. No watch assigned
this twinkling of time.
Without law, there is no crime.
Without rules, no crown ascends
by common nod – but only by
all against all
in terrible squalls,
trial by games
scored in blood.
Believe all people peaceful
if you just let us be.
Walk among our brethren.
Tell me what you see.
If human kindness is our cure,
why do the poor stay poor?
Self-governing civility would
so obviously
transcend politics of costly malice.

We gather, clump in drifts like scattered plastic bags
in front of the Econo-Mart. Trade pills and consolations
for scalding scenes exhaled on tepid walks, humid breeze.
So far from crash, burn immolation. Periscoped nights
absorbed without remembrance.
Nothing claws. Nothing whimpers.
Unsought trash – empty butts, bottles, unlamented
ash. The only homelike space we may ever have.
No quest or plea when no answer will matter.

Compassionate people may
be calibrated to dear value at last
when we discover our robot masters
have no humanity, can’t provide these personal goods
we desperately need to survive.
Snark as salient trait
For what could that be best
practice?
We never experience the same world viewed.
Does that mean we can’t agree to each see
as we do?
To say as we see, expect to disagree
without rancor nor remorse. Each upon
a course, yet able to graciously greet
in the market square. Able to retreat
to a private sphere where we may swear
at ease,
solipsist pleasure unconcealed.
Individuality as pathless paths revealed,
to explore.
love is not an absence
love is a presence that connects
judgment is not an act of ego, but of mind
love is not an act of mind, but a presence of soul

All is exposed
All is redeemed
All is sketched upon that outer eyelid.
Behind, the fiery wounds;
within the colorless expanse, flung in awkward fashion
upon the artist’s face, the magician’s mirrored countenance
neat psych trick — blame the victims, who meant to be the good samaritans;
explain the lie in places high and low and often until enchantment descends.
My passion, my friend,
mystic teacher, seeker of meaningful
action, means before ends.
Sense each instant’s music – move in tune.
Reach into balance within limits of room,
laws of motion, draw of ecstasy.
No pattern to prove – spontaneous extemporaneous.
Enhance each mood for expressive release;
sketch for a piece reflective and deep.
Too arid to weep, I adapt, revel in texture
of resilient sand with which I paint ephemeral desires.
In the this and that, here and there,
between Yin and Yang
a stair, a rising star, a mortal scare.
Shake out, sift those synchronicities,
unspoken intimacies, opportunities missed
that opened to gifts unimagined before.
Clues to puzzles yet to be posed.
Tales untold ‘til all their pieces meld
within a theme to be suggested
in this intersection.
I have been doing a meditation which seems to me to express the totality of philosophy — our endless struggle to make meaning even within a vortex of change that presents as chaos.
Archetype Saturn, an old friend in the way that long relation is often contentious, I have been seeing her as something of an employer, demanding with dour countenance her tasks to be done
yet in some wee hours letting her hair down for quiet intense talks about what really matters.
Beatific privacy, spacious fantasy,
Beauty’s secret sky.
Instant transport on beams of faery dust – pastel trails
fade languid to grand dissemination.
Welcoming wilds, whisper of orphic stories,
shelter of mothermoth wing.
Echoing, reflective pond plays soft consort to
twilight.
keep moving, any way I can, through the rubble and on to the next plateau. There is anguish, joy, ineffable grace, empty grey spaces, not triumph nor reward — just poetry

Rhythmic movement
where will it take me
vibratory portal to outer dimensions
of inner space
The past nurtured roses,
long convalescence, blooming air,
roaming rivers. Pretty parties
serving tea and pleasantry.
Slow acquiescence to strict formal
canon.
Doubt doubles down to enforce insecurity —
prisoners not permitted to speak or gesticulate.
Days of droning whine when wheels were held in slumber.
Numbers solid like gold, like steel, like earth.
Significators of worth, as above so below.
What we know has always been known —
never let go, or let on.
Past escalates, readjusts by coded degrees.
Quickly, while no one looks, each piece ages
imperceptibly forward.
Pages lost — unbinding glue, fade of integrity.
Under inexorable load
unrepaired pavements crumble. Buried in unrefined
entropy.
Will we learn to rise?
III.
The circus performance to score,
then the reward of ecstatic ritual.
Purposeful simplification, circle of
life. When survival’s become too much
responsibility with no security
of prior success, or back-up chorus.
Ain’t no place to contemplate
complicated biological imperatives.
Just me and the magic of chemistry
in sanctuary of worship.
Are there places still where children play
uninhibited by hierarchy?
Space to be
gleeful, free,
happy to fling and tumble
in open air?

At some highway gas station quik mart,
in from gasping rain.
Stale coffee, sticky pastries
soothe,
warm, like friendly fire,
stories imbued in childhood, retold.
Overbrite aisles, angled mirrors
above expose unrehearsed glimpses.
Garish pop art products, labels like parodies,
plastic displayed sliced meats, sugarized treats,
major brand addictives, consciousless sweets.
Rain encapsulates, marks off this short chapter.
Random highway outside, varied encounters
before and after.
There’s a puzzle I’ve yet to discern. Only
suggestions of spider fine hieroglyph appear
and fade as tantalizing traces. Too faint to decipher,
translate for use.
If I believe this a sign of fate, will it be so,
slowly grow to reveal, to be home?
Will I allow my sight new eyes, new lines,
new answers, access to divergent figurations
restlessly closing in?
Spirituality, religion — call it intuition:
the ways our minds learn outside our attention,
feel realities not assigned to language, create
stories of anguish and hate, love and redemption
to make sense of conflation of senses, with isms

Progressives desire inspiring leadership
Conservatives insist on protecting their interests
I always counted on boundless
energy, that’s now run down
to endless fatigue,
unable to proceed —
Not the present anticipated; not the
desired surprise legend gave to expect.
Witch me – crone of hooded eye,
cackling voice.
What you, given your choice,
would respond or retreat,
notice which focus
you attend.
Love’s sad soliloquy
never befriended.
The intimacy of you and me.
Which me; what you, how and when?

Too painful the damage, the losing, but
not only that.
Throbbing frame, inflamed fundament,
disintegrated foundation.
None claim victory for self-named
surrender, because compound cost
overcame destiny or will.
No promise with birth of a world worth
joining in. Only one friend
(unless attached to your twin)
never leaves you behind.
Crazy to deny primary kin, soul mate within.
May your mindfolk be kind.
These are not my people;
yet they are my only people, only kin,
only tribe.
Far and apart, souls embark on symbolic
venture, awaken strings long frozen
to bandage stabbed bleeding heart. I feel.
Weak, expended like tears, but tears stolen
untraced to this hollow eye, transient this
cadaver in waiting.
Journeys I say, they say – metaphor of a thousand
slips, a million poems, billions of lives.
There is no brave journey, no blessed moment
of arrival. There is doubt with good cause.
There is lost and ragged, courage of now
because it’s too damned cold to stop
imperative motion.
Children in midnight corn fields.
Harmless pillage.
Drunken stairways, cemeteries,
vast acres of green.
Isn’t this a privileged scene, a kleenex drama,
diorama of cardinal confession before
dilating down.
No requisite form for dismissal, appearance denied.
Outside bounds of river or town,
riding vague shadows in exigent condition,
last chance plan to catch a stray scent of home.

Breathless elation.
Weight of enthralled head thrust
back into plush upholstery;
hood open to rushing air, kaleidoscope stars.
Careen madly through snow-tinged fields, cast of
evergreens.
Call out threats to danger, drunken camaraderie with fear,
demonic celebration.
Here. Eternally here, you morbid fool.
That seaside Tempest – Caliban and Ariel
venerate Terpsichore in pagan fire.
Naught aspired to can achieve
serendipity’s wiles.
Honey child, virtuous innocent untaught
in sin, free of guilt’s web of strangulation,
transport me to primordial,
embroidery home, safely hexed,
soundly welcoming,
spiritually clear. Limpid sphere,
immersed in sublime luminescence.
Past pleasure exquisitely
present, distaff of prescience,
circle brought full.
Ebullient riotous Moon, man or maiden,
sideways smile,
rockface gloom.
Profound – a word, a curse, encompassing
penetration; fragrance of swooning.
Corrosive salt water solution emits eerie whistle,
eats through porous bones.
Who listens? Who responds with warm applause
or sideshow empathy?
Love, a seabird sigh amplified, cast wide through
wilds of safari winds. Entrained dervishes ever touch,
sketch their spiral gate to Heaven. Genetic weave,
strong silk cord self propels, cannot waver,
beckons to invite all who will consent
passage
on her glorious ride.
IV.
Our connected energies drain
Each individually undoing,
absorbing entropy like melt water
bloated with disorganization.
Disease, avidly welcomed consummation,
ravages rationality. We can none of us
breathe, access sufficient air.
Rust, corrosive oxidation until no
usable material remains to repair.
Caught in coagulate cosmic dust.
Lost from differentiation.
Accept (I am as I am)
and flow.
Silvery sediment,
Grand glowing Sun
spread in glimmer on lustrous river.
Caressed by satin water
hot and cold
element controlled, ever forward.
River journeys
more sensual than air
more loquacious than Earth
more secure than fire.
We can discover,
transmute along enraptured river
never noticing how everything
has changed.
River run sustained rumination;
curvaceous, profuse flirtation with mysteries
we are born to yearn for.
Consummation may be our last reward.
When none (not even I) observe —
that’s always when it happens.
Ragged travellers alone or in good
company. The river loves
in her own fashion.

All those words I
was so intent on
memorizing. Lost, like the
wind and the love cry,
the barren sand, lonely
fascination.
All those songs, sad or
uproarious, orchestration
to impulse forward.
Jazz for imagination;
rock for consolation; blues
for mornings and nights as they
endlessly grind.
Where is that kind word
to carry like deep unburdening balm?
Where is the strengthening psalm,
the wisdom spell?
If you knew, would you tell?
No, you would already be gone.

Thick physicality of existence
weighs, pulls, shapes
obfuscates pure thought,
presses insignia into helpless skin,
dark message of sin.
A boat in a harbor —
What do I know of boats,
or harbors —
A boat in dark night under cold stars
above rhythmic sea.
The sea is for ships,
sailing for commerce
substantial and arrogant.
Shanty boats, be glad for your harbor,
or length of sand above the tide line
or anywhere but here, adrift in vastness,
bare solidity
drowning in ignorant waves.

I call forth, to continue, what story
will enchants for now.

Sing us a ditty, luv.
Pretty me in fluttery poetry.
Trumpets of thunder, drums of
antediluvian vulgarity.
Naught enough to dull peels
of pain. Rants to scattering rats
past midnight, trudging slick streets.
Stumbling in search of that secret ingress
to rainbow’s end.
To meaning’s dissolution, running down
rivers, oceans, galaxies.
taste the truth of breath
touch outward from inner strength
original peace

when seen from great distance of time and/or space
we are colorful ants struggling to emerge as individual players in a vast and ever realigning game.
those with a strong voice may have it heard; but will they hear what we meant to say?

there is great truth in illusion,
in tragic theatre of empathy,
in cosmic comedies appreciated through
personal imagery, regurgitation of youth and folly
The Truth is not eternal, not impersonal, not an object
of desire or disdain
It is the calm, the storm, the eye and hand combined
to create what emerges

to discover sibylline key, cryptic exercise
rambling in anger over the foothills of grief, of damnation
throwing off jagged rocks, ripped on splinter
torn skin along this emergent precipice
exhaustion overtakes effort, undermines spite
relax into verdant tufts of soothing weeds, dense fallen leaves,
earth’s repose
sleep and dream; sleep and dream; dream of wasted energies
recycled, made real
in the way of storms and atomic reconfiguration
Muses dance,
explore motion.
Segue to and fro
two steps back; a flurry forward.
Satin cats, tails a’fling
swirl and twirl, scurry choreography.
No tomorrow. No scheduled glee of
public contretemps.
Throngs a’clanging, impatient clamors
for unknown seasons.
Furious storm howls,
torrential,
sends tidings, murky repentance and
beard for tears.
Replenishes barrels for dipping, ritual
ablution, tribal hydration.
Savage tip-taps,
rhythms of
sordid flood,
ashen water, terror, bombardment, diluted
blood.
Storm warnings advise caution.
Cover yer windows and blinds.
Hide in cellars and pray.
Find salvation in fearsome colloquy.
Oh, Hell – give in! Cave into slippery ground;
swallow and be swallowed.
The rains came, carried fortune to further shores
and supplicants.
Long into unspoken tomorrows.

V.
He inhales deeply, as if taking his oxygen
from the burning cigarette.
Never forget.
How could you forget?
Nerves need their anodyne.
No matter what you say about
mindful mentation.
The Hope of Our Nation
is mass medication.
Let them smoke meth.
Let them shoot smack.
Let them eat pills in handfuls
like snacks.
Let them assume such consumption
is natural,
like a terrorist attack.
Not to detract from dramatic renditions
of sober reflection – every exception
still begs the question we lack language
to ask.
We digress from distressful suggestibility
onto more laggard path. Does it matter?
To whom?

everybody out on the streets
waving banners displaying our separate beliefs
maybe a baby cries; maybe an elder dies
maybe we turn our eyes outward, to weep, to see
everybody out on the streets

Chasing Beauty
Love bequeathed from when that passion,
that energy
defined intention.
Specificity
Clear, imprecise imagery
Surreal in context, part
of a grander scenario.
Our physical dependencies require
interaction with evolving environment —
no option to survive inert, alone.

We can profoundly love
creatures of other species;
hate and vilify creatures of our own
divisive minds.
Dark urban streets
Yes, lamplight
Garish commercial lights
Traffic lights, head, hind,
mechanical commands.
But here, outside clear designation,
sign-less, solitary, unnoticed.
Bold instinctual walk, forward
in quest of inspiration or fantastic
display.
Fun as sparkly spirit, chaotic amusement
within any action,
forbidden challenge.
Subways, bridges, city bones upon which
to drum, to explore
rhythm and blues.
Magic shimmers dimension upon dimension
without pause for delineation – so skin
must compensate, strain for context to aural
ecstasy.
No flowers border soft frames of
child reminiscence.
Birds of prey, strong of eyes and claws,
fly in battle formation.
Damp birth at sunrise,
smell of fog, haze of weighted cloud.
Glass breaks, cuts, shouts
mortality. Sand endures,
silently at ease.

merry meet, merry gambol as query of council.
shamanic revel spin into clarity, ecstasy of
celebration.
dazzle, delight, derive concordance
within, all through, exhortation and particular memes,
oracular voices sift dreams, expletives, most valued wishes.
Drunk, spirit sodden with song’s soar and dive,
all-ways finds revival, thriving, cumulative reach to species acclivity.
Soft vital rays, precipitate of lotus purity enriches
fragrant earth.
Notice, dust mote whispers, emergent leaves, scents sublime.
There is more fortune than fear, more leisure than pain.
Breath of gaiety, pleasure’s refrain lifts eyes, minds, hands.
Listen. Hear exquisite sound measurement reverberate serene eternal
Peace
Touch grace
Crave and Be Blessed
Crave and wander, invoking supernal spell
Passion
Ease
Attention
Care
Essence
Ever eternally, blessing’s elegant precipice
just at the edge of view
As if there, then; here, now unanticipated,
unimaginable because so much has to happen
between. Unheeded part of a well-constructed scene.
Urgent child, solemnly silent, trudges, traipses,
traverses. Highways, decades, city streets,
crosses, multiple image absorbed and conflated.
What makes this important, impinging thought,
distant transport to this instant, this eternal place.
Brave in the style of a fool with all future to lose.
Intuiting, but without knowledge attained through
participation to be of comfort or use.
Brave, Fear that faithful friend for braggart boasts in
darkness so you won’t feel alone.
Search light calls adventure, restless agitation
insists on some elsewhere to go. Thumbing
oblivion, rides with no sure destination.
Unlicensed vacation. Break from nowhere
to now here undefined by named location.
Blue beach. Polluted sand.
Morning won’t be stalled.
These are not my walls, my cage, my justice.
Clues, puzzle components, value to be found in
wider context if such becomes.
Obdurate iteration blinks
light to dark; dark to light.
Well past unthinking regard; far too familiar
(overplayed) to take seriously.
Jocular exercise of mind
and heart within aghast backdrop.
Explore the joke;
purposeless circumstance
wears and weakens,
distorts focus.
VI.
Struggling
to self-explain.
No, not War of all within all.
Not blind crawl for tactile sight.
Rising, tentative, toward expected bit of coded color
by breeze of odor, by siren sound, throbbings to distract,
puzzles to attract,
thunder to scatter.
Self-explain raindrop rainbows,
magical shine surrounds,
persistence of promise to
astound.
Ignorant destiny, porous well
absorbs atmospheric lethality to seep,
leech, become sacred secrets, hidden
tunnels of pitch, revered through ages,
weaknesses disguised as imperatives
to achieve.
Just folks.
Mostly peaceful, easy,
happy to do as needs, as pleases as
seasons succeed.
Ready to distrust or embrace what strangers
we meet,
as they provoke.
Tomorrows too far away to depend on
still must be considered, given their vote as
descendants of decisions. Such practical
wisdom deposed. Rationality realigned
to legends of end upon us. Our day’s slogan:
“take what I can because time’s abandon
descends.” Burn for one last wild night.
Die with the light.
Turning together
attention spun
whole of cloth woven in
colorful patterns we approve,
disperse, jump into like rainbow puddles.
Humanity is cruelty.
Enforcing God’s Grand Plan.
Which God demands?
Such brutal sacrifice
to prove temperament to
command. Mechanized paradise.
Steps locked in painful contortion.
Dance rather than flail or
be damned.
I have too endured sure frustration attempting
to engage in conversation with people proudly
fixed in ideologies, throwing words they’ve
vaguely heard like schoolyard curses, unswayed
or served by actual knowledge.
What scorecard game among their cohorts
makes adamant ignorance a desirable norm?
Is it a feedback loop of entertainment choices?
Are popular artists’ voices pitched to entrain drone
sensibility, skewed rationality, busy brutality?
Sentiment firmly enclosed to harness savage fire,
fuel the engines of self-destruction?
To what benefit? I blithe idiot ask. Too world
weary for your cynical blather. I wonder off some
wastrel edge beyond.

We hate those we learn to disrespect
every day.

Justification for application of pain.
Clamor for humiliation.
That simple feral core.
Is it yours as well?
Called id, shadow, hell
or more than fearful mortal coil,
animus essence, what is.
Cellmates teach by example, survive
tricks of trade, consensual filing down.
Stealthy commerce, dependent on
confidant guesses, crafty assurance.
Grasp fair gossip – useful lies, sly advice;
naught to trust but all contribute truth.
So much to persuade this tide of youth.
When the pain of others gives too much
suffering to enjoy.

Religion is made of givens – science of mights.
truth is not narrow
it is infinite
the narrow way
is fear’s, or merely a tunnel
within the thoroughfare to truth
Song of Sun and Earth
Driving beat of nature’s grand
choreography
VII.
fine, be a “hawk”
go to war with the other hawks
in a hawk war stadium
kill each other off
to cheering crowds
all the blood and glory you so
badly crave
people who like fear can find plenty to amuse them
people who like hate can find plenty to amuse them
fear and hate are not issues, merely distracting amusements
Make Peace The Issue
find a euphoric style
enjoy
do we?
live like undead slaves?
do we only move as directed,
never dance freely in a whirling wind
never touch finger to foreign finger for
a thrill of acceptance?
never sing from music assimilated within
from all the painful days swirled among
excitement of release?
do we not breathe and inhale odors
strange and calling to arcane desire?
do we not express, even if in catechized
expletives?
do we not wander, unsure but willing to
be amazed?
do we not wonder if a chance not taken
would return and ask again if we are ready
or wonder if we can become that well
of wishes swimming merrily, bubbling up
to burst, disperse, revise, make us wiser
in our ascent?
How does one act an age?
Expressive movement seed to tree.
Old tree creaking in midnight wind.
Mountain craggy and abiding.
Stars in transition — novitiation.
Or soliloquy, interweaving dialog between
montage of generations?
Maybe we act out one age or another
Daughter Sister Mother in relation.
Or still against a whirl of dust and cloud
act not aloud; feel internally ebb/flow eternity
act of evocation
How say this feeling?
Unreality, hypnosis memory,
numb tingle not of body nor mind.
Descending on breeze of dark dissolve,
no thing dependable
for consciousness to cling.
Always wandering fantasies outside
my window frame.
Awe lost in transit,
without resistance,
sans value. Blind
air opens shady willow,
gargoyle gate.
A private symphony. Lyric synergy.
Grandly orchestrates errands busy and drear.
Deft lift of merriment subdues mundane
anxiety. Secret music, self-shared amusement.
Deterrent to drag of crowd magnified disillusion.
Energized from within, no meddling ears to consider,
disturb.
Images that stay. Music that accompanies
a day’s melange of duties.
Reminisced fragrance of roses,
variegated rubies, outside, below,
some neighbor’s garden.

When Love is never the answer
When the quest is but a course of disasters
Kind acts and words
unwanted, unheard
only increase pain’s sum.
Placation with placards
repeating pious phrases
don’t make wish to be Truth.
In pursuit of shiny victory,
Moments melt ‘neath abrasive
assaults and ripostes;
random rain, drought, deluge.
Failing sight just when forecast aurora
intimates nigh.
Ignorance ever more manifest.
Colder solace. Stronger calloused.
In an Afterlife worth After living
all stupidities (stupidly self-entitled assholery),
petty ill feelings will be done.
Everyone intent on the task we most love
with no stricture of time, or mortality.
No pressure to hold body and soul together.
No vengeful imperatives to get in the way
of eternal fun —
‘cause the opposite would be hell.
People exhausted – too much,
everyday never stops
no time to feel … real.
Apocalypse, final judgment,
let it arrive, may none survive
to uncleanse the earth, death of
procreation, provocation to inflict
infection.
No sin, no power of remorse.
No predetermined course.
Responsibility a form of guilt.
And the guilty must pay, retribution.
Ruined life to ruined life until generations
cease.
Couldn’t we be friendlier, reach out in peace?
And risk ridicule, rejection, painful oppression
under gun, stealthy eyes.

Abundant hate for all,
exceptions few, on occasion,
who amuse for the moment,
or over and over.
As in unprotected wild, darling of parasites,
insidious predators within.
Siphoning lifeforce for a livelihood.
Eating pitilessly, weakening, diseased so no
noble foe dare deign to coup de grace.
Spat upon as spoiled goods despite
or because of inability to self-defend,
ignorance of innocence.
Slut without inebriance of sin.
Send from us, condemn harlots of fate.
Hate starts here
— fear of contagion.
VIII.
And the sky.
And the breeze
wrinkling the trees.
And the red-pink-blue of sunset, so late
these endless evenings. Spring, they say.
Dreams of younger days.
Terrified because no safe world awaits,
gives continuity.
A girl reminiscent of lilacs.
Sweet, subtle, succulent,
velvet and blue like secret sky scape.
Her awed adoration feels true. A symbol
of innocence strutting so valiant, so brave.
Never to know or be known a moment more.
Awakening forever such sweet sorrow.
From what might have been if dreams could be engines
for transposition, magic doorways that might be forever closed
from that opening path beyond.
Apprehended by vision so vivid.
Breath and bone hold séance, decide how to align.
Aeonian background sounds, worries stuffed down to allow
flights of sanity to perform.
Ground to stand when ephemeral wings fail,
dissolve to clay.
“Who are you?” the stranger peers with glassy eye.
Hurry on, heedless of direction. Bemused feet waver,
push off, rise.
And the sky.

Serene pool, mountain clear.
Idyll on sun-warmed, age-smoothed stone,
pure in replete wonder.
Seeking epiphany, purposeful wander through hallow
woodland allowed within civilized structured plan.
Moving consciously alone, to find quiet refuge.
Hidden, beyond foliage thicket, ambrosial vision,
blithe flowing river.
Immerse, swim, be —
perfection.

Ballad of a Modern Hero

Young Julius Jones
Born in the month of his naming
Trained in the fine art of gaming
Grew in the wilds of Manhattan
Among the sticks and stones.
Young Julius Jones
Learned soon to hate with a passion
Whoever was most then in fashion
Learned soon to pummel and flatten
Whoever was not of his own.
He grew swift and strong
A fine looking man, and a tough one
With women was always a rough one
But knew how to use all to please him
Sure of his own right and wrong.
He went off to war
Glad to be raising his station
Proud to be serving his nation
He’d ne’er let the enemy seize him
Of this he was sure.
He shot proud and true
And sent letters home to his mother
Of how he had killed yet another
Taught those damn Commies a lesson
Gave ’em what they were due.
He died in the night
And when, in the morning, they found him
It was nothing new to astound them
Someone just said, “What a mess.”
And soon he was out of their sight.
Young Julius Jones
Born in the month of his naming
Trained in the fine art of gaming
Gone from the isle of Manhattan
Among the sticks and stones.
Young Julius Jones
Had learned well to hate with a passion
Whoever was most then in fashion
Learned well his lesson and that
In the end justified his bones.