it has happened before in recorded history. i have burned my work, and had my work burned from me. some of my best stuff, lost. i know just the person to have come up with my own demise. both myself and another man. a man i have already fought and died from and will fight and die from again.

memory lapse... blue spell... can't do, only... character

lives were lost..
lives privileged...
a whole section of generation,
to dust.

crows speak,
with bony black tongue,
hands of fear
and houses of contempt.

And so it is,
on this day, that I am
thankful for
not being
what I could have become.

Running the gauntlet is easy, though it gets harder as you go along, especially when you've become comfortable with something, some reference to life that is outside of that ultimate goal. The devil gets his hold on you, he's like a mastiff, unyielding. There are many things a person can do to avoid this situation, especially when one is in it, and the last thing you want to do is let your left hand know what the right hand is doing. I cannot tell you what that means.

In fact...

I cannot say anything here because the walls have ears and the flies have eyes. It's like that story: one sinks deeper into ones own misery until one cannot extricate oneself from it. That is the devils grip. To avoid that takes finesse, time and patience. But not so much patience that the pendulum falls upon your head.

It is not a good line of work, to go through ones own, fated, and diligent life, without another honoring them.

There is an entire world now that
I am not a part of...

It exists with nightready partyfreaks
Living on ecstatic movements of turbulent lights
Drugged in existentially unhappy
Postmodernity

I pray. I am an anachronism.

I live in the woods with a laptop
Camped out with a power generator
Excised from the power generation
Seeking to bend the reality that imaginary-
-magic is both deadly and necessary.

I prayed for power and redemption from it
I pray now for peace
At the disco are they prayerless?
But not wishless.
We are all ambitious,
Feasting sinless
On the night air dreamfishes.
At the river in the dark,
Climbing through alleyways,
Buildings ruined and overgrown,
Opium in the park.

The past is prayer
and prayer is past.
Gone Saint Christopher,
With my lover.

and god yes it's lonely
out here in the woods,
at least there's no danger,
nothing to fear
nothing to fear
nothing to fear

The past is prayer
the prayer is past
I pray for simplicity
Life everlasting
A way that will last.

I'm supposed to remove myself
From outmoded ways
But how is it that I can?
When in an ancient phase,
I'm digging too deep
With a spade and a stave,
And my cup is enshadowed
With turbulent waves.

Prayer is past
and past is prayer
A knife in the side
Hurts more than a ghast.

I just checked my bank account,
It's minus twenty-five,
My next check comes tomorrow
And I will survive

Mankato

I have seen the broken homes no longer, never with brocade.
I have felt the sin upon the streets, penance never made.
I have seen the faces of houses of sin, their eyes, bulging--
faces full of greed.

I have seen my own self dwindle, a mark of my stars, but never of hatred.
I see in faces, destitute, that feed, and those powers which feed upon ignorance.
I have seen the dark forces come, and come as they will, in shadow never ceasing,
set to feed upon the virgin's love, unhallowed, heart skip beating.

My forefathers oh how they come, to drink at newblood sweltering,
My father's father, how I disdain, his victims fleshy offering.
But peace within this instance, instance can be robbed,
yet find the fork and will my fate, to heaven and beyond.

Refresh image, work on control.

So it begins, so it ends.
The city at once in ruins--
It was in fact a city I loved...

I cry that the power of the mighty may lay their smite upon those who have unearthed our graves.
Succor and sleep.
My fair green city at once cast upon it with no hope to keep the devil at bay.
I am shocked at the destruction of what was once my home.
I do not know what end it will bring.
Perhaps this is the last and final war.
My hopes and dreams shattered...
Along with my soul.

Language i

It is like a lark, simply singing from a tree--
It is like a wolf, howling, impassioned, mourning for its ancestors--
It is the life we lead; the affect we have.

Language is the art of Histories and Masterpieces--
It is a spell cast, and a wish granted--
It is the world speaking many tongues at once,
A single second full of voice, conflicted, argumentative, blessed and joyful.

It is something, at its core that we cannot fully grasp--
It is the voice of the grasping.
The grasping who, with all of their emotion, cannot name their feeling,
The grasping who, communicate their memories, their ideals, their knowledge--
Without knowing the other... Fail.

Language is a grabbled admixture, of the naked who do not know their enemies.
It is like a lark, simply singing from a tree--
It is like a wolf, howling, impassioned, sacred, mourning for its ancestors.

Language desires, from its own birth, to communicate--
Ah sacred Hermes--
A master of language, is the master of his own heart..
And yes, intrinsically, we speak so that others may know our own mourning--
We are mortal, after all*

Language ii

Who are you that blesses pens?
That teaches...
What do you teach?

I am Mercury, Saint.
I who outwit Argos, set him to sleep and destroyed his many eyes
so that he could not see the river spirit escape to her family.
It is I who is a beggar, a thief, and a servant of Jovian kings.
I will write forever my joy and blessedness, and honor the Gods
as I am honored.

And who are you? Who blesses words, wizard?
Your name is as secret as the trees true name.
Has language destroyed us with its vanity?
Or has it protected the nature of all truth and life?

You teach me of Metaphor, Simile, Symbol
(Symbol being both what I am using to write and what my ancestors
carved in stone and wrote into the sand.)
Interpretation is as varied as an individual soul.

Like how the story of a man's sacredness,
His entire life, his holy journey among the plains Indian tribes--
Written on paper--
Gets used eventually
For another man's toilet.
Just as all the blood was shed,
And their honor and honorable sons...
Have died, their souls dead as cannon fodder.

More like how the streets are as dangerous as the Nile--
How the elephant got its trunk,
By being pulled into the water--
Sure it managed to escape,
But it forever had a tale to tell.

How sharks swim in the ocean.
And how always, at the very bottom of the sea,
There are strange creatures,
Which look sinister, and we are afraid.

How spiders spin webs which are beautiful,
Yet stuck like flies, we cannot escape them.
How a snake will poison and petrify its prey..
Is how deer, get stuck in headlights.

Ask of the grass, what is its metaphor.
What are the trees simile?
And what symbol is there for completion,
Besides an orb,
As perfect as our blue-green home.

When the stone is grown too cold to kneel
In crystal waters I'll be bound
Cold as stone, weary to the sounds upon the wheel

Now be thankful for good things below
Now be thankful to your maker
For the rose, the red rose blooms for all to know

When the fire is grown too fierce to breathe
In burning embers I'll be bound
Fierce as fire, weary to the sounds upon the wheel

Now be thankful for good things below
Now be thankful to your maker
For the rose, the red rose blooms for all to know

-- Now Be Thankful
Fairport Convention