Tuesday, March 12, 2024

sanyasa

  

they arent the sands of time

or the ides of march

I think they are the tides of time

I have, a few stones saved

as the tide swells 

into a thousand years of memory

between the years

I have endless despair

as I fail my parents

my loves

and my children

but now, right now, im busy

failing me

the music swells

and a few hands

guide me into the bright light

I turn around, and theres even a few

for my sins

pulling me back

not many I remember

from the last hundred years

beside me flowing

are so many children

how many children

is too many?


Thursday, October 20, 2022

peatalok

 

this here are the elvenar

you cannot trust their words

but their hands are true

that there are the ashadar

you cannot trust their words

nor their hands

but their ears are true


Tuesday, January 25, 2022

clockwork

 

put courage to paper

and song to voice

these sounds outside

they are blips and beeps and constant 

consolation, contradiction, confusion, command

they are made by the damned

a step outside maslows graveyard

how many condemned

do we own?

must we own?

can we own?

who here rations the divide

between the lines and beyond the pale

can it be hells waiting room 

and not the wall

who here is tracking for their own doom

convinced, and utterly convincing

they are the damned



Saturday, January 08, 2022

the age of fire and water


for a while we had clothes and foods 
the lazyboy the Ikean 
but the colds of earth 
layering days and years and urgences 
upon the male fantasy of Shelter 
has rendered the Impermiable Woman 
to earth and wind and now everything 
is fire and water 
everything changes, is earnest 
constantly progressing, passionate 
everyone is struggling all the time 
to stay afloat 
to soothe the burns of uncertain time 
and we are back in the uncomfortable rotunda 
of turning to the patternologists 
for comfort and comedy 
oh btw, are we still dimorphic 
did everyone agree? oh they voted!

Friday, November 12, 2021

stone paper scissors

 

sometimes in the darkest days

I forget who I am, that we are

each of us, over a million years old

in the warm endless cocoon

of planning and civilization

the dire thread of survival

of our children, in this reality

is a matter of mere practicalness

sometimes wombs must be dissolved

and tombs must be burned

lines must be blurred

new genders must be resolved

to present the blank canvas

to a beleagured species on the brink

so we may each of us

still hanging on by the thread

be creative about life and living

instead of turning on each other

the land of earth fire on its nemesis

the lands of wind water

its all very meta

because once the brahmastra is used

the spell, it breaks

and of course, if the brahmastra is death

in an instant, of an entire specie

the only spell remaining, is fear