Title: Sketches of Style on an Ocean of Air (Manuscript Art from original "Sketches of Style")

On the Artwork

On the Artwork

Placed in triangular formats, with oblong shapes as empty space left in the overlapping patterns of placement, emphasizing how style is a condition of emptiness or formlessness or the open-endedness aspect in expression, also known as “Sketches of Style”. It is my inkling that the freedom of empty space is the root of all creative inspiration.

“Sketches of Style” as a philosophy of creation is further pronounced where the action painting is done to reflect a kind of stop-motion photography. Whereas for example in improvisational painting or drawing, a line or brush stroke is imprinted with continuity, the blotter/drip action paint necessitates a kind of stop-motion effect, where each stroke/line requires a multitude of impressions almost resembling a kind of proto-pointillism. The perpetuity of spontaneous creativity is embedded within this mode of expression as any other, for to hold the mind in a state without any preconception is the goal, the source and the way.

Within the content of the image itself, which is a self-purported crossbreeding of a kind of “free painting” with “free writing” the sketches of style are the individual leaves or pages on which the writing and art coagulate into a whole expression, i.e. the experimental writing collection entitled, “Sketches of Style”. In the image, the pages float as if upon an open sea, where its wavering surface may bend and distort each page, blurring the paint and stretching the fabric. The water itself represents the practice of stream-of-consciousness poetics which underlies every expression. The reflection of the burning sun in the water instills in the consciousness, whether it is the spontaneous creativity of the writer or the interpretive ingenuity of the reader, a burning clarity, which exists at the edge of being obscured by the “Sketches of Style” pages or even unto greater obscurity outside of the image entirely. Yet, the sun’s reflection inevitably shines through, as visible as an intense ball of hot fire, situated under everything to further emphasize its importance as the necessary opposite of water. Are the leaves which make up “Sketches of Style” upon the water, or upon the reflection of the sun, ready to be scattered in the wind of a cloudless sky?



The title for this collection, “Sketches of Style” is from a dream. Also, I think even more subconsciously I am inspired by Miles Davis’ “Sketches of Spain” as this collection seeks to emphasize the element of style as a core aspect of the stream-of-consciousness practice of improvised writing, taking precedent over content and form.

The theory behind these writings is that style is an outpouring of perspective as perceptive choice, as in the idea that perception is based on active choice. What you see and register in your mind is based on your levels of experience and notions of reality and creativity. Because we can change our surroundings and ourselves, I begin from the source of my ancestry, which is predominantly Jewish-Mediterranean (from my maternal Grandfather) and so all of the historic and current occasions that I experience are inevitably transformed into a unique sense of self-understanding, grounded in my sensibility and aptitude toward a mytho-poetic persuasion in my perceptive and conceptive modes of experience, realized with increasing personal significance. Finally, I purport to share these realizations through my creative writing as an expression of style in formation as my own being undergoes a kind of formation that inevitably culminates into a complete obliteration of all recognizable forms unto a new way of seeing as the emergence of a unique style born from spontaneous creative practice.

Sketches on/of style: this collection highlights how my writing is not true poetry, rather sketches of style, that is, stylistic renderings of momentary instances, trails of thought, and imagistic devices to bring forth a harmonious and sometimes very dissonant balance between word, meaning and context, whether physically bound by page or voice. These are sketches and remain figments of writing, and are meant as a muse on the importance of challenging and making dynamic what is written. The basic intent is to practice an immediate and raw expression of mind, as sketches of mind to give foresight into insightful analogies between the unique experience of writing and collecting these sketches into a unified collection of writing.

Sketches of Style demands that what is important is not WHAT is written, but HOW it is written, i.e. emphasis is on form and space. Free Form demands that what is important and only important is that there is writing, where emphasis lies on spontaneity, groove, rhythmic stirring and pauses inherent in simply getting a page filled. Poetic identification in strings of words may follow the sympathies of freedom, when in fact, form is not freed unless style is present, as style acts in the life over the author, their certain style, at its blank, utmost vulnerable state, open for all to see in word sketches played over a loudspeaker of a strange mind asking too many questions.

Sketches of Style also utilizes a Free Form editing technique, taking certain phrasings and putting them together from the entire collection of writing, e.g. typing the entire collection as one body of work, going in to extract and replace passages that fit together. Is this similar to the cut-up method? It is sometimes more, sometimes less haphazard a creative process, yet intends equal spontaneous verity.

1st Independence

An irony to amuse
This, my, and our patchwork of brains,
To walk, or march,
Perfectly balanced in dress
With the polluted eye of an urban observer
Taking in the sidewalk trash as the stuff of inspiration

Enduring base feeling,
A diversion from breast-fed born legs
Awkwardly striding over to beer belly friends
Nude, in style with whitewashed sneers

In the backwater morning
Of a deeply Southern dry comedy,
In one outlandish, unruly day,
Simultaneously, all vibrations still,
To skeletal ghosts, ravaging the blank canvas of history
With painted cries

In the evil fornication on a wine-lush express
Down each and every late Saturday street
Dead with incestuous chores

In popularized & Westernized dreaming
Gone, gently in the summer prairie heat,
Dealing prostitution’s cape
To starving Italian business owners
From every pocket dived into and craved
As the Chadian eye-dotted gypsy
& Celt white lady brews a voice
Beautifying the monoxide curse
Of the modern air, from her belted chords

Taking significant amounts of money from the swooning wheelchair,
Tempting a gaze into the swollen core,
A feminine race, feeling angry and forlorn
With a whole range of active choice
Besides being under one hat, laughing cruelly at tradition,
Erasing the blessed nation of the Southern Blacks,
Who migrate to Cowtown to shed war
And transcend the western edge of Sudan
Cutting into the flesh of its firstborn Muslim brothers

In Darfur pleading for no more religion
And no more war
As they are succeeded by the newest nation on Earth today,
To receive billions more in lies and stolen gold
From their prophetic English brothers

Breeding a kindred sisterhood
In the tall, and greatly embodied community of passionate grace
In today’s great human victory against the undead tyranny
Behind eyes of such genocidal trash
As Khartoum’s infamous leader,
Now leading the world in diplomatic respect from their East African wives
Charging, as yet un-waylaid by the rash & mundane international war,

Cyclical pain follows in succession
To unchain confederates, bothered,
From American poverty
Filling the sobbing eyes of migrants, sacrificed
To a brutalized ending, motherless & lost,

The ending and beginning now unite
In one great cry of Independence
Won alas, to pray for no more useless dying
And give over our best heart to the soil that birthed our human pride,
A simple urge,
To find a space where fighting is replaced with celebration,
And the inhumane is replaced with Love,
And the displaced find their homes on Earth as one common being,
Struggling together

Calgary, AB. July 9, 2011
South Sudan’s local community celebrates in the Chinese Culture Center, beating traditional drums, wearing traditional clothing, wrapped in the new flag

Age of Fire

A burning world,
Spun with awe and worshipped beyond death,

The spiritual recluse
On a steep decline

Passing without Failure,
Churning with Thirst,

& Separated

from life,

A gown-sunken monstrosity
That all of a sudden, apparent, becomes wealthy
With the storm-wrought ageless tomb of rush hour
Along Centre Street and Trans-Canada

Lines betray the trans-queerness parade
Launching anti-masculine dress
Into the strange façade of a car window,
Faking actual dismay on the way home

After a delicate bite,
Onto thankful trickery,
The bold and forthcoming
Arm the lackadaisical whimsy,

Teaching oceans to rise
With mundane maturity, to grope at the pantomime hour
Talking in fashionable curses
Murdering tradition through freedom, choice and youth movements

Of peace in America,
Lonely sorrow, an afterthought
To the forsaken moment,
Holding onto the bloodied mother
Begging for forgiveness from a colonizing surgeon
Masked with local wisdom, touching skin like it were stone

Seeking retreat,
We march into timeless glances
Between cloud-forged eyes
Carefully woven
In the imagined laughter of a small-town god,

Unified under the banner of fear,
The hovering eye of awakening
Claims desertion from community
Through normalized individual identity

In a morbid stock,
Fed on the putrid waste
Building blind subconscious reckoning among modern, industrial humanity,
Whereby dignified ecology is bound to vocal slavery and victimized vocabularies

Unlearning class

Gymnastic hole of irreparable visions, of difference
Clarifying the wronged children who stutter with untouched minds
And pander to the quick divorce of darkness from a vibration’s gloom-full heights
In sanity,
While the roaming tongue of pure expression finds disbelief
In utter timing and gross decaying,

Frail bodiless humor,
Shrugging off libido
From wine-glass huts of the Eastern wilderness,

Forgotten seeds and nourishment
Strangled by headlights and nasty misdirection
In the European heart
Grown cold by winters stolen from lives
Mad with common trust
For the double-faced, equal-armed cross
Becoming personified in a transmission
From moonwalk stirrings to popular magic,

Night blazes with an unidentified love,
Looking back and forward, once a simultaneous confidence
In the average soul
Sunk in the sweet golden noon,

Napping away, the wretched mental worm,
Whose salted eyes burn the world in fantasy,
Ages as old as righteous killing

Tasting drops of infinity in the sky’s holy whisper,
The rising Actor mocks Gaia’s blessing,
Knowing that Her smoke blows sure as the current’s luring

Uniting the first & final
Bleeding aurora…

Blakean Consciousness on a Rainy Day

“thro’ tiny chinks in his cavern”
And the Blakean consciousness bleeds on
throughout history’s alive pages,
and I, 24, without dishwasher
            in heavy sky of the unusual day,
                        consecutive rain
                        and a single window,
            out from the cavernous city-dwelling page
                        into a corridor,
                                    a bound perception
                                    thro’ metal bars forgiving the balcony height
                                    to molded vegetable juice
                        and the tears of higher neighbors
                                    formed as the litter of bare living,
                                                a recycled bicycle
            and out beyond through the thinly apparent walls of Chinatown
                        broken alleyway light,
                                    a perspective insight
                                                from my Judy of mothers in Peru,
                                                and an orange  
                                                this day,

                                                breaking as styrofoam
                                                            between bloodied teeth,
                                                            and my reddened lips
                                                            taste stomach in the nervous dark,
            looking out into the scented air, pungent
                        with an all-encasing human night,
            peering steadily to see the weary raincoats
                        and automobile phantoms
            pressing on into the hard-packed moisture of regularity,
                        and behind a vehicle, motionless,
                        a single tree’s risen purpose touches
                                    the first windows of a parallel residence,
                        and immediately at the beginning to green goodness
                                                amid the forlorn grays and subdued reds
                                                and awful greens and flushed yellows,
                                    an English sign reads,
                                                “LD WAR,”
                                                            incomplete lettering foreshadows
                                                            the re-emergent world ploy,
                                    blanket of war over the marketplace of western

(to westernize with western eyes)

                                    breaking ice out over their green windowed
                                                                        whose life rings clear
                                                                        in the tasteful wind
                                                                                    bringing cold and rain

with true knowledge of her leaving,
the door closes behind you twice,
            without word,
            in absolute Love,
a vacuous throat
                        shaped by the corridors walked
and now stared through
            sitting in the awesome lesson of the moment’s own home,
                        a dream over 10 years,
            that this cave is positioned to open towards a passage,
                                                one’s only point of departure
            and perceptual environment is no more or less than passage,
                                                whether through the mixed celebration
of alcohol and music
in Iquitos jungle vibrancy
on the neon drug night
of America’s wandering life,
                                                             whose footsteps perambulate
                                                                         an obvious clarity:
                                                                         to heed the passage
                                                                         and await patiently
                                                                             the end
                                                                                of world war

Bless the failed pilgrim’s march

Long-backed stallion
Over the cherry façade
Rue, rue, rue,

The coarse lounging
Of a few roasted pains
Goes pattering into the drizzling open dawn,

A thrust into human light,
Grayed visions staring back
Into the Midwestern summer heat,

Not buffered by oceans nor thick pine slopes,
Green in their majesty,
Serving as buttresses to the far and awake

Boiled threat of another animal’s blood
Given over to the insect mind,
A natural reason, the rational cycle

Filling 0’s with my precious un-devoured anchor
That holds human bread to the sand of the unfed
Screaming over shopping carts, cringing with nicotine blinks

And steroid seed fermentation now changed
Into the lame scrap of gold mundane drink,
And the rousing nerves kersplat over sickly telephone-ringed necks

The deceased psychedelic poor
Shakedown their over-killed jam-lock core to the max
Over breakfast beef and cold feet,

Ruined men and women whose hearts run dry
Like the rivers that once fed their ancestral lungs,
Filled with the mythic bird,

And they rise from the ashes of Hindu lore
In the European brain,
A tell-tale crime, getting skinny in between

Wars that purposefully flood the wracked tombstone
Play to a vibrant no-more in the racist cash laugh of drenched Asian gore,
The infamous rabble sinks deep into the flesh of sanity,

Purchased out of stock from the black market
Freedom, normalized over desks
Squared behind couches drooling for hydrated glory

In the backdrop of hot lust,
Microphones embolden the ancient rhyme,
Spinning rights to order, peace and necessary brevity

In exchanging monetary behaviorisms
In the psychic deep of abundant perceptions
Closed doors sink into the undertow’s warning

To bless the failed journey
And redirect the pilgrim’s march
Across more unabashedly subtle borders

Cajoled Spine-Tap

Bent twists
Been twisting
Stolen raw

Awe molded

Cey fanto gul roat

Thursday’s strange havoc, bent twisted up in a Sunday drool-faded smirk

Levitation, aroused.

Sent me to where my spine was found grated as finely as the churned butter-stone atop the spewed rocky mist mountain foam cloud,

Hovering descent,

Escalations nerve-wracking, lonely murmurs murmuring

Crescent peaks dangling under bums grateful with uprooted membranous petrified and calcified flesh

Journey to roust the kneeling mind, with the desiring missed find, to be missed by nations feigning the patient behind swollen gum-brain awry, with skull-ache 

kinj moduls vrent speen og

Desiring missiles
Desired missing
Failing nations

Patient fang 

City Birds

Sound and space,
Uttered in unity and sung with delicate brevity,

Paused humming,
Spread by nature’s blended urge in the noosphere,

A breathless break in sound before
Rhythmic chirps, back and forth,

A wealth of intonation,
Grounded in atmospheric light,

A lightness to flight’s simple yet still supernatural touch,
Eager beckoning with sound to listen to two beaks conversing

On the holy tree of the world’s purest, most basic and sure evening,
A slight kiss with rhythmic forbearance,

To journey
Beyond each figment of normalcy

To this un-forsaken now,
Bringing mysterious harmony to all visiting

Beings, bodies filled with bright, sumptuous sound
Reduced to the click sharpness of a deep earth-brown wing,

Hidden warm
Aside the sexual body of patient ringing,

The silent space breathing
The all-thankful air into high, lone pulse,

Dramatic simplicity merged in natural inward laughing,
The birds in the city and his and her smiling worked effortlessly

In the painstaking beauty,
A wait, a wish,

To hear again,
The cyclic rhythms emerge, and in a never-ending share,

The two give timeless treasures of feeling in the space,
A resonant glory, so understated and with non-human passion,

A secret curing,
Brewing twilight

In the motionless loss of our human presence
From the awaited future, yet eternal sound

In patient happiness breeds the contented need to produce

To entice the sickness of pride to leave with day and unite mind
With a grateful stare into the mind’s ending,

The play of soft, smoothly alighting
With hops on Chinatown brushscape branches, and the tight niche strained

In the birdsong of this evening’s pleasure in song,
To dine on necessity and feel the last touches of a space lit with sound purely

Thinned into the dry air of our people’s prairie ecology,
The birds, gifting the presence of song herself, 

With unrestrained gladness,
Only felt by uniting mind completely free of strain

Into the immediate crest of sorrow’s blank awe to resolve the confused
Transitional towering of migration across borders and boundaries, and learn

The birdsong,
Not as a receiving, but a special offering,

To those birds,
Who in shared deep subconscious yearning join our heartbeat

To the soft turning of the universe and the creator preceding and to be,
To create equally with our birds, and fly mentally

To the place where song lives
In emptiness

And the day is called out of existence
With perfect harmonious chirping

Looking out onto my downtown balcony in Spring, 2011

Co-creative Wondering

A darkness cries,
Yet not in sorrow,

A mystery in laughter,
The happiness of a creative spirit,

A boddhisatvic being of the word,
Playing on the beginning of all existent karmic drama,

Invoking tempting lies instead of siddhis
In the mantric power of endless night,

The catastrophic abyss closes,
Leading one away from fury of day

To here and now self,
Not to be taken seriously

“Because the laughter’s source springs not from perpetual continuity and the anxiety of its leaving but from the exaggerated tilt in nature”

Towards an explosion of harmony and the anticipation within spontaneous creation
Between co-creative wondering

Fires beneath the throat, hand and breast of a reflected sky
Inside the single-eyed, whose perfect clock chimed roughly over the groundless

Patience, dusting off wine bottles
Into Californian eternity

In the velvet sand of modern travel,
Where plentiful habit strikes a resonant chord

With an entranced mine-shaft torch
Fuming artificial smoke & wires

Beyond the reverberating seed,
A core,

Growing, multiplied with every intonation,
Every rhymed love from the harmonized instrument and voice,

The elderly, carrying an ancient lyre,
Pursuing only death’s elegant face on the edge of the funeral pyre to Rome herself,

Fleeing from another meaningless war
Taught from before prehistory in the sad and diligent minds

Of branded sophistry
Scratched into the skulls

Beholding the gods’ own mastery,
A tell-tale signal to forward march into the Platonic mold,

The idealistic round elegized by madmen before indulgent crowds,
A folklore, pained to vulgarity in the thick mire

Soaked with herbal grime,
That dream-forsaken wine of the ancient, pours,

Sending women to mind thankless law
In the first civil war before nationhood or tragic mores,

The fallacy in and out of sight,
Instantaneous with thoroughly flushed wives, fanning themselves awake

As the flies descend and drink their salivating gore-fest tirades,
The Queendom, saved by the ranting duration of a minor apocalypse

When all the rest of the world lies in tears
Shaken only by worldwide fame,

A pirated fate,
Growing hot for the mint-threshed avenues on delicate shores,

The landlocked prize,
Fumbling for monies, soaps and real names, clothed as such 

Contemplation’s Itch

One frustrated exertion,
Multiplied and condensed exponentially
In the wild post-traumatic dirge

Falling as a failed lilting feather from a broken wing
Clinging to the unforgiving cold mechanical dawn
Still dreaming an entire civilization,

And how illusory, how ultimately disillusioned I am by my youth
Drained of all wicked savagery and raw earth
Into a vegetable gladness

Thawing next to a lone rock
Cracked by a lightning strike from the changeless ice age broth of sky
Almost infinitely long ago, and now rinsed, overly purified by the fresh rains

Curing all death with belligerent praise,
The realization,
One great knowing,

Fathers and mothers in my cultural upbringing,
The writers, artists and musicians
Spouting intelligent insanity

From within forms called the book, record, image
All a lie before the transcendent spontaneity of creation from newfound inspiration
To be and do what feels harmonious and complete

In the movement of the one shared moment
Enough to convey how truth doesn’t move in the lightning tunnel of body and instrument
In the act, in the embrace

Magic intercourse
In the pale rainbow womb
Giving sight and direction to what is new,

The random play moving
As the indoor insect climbs
Silently on the human

Finger-pointing to stars and storm clouds
Washing away mud with a healing presence,
A profound humbling that presents power and at once feigns innocence

In departing from all with humility
Yet a fearless flesh-traded mastery over the air,
Stares eyeless into the stoned intuitive rendering,

Who disappeared at once,
Though frozen at the footstep curiosity
Within each contemplation’s itch

empty Blown mind

towed current
            pulled slow,
            drifted away

            fingers following new lines,

a purveyance through wood and metal
            traced rhythmically
                        moving away
                        from paper’s raw form
                        in touching the soft grain of a graphite pen,

the resonant breath,
            cold and worn thought
            strained to perfect the blue must of why
            expressed through thick unworn time,

virgin thorn brush
            frame lilting strong above the careless face
of artistic madness
in the jokester’s foam and rust

upbringing up mathematical ladder-works
            pierced with a sorry and frayed built-in lung,

the pulse breaking off the tops of widow’s peak waves,
            blushing high over the coastal horizon,

a piercing thought
that boiled in the mind’s own brain,
an intuitive question
            with an answer as certain as death in the next step,

and raised thoughtless to the thickening deep,
            an abysmal pace precedes the broken wife
                        staring fast beyond the wild break,
                        forcing herself to see Love break
over the celestial mast
            and its foreign page,
            burned as it were by the son’s inglorious risen haze

casting tears into a bewildered day
drying the dew-frosted snout of a log cabin deer
            faintly seen through the savage brush
                        formed out of clear beaming space
                                    in a second’s timeless gesture
                                    upwards from the leaf
                                    poking sure from soil’s infamous grasp
                                                over human souls prying with sheer might
                                    and the imaginative will of the heavens
                                                to escape from the tomb,
                        a living corpse,
                                    bruised and swollen with light
                                    and the golden icicle flesh of a new species

needing to supersede man’s greatest guess
throughout history,
                        that the timeless prevails,
                        archaic wisdom thrives
                                    in rocks inflamed
                                    with the only sacred ardor
                                    stabilizing our footstep ground
                                                over the inner turnings
                                                            of a worshipped Earth,
                                                                        whose center remains
                                                                        an unresolved cleft

in the rights
            and passionate longing
                        given to a miracle
                                    lying between animal disease
                                    and human sex

Epic of Intention

An epic
of intention,
a bruised nation
and the stir-crazy polity,
with the sad gift
of only one humanity,

a shipwreck beauty,
gleaming with the light of the ancients
over star-crossed paths
circulating through the veins
of an unbroken galaxial unity,

evolving beyond one heartbeat to the infinite
blending of colorful awe
in the transitional being’s destiny
as wormhole wanderer,

gravitating to forays beyond
mathematical songsmiths
tumbling through a silent and raw body,
worn as the great final fruit of death
awaiting all mouths with breathless unending eager youthfulness,

as an eternal child yogi
and his lovely consort,
gifting full wombs to the bored, seamless minds,
whose ruthless energy digs graves in the margins of Earth and Time,
to scold the adult of work, spinning above

neck-tipped wheels edging naively on the backs of extinction,
Buffalo Confederacy of the western mage
playing tricks on white society beneath a rainbow cloak,
bundling rain and the boom of truth in our drum’s not-forgotten flower mask, straying now from pleasure and hate
in the unborn seat of quiet yearning

with English tongues of grotesque neighborly wick,
suffocated and pouring
over the tea-stained talk of elder medicine
healing beyond death

as a mixed feeling craves glory in the sightless maw,
rolling faintly over the horizon,
a mare, steering past the lonesome,
the thread of a single hair,
holding urban night from certain decay in a sustained note of hopeless beauty
gone cold and frozen under the alcohol cement of addiction
as a mold breaking the skin of the young
and carving faces of flesh
into stone archetypes praying to the dark clouds
to divert the streaming pull of inestimable worth in our future’s undeserved past,
traced with the guiding fire
burning hands and brains in a blond-black caffeinated will,

changing emotional tones over the hill,
aged without time and finding escape an answer
through which to convene with innocent simplicity,

“knowledge in space,
as verbal structure,
passes beyond inert caution
to a stimulated dream-law,
intelligent yet nude”

Epistrophic Misdirection

for the children of the BiblioBurro

…the apparent flood of a bleeding anorexic paradise…drowned in the furtive beckoning towards malformed reasoning…my Anglo-eyed drug…rushing forth into the magi of atheistic awe…the lawless prism of deep endless failure…gone astray in the fatalist’s catastrophic underpinnings…during midnight conversation…unplugged and unheeded lies…braved thoughtless in the shell-cored frequency…beyond sea shores wired to suburban light-mares…feeling an uprising in the wide-tongued morn…the lonely bush…gorged of atrophied unrest…and the lanky bridge between home and the blessed gong show life…awry atop escalating pine needle tea…spine tingling…greed between sips and ecliptic enjoyment in the raw anguish…a rough fortune…beyond the gory aftermath of love…ransomed jungles breed aphrodisiacal wonder in a donkey’s emergent and effulgent touch within the heart of a reading child…hearing the pains of their ancestors in the black print façade of their enduring minds…a helpless urge to forsake the painless tree’s shade and reason with the governmental storage of thought on fire…to bring peace to the unwelcoming hoards armed with scales and the sheer brevity of a reptilian dystopia

find Inspiration!

No broken gourd of misinformation,
            Cracked on the headless spine of an open carcass
                        Breeding divine fungi in the tawny mist,
                                    A tempting kiss stolen across the breath
                        Of a warring ocean disengaged from its godly host

            A show of camaraderie between the Algonquins’ shores
                        And the fragrant seeds of Middle Eastern poverty
                                    Raining hard on the hearse brigade
                        Who pine for a short glowering makeup
                                    From the old world princess     
                                                And her dungeon feet
                                                            Blackened with the soot of forbidden
                                                                 In the heart of Satan
                                                                      Bleeding molten lava
                                                                          From a torn face
                                                                             Growing bearded
                                                                                 & Poorly aged
            Anger in the tempest of religious man,
                        A cork-bottled nightmare
Emerging suddenly from the abyss,
Encouraging the lion’s stare
            To recede from tropical gore
                        And inculcate the masses
                                    Into a final tour
Beyond the ocean’s mountainous rocky curve,
            Into the fathomless deep,
A gone strength won back
            Into the human hand
                        Through deliberate desperation,
                        & feeling, with fingers coiled,
                              Giving fruit
                        To the first serpent’s pure and unclaimed gaze,
            The low brush fades behind the artist’s ear
                        Impressing the abstract wonder of the fearless
                                    And preparing a light
                                                For here 

Fragmentary Being

…in a play…a dream play brings up the soundless deep…in the emptied awareness of emptiness…playing on a dreamscape of silent depth…up from the upbringing…strong with remembrance in the absolute living…living among complicit guests and their following remarks…

…to trace steps behind the carefree Guest…who swallows with luxurious speed the rapturous hold of all ancestry…before an open terrestrial necessity…an empire stung with the impoverished groove of amniotic housing…to please the fascinated race who plunged headlong into the afraid belligerence of an oncoming rush towards G-d…losing his head in the burning vine…trounced in the overwhelming stolen art of land-locked pride…dreaded by the honest unrest of time…

…a longing…evaded by an over-stimulated intellect…reasoning out the religious lie in timeless heat…to birth the underfed bellies…browned with sun stroke beans…dried and unchanging in the roasted plea…named fortuitously

…loosely pained by the stroke-filled meals…written into the throat-headed siphon…into Western lead-stopped eyes…hitting paper with graphic remorse…a morose bedside urgency…to do without rhyme and end these lines…in stout answering to the mind…

…one long blended crime…in bed with duress and her naked strength…cooling the electric ire and staving off bewildered knives…stabbing into bones…shuddering atop the motionless mountain’s smile…refreshing the wintry pull in the always stern bold fate of a Canadian English Queen…ruling with judgment over the purified rain…crashing over the impalpable brain of her natural order…the order of Earth’s own Queen upbringing…

…in the native dirt…and to speak to the stone…and to speak through our pain…the pain of our individuated backs…grated and remaining uncured with the booming fate of a motionless mountain sky…journeying around the headless round of the tailbone crack…remembering through a numbing moment…

…a memory…lost to the unchained back…still writhing with touched passion…

…a connection to the all-related burn of rock’s peak on Earth with bone…

…at the bottom of the backbone…

…remembering it crack into cracked being…

…fragmented back…

Grand Repertoire of Failure

Emergence from the grand repertoire of failure,
The plentiful plateau of being,
An unsurpassed strength

Freeing the foundations of homeward longing onto a single raft
Out on the high seas,
A perplexed guide of Jewish law

Betrayed in the relaxed mystic fire of an American marijuana-seeding mind
Nepalese beauty
Direct from the magic psalm pinned against a “Tat Tvam Asi” wall,

Frail pencil marks casting the Odyssey’s modern sequel into a vulnerable fasting mind
Bled forth into the marathon sky of Massachusetts rain
Following me to Calgary in rare consecutive days,

Our literary giants, peering upwards, finally, in a New England fog haze
Through the mirrored mushroom mind, whose perception flowered
Into feared atomic explosions,

The true sexual freedom in nature
To lay soft stonework ground,
Firm with utterly expressed wonder at the world ‘round,

Knowledge timed perfect with musical escapism
Into the bold motionless greed of a trapped metallic girl,
Re-born as prophetess in the unknown seed of Western belief,

A disordered phallic embrace
Charging forth from book-bindings prepared by hand,
Hard as ice and placed with delicate resolve to finish an erected thought

Pressed into being as an entire genealogy,
A male heroine, featured in a night’s flash of bothered sleep,
The pausing nullified wakefulness

Estimating the strength of the enemy through our chosen weapon’s force,
And the enemy is not far,
Yet still remains within us

Once more in this age
As hidden reason
Behind the guilty lash, on frozen backs scarred, already

With the ancient bells of history ringing
Throughout untold centuries of careless mothering
And father’s walking

Over strange ledges
Deemed always

Guise of the Beloved

Laughable counterpart
            And guise of the beloved,

Faring terror
            And the deathless scare within childish pride,
The fostered eyes
            That plunge with the strength of the predator’s stare
Into infinity
            And the terminal plague of survival

Marching by
            Currents stepping like waves over the stone-headed martyrs,

Staved off
            From one life inside,

Dry and cruel,
            Commotion’s door opens to the streaming gore,

Lush and timed
            With solar flare

Over an unearthly rush hour
Painted fame twisting and writhing
In the soundless urban deep,
A rustic, inflamed few,
            Whose solemn grasp partakes in the early break
From an inevitable aftermath
            Draining the rage from our animal brain 

Horror-story jazz

A darkness, splayed
In fourths, fifths and odd indiscernible timings,
Straining the common ear
To prepare communion

Out from regularity to mystery
Inside, essential vibration,
Riding a blank inward rolling wave

Molded to thought vanities
Disarming our unending numerical poll
Beyond savagery

To return to primal and distended physical tumult,
A chaotic folly
Dreaming in smokeless fires
That churn breathless in the cold,
Almost frozen air,
A motive broken free to share a restless hideaway

Junction greed
In the urbane west,
Painful tones
Wavering beyond
Escapist drones

In the polyrhythmic gasp
Tamed by function
And instrumental might;

A thankless overworked bunch
Peering overhead, from atop towers
Without castles

In the post-kingdom English croak
Over bastions and landlocked heights
That furnishes much scheming

A trite & forced inhuman sense
Of belonging
In a war trench

Phase of lunatic civility,
As the prosperous few wade
In proud shores of quicksand

Loss of self,
Ruined foresight vanishing
Into the uncreated past,

That’s horror-story jazz

Live life and Die

What did you,
YOU say?

You are not willing to die?

You won’t die?

Yet you won’t live,
Why won’t you LIVE for your life,
And die?

Why aren’t you,
YOU willing to
LIVE life and DIE?

You who won’t die,
Nor live,
Ask your SELF,
What must you do to stay and decide
When you decide what to do with your life
When you feel you are alive and not as good as dead inside,
A nothing where you hide…
Not just a nothing
Where you lie…

And so which dishonest part of your self did you lie to while the rest of you went out and lived your lie?

Did you remember the last time you got an F in that lie?

When will you accept your failure,
The failure of life,
Of your life,
Because death is life failing you…

And so instead of living,
One day you realize you must die,
So how to prepare for death,
First step live,
Second fail life with a smile,
To see as clearly as your de-fogged morning mirror of bright possibility with pure face,
That freedom is a tear and Death is a gift from the bosom of life herself.

So why not strive to embody Death,
And become that gift,
Die for Life,
So the living can enjoy their death
And not have to die yours out of the fear felt in being free,

An absolute annihilation of Truth,
Evidenced with blood-thick rivers

Washing off the untouched pages of the dominant law,
History and identity of Man,
A bold and lonesome object

To kill,
Forever more into the technophile dust of a most ritualistic purification
Involving the physical mastery over our own given Nature through a misdirected relation with stars,
Their numerically probable position among the Fate of our own children,
And now manipulated, by human hands erecting monumental statements of their awesome power,
A mass death,
Sacrificed to the pyramid scheme of universal law,

Mad artistry

It’s that mad artistry,
An almost cannibalistic drive to self-disembowel the remains of the day into edible chunks and layers of salted wisdom,

That nourishing strive
To see a lonesome aftermath gone away to a child-like humorous insanity, in the vein of communist Asian authors pleading behind bars for retired cruelty, and the shrinking tough applause from Europe’s dementia phase corrodes the Eastern mind

From island to island
Britain, Japan, Hawaii; a full circle drawn over the lawless cold, a proud lusting grab at intelligent lore performed on informal stages at war with Southern shores,

And landing easily
For three cents a piece, the million-man crime parades, calling for a changeless matrimonial stirring between a monarch and democracy,

The low-life need
Granted by each University, telling the shared royal takedown to massage the neck-less crown of the last Christian lord, allowed beyond her vegetarian limits

Or negligibly performed rights,
Touring the phantom cloud of rest between Celtic shores, distressed by multi-lingual borders and rocky soil, and a northern jail for the barbaric tongues who gouge panicked eyes from the skulls of New World kinds

An orgy of ruthless becoming
Among the equestrian speed, famed by pre-teen daughters of class and medieval French dreams, who cast off the Muslim humidity from Spain’s bound whores, and lust after a secretive world of music in the drum talk of yesteryear’s snoring traditionalism,

Yet woken alive
Through non-ordinary literary thought and perpetual action, to finally inundate the worldly risks bedding with our species at once in an archaic passion, straying from the lofty throats of First World progress

To gift an immediate end to bordered defense and spend money on thankless love
In the wilderness of Tao. 

Manual speech, a felt language

A thought
Moisturized by manual speech,

The roasted plug of local disease
Runs amuck from outer, thick-lipped need,

Boastful ruffians becoming street-slick
Urban serial psychopaths on their way to 24hr diner trash,

Cleavage TV wearing tourist aprons and coating ice cream with ash,
Pigmentations in vermillion and cinnabar blush

Factoring in the genius fool who shoots suicidal railings beyond skin-growth hosts,
Billowing walkers faking drug-breath
“Free east,” blokes and stolen brothels
Behind the anatomical asinine scientific madness
Locked in the Scottish jaw
Framing legal tender as an imperial resource,
A high cultural silver wedding
Blessing the Afric noon

In hushed greed, or American freedom
To thieve upturned pockets and re-chain the Latin bull
With the Romanesque burden of the Nilotic Buffalo skull
Grated into blood soup and breaking open unripe fruit off-season

In the fasting jokester’s war over the Muslim flag
Raging starlit inside a desert cave
To wish a prophetess to bloom
As a rustic mockery of the qurra’ and their sand-quipped poetry contests
A following, run dry as mouths spring wide for hashish grooming,

Young lads behaving timid before the pious lie
Stern with gazing hypocrisy,

The oriental mirror,
All of a sudden darkening over the wordless eye,

A feline cage rumbles
Falling over bedside rambling and misanthrope notions

Caving suddenly
To the age of the non-committal wife and her ruinous factory of moon-swept slaves Tunneling beyond oppressive rights

The sham literary nick-knack drudgery over those distant horse-run hills,
Whispering delicate incantations
To tame the ever-loosening rug-blown curtains of the rich

Worrisome trumps and curvaceous blondes sending out jealousy
As a baked treat to the public rhythm
Overstepped by a deity’s hidden shadow,

A miffed breadwinning sag of the brain and the hungry paranoia of early rain,
My shale-torn clothing scrubbed clean by the salt-tipped foray of evil lunacy,
Aquarian bane, bone knocked throughout grainy sight

Observing the skull-emancipated wisdom,
Risking vertigo and the sure endless night
Bringing sugar, tea and a companion’s brethren tide,
Bracing a felt language

Natural pleasure

A threshed sweat leaf, singled out over the billowing masses,
A high, overstated nocturne

Dreaming in workaholic shivering screams
That transform lightly into breath of song with male weeping,

And her deserted lips struggle to purse
Over the citrus flesh of an Iberian mother

Calling for heart chains to unlock
Yet distressed and of unruly mind,

She dresses timelessly with prophetic sophistry
Beyond the rasped vocal bead of the Roman elite,

Prideful with elegant cheeses to smother their appetite
For lower slavery below the belt of animal sanity,

And still a ruthless tide follows every inhale
And imbibed breast-milk cry

From the middle earth
High season field of waves,

Lashing out on the rickety back of the African skull,
Swollen with wisdom and envy

To oversee the white planetary momentum
Towards entropy

In the blessed
Beyond fluidity,

A seed to match the Earth,
Sown in the deep darkest matter of space,

Holy black soil of divinity
Preparing for the inner sprout

From within our species
Prototypical brain,

The reason of universal catastrophe,
Being heard and seen

To know self through negation
In living dream and daily waking

Into the stronghold of centered duality
Between an atmospheric pull and heart strung desire,

To expel the soul
And unify with vibration’s border

Along the delicate edge of creativity
From subjective awe to atonement with the Creator

In the lawless gray area of judgment
Gone reckless with inhuman brutality,

An uninspired mode of being
Praying to exit from God

In the instantaneous devotion toward self-mastery
And a conscious crawling towards infinite ecstasy,

Vocation of ultimate being
Expressed through the spiritual instrument of Love

In soundless wonder,
The always evident past

Coming along to partner with vagrant forewarning
In the new moment,

A loud, clear sign
To befriend raw, natural pleasure 

Obviation from the BLAND

To obviate from this bland mural,
Its strict pull underlies, as a lightning tremor

In the cooled dust collecting raw answers
From the autochthonous matrimony with foreign alliance,

Over the scarred mud-caked plains
Whose agricultural fertility gave way to chemical strife

In the selfish human pandemic,
Lining the hostess and her following with possibility

In the strong-voiced dirge calling back thousands’
Endless anonymity from the last day that rested with holy failure

In the subconscious artistry of classical teachings,
The rowing hearse then busted grease powder over the cinematic river undertow

Blaming adults for adolescent murders between the forked passageways
Leading only to an eye as the Gatsby, Big Brother or Sauron symbol

In our literary pride,
This, the Jungian spur

To claim thought as an answer to human action and reverse that strict pull,
That wintry momentum, forcing isolation

To prepare the frozen banks to flow
And create something from nothing

In the work-a-day paycheque gamble of modern industrial sacrifice,
To put flesh on the archaic altar of physical history or abusive anthropological means

To uncover the drastic findings of proven difference
Among the infinitely masked

January vow,
A matrimony of time, a cyclical reverence for self and selfless meeting

In the single now of death,
Celebrated finally until mental and spiritual dissolution

In the intoxicated air of stifled common presence
For true becoming yet challenging the observant perseverance

In chambered fires, fought and drank in stainless realizations
Conceived while cooking family love in the river’s own electric hot strength, gently

Embracing the nervous mouth of the whole city in one dire expression
To last

Of human sound

What of human sound,
The frequent lust to prepare noise in strength of intellectual wonder
and produce unfathomable beauty
            of the entire body
                        descending to and from the ear’s tragic centering
In our musical society, and what to compare “human music” to the grandiose law of nature, expressed in the mere calls of bird and beast revolving their unchallenged voices around the veil of a gross acoustic hall,
            whose rendering dreams an unforgiving welcome to the Earth’s living
                        led to a thoughtless demeanor
                                    yet within the mind of man,
                                                to re-create forests,
                                                swells of the avian breast
                                                            in kindred form
                                                            and in multitude throughout the belly’s vocation
                                                            in mammalian chords,
                                                the drunk guess
            involved in the self-taught birthing of rhythm and harmony
                        between human and human
                                    without consulting the earthquake and thunder’s rumbling
                                                or gopher’s princely step,
                        and with effortless divinity
Open the mind to sonic color
            in the rainbow’s harmonic wisdom
            on the horizon of time
            after a storm’s violent solo tuning
                        swaying then and now over a work boot
                                    caught in dear industry
                                                whose trembling and cutting neurosis resounds
                                                            with human curiosity
                                                            in our instrumental genres of choice
                                                            in the bleak urban grave
                                                                        of sound creativity,
            yet where is song tempted to be alone with wind,
            where does human voice, hand, foot, and harmonic pride stir with the
                        of our fellow natural beauties,
                                    the mimicking façade then fades to the wonder
                                                in absolute, original creation
                        the worthless fall between space finding its place
                                    towards a unified, harmonious vanishing,
            the death of human music for an age is deemed fate
                        by the songbird’s unfailing beak
                                    opening to the pressed actuality of time,
                                                a time to stop,
                                                and wait,
                                                            to give other chances to the next species,
                                                                        whose song still streams
                                                                        with unforced imagining
                                                                                    in silent sleep
                                                                                    and personal meaning,
            a comparative play between human sound and the birds,
                                    a hollow daze?
                                    or frightening waste?
                        a practice in listening
                                    for the fast
                                    and for the few,
                                                those un-tempted minds
                                                            whose unity beckons lively worth in health,
            the street’s song gives slow joy to order,
                        and the lady beside the window walks from the slumber of selfish
                                    to find a source,
                                                not necessarily of communication
                                                            between human, bird and god,
                                                but a direct connection
                                                            that spells mystery
                                                                        from an inspired gift to all
her sound.