Elder Statesman

Asking for Muse, he sat gripping the straps on his boots.
He knew the quill would drip mystic passionate truth, and yet
He still advised;
Place your hands on the heart of rhythm.
The soul demands that the mark of wisdom
doesn't get lost before the dark within us.
He watches freedom ignore us.
Tethered to beliefs in reprieve.
As if peace is before us, hands out waiting to receive it's release.
Of course trust in the authority's power is waning.
With the turn of a dial, the circuit's reprisal
sends disconnected worth through the herd with a smile.
Rhetoric is just as much evidence as authentic riff.
Language: merely a means for transmitting messages,
devouring hastily those cowards that blame.
I guess malice can only challenge the sane;
such intellectual drought people doubt when it rains.
Among a withered crop yield, proud of his pain;
it's much too difficult for the victim to challenge his Fate.

Amongst the Crowd

Take cover amongst the crowd -
they'll only see you as one of the hustled [now].
Trouble bound, no escaping this mushroom cloud -
this is madness, madness! Or motivation... -
I took the shuttle to the ether -
Either I'm dreaming or I cannot touch the ground.
Either I'm breathing too quickly to think correctly,
or my heart is underpowered.
I started but never finished -
She begun without a shred of vision,
a lovely child and better mother,
I wonder how she'd be if she wasn't proud.
So get to cover the brush is down,
no canvas needed for [genius] to construct a shroud...
Lucid believers suited as reapers
with hand fulls of truth as we see it.
they want us out!

Lost at Sea

Grief stricken; questioned beliefs; timid, never redeemed,

he brought about change in the strangest of ways.

Is this correctly perceived?

This voyage to the depths of the sea --

Reflections of discontent, phases of jaded decay;

visions consistent with his patient display of wisdom when expecting reprieve.

But he'd do everything he could to escape the disgrace.

Every corner harbored pain; a matrix of hate.

Every avenue he traveled through he'd haggle truth to capture proof

but evidence was at the most practical,

and at the least scattered through the annals of the past.

So he rummaged through the Scriptures,

discovered the mystical. He wondered who would listen.

Such punishment: cyclical...

Rarely does existential analysis amount to more than

preferential paralysis. The power source

of curiosity is pure ferocity. The Now purports

to learn viscosity. Of course the proud resorts to

a coward's forced dishonesty.

I guess the mental is clouded with a soured wit.

The Leviathan of the State that reaches out and devours Ships.

Rhyme is just a sublime canvas where Time dances.

And upon this locale exists a Mind frantic with doubts of myth.

Our Town is sick -- a small presence surrounded with Gigantic widths,

roaming about with lists to purchase despite financial shifts.

I drift along a beaten conception of a beaten path;

I used to seek Utopian peace with little hope to be Free at last;

now I'm lost in a Sea of knowledge,

broken and freezing, choking and wheezing,

only just breathing enough to still exhaustively reach with promise.

Crossing the stream of Godlessness with ontic-absence.

Written to please the writer's mind despite its flawed contraptions.

I've fought this madness for years...

but if there's any doubt about the strength required,

the scholar hasn't the fear

nor the awkward passiveness,

nor the rage desired by those awful savages:

The sphere to exist within must engage the praxis;

to learn the zen of floating upon the sea of the patient pragmatist...

I face the abacus counting the angular danger,

the hill downward just becomes stranger and stranger.

To pay for the pace were heading to maybe drown,

we fight like shipwrecked monarchs still intending to save the crown.

Aristocratic oligarchy:

a different path to follow starting with disastrous profit charging.

Time is largely to blame for this dreaded scene.

Bailout or bailout, each for the sake of necessity...

a life worth losing? There's more to make with this recipe.

Ubiquity. Conditioned for witnessing change in the Mental-Stream.

Let us approach calmly the shore of the lost.

It's hard to choose a path when the fork in it's gone.

Floating in defense of the soul's rebellion like Constantine.

It's either an Homeric Odyssey, or a single vessel lost at sea.

Gates of Diamond and Catharsis

Flesh and blood logic: reincarnated through exodus...
Promised to connect to us honest distrust. Together once,
then forever seems to lead our hearts vagrant.
A vestibule with destitute space: yet it stretches through Hate.
Naked in this threshold. Well, they say we should let go.
Instead I face the stairway with as graceful a pen-stroke,
as the face in the window who raises our death toll.
I guess though, there is difference between the written decree
of religiously bleak zealots and the nature of the system's disease.
Hell is just a place to witness deceit, to struggle in conditions of Greed.
But Heaven is off limits unless you get permission from We.
Masses collide, out of that will arise a simple axiom: Pride.
And the primitives considered in these transactions rely
on the very simple algorithmic passage of Time.
It's not the Man in the sky with true madness of Mind that has to decide.
Nor is it the fashioned design of any activist's sign.
Nor is it the entrapment of vice,
or your many closeted skeletons or axes to grind.
In fact, it's the kind of passion defined in what the Anachronist writes:
there's simply no atomic intelligence or exotic compelling Myth
that could disprove the Neutrino is moving faster than Light.
It takes only a fraction of a fraction of a moment's reflection,
to find in perception a proper onus to stretch your limits.
Hell is no end to living.
The Gates were just crafted by a Smithy with a bent for description.
Aesthetic encryption hidden in the pages of some relative scripture,
attempting to sway your behavior by the painting of an ethical picture.
There's never an instance where your focus should sway,
for Hell is just a metaphor for the moment when the broken dismay
of the hopeless pervades the common parlance we've chosen to Play,
like the autumn harvest that only grows when you pray.
Or when the marriage officiant jokingly says:
"Welcome to the rest of your life."
Of course, you could feel guilty for wanting to have sex with your wife.
If so, just ask your common christian apologist when is best to subscribe.
He'll tell you some such nonsense about the message of Christ,
and next you will find your "self" disemboweled,
in an instant found dead next to what's left of your mind.

These thoughts: written in silence and in darkness.
These gates, they shine of diamond and catharsis...

The Belly of the Beast (Big History)

Protolution: God's canvas, or a Great Mind--
Space consuming space/time.
Science has tried to measure back
to state the union of fusion of energy collecting gas,
expanding toward a death-collapse.
A singularity swallowing futures and forever-pasts,
as harrowing proof bursts through our telescopy;
more than mere history;
a mystery born from a beast in our empirical memory.
This is exponential infinity. Miracles stretched between
exploding dwarf stars and black holes and quasars.
Sublime as time is we can't fold: this fate's ours.
Evolution: proto-organism, before the wisdom
of our core religions, the planet was swarming with them,
children of the Big Bang, our genetic ancestry.
Defending against their predator-clones, selecting breeds,
to pass on genetic control, consumed in the belly of hosts,
before beasts in this weather would roam,
a bio-molecular civilization with no emperor's throne.
Then quickly a phase-shift into greater species...
Caloric demands increase as organs expand to face the meeting
of dangerous creatures set to gorge or be slain completely.
Evolution: neolithic Africa. The preconditions crafted from
the execution of Idea, a single spear, a single pass and thrust
to stab the Panther who had his cubs across the river,
and needed your babies to pack for lunch...
A savage trust born between opposing tribes,
from the belly of the beast came proto-scribes.
Evolution: social dogma-- hierarchies as Time is marching;
out of the beast comes the Beast-Collective,
minds were starving for greater understanding as we connected,
familial nepotism, a Beast's oppression, slavery of peasants.
Think of all the humans swallowed and buried,
and out of death came ethical awareness and honor and marriage.
Not in a hurry, over hundreds of centuries, we bartered and barely
made it out of extinction, then we founded Religion...
Evolution: Towering vision, a coward's tradition...
Divine Right of Kings, still devouring children,
instead of a panther however now it's a village
priest pretending to be of service to some powerful mystic.
Peace narrowed, the Belly of the East hollowed...
A church where the people preach borrowed speech,
telling us to be honest and promise to breathe
only after we confess that we've been swallowed by Beasts.
Evolution: Technologists.
Only the futurists compute the gist of this hubris.
At least to some it has become an execution of godliness.
To others its a brain-chip robotic apocalypse.
In either case, the Belly is Full.
We chose the pill and we swallowed it.
Let us pay the consequence. Let us change.
Let us Brave the ominous Wave, let us follow it.
Let us take the path of most resistance.
I see and hold perfection, in fact I chose to father him...
Notice your own growth, expect the past to show your limits.

Evolution: we're all the products of a Great Feast...
Because we're all from the same Belly of the same Beast.

examinus oeconomiae socialis

Ordinary -- such was this village's common description,
though the townsfolk disagreed with that dishonest depiction.
Population: a thousand; doctors and scholars with vision;
a child prodigy-ridden society's mission:
to advance human knowledge and fitness,
if not only to encourage the survival of billions,
then merely to discourage the denial of brilliance.
Anti-intellectual perpetual downgrade,
ignoring the creation of exceptional sound-scapes,
ignoring the destruction of a destitute vestibule:
"American Dream" -- no longer a threshold to rescue through.
Arts and sciences: an oasis amidst the harsh environment
garnered by the myth that politics exists beyond such stark alliances.
People here, they see it clear.
They even hear the bark behind the hiss.
No secret disclosures, nothing classified from geniuses. Hope for
elites to be known for deceit and greed was exposed to the street,
where even the lonely walk with the world on their shoulders in heat.
I'm the spokesmen for We, kinfolk to the peace.
My intelligence quotient will peak when Knowing receives
the kind of open critique worthy of the state of this
nation... it's, difficult to explain:
How could you blame me when, the Keynesian game were in
is basically draining men of their way to sustain their kin.
I speak for the last resort. Even though I appear alone,
my words ensure those in their beastly thrones,
even when out of tune will still clearly hear the poem.
I speak for the 1%, for the enlightened few,
and we speak for the rabble who suffer with fear, and though
the Mind is proof that freedom of thought is likely true...
unless we change the number of those who spend their lives confused
knowledge will die diffused... and loneliness will rise...
in a mass of billions, a Wellsian hopelessness will thrive,
and the Bravest of the New Worlds will be chosen by the Gods.
Or at least the universe will not be missed when it implodes within and dies.

ars poetica

Seeking reprieve! Too many demons in reach to believe
that nature's just a stream of mechanistic instructions.
Processing conundrums as reason competes
with death and depth of induction.
Methods conducted to enable freedom for basic meaning
to enter and center the rush of passion and faith for stressor reduction.
I guess it's enough if action pursued is fashioned for truth;
instead most seek increases in stature and lose
the affable attractable rouse society notices.
Distractions from wonder,
so much more than mere fact to discover,
as Time is corroded by the blindly devoted.

The mask of the Other;
a rivalry colliding with hopelessness.

And yet the clock ticks, the veil of the chosen
lifts, exposing lips for only that relevant moment's bliss.
They say ignorance has a will of its own;
to think a kiss could do more than kill or dethrone.
Let us simply imagine; presumptions in judgement,
extended toward a being you could fall in love with
or trust in. Think how quickly it happens;
from simple discussion to lust as it spins into madness.
Or it could slowly evolve;
years between meetings only result in mere temporal temperance.
Time cannot slow to a halt,
but can shift in course with perspective.
Circumstance is circumspect, careful to choose,
peeking through the camouflage and veil for the Muse.
Through the veil is tabula rasa arranged as open science,
and truly the only compliment paid is broken silence.