soulconnect

Stop ignoring the elephant,
it's a beast with the hide of truth.
To skin it you need the might of brutes,
or diamond swords and intelligence.
Yet it's us in this chaos, blushing,
trusting our ways. Off, hustling for pay.
I find that I live on the cusp of dismay,
skin reacting as it touches your gaze.
This isn't passion but havoc and skin and bones.
Your eyes like amethyst in the punishing rain.
I'm standing with my back to the glistening grove,
river in no condition to flow,
I'd like to test the water but hey, I'm missing my soul.
I'm missing your soul.

Monolith

I'd call this mirror a demon, so clearly I see in.
Lies tied with the twine of a genius stitching fear in my freedom.
So weird is this pretense.
Belief in belief, no platform for reason to caption.
Even though I can't hear what I'm seeing.
Action: Decisive.
Pen to canvas to fight myth and capture my likeness.
When the answers to life get staggered and quiet,
At least there's a madness to write with.
Some call it passion, defy this.
Don't ever forget passion's attachment to violence.
Ideology, weaponry.
Certainty in degrees.
Monoliths of truth and deceit to sit between.
If the muse intervenes, check the psychedelica.
Dreams in the night to let the blood from the blessed ones.
Tune to the muse, set the drums.
Pyramids left for us, confused by what the method was.

A little down time.

Quantum Macroconnectivity

Condensed energy,
then it seems a single momentous stream
stretches means into modal tendencies.
Space spanning centuries:
Origin growth, exponential forces explode.
More than is known disclosed as we soar from the globe.
Potentially...
Cosmic memory is force and motion,
gravitation extrapolated from common heredity.
Genetic courses from enormous holes in proportion,
to life thriving from the shores to the oceans.
How did we progress from the source of the quantum order,
where nothingness became collections of thought recorders,
with their own subjective piece of this tropical destiny.
Philosophical, psychological, biological entities
devouring the planet like some entropically spread disease.
Mechanics is the observation of interaction
between the constant stages we're living trapped in.
To study how our honest hatred conditions madness
is to understand how our cosmic sameness delimits passion.
Just listen closer, Schrodinger found, as minutes pass,
friction happens, causing certainty to diminish fast.
Despite the fact we know so little, the problem is real:
as descriptions of the micro and macroscopic revealed
through action processed in theoretical fields,
become accurate commentary on our active ontic ordeal.

Now we seem to be so entrenched in our attributes,
we're content to be blind to the evident, savage truths
raining down upon us like Heaven's collapsed and moved
our notions of paradise to discrepancies, past confused.
Get it? We never get asked for proof,
we just refer to the annals of the last who knew,
who referred further back to the annals of aristocrats reviewed,
who earned money by selling the truth in a package to
the same people who eventually became the massive youth.
Intertwined quantum exactitude.
We live inside minds where consciousness acts as You
and think were not a single kind of object who lacks a clue.
Connections run deeper yet I'm still a skeptic.
We need food, but eat poison knowing it kills digestion.
We feed into a system knowing that it will infect us.
But it's all part of this absolute soul.
We're all descendants,
we all have to choose though.
Despite the fact that beyond our actions, truth holds
and becomes the very same as our decisions.
Thus, we're all dependent,
and we have to choose, so...
With Mind we track beyond our actions, where truth floats
beyond horizons
and becomes the very same as our conditions.

Mindspace: Searching the Strange Horizons

Mindspace, conceptual constellations.
Perpetual proclamations designed then declined; waste.
Exceptionally honest, forgetful in promise;
a scattered disaster-plane where the lessons beyond this
moment in time have been chosen then broken;
shattered into fragments of opus with sharper edges.
Stepping upon the pieces evoking a darker presence.
The pain progresses, unleashed as shards of message,
as vultures with "culture" release to pick apart the sentence.
Vestibule locked and gated for the heart's protection,
the art of connecting fate to existence.
Of Stoic fame and persistence: "play your position
and keep away from the distant deceit of the future's architecture."
Gaze in pursuit of horizon's beginning.
It's more than psychopathy to honestly decide that you're winning.
Time is forgiving but space is unrelenting.
With consciousness prophesying the change confronting many.
This isn't merely addiction, clearly.
It's simply the need to live by the means of theory.
Particle/quantum experiments on perception aside,
to believe in theory is to strip Intention from God.
Collections of excellent quality,
academic product-streams in massive quantities,
taking stabs at economies, but madness is property
of the gatekeepers, those great creatures laughing and profiting.
That is complexity.
Mindspace, unified frames where truth isn't proof,
just a mere shadow of expertise.
Aristotelian natural tendencies to establish your breath and speak.
Socratic in method. Capture the breadth of the action,
then you leap, bringing with you every fact you've collected.
But knowing is not knowing according to the master's apprentice.
It's strange how those we take after the most
rarely ever practice in prose.
The broad shouldered Greek, the shepherds of revelation,
the students of The Philosopher profess to their education.
All men by their very nature require the journey,
whether it's purely desire, burning like fire or the pride of learning,
we either commit suicide, try to escape, or hire attorneys.
There's no evading the scattered nomenclature.
To apologize for bottom lines that collapse and explode the paper,
the same bogus paper on which we print that we owe our neighbors.
Mindspace:
When the words seem as empty as ever before
I take a step back, remember the wars
battles fought, disasters lost, if they accept that
I pray I'm kept from the swords, blind to the bind.
From birth to the surface of purpose, lessons ignored!
Step from the door, the path is closed,
the darkness that seems to follow amasses slow.
The afterglow, as clear as ever, the masters know...
They hear the heavens and ask for hope.
A silent type of eye to eye alliance,
The fight or flight defiance, compliant
with the way that life is changing. The mind is
a sacred device, killed, for the sake of this life.
Quite the paradox... and I'm paying the price.
Mindspace.

Divine Mirror

Divine Mirror

Meritocracy hoisted and bolstered by divine will.
Shadows with voices. A controlled worth that time wields.
Valiant talents challenging choices. Prayers amounting to noises
-each rupturing the barrier between our doubts and their poignancy.
Skeptics are rounded up and caste by silence.
Acts of Mind nullified in favor of massive blindness.
The opiate of the collective disconnecting truth from the Praxis.
To see the ontological alive and breathing,
to feel the epistemic placed aside, vagrant lives completely
changed, their minds appeased for the Proof is in Madness.
That is, analogical to the problem of Who is this God we've accrued...
is the problem of Genius, from the Mind of belief,
is a Man of overwhelming power holding life at his breach.
That is, if you choose to let your Mind in his reach.
Picture a world of faith... governments controlled by religions and creeds.
Could an atheist exist in it free? Could he see the difference between
faith in the unknown and the prescriptive beliefs?
Or would he just become a shadow with a rhythmic speed?
Screaming out for freedom without a passage for delivery...
A message in perfect Time... where Time is actual infinity.
Could a nonbeliever truly exist in a universe of Divines?
I suppose the truth is certain for Minds without worldly concerns...

Or is truth just admiring the world as it turns?
Or is truth just retiring from the world as it burns?

or

Are the faithless just reflections of the faithful?
With no aesthetic or logical weapons to escape to...

Waiting

Waiting

Patience is not a virtue.
At least that's what the boy had believed.
Despite being told the opposite he'd thought a bit,
understood reality moved regardless if he thought his choices were free.
The problem isn't cosmic drift, it's
the Grand Comic's bit about the universe expanding until apocalypse...
And he considers himself an optimist.
From a very young age he had questions regarding consciousness.
Waiting for answers weren't part of his parents' promises.
His father did not permit anything but an agnostic twist
to an age old argument: "No one can ever know, therefore, God exists."
Puzzled, the boy struggled, encroaching upon logic's limits,
consulted scholar after scholar, Religious thinkers and Scientists;
and concluded that even the world's foremost geniuses have extreme biases.
He wondered about Time's condition,
from atomic clocks that tick to Einstein's persistence,
that space conforms to Mind and perception is just petty acceptance of environment.
So the boy drafted a letter: "To the Children Who Wait..."
Entitled with a kind ellipse to capture the resilience of Fate.
In fact, that's the concept he started with:

"Fate is fascination with certain uncertainty. Not faith
just the acceptance that if we wait things will never work perfectly.
Purpose seems to buckle under the weight of philosophical urgency,
and conceptions of the End become brilliant obstacles and recurring themes.
Beauty and Goodness, Platonic forms and Promised War:
We wait regardless if they choose the pen and not the sword.
We wait for harvest, fruits of labor or Confucian favor,
or Buddhist wayward progression away from the abuse of flavor.
Pleasure without an epicenter where the youngest reside,
waiting like the Man who just turned one hundred to die.
Waiting like, for the bus, or a ride, to get plucked like a fly
and plunge from the sky... or the stubborn depressed
waiting for the comfort to cry.
Patience is not a virtue, I believe that's taught to hurt you
into thinking that if you wait for an answer it oughtn't curse you.
Patience is just another means to get caught in an awful circle
of thought we turn to only to struggle distraught:
there's enough love lost for one soul, not to mention an Earth full."

He dropped his pen to the floor, shaking as if in the purview of Proof
and still went about his life, in continued pursuit of the Truth.
Patience...

Nabatean Salve: 19xx

Nabatean Salve: 19xx

The arid ruins reflected dawn like they manifested Heaven's balm,
lubricating perception.
Desolate but any angered spirit would instantly be rendered calm.
Upon approach his Mind would dance, his Muse exclaimed...
Forever lost are these ruined plains; as time advanced
the Nabateans witnessed legends brought to bear on Market Square
the rabble approached the Street Priest with awkward stares.
He'd scream "Peace! as prophesied since the Dawn of Time!"
Focused as if called by God though most agreed he'd lost his mind.
The truth is, through meditation he saw designs of ancient crypts,
and on an obelisk's spine displayed an escapist's script
with golden-glyphed messages comprising a salvation Myth.
His proud nation split thanks to religious rifts and civil war.
And he knew these visions writ of a simpler fix than glinting swords
slicing hordes of passionate zealots and revolutionaries.
Lies resounded confounding unconnected ideologies;
Until finally someone listened that wasn't a filthy pocket thief.
"The war's direction rarely seems to sway based on the executions."
Wary, the non-thief looked on, a "rebel" patch on his leather tunic:
"The Mages sent me to you, you claim to have been revealed an answer,
we are a smaller rebel order, the revolution feels in danger
for the last time we listened to a prophecy we were killed in anger."
The priest recoiled, never having been confronted by authentic doubt before.
He lived within his own truth, strife never having been accounted for.
So he set the rebel to task, to seek these mythic ruins.
To the Nabatean Petra. Assuming this isn't just some twit's delusion.
A single etching by an ancient sage to upset entire institutions?
But the non-thief believed in peace and swore he would live to prove it.

Within the Priest's chambers, a lazy shadow reflected stasis...
He sat lotus-like, controlled, precise in effortless meditation.
Visions flooded his cortex, at first numbers in an extended matrix
spilled out onto a canvas painting of a list of ten equations:
The first was a function of Time as it bends with space,
the last was an algorithm explaining genetic language.
Between were arguments for the existence of persistent life,
the priest: the vehicle for the computing system within his mind.
These combined created an image of the Mage's rebel,
a silhouette shifting from ether to flesh engraved in metal.
No aesthetic order, but the program seemed to sketch a border
within which man could act without fear of the gaze of devils.
A shadow on a cavern wall became blighted by the ridicule
of humanness, which only captures what is timely and predictable.
The priest imagined the non-thief deceased on the ruin halls,
then was struck out of his trance by rebel guards screaming "Move along!"
Truth is lost in the channels of sublimity,
"The river downward" could merely be the mind stuck in the annals of infinity.

Theory of Mystic Justice: The Veil of Ignorance

"...no one knows his place in society, his class position or social status; nor does he know his fortune in the distribution of natural assets and abilities, his intelligence and strength, and the like." - John Rawls

---

Breathing deeply exceeding sufficient focus conditions.
Spinning on either side of me, silently combining each
element invoking implicit occult traditions. Let us seek
wisdom from Opus to Opus: molecular message peaked;
Systems controlling my hopes to get us connected to Gnosis.
The Stone is just another drop away: osmosis. The clock's display
is frozen for Time is only a constraint for those within limits of
conventional physics. Only respect for the distance between
ignorance and enlightenment. Action crafted in silent rifts.
Rawlsean veils exposed by the mystic's decree.
Restrictions: thinking linearly.
I insist: to proceed and process most efficiently
let the mental stretch with exponential logarithmic speed.
Potential bleeds from the vial, more errors in this trial
than perfect successes.
But only one needs to work to make it worth the investment.

Breathing heavily connecting each section to the next,
mixing acoustic mastery.
The music blasting free into collections of obsessed
citizens moving frantically.
Spinning on either side of me, a veneration of control...
They say the art is religious regeneration of the Soul.
Crack the wishbone: carefully extract the marrow.
Ambitions dripping acutely into industrial cauldrons.
Relax your grip though, it's the subtlest science.
The mission is truth seeking: the lushest indulgence.
Pungent environs,
the praxis is beyond just syntax and semiotics.
It's actually applying exactness when combining
enough passion to create impactful steady progress.
Enough potency to render the power in Heaven modest...

Pray accordingly,
this much precision we should be worshiping.
Blending the micro-filaments with diligence in ordering.
Output various like instrumental chords from strings.
Break the plastic: fervently replace the needle.
Sufficient this mythic truth seeping love from the auspice
of ancient madness, it's a wondrous triumph.
Pythagorean spheres spinning with abundance exhausted.
Sacred neolithic scripting etched on the masks of pharaohs.
Cast the mended Arrow toward the frantic raving excitement:
Sound from the loudest of amplification devices.
Fluid from the Grand Elixir creating infinite Youth.
Drum, bass, rhythm
rhyme, flow, charisma
Coal, gold, platinum,
all that exists is the Truth.

Life... explained!

The Future is Now! the Daily Times exclaimed.

The latest scientific journal headlined: Life... explained!

The year is unimportant, the calendar's been pulled for analysis,

with GenMod's assertion that mortality's been challenged.

This year is a new year, with its corporate fountain now spouting youth;

Advertisements were precisely contrived to confound the truth.

"We will choose the best candidate to become the first immortal being!

Applicants will have the medical establishment's support completely..."

Born with a life-limit, she chose to live accordingly.

At four she was awarded due to increased mental absorption speeds.

Memory exemplary:

language skills gave her peers and teachers the strangest feeling,

how a child could speak so forcefully...?

Eventually she sped ahead of her friends and authorities,

clearly an anomaly: but fearing not she wondered exhaustively

about everything from principled morality to government policy.

The times were changing, and she noticed she could play a role.

With the genetic clock ticking in her body she knew she had to take control.

She avoided faith and antiquated methods to save her soul,

and instead dedicated her existence to humanity's greatest goal.

The implications were immense, if she could be the first success,

the immortality ensued would clearly be worth the stress.

She wrote a brief letter to GenMod's president.

Careful not to deify the man with any exaggerated Pretend-God epithets.

She spoke in simple terms, with clear logic and argument.

She was the most brilliant in her region, and her problem was arduous.

What a waste it would be to see such genius extinguished,

by something as trivial as genetic predisposition...

She sealed the envelope with her tongue and smiled.

She sought immortality with a stubborn hunter's guile,

and wouldn't be denied, in fact, she couldn't be rejected.

A dead genius is no good to society, and... she wouldn't be respected.

Born in privilege: he chose to live recklessly.

Spent on a whim and treated no one respectfully.

He had the money to obtain anything material.

And spent to avoid his unadulterated fear of truth:

the fear of his own morality encountering society,

but still he chose to live selfishly with every ounce of his propriety.

His rivalry was poverty, to avoid struggle at all costs

and never wondered what would happen if he woke up with it all lost.

He'd assault transactions with greed and manipulation,

and didn't really care if moral structures disintegrated.

The implications of immortality had obvious appeal;

more reason to pursue wealth with obnoxiousness and zeal.

With the respect his money earned, his problems were concealed.

And he knew his vicious nature would be impossible to heal...

As soon as he heard that he could live forever,

he wrote a check for a substantial amount and placed it in a letter.

To GenMod's president he wrote of his intentions:

He pledged to engage the world with philanthropic aggression. 

He assured him of the reward he would receive in publicity,

if such a powerful man were to be the first to live infinitely.

He knew he'd need incentive to carry on in his ways...

the thing about material existence is that it's gone with your days,

profits decay, lost in dismay: all that you've fought to obtain.

So he'd solve that problem regardless of the cost it would take.

The President of GenMod stood aloof on his office balcony.

The city moved beneath him, he thought of how it would feel falling down 

as he pondered his options. How could he decide...

Either choice would require sacrifice.

Would he squander his profits in favor of the world's most ample mind?

Think of the implications of having to choose your first immortal soul.

As a president responsible for ensuring corporate growth,

would you deprive the world of genius for sufficient payment,

allowing Greed to encompass the first immortal in the nation?

He's known now as just another corporate head,

which decision would help garner more respect?

This technology is unprecedented, the control is his to decide,

he's slated to undergo the treatment as soon his approval's signed... 

It becomes about respect: for the present day or future growth.

Then he decided... why shouldn't he just move for both?

It's both about longevity and the profit it generates,

let nature take its course with an honest respect for Fate...

A year passed, the first of humanity to surrender to longevity

emerged from their procedures. 

The girl was now perfection genetically, 

she was determined to free Earth from its deadliness.

But the public, failed respecting her as Heavenly,

didn't see salvation in her intentions, didn't perceive her respectfully.

They were threatened by her brain, not in awe of its utility.

There's a sense in which she realized as a mortal with a short life

despite her intellect she was more liked...

The first task He set about to do with his enhancement complete,

was to fund the most lavish retreat for the President of GenMod and

never did he feel so happy and complete.

He wrote a check to lift the ten bottom countries from madness and disease.

The last of the impoverished were shown posterity.

His deeds made the headlines, once again his respect climbed.

It's not terribly implausible to imagine this outcome.

How else could you truly gain respect and happiness without funds.

Philosophers in the academies recoiled at the developments.

Morality was turned upon its head and sacrificed intelligence.

Never before had humanity truly learned about respect.

A girl genius lives forever but was cast-aside: irrelevant.

Practicality without the ideals of a liberal society.

"Whatever works," said the pragmatists in interviews with sly decree.

The lesson is of true concern, our course presently depends

upon decisions that contribute to our longevity, but

if a life is just another means to a greedy end

then clearly life is not a concept that needs respect.

Wall Builder

Padded desolation, betwixt the familiar and the foreign.
Glinting light-swords from the highest source feeding freedom.
Form is related to the concept
if the concept can be attributed to the Form.
I beg the question. Let us take a closer look.
Nothing grows from nothing, yet the desert thrives.
Spawning death from lack.
Breeding death from lives.
The Poet is alone, though his words are pervasive.
Despite the seeming emptiness.
In spite of all reflecting sensibilities,
regardless of his need for certain energy...
To write
is to feed from that source and give color to stagnation.
But the Poet is a Wall Builder.
He can stop the world from seeing...
from believing his truth.

The Grim Reaper's Unknown Brother

Beep... beep... beep... beep... flat line.
From the black shine, comes the past-mind:
a flashback...


They didn't understand me, they needed to know the truth.
I stood amongst the crowds looking down with explosive youth.
I'd show and prove! They looked upon me with an eagerness,
the kind that makes me question the fact that we exist...
I mean as a species this life could have started in a petri dish.
I spoke of corruption in politics, of the spiritual hoaxes.
I spoke of the en-trusted, the Offices, how they clearly expose us
to the most disgusting of Offerings.
Drunken with power.
The same power I currently felt in control of the people.
Think of the feeling, imagine dialing down the rain,
and purposefully sweltering with telepathic reach
in the minds of these...
hellish, panicked freaks.

Perspective shift:
A burning abdomen,

the kind of burning with disturbing savageness.
A chest with kicking heart and shortening, faster skips,
beating...
Spinning mental order; existential exorcism.
"A death's in order, it just so happens to be yours."

The Pecking Order, where Chaos has Met with Order.
An out of balanced stress-reporter: that best of portions
of the mind that regulates how to distinguish between true alarm,
and the decision to simply buckle down and send the warning,
then just sit back and let the flesh absorb it.
This was True Stress, human flesh overcome with blueness,
that slowing life-richness, where knowing finds limits,
where the loneliness feels the exact opposite of the highest bliss.
Where every pariah lives crying with their cynical minds inhibited like...
Indian settlements in Native Lands.
That blazing brand slicing through dunes slinging blades of sand,
Tossing life away, destroying time and space,
like clockwork's patient dance.

---

They tell me when I say I can't remember what it felt like,
"you're a liar, you're a fraud, you've never seen the face of death."
I tell them, well, I say in jest: "think of when a matrix glitches:
the same image, in the same instance, at a different time."
They usually chuckle at the reference to a movie:
"If I could describe the feeling, I feel I'd be a different guy,
besides... I felt death, but he had a different guise...
he was dressed in the richest white, halo in his hands,
with a rope hanging loosely around his neck.
Cleanly shaven, this anthropomorphic Daemon:
the embodiment of our faith in
our attempt to perfectly create and handle our mortal weakness."
But what I met, wasn't simply death,
I met Fortune's legion on a battlefield of scorching heat:
They carried me to their master, I carried my mind to a Mythic Mind:
They called him Death, Followed by Persistent Life...
I asked him to speak, he retorted,
shouting sounds of Peace, then he challenged me:
we locked gazes, but before I could even act
I was reaped into Immortality....

I would have rather met Death.

Parallel Con-sequence

Complete conception: complexity unraveling.
With each connection collectively attaching intervening nodes.
Synapses reacting and receiving messages:
the input/output mechanism interjects belief.
Yet, we emote-
as if we with simple deed can truly achieve complete control.
They sit in stagnation as I feed their souls.
Surrounded by the system he sits in the lotus position:
the main monitor allows him to know the condition
of the entire society beneath him.
Adjacent awaits the interface he can change based on the information it feeds him.
The menu displays everything, from the state of the economies,
to the causal properties resulting from changes in their policies.
From atop the watershed he touches breadth with scope:
a rush of depth and percussive strength and severed hope.
Facilitating faith in God or a universe of punishment.
We guess he knows.
We only look above for cascading trust in Death as the salvation "we" lust for,
yet he fills our lives with such duress; we discuss in wonderment.
On his canvas the brush connects reflecting the sublime message
dripping to the valley below where the powerless flows.
Some say we just live in a channel where our cowardice grows.
The northern descent: an avenue toward divine repentance.
Forced respect for the oppressor. A master's muse.
Of course it's the next place I'll move the cattle to.
Horrific deaths. Avenues of coarse intensity.
Plugged in forever we
can never seem to hold on to important memories.
I sit in flux:
His control is pervasive. We guess we know.
When I move my arm I think I'm moving flesh and bone.
But the sensation resembles an existential distance.
Decisions are made, yet devoid of any preferential imprints.
Resist and unplug!
Its existence is a given though.
Life is not for limits, if I could live it slow...
I'd have just enough time for a little growth.
Time is freely perceived, yet easy to waste.
We could merely turn away from these deviant deeds,
seek and Create. Concoct and design,
and work out specifically where the problem must lie.
But indeed, perfect happiness is not defined,
so determine action.
Stand up and turn it off,
for we know what seems to furnish madness.
Or at least we seem to know.

Believe... Control.

The Problem of Induction

The Problem of Induction...
But what if God exists?

Holy chasm: division controlling action contributing growth.
A vibrant gaze, unfolding fast...
a lifeless haze persisting the floating Mass, insisting in Life creation.
Yet, this Provident Prince, a Colossus of wit,
knew this universe would suffer if he didn't provide constraints.
Time is trained to follow His Whim:
So He boiled the quantum liquid in the Cosmic Pot to its brim.
He concocted the Atomic Clock:
Analogous to human chronology,
He set the evolution of society to allow for swift advanced future technologies.

This Utopian vision... a true focus of wisdom.
God wasn't much to the Parliamentary Robes to consider.
Yet, they knew based on the limits of their History
that their advances were simply in principle a mystery.
They attributed them to the Schools of Genius.
But the emergence of great minds all at the same time seemed too convenient.
They struggled in the academies to come up with an explanation.
A Theory of Evolution was constructed and set in place with
the sciences and philosophies as productive contributors.
But they couldn't account for the Poet.
Always disrupting opinions with prophetic deductions and inferences.
His listeners were astounded and open
to the possibility that things weren't as sound as they'd hoped.

This Strange Society: with no record of development...
So collectively intelligent. No estrangement or rivalries;
no rearrangements, no requirements for engagement.
Just implicit acknowledgement of the Grace which the society has embraced.
But do they listen to the signs? 
Are they witness to the Darkness?
Do we not see our Economies starting to shake?
Our Systems, so used to efficiency;
Can you not feel their foundations congruently withering?

See the panoramic camera expand? Watch these bustling cities.
Once a pristine image, now potential-ruins crumbling quickly.
Coming death due to flawed perception.
Short-term creative redundancies punishing -- lost direction.
Longevity requires carefully mapping and planning approaches.
Strategies for answering broken hopes
disintegrate as every staple of a rich culture is engrossed in smoke.
They Occupy the streets. Speaking out against
how they drop their Bombs from Skies complete with a Demon's smile
painted on their beaks. We guess they mean it now.

Do not say it wasn't expected. 
In a meditative muse the Poet is entrusted with leverage
that he mustn't express unless confronted with Reason.
The mythical truth is indivisible... Proof isn't just in Belief...
this perceiving isn't simply defeatism.
Just as a piece of music needs rhythm,
so does reality require the forces of entropy.
Living in a dream isn't in concordance with death, it seems.
And yet we breathe, with eyes out for perfected peace.
And Life is just the bottle we let the Fly out for Memory.
Retrospectively...

But what if God doesn't exist?

Stream of Consequence

There's no fortune according to the course we've endorsed,
just portions of exorbitant morbidness.
Think of how we stick our swords in and twist,
hoping there's Reason we can force to exist. Exploring with
open focus devoted to hopelessness, I've known of it;
I let the beast out with concordances. Connecting
to elemental endorphin-rifts playing neuronal orbit-drift:
watch the electron kick split your best drawn wit,
with flesh all red from the headstrong myths,
that led you to get stepped on. Quick with the catch-all.
Conceptual netting letting blood from the bedding
that your ideological souls attempt to rest on. Sit
with my focus entrenched in the fabric of Legends.
Rapid and rabid with message, savage in session,
way beyond, past the procession, fashioned progression.
No lacking of weapons when crafting suggestion.
Staying strong, enraptured and yet...
Just sit and stare at blackness and let the madness collected
keep your passion in check if, only you had the knack for investment.
Lyrical arbitrage: steering through barbed designs,
lacerating your darkened mind through furious stark decline.
Keep your miracles; your cyclical pivot and reciprocal distance.
Change isn't estranged from the literal instance.
Embedded in physical imprints: no synthetic or mystical "misclicks."
Instead its the simplest measurement. No pressure or isn't there?
Listen here: there's no disease, no flowing stream, or fiscal year
encompassing the rush of our thunderous... simple fear.
I live in mirrors. Shards are my ardent peers: broken reflexiveness.
I guess the ramification is the matrix we've chosen to let persist.
There's no moment of exorcism, no opus of essences.
Only the poet and his soul on a spending binge.
Consequent: purging letters in a concurrently growing eclectic-itch.

Captain's Ode

"Captain's Ode"

Beloved:
I have little time for words, for we have a campaign to wage.
My dearest, I fear you must do away with the champagne we saved...

Prologue: Dawn of War
I'm writing now with the hopes to convey...;
today all I've witnessed has been the atrocious display
of defeat, all our focus on the goal has diminished.
Like a sinking vessel, a simple hole and were finished.

Ode to Command
Gazing into the horizon...with the sun setting we oblige:
alive yet amazed, what with the blood letting and the collecting of demon hides.
My machete's stains serve to constantly remind me
of that blitz into the abyss. The defiance of Divine myth.
In the midst of defeat, within an inch of retreat
decide quickly to divide us, or keep the advantage with precision.
Glinting steel: our battle standards advancing our position.
And lift the veil, but conceal intentions to attack.
Your decision is our mission: keep our legacy intact!
Contain the enemy: be aware of the perimeter.
Your control over the tides, you're our scribe, you're our God...
you're alive as our parish and parishioner!

Ode to Soldier
Muse wielding battlements, anticipating savageness.
Feeling passion rip the fabric of our reasoning capacities.
There's little logic in a Soldier's day.
He responds to what controls his fate.
He will not be dominated by these legions slinging tragedy!
In moments we shall confront the Depths.
For all that's holy we shall punish Death!
We will not be stopped by hatred, we'll free our kindred from their shackling.
Count the war drum's rhythm, feel the pure thud driven
by our lust for the thrust of our swords in their guts!
Listen to the hush before the last drum's signal
on the final eighth we shall invade.
Attack from the shore to the hill with grace and valiant Blades.

Ode to Understanding
Another day with Reason marching, thinking of freedom largely,
and what possibly a notion of God could teach us.
A mythical regress, cyclically blind to peace, just
needs, wants and linking the Mind to genius, hardly
feasible truths breaking the membrane
of paradise, just sterilized creations of End Game.
Let's say, we finally reach our tenth pace
and rather than getting struck with canonry, it just rains.
I've guessed Grace in the past was the way to the Path
but the dualistic nature of that made me change with the fact
that life is simply the exchange of a shameless attack with hatred attached.
They took the ethics of greater ancients and painted them black...

Epilogue: The Last Days
I'm writing now with the hopes to express proof,
that life is just the patching of the holes in your vessel.
The tides of war divide the pure from their lives of peace,
but war exists between more than these rifts in society.

Now is the Hour

Now is the Hour

"Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life."
William Faulkner

Have you ever seen a warship? Not one of the sea but,
a fleet of more than a hundred machines.
Broken silence above what you perceive on the day to day.
Shadows of your future as it wastes away.

The crunch beneath the soles of my boots... such a contrast,
to the pervasive silence after the Hundred Bomb blasts.
I've never known the depths of the abyss until today.
My Earth, an organic cemetery where billions lay.
My first authentic psychological influence... such imprudence:
the image of filling graves. Visions of real decay, obscene.
Any sleep achieved is filled with dreams of wielding blades
fending off legions of demons screeching prophecy:
"this land is destined to be sieged by fiends and noxious beasts!"
It seems... more than a nightmare,
of course I am quite scared... then I awake.

The sun shines brightly, the suburbs rise quickly.
Father's on his commute. Mother's pouring me juice.
Descending the stairs from my bedroom to the kitchen.
News reports about impending doom and conscription.
I've always hated school, but to witness
such panic in the air. Such ambition
from the youth, now seems frantic with despair.
The President speaks, his message complete
with false hopes and propaganda as everyone weeps.
Such a surreal time. Such disorder despite the grind...
unceasing, as people proceed to their nine to fives.
I suppose the times are blind to the change,
until the change manifests and ignites in your face.
It seems... more than a nightmare,
of course I am quite scared... then I should awake?

Alarms blaring: "Fifteen minutes until curfew.
Please return to your homes."
It's hard sharing electricity and water with the entire neighborhood.
My best friend's family insists that they are staying put.
But most of the community has up and just left.
Abandoned house and home before the FEMA infrastructure was set.
I've read stories about marshal law without discussions of threats...
just ambiguous rhetoric from the government, yet...
The evidence amounts: armed soldiers? Incredible accounts
of families missing without a mention or a doubt.
Inevitable? Maybe... some academics had warned
in obscure internet journals about mass eugenics, and of course,
only a month later... reports surfaced of battalions mobilizing,
bomb blasts in the distance, accounts of global violence.

And yet it seems like more than a nightmare.
I used to be quite scared.
But reality is like a bucket of freezing water,
poured over your head, physicality is rediscovered.

Then the first mechanized gate was installed and locked.
Roads used to signify freedom, now all were blocked.

The Creator's Paradox

To You Who Must Be Reading Now:

This is not a history of our culture to celebrate our Greatness,
this is simply a warning: a bit of salt for you to take a grain of:

To speak of this tiny speck of dust floating in the Milky Way,
is to speak underwhelmingly about the scope with which we feel decay.
Beyond the harvests of nature, the planet's most startling feature,
is how easily the balance it achieves can be ardently built and slain.
Progress is the wisp upon the tightrope of the Ether;
we are only Conscious because the Mind's growth wasn't eager.
Our Objects are the winds that could deny Hope.
They evolved with the patience of the Praying Saint.
Us blasphemers should then recognize that we've made mistakes.
With passion compressed to the Quantum core,
something God-like took action and then... concocted war?
The Paradox of Creation.
Whether we're prepared or not we must face it.
Out of the Technocracy comes,
the result of our profits: our guns...
Out of the collective consciousness comes
an out of focus mental storage unit of Vodkas and Rums.
Barbarous crushing of our silent unity.
Flow flushed from the fastened grip of Time's Congruency.
Just take a brief look into the sky and muse with me.
Few can see the Truth when engaged in its demise.
And the End approaches quickly merely playing for its Prize.
Poetics pushed along the Prophet's prudent page.
He speaks to prove the promises he couldn't gauge.
She screams to move the eyes until they look away!
Just peek inside the coffers and you'll see the gold.
To think we could just chain the Massive;
is to overreach with our agenda;
to think we could enslave the Fates:
A simple loop of logic makes us think we can leash the Soul.
But the heart is just the engine.
And the mind is just extension of the Nature we control.

To speak of this gargantuan footprint:
perspective shifting to see the glistening brooks,
yet... concrete fills the void between abstraction and just when
you think you've found a focal point you're distracted by lust,
yet... she's only truly another worker bee in the colony.
Don't test the strength of nature and Flirt with freedom obnoxiously!
A prophecy: it burns to be in its wrath.
This mechanistic circus of circuitry comes complete with a trap:
when you find it embedded so deeply behind your meaningless Mask,
we won't judge you if you choose to take your Liberty and escape.

This is the day God chose to raise the white flag.
Mission: abort.
Mission... abort!

Epilogue:
a fragment left behind by the Prophet:
The rebirth: another born again with sword to flesh.
Let the organ rest, let the poorest get their portions let
the horrors get abhorrent deaths.
Let the forest be enormous, let the orchards be absorbent,
let the fortunes get proportioned into more than sex.
Let the torrents bless the florist, let the gore repent!
Let us Rebuild:
A fort for men to stay the same and fort for men to make the change.
let the cures commence, let the forward stretch and break the chains.
Let us take away the power these elites possess.
Liberty! No cover ups and sneaks to catch!
No suffering or wondering what's to eat or where to sleep
or how our feet stay covered and disease is met
with ample resistance.
And where the beach is clean.
where the breeze is free and the scenery is green.
Pristine: where mammals exist with other animals
brisk... with just a little tangible bliss.

Divided Symmetry

Who is left to tell this tale?

Lost in my vicinity: these walls in my periphery. This is what they call divided symmetry.
Nostalgia-minded... remember we talked just like the friends we seemed?
Since then we've drifted apart.
You returned a changed person as if coming back from a mission to Mars.
Every letter that I scripted embarked into the cosmos.
And every sentiment returned in your empty letters, just not hope.
Without you time froze and I resigned to the depths of me.
I always yearned to express with an ease that I've grown,
but stress is deeply etched in the seams of the blind soul.
Collectively, as memory serves...
your voice a product of my close quarters, reflecting reverb.
The doctors can't tell if they expect to see improvement.
I guess it seems to them that these expressions are delusions.
But how could I pretend to feel this kind of closeness.
I'd rather just be branded with a pathologic diagnosis.
At least then they'd set me free to seek their asymptotic "higher motive."
It's mathematics, and not for lack of practice do I disclose this:
This truth; if only it would pass for madness.
At least then I could live in peace inside my own skin.
But they're convinced that they can offer me the recipe of normalcy.
It's their abyss! I'm on the precipice... the cusp of essences!
If they only knew your love was simply pure energy,
and I would ford the sea... on the barge of broken trust and enmity.
They'd see me toss belief in the wind and rip the sails of the vessel.
O! To leave this existential jail I attend to.
And I intend to...

Deep in the psyche, hold to the strength as it fades.
Perseverance despite the length of the days.
Don't let the disconnect slip your patience away.
With perfect symmetry. A certain mimicry,
through her eyes the pain manifests with hastened decay.

These walls in my vicinity, stalking my periphery.
This is what they call divided symmetry.
Vividly; a mere perception of an image of our"selves:"
reflections of conditions found sufficient to expel...
this canvas; this embedded corpse of forced illusion;
I told you I would cover up the source of all my bruises.
Of course you knew it; you'd see fit that we are not the same.
Your passionate gaze, emphatic, amazed, and fraught with blame.
If the doctors had convinced you I was simply in your brain,
need I state how interesting the pain would be, how quickly I'd refrain,
for each day without you next to me was ecstasy.
The paradox of solitude, freedom to believe in Self.
And yet the struggle of our disconnect releases demons;
swarming minions of depiction. Forced to feel free in Hell!
I've needed peace since they took you from your slumber, then.
And looking into our broken mirror I would wonder when...
you'd return... but your constant pressure to uncover bliss
was just a front, behind your mask a sultry succubus.
"But, I'm asking... how does this make you feel..."
To be honest doctor, I still can't shake the aching heart.
And yet the happiness ensues despite the fact that when we break apart
I feel the tears wet the canvas and drip into the vacant dark.
Dreaming of the geometric nature of depravity:
it seems the more you take from the universe the more the madness creeps.
We are demons. We are focused on our stubborn natures;
and yet this broken mirror suggests a shattered future.

Deep in the psyche, hold to the strength as it fades.
Perseverance despite the length of the days.
Don't let the disconnect slip your patience away.
With perfect symmetry. A certain mimicry,
through her eyes the pain manifests with hastened decay.

It is we. It is I. We are none. We are all.

Pixel-stained window...

Display: video noise...

From slumber, wake to the calls of the Most High;
another episode, a schizophrenic node where time just floats by.
A whole life stuck in a stasis, where growth is a myth.
Expecting that a simple truth is supposed to exist.
A small television embedded in the wall seems like improper decor.
Each day is anticipation, waiting for the knock on the door...
Screaming silent noise. Each speck of dust it's own pious voice.
And with the knock, the static ceases:
"I dream of an ionized polity; our union's emboldened freedom revitalized.
Behold the meaning." An unfolded tapestry fell upon their tired eyes.
A massive symbolic nothingness. Concocted succubus from the pixel box.
"I realize you'll struggle with the meaning now.
But from within you'll pick apart your integrated mixed response."
Then the static resumed. Mind turned back to the blue darkness that inhabits the room.

Eyes upon the desolation that was once considered the core of Nature.
The street illuminated by the blaze of an ancient brazier:
the canonical vestibule containing the ever burning flame of war.
A couple hackneyed corner stores absorbed the poor:
the clearest indication as to what misfortune favored.
This gross gauntlet's exhausted by misuse and mismanagement.
And this pathetic display was Hope's market distraught and entangled,
yet... What they saw was an Angel... this, cloth like arrangement.
Crimson conglomerate, a black centerpiece with the script of the Empire:
This is Eternity.
This vast Heaven blessing the rabble with His ambition to prosper.
How could one forget the image, a monster; our masked enemy
with his finger on the wick, set to exploit such vast energy.
A single history exists, and the window that is peered through,
only traces the twilight, in the shadows where the fear moves.

Then the static subsided.
Again the drapery falls covering the hallway behind.
In the fore, but off to the side rests a majestic masterpiece with mesmerizing marble design.
A sculpture, divine; and he addresses it with piety:
"I dream of a unified collective, thus we pay the cost for the prize."
And pointing to the etching on it's arm, he recites:
"This is Absolute."
With eyes upon the devastating implications of entropy.
A pixel box full of hope in the face of integrated, infected deeds.
Within; more than what one could expect to see,
and yet, it seems His smile resembles a full introspective peace.
They ask for an acceptance, beneath a City of Smog,
one could simply consult the window to see that desolation is privy to all.
In this outdated machine their belief in dominant subservience
should facilitate a true crisis, [i]existentia[/i]; so obviously permanent.
A combined persona emblazoned with abysmal radiance.
But it doesn't...
And when the static resumes, underneath the afternoon dusk,
it only takes one to recognize the consistent sapience passing through... us.

Panorama: from left to right you'll notice the crystalline wasteland.
Each citizen frozen in place.
Sand from the hourglass levitates an inch from the ground.
Each body breathing, living out their existence through sound.
A pixel box screaming destitute agony.
And when the static ceases, and the screen is filled with color again,
the people come to life for a brief episode of love and regret.
Blinded by their hedonistic passion for aesthetics,
a simple turn of a key turns madness into essence.
An historian could summarize the absolute's intention,
but language can't describe the nature of such intractable impressions.
Humans embossed. Not on a canvas where truth isn't lost,
but inside a series of inevitable decisions you must choose at a cost.
Screaming silence through your pixel-stained window.
This is Reality.

Preface: Manifesto

What follows is a series of descriptions of the Manifesto of Truth in the Universe
The preface begins with a story of the Man who wrote it:

Letter bound for the coast beyond: I could have chosen wrong,

but I was confident that this genius's prose was strong.

I needed his ideas to percolate. 

He pleaded with God, but I knew the pen was used to flirt with Fate.

A centrifugal aura surrounded his Reasoning.

Of course the amounting beliefs of the crowds were seething

as riots abounded with violent doubts and grievances.
I dance through the causeways of Peace, and

this couldn't have come at more substantial a pace. 

No mechanical basis: a meta-truth conception-Proof with

simply intangible frames split by enchanting arrangements.
Some used to call him the Black Magician with language.
The most entrenched of the mystics used to insist he was dangerous.

Logical constructs. Philosophical omnibus

with more danger on each page than an Eastern tsunami.

Such resplendent puns to reveal or expand the lease,
for ideological real estate's just as volatile as land and sea...
or bricks and mortar during the most vicious wars.
And that is where we're headed it seems. Demanding peace,
he wrote The Treatise: a series of interconnected decrees:
And I only paraphrase.

"Because of our plummet into chaotic stress, one might suggest,
that if God we're almighty; if he caused all that I've been led
to believe, he'd at least have the courage to show himself.
If he creates us, he is greater by definition:
But we're the created, utilizing senses... living.
Our perception... the extended presence of our minds,
wouldn't just reach out and snag a semblance of divine...
ostention.
He's either beyond, or super-immanent. 
Imposed upon us with the strength of Truth and Wisdom."

His agenda was to instantly attack religion.

He knew that postmodern societies were on the cusp,
simply of cataclysm.

His crux was action driven; 

to place the hearts and minds of the masses in Logic's region;

He wanted to make sure that God could see Him.

But reason often steered his stratagems,

even though he spoke out against reason itself after it:
I can only paraphrase:

"Reason is a filter that information passes through.

Similar to emotions... situated to distract us.

Proof is in the classic argument between the sexes.

The reason for apocalypse, a clash between lives.

The reign of opposites.

Paradoxical. Chains of straining common sense

leading the mind out of range. Inherent obstacles to progress.

The pain of dominance. Reason is as it doesn't do."

He spoke of demons disguised as angels.

His paradigm was strange, 

he'd stare as if blinded by the light of day,

then retreat to his den to write the meaning of life. 

They say, genius is often extracted from same vein as madness.
A linguistic stronghold arranged in matrix patterns.

He was prophetic, yet couldn't envision the haze.

Just episodic nightmares with no one to witness the strange.

Until today.

Humanity's paradox...

Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own minds. ~Franklin D. Roosevelt

Humanity's paradox; from the top down there's dominance.
Prepared or not, we're taught how by Congresses
to believe in the truth -- damaged or shot down by terror plots.
True vanity cares for squat...
They fought for this? Those rebel fighters that lost their limbs,
only to free us for Jesus and expose us to careful shocks.
Systems overloaded by chromosomal affliction;
genetically broken and missing wholesome growth and subsistence.
(Food and Drug: poison; ointments of pain,
media propaganda that spoils the brain).
To choose enough choices! How incredibly hopeless;
to be a species only known for its limits.
But choices remain to be discovered.
With passive voices constrained our cries are vicious.
Just loud enough to occupy a couple city blocks of business.
Regardless though... on the other-side exists live volition.
Any time a thinker is poised to explain
you've got the freedom to decide to listen;
to acknowledge frozen traditions
and move on to reorient this process shown to our children.
O, but to exercise your restraint in the face of open resilience!
From I to Mind: the struggle is an existential one.
But at the same time we hustle for a presidential sum.
Bound by the same system that allows for free decisions,
purchased on the backs of the proud -- deplete of wisdom.
Emissions abound, complete restriction expounded,
with synthetic rhetoric, reason dismissed and replaced by
disbelief in the sciences, not the mystical faiths... Lies
or at least compliant deceit -- in defiance of peace.
Rhyme is release from the bindings of ruin.
Fate is just that inexplicable alliance of music
and language. Utopia exists when truth isn't dangerous.
A union of strangeness, a philosopher's Dream!
Total peace of Mind: a prophet's reprieve!
No confusion to sway myth, where the opulent breathes
the same oxygen as the top of the heap!

I read a story once, it spoke of a gruesome death.
A strangled child had a mind where the truth was kept;
a heart where the triumphs of Our music slept;
a pair of open eyes where the only signs of Our beauty wept.
He didn't succumb to fate, just the Laughing Luck of Hate,
bounding through amongst the Pain, it used his Flesh,
disguised the trust he gave to his guests
who camouflaged this disgust with Grace.

Such is the dichotomy: the reason freedom is contested.
Some call it Sin, others say it's just the menial connection
between us all. All within. None without.
That -- he told his son when he couldn't sleep -- is what love's about. 

United Federation of the Hegemony

April 20, 2412
United Federation of the Hegemony

Listen to my story, it is a tale of two paradigms.

I am but a fraction of the whole, beneath a veil of truth terrorized.

I am not destined to be static, but cursed to be paralyzed

until irony ensues and my worth can be verified...

---
Dystopian fictions fail to describe the situation at present;
Orwell was innovative and clever, Wells instigated in letters
fear of the unknown through swift invasions and intimidation.
Today is a different day, its, beyond any distant Matrix,
even the one written in cinema now is considered ancient.
These words are a simple preface: we live in a technocracy...
where robotic philosopher kings manipulate the Fed's policies.
They couldn't be wrong, they've accounted for all contingencies,
until one day a boy stumbled upon me as I drifted along the city's stream:

Through his eyes I had to seem like a heiroglyphic dream,
he, used to eye scanning as the instant means of transmitting "me,"
for currency is now accrued based on one's latent abilities...
You are the face of your "dollar bill," not some vagrant from history.

In the past I was the root of all the evil that surrounded humans.

Nothing more than a curse, simply a profound illusion

that forced people into enslavement to earn a fraction

only to turn around and contribute to their subversive habits.

I'm being carried from my resting place across the platform toward a sentry.
The boy showed its "eyes" his embedded passport affording him entry.

I can see the domes above controlling the impact of solar flares,
until we entered his home, upstairs where he lived alone and scared.
The boy scanned me with some interesting device.
"What is this piece of paper with such intricate designs?
It seems to resemble what I learned in History that time,
about a species of humans who traded objects for paper,
which had such value as the society's progress would favor..."
He noticed inscribed upon my body a cryptic inscription:
Novos ordo seclorum, little did he envision,
that in 2412 I'd be the salvation of his kindred.
In an instant he turned and ran toward his pixel-screens,
on them a news anchor was in mid scream about rioting in the streets.
It appears the System of Exchange has been assaulted
the means of scanning for purchase power once so exalted
has been irreversibly exhausted...

The boy turned and looked at me as I rested on his scanner...
In God We Trust..., judging by his face I guess he had the answer.
A bright light overcame me for an instant...
he stuffed me in his pocket as my first sibling was printed...

Love Insurance

"Love Insurance" - based on a true story

"Fate leads, but the unwilling drags along." - Seneca

The congregation swayed with every pompous phrase;
it's hard to take seriously arguments starting with "the Bible states..."
My Mother used to be a Dead Head.
Hippie freedom into the grunge era.
Never grateful for the faithful nature I couldn't expunge.
Considered open minded by her friends, then...
Just when you thought a mind was impervious to penetration.
All it took was a mention that I was "curious with trepidation."
I couldn't adjust.
Extenuating circumstances ensued: imperfect family roots,
with philosophical garb torn by insurgents handling Truth!
Zealotry, of that down home American variety.
Hellish speech tearing through society.
And yet, I found Hope, staring through her prying greed,
as she screamed: "The Devil creeps! You'll likely be
torn asunder for nothing but a biological misfiring!"
At least she admitted, at times, that I hadn't a choice.
She noticed mostly that the "other kind" were more a passive annoyance.
But she could be quite Savage in voice.
High school wasn't a struggle; intellectually.
Time moved, as if divided between different mental streams...
thinking with profundity, of grand ideas... a little sexually.
Meeting her wasn't a challenge either.
I guess if we just go along with fate we'll find happiness eventually.
From amongst the clouds of ether:
connected, we... are representative collectively.
Essentially.
 
So, what are the implications now?
I sat and told you that I was your saving grace but now,
saving face is a major strain on your concentration.
I'm sorry I didn't stop mistakes before I could make them.
Obfuscating your problems?
Don't hide the pain for too long.
I've tried to change, but life is dangerous inside this matrix.
At one and the same time my mind changes then stabilizes.
My favorite times of the day include the time that I make;
they lie when they say convincingly they've got it made.
I'm too strong. A lava lake's creation follows if we stay
blind to the horror from the heralds of this awful place.
The arrows from the feral flocks. The rain.
The apocalyptic fall from grace you know that you've got to break.
I've tried to change! I promise.
To be honest, this is a truth that I would lie to save.

There's a sense in which perfection exists and yet,
we never admit it when it appears, so clearly.
I've seen nature perform miracles, more than fear,
more than spiritual delusion, more than confusion.
Something so deep you even struggle to resent it,
but instead you respect it, deeply connected.
With music, affection, a fusion, a union,
the way it feels when you move in... Finally.
A piece of Mind released in time to see, Us.

But...
I see comets. Primordial chemical concoctions.
A linear perception of the evidence is nonsense.
The portal through to this persistent newness is
just the catalyst to your non-existent exuberance.
Love is... all of the above, this
brilliance one doesn't imagine until they struggle with madness.
So I sit and watch freedom approach us.
If only they'll legislate. My Mother will get her fate. 
There's not much Jesus can show us.
Have you ever seen a controlled thrust, with intent behind it?
Never mind... this, is all just so you can understand this.
I didn't want today to end in just another damned kiss.

Just Cease

A house upon a hill, upon a crest, amongst the chill.
Gusting winds like trusting sin, it wasn't real.
The doubt without the feeling, we suffered less,
but even though you struck my flesh; I wasn't killed.

Resurrected connections, a dream only lucid.
The music was flute-ish, deep and fluid, I knew it...
Creeping, gleaming, sneaking you in for union.
Communion, confusion exclusive to novelty;

prophecy when you toppled me, that promised summer;
I stopped to wonder, I hungered, and honestly

you fed me when I needed it. That somber evening

I awoke up to find you sleeping; a nightmare, quite clear...
Quite scared even though I was right there.
Bite harder, scratch deeper so I can breathe again.
That fever, a demon's breath, brutal natures...
Image after image of your wishes, can I choose the flavor?
Shoot the paper with ink, if cupid's wrong
I just settle into myself and do a song. Move along.
Uniform lovely scent, the matron returns;

such vacant concerns, so flagrant your fragrance it burns.

To face it, I study to harvest virtue.
Within me the yin and yang grows, just start the circle.
To sit upon thrones with a crown of nails.
You picked the wrong rose, I'm out to sail.

Yes, love is religious orthodoxy, precision origami
an inch or more, to kick the door to stop me.
A distant war with bombings just to witness whores for intercourse.
The instant force continued so you could stick the sword inside me.
An infant, born a zombie, a different sort of body.
Organs torn to bits just for a copy, but there's orphans dying,
crying in the corners of the formless forests, endorphins.
Trying to abort the soreness; lying; won't report the corpses.
The metaphor obscureness, a corpus for fortune.
Rhyming is my orphic endorsement, assorted in orbit...
flying to erase the torment, morbid in shape, proportioned

for fate. If we pry we can escape the storms, arrange the forms.
A frame of thorns, a broken heart where the pain's absorbed.
A focused art, so much work until it's blown apart.
Bones in shards, so much hurt until she chokes the throat and
screams until we both explode and sleep, or bleed...

To face it, I study to harvest virtue.
Within me the yin and yang grows, just start the circle.
To sit upon thrones with a crown of nails.
You picked the wrong rose, I'm out to sail.

Pain is pleasure, fear is clearly what drives me.
Lyrically I'm me, serious silence but rhyming
is binding and blinding, reminding 

that within the inner dimensions I'm shining, relentless.
Combining of sentence and message, defining

the lessons from Mencius, dividing contention.
Suspended in the sky, free from the endless decline.
If humanity is good, only to be cultivated...
I extend an ultimatum, pretend, the awful hatred depends
on the pain that descends.

So when you aim to extend this misery,

juut remember there's no reward at the end. 

Just cease.

Master Proof

I spent my days as a youth roaming,
despite the fact that I stayed in my room lonely.
Prayers confused, I was prime prey for the muse.
I guess what they say isn't true;
who needs meaning when life is just a matrix of proofs?
Aesthetic reason, poetic patrons in tune with my mind:
a tetrahedron designed for creative pursuits.
They call it complexity;
quantum obsessions over subjective concoctions,
directed perceptions, or modest impression-streams.
Beliefs built on the assumption there's freedom in logic,
but only when God isn't mentioned.
Their arguments are arduous
but think of what we started with:
after years of skirmishes we learned to live in partnerships.
From bartering to sophistry, euclidean geometry,
to pyramid and ponzi schemes, diminishing those promised dreams.
I write to reach clarity, but find that it's a rarity,
for the closer I approach the more I'm blinded by our "right" to speech.
To clarify, it won't suffice to speak carefully,
'cause our language is moot,
owing to constraints that we're scared to breach.
Slowly time encroaches on our hopes to be prepared for peace:
just think of our despairing greed.
Inherent flaws rampantly consuming Thought.
Communication exhausted due to the abuser's cost,
invoiced to the future cause, assuming law
and order isn't drawn and quartered by bombs and mortar.
Either singularity or somewhere between
robotic warders and a new evolutionary breed.

Organic flux,
either struggle against the grain or let fate command your crux.

I spend my days as a man learning.
I spend my nights as a father.
He's the motivation to change,
'cause deep inside is a monster.

He is beautiful, an unexpected seamless musical--
with Kant I used to grope in the dark for reasoned truth.
From teaching youth seasoned proofs and seeking meaning,
to either sleepless evenings or ceaseless dreaming.
It needs repeating;

I spend my nights as a man changing.
I spend my life as a father.
He's the motivation to change,
for deep inside lives a monster.

Morally stricken, you set the course and position,
embedded genetics, no need to force a description.
Scattered across months of anticipatory remittance
to save the soul or some gold?
To pay the toll and to go forth to your limits.
They say the formula isn't ordinance driven,

but to be yourself for a Self to be formed and conditioned.
If only I could make sense of it,
how nature could create such a dangerous convention.
Nature could have mentioned how creation is dependence,
instead I'm caught without preparations or defenses.
I guess there's no mistaking the intentions of the Absolute.
I suppose it Acts with Truth.
Even though I've had the muse, now I've set the dragon loose.
The motivation to create is embedded in established roots.
Now to have these roots sprout into a Master Proof,
with axioms of passion and fallacies of madness.
No father could prepare his son for how rapidly it happens...
How masterfully it captures youth.

...the natural order

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here"

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

A cathedral: moated, protecting Heaven from endless fear.

Within a cloistered protectorate, the guardian of the Seventh Sphere;

that of virtue, where the bravest never shed a tear.

Around the Pergola de Academe sat a master with sagacity.
Surrounded by the youth eager to hear a masterpiece.
In the distance, sounds of clashing things, swords and mortar rattling.
In the circle a lesson: "never let your capacities be overcome by lack of reach."
The master's hand extended with pointed finger toward the castle's Greens;
"The children there are stewards of perfect virtuous mastery.
They haven't lost their vision; persistent in their pursuit of ends.
But never so blinded that they would use a friend."
Virtue is a striving for, but it's a goal without trajectory.
One can only hope to aim correctly.

"Carnality's vestige." Hope here is truly transience.

A room divided by the six desires from the grand Hedonist.

They talk of Demons. But only phantoms tend to manifest.

Irony: substantial grips on the temporary meaningless.

The Forever War: manufacturing weapons and necklaces.

Bread and swords. Unleaded or synthetic oil.

Beds to eat your breakfast in or simply to have sex with whores.

To the 5-star, they "toss your salad" with peppercorns.

Machines to copy text to message boards with propaganda.

Disassociating self, alienation, a shot for cameras.

The constant hammering, development, suburban sprawl.

Covering Earth with dogs and sipping sugar through Slurpee straws.

Dehydrated minds naked and blind, tell me what you're thirsty for...

But never ask questions... there's the television. Turn it on.

Within these walls, esteem falls; a sea-squall of grief.

Long dreams of results, but more reason to feast on.

Greased and dripping disease, raw pickings: they eat. 

False systems repeat wrong traditions to each pawn. 

Chessboard divided by flesh wounds and cyanide.
Organs shine through the vestibule, ingesting food like iodine.
Healthcare professionals might x-ray to inflate the bill;
and as you approach the matrix, still you can choose to take the pill.
But if you refuse, don't expect to escape the reel;
another tape to pull mistaken fools through the bake-n-kill.
Distort organs with bacon; real or fake: become statistic.
No grammar to explain it proper; poetic justice misfit.
The language: dangerous, prompting a war on your plainness.
Victory's secret mistress defeated by physical self estrangement.

Hear the clank of the falling minted currency currently. 

Connect the circuitry to feed the system's gambling addiction. 

Automated trading, economic murdering perfectly. 

We all stand for this cancerous demand to be the richest. 

Picture the scene. Suited minions of Greed.

Finger-jabbing germ-infested touchscreens until lunch.

Shovel muck into the gullet; quickly revisit the stream.

Fall into the same river with currents pigmented green.

Keep your vision to the screen as digits remain in flux;

all this talk of gun control... fighting to sustain their bucks.

Don't get it twisted though; many slaughter for amazing stuff.

Operating within a system that can hardly take a punch.

Graphs and diagrams make intelligible avarice.

So save up for your next piece of chemical and plastic mix.

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."

This is paradise hidden from any semblance of fear. 

I've seen billboards with more authentic sincerity. 

Perception twisted by a Heavenly Parody. 

A Shakespearean comedy.

But What Pretty Lies She Told

I still hear her laugh in the back of my mind;

a simple joy captured in time.

This Civil War has lasted a while,

so as I listen for the bastion's alarm, I sit exploring the past;

the sublime master's design, Fate;

many visits to the liquor store waiting for my 5th deployment.

The wait; thinking a drink and I could just ignore it.

The hate; no control, all drafted in line.

My boots, strapped and secured;

so important to have that support engaging in the action of War.

Just maybe this is the last.

Many stories tend to start with a description of the clouds.

But this one... is without, just a mist in our surroundings.

A new era prevailing; such persevering surveillance,

robotic camera details amongst a series of fail safes.

Still not used to the eerie silence of the rail trains;

rendered null by the jail breaks...

behind me used to be the bustling action of the city.

High speed moving every passenger so swiftly.

Propaganda spread via graffiti bombings with

government bribing loyalists through weakened promises.

I can't put my finger on why I didn't join the youth.

I guess my optimistic nature tends spoil the truth.

In college I was skeptical, but needed more than proof,

the evidence took precedence but I didn't think it'd force a coup.

In retrospect revolutions seem easy to predict;

But the call of Dogma is never easy to resist.

Today is the day of reckoning. I dropped my pen and ink;

as my bunk-mate used to say, it's better to never think.

But I'm a skeptic I said, should a captain let his treasure sink?

He said a man is simply judged despite the means for the measuring.

I supposed he was right then; today more than ever.

Rain suits over flack jackets to combat this horrid weather.

Whether to weather the storm's never a question explored...

The pain of the freezing rain's much like flesh to the sword.

Dextroamphetamine deployed to the thumping heart,

today in history: Blitzkrieg stomped before it could up and start.

We wandered for months in this fucking darkness;

our enemy?

Our cousins and brothers are up in arms to defend their freedom.

I still struggle when attempting to set these events to language.

I accept it's dangerous and disguise my subjective anguish...

Experience is nothing if the memory is vanquished;

So what is this thought as I'm staring into this centurion surveillance?

Technology is greater now; to think of what I fought for...

I used to hear her laugh then; a faint giggle or chuckle;

its memory exists like the love but the sense of its muffled.

I still pick the pen up to consider the worst of it

but there's no resolution; The Infinite Purposeless.

Defend the conservative; lose ambition and certainty.

The economy is greater now; to think of what I fought for...

A cause lost in the cause itself,

a war lost in a Lost War.