R
e
b
o
r
n
like
Rilke
the muse awakens
and beckons the forgetful soldierner
to take another stab in the dark
this time white fire on black fire
formed in the absense of "self"
rather than the presence
defined by the dirge of existence

To knot, Be!

There is still much to complain about
but the lack of a "self" to induce a
trancelike focus upon the gloomy
prevents such unenlightened perversions
As well, an overabundance of choice
aids to escape making wrong choices
The cycle may be mundane in its
nefariously nauseating repetitiveness
but the pure experience of this is worth it
The rush of realization of existing
distracts one from the smell of the vomit

Life goes on
Life constantly tears me away from
my attempts to record it, to analyze it
No time to look back
Orpheus distracted, ADD'd
Captured finally by the glamorous commercial

Le enfant des infinité
Whose ills spring from isles
Sing to the sirens
an answer that silences

Poets stand out from their fleshy cousins
Because they move amongst knick-knacks
You cannot paint their portrait
unless the canvas be living

Reality is poetry--all of it at once!
No time
To interpret or
critique
Quill dipped into a creek

Eyes scream
Birth day
First complaint
Rocky road
Tight squeeze
A new look on the world
Whirling world forcing frame
Sun, light
Son, it's Orpheus
Or another orifice
Choose now, long song to tune in to
Orifice or free us
Of its constriction, conscription
A song of imagination, of fiction
Sing in the face of approaching night
Sing your arrival, though tired from the flight
Sing such words, son, that the
sun nets your syllables, hungry for gold
Words of beauty, but
within, a Dionysian bitter truth
to dim the Apollonian bright blind
and dance to the sound
of the sun choking down
that ultimately worthless, yet kingly
metal
A weed, alive, does more,
Moves!

The wisest is a feather
Floating along with the whims of others
Acquiescing with languid boredom
to other's stern direction
For all are equally correct
in their choice between
this and that fleeting illusion

The poet is not so wise as that
Through his search, his fight,
ridiculously eager to complete
"The Great Work,"
he proves himself
the most foolish of all
But beautiful in his earnestness

Such is this now additional evidence
Resuscitation or blind alley?
Becoming or succumbing?
Or celebration of another ambush
by the muse...

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