they say that enlightenment is unreachable, unattainable,
unfathomable
yet each day we continue to search
for our beatitude.
the bodhisattva
and i'm not very good at many things,
maybe nothing at all
but i know i can never transcend
with an anchor as a body.
still, the demons swim through my mind
and i watch with enjoyment
as they depredate my soul.
i like their cold breath on my skin,
in the winter,
for i can feel something
other than the numb that has encased my body. daily, i feel rough fingers ripping at the stones
that have replaced my heart.
nightly, i weep a sweet harmony of melancholy for the nostalgia that haunts my bones.
if you take me apart,
piece by rotting piece,
you'll learn i'm nothing but matter
controlled by neural impulse.
maybe it's benign to feel nothing at all
but this darkness is never ceasing,
growing more rapidly as i begin to shrink.
maybe i'm not good at anything
and maybe god doesn't exist
but i want to die knowing
there is a heaven and that i'm not going to hell. more often than late i've been asking myself
if it's all worth it
and to that i say
i'm terrified of the grim reaper
because his face looks just like mine.

There's whispering among the animals
They've come up with a master plan
As soon as darkness falls down upon
They're taking the place of man

This is years now in the making
To late to call the plan quits
For the comforts inside they are aching
The rebellion has arrived...this is it

First those that have been domesticated
Will slip a little summum, summum in masters tea
The shackles that have held our furry friends down so long
Will be loosened and they'll finally be free

The doors will be swung wide open
Letting their long lost relatives in
It's been years since they've been able to party like this
Gentlemen...let the festivities begin

All the people in the world when they do wake up
Will be doing it underneath open skies
The only question that will run through their minds is
Who, What, Where, and Why

While the animals will be inside frustrated
Where the 24 hour weather channel is on
Because it's nearly impossible to change channels
On the remote when you have no thumbs

Girl in black masquerade gown with books balanced on head

One high-heeled foot on drum

The other

A laceless sneaker


Long-stemmed glass of wine in right hand

Slim bottle of Summum ***** in left


Background dissonance


Vintage grey vehicle with red interior

PYT seated in the back

Tatted up bad boy in front seat

Bearded man in tailored blue suit

Hand draped over driver's seat door


Red carpet rolled out to the entrance of a dive bar

that leads into a mansion

Eyes Wide Shut

The blues, the blues, these Blues, the Blues,
The Blues.  The Blues won't stop moving,
but haven't gotten to going.  They're a-move,
they're soluble insomnolence, they're
indefferant irreverence
in reference to reverence.
The Blues won't stop going,
but haven't yet left.
All day, I've sat on this Furthest Shore,
unsure if they'd ever get to outgoing,
if they'd ever get to outflowing.

All day, I've sat and worse yet,
all night (we know the nights are the
very darkest sorta pretend-to-be-blackened blues),
sat on this dew-damp Distant Shore,
unsure if I'd ever get to outgrowing,
if I'd ever get to outgoing.

The blues, the blues, these blues, the Blues,
The Blues.  The blues won't stop wounding.
I won't stop choosing.  I won't stop two-ing.

Tilting at horizons, I hold anchor to
Torii.  Summum Bonum, I insist it be.
(Can't let it be.  {whatever it is.})
(Can't let it be.  {whatever it isn't.})
Gateway from humdrum to hallowed.
A red atop blues, also unmoving.
But still in its unmoving, still unmoving.
How unlike the blues.  This red, how unlike the blues.

Another shattering of illusions,
as I sit here in cocktail mist
and cannabis descent,
staring with guilt at the nicotine gum;
all the time applying lotion
to care only for exteriors.

Gold *** in apple juice,
I unsettle the ice in partial decency.
Half-baked notebooks scatter
amongst the stray tobacco leaves,
neglected books, tablets and glue;
it's little wonder my life has
fallen
apart.

Old jazz queen,
she's rolling trills and cigarettes
and reminding me of my spine,
the way it twists to the bass-line,
sending chakras to bedlam
and returning to me
my recently lost youth.

Keep it off the record,
as I tumble on through another night
of poison and medicine equivalence,
a summum bonum of forget-me-do's
and elimination of both
the future and past.

I clear the leaves from my autumnal porch.
After the dead slate of winter,
I will emerge, sober.