Reaching for a light
that cannot be had,
For it is but a mirage
hanging in the Blackness.

She dreams of a new way
to live the life she has forgotten,
Hoping to be released from
a life not worth remembering.

But a life of immortality
does not come with that choice.
A life without death is empty,
there's nothing to value when there is nothing to lose.

She is free to live her life
anyway she shall choose,
Yet she will spend eternity
reaching for that light.

A poet's power;
By my pen, I will grant you
Immortality

When the lights stop spinning --
Will the lights stop spinning?
This is the crash,
This is the fall,
I'm the water coming back down
Return from orbit and
Breaking old ******* bones
How's that for home?
When the lights stop spinning --
And they will stop spinning.
Gift of immortality in abstract.
No God, no blessing to grant.
Touchdown from orbit,
******* asteroid.
I am the master/pilot,
My body to destroy

Two heartbeats in.
One scratching tempo out.
Living like we're immortal.
Fingertips scribbling out history.
Ink blots on cream paper.
So desperate for memory.
We settle for stains in place of words.

American Dream

Losing it one memory at a time,
how can I keep track of my friends all over the world,
how did America become a shell of it’s former Self,
what happened to the my American Dream?

I mean,
I have everything,
every,
thing,

been to every continent still not at all content,
really though mostly because I don’t know the reason,
for my discontentment I’m in contempt when I try and defend Consciousness,

because most people don’t want to hear it,
myself usually included,
but this day is different an exception to the rule,
in a moment when nothing is excluded,

all inclusive with no illusion to allude to,
only positive punctual true proof,
that ever experience we gain,
is another memorie we lose,

and I suppose that’s the trade off sort of,
lost my money got my freedom feeling strung out like Adolf,
in this Waking Dream that's beginning to feel like a Ponzi Scheme,
was gonna blow the whistle on the whole thing until I got paid off,

hey Madoff,
I just got laid off,
or rather laid on,
a beautiful bed by a beautiful mare that's more like a Stallion,

and that’s the difference,
between the Exceptions to the Rule,
and the “normal human beings”,
I’m between and Exception and the Rules,

I’m losing things but Perfection costs a lot of jewels,
so I'm donating all my Championship rings and useful tools,

got,

to pay the Piper,
there’s a toll at the bridge,
and a troll under the bridge,
and I'm tough not a Billy Goat Gruff with,

Red,
Hot Chili Peppers,
with Kiedis in Budapest,
got The Good Life high as Ini the Hotstepper,

whatever,
nothing seems normal,
shouldn’t be so formal,
let the record play let the drums roll,

in times of gargoyles and turmoil,
having a drink at the bar and it's purple,
at Gresham Palace Bar & Lounge,
up high and getting down with a surplus,

outstanding,
with Anthony in Budapest,
at the Four Seasons Hotel,
on the River Danube,

the River Danube,
brings up memories,
of Lovers and Poems,
and all of the things that continue to make Me,

me and my memories,
I remember you and yours too,
when we walked across that bridge,
above the River Danube...

I can’t stand Truth,
He can be such a fickle creature when He’s free,
and I’m losing memories it’s true I just hope I’m not also losing you,
because She can be such a fickle creature when She’s free,

losing,
one round at at time,
gaining,
on ground that was never mine,

and I know you don’t know the answers,
“But excuse me could you at least tell me the time?”,

to this you turn from your Enamore,
“Well since you asked I’ll tell you it’s almost One Two.”,
in other words what you said,
was it’s almost 12 which makes this the 11th Hour of Youth,
and I know we’re losing all of our memories,
but the only thing I fear losing is you,

Because I’m,
I’m,
I’m,
losing it,

Losing it one memory at a time,
how can I keep track of my friends all over the world,
how did America become a shell of it’s former Self,
what happened to the my American Dream?

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

The tide is coming in.
Off in the distance, I see young swells building, aging, ignorant of whats to come.
Using the ocean floor like a springboard to launch itself into a force to be reckoned with.
All these individual elements, the ocean's collective energy divided among its waves; fractals of something much larger.
In their greatest moment, they come crashing down, seemingly ceasing to exist.
I stand on the shore, a bystander, observing the energy return to the source, ripples being created from the death of waves.
Their relevance lasting as long as the shores remain stained.
And in this moment, I feel better about my own mortality; knowing that my relevance doesn't end when my body dies, that my energy just goes to feed the swell of another wave to come.
And I remain a pillar, unmoved.

I dream not of immortality,
But of being less insignificant than some,
Not of being loved by all,
But of being liked by those I’ve met,
Not of changing the world,
But of leaving it unchanged for the better.
For there are many who will have the world changed,
For better or for worse,
Or for no reason at all.

As a king builds a temple in his own honor,
So does a dog establish dominion by peeing on a tree;
The next king builds a larger temple, and
The next dog pees higher on the tree.
It takes only a war, or a rainstorm, or the simple passing of time
To shift the balance of power, for
There will always be another king,
There will always be another dog,
And there will always be another rainstorm.

A baby cries for attention.
He cries, “I am hungry,” or
“I am tired,” or
“I have peed myself.”
And because he is helpless,
We feed him, and we hold him, and we change his diaper.
A poet also cries for attention.
But unlike the baby, his cries are often ignored,
For we do not understand what it is that he wants.

I dream not of a perfect world,
But of a world where there is more good than evil,
More peace than war,
And more joy than tears.
A world where kings build temples for babies,
Where forests and trees are abundant,
And where poets rejoice because their cries are understood.
I dream not of immortality,
But of being less insignificant than some.
Phil Lindsey 1/5/17