Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Golden Pox

Opiate addicted masses revel in backward and useless expertise of a haughty nature.
Aficionados and fine connoisseurs of the greatest pleasures in life,
They levy superficial indulgences before a swathe of cluelessness.
Their posterity bathes in pettiness,
sneering a most pointedly arrogant snarl;
Begging to be abused;
your wish will soon be granted.

I wish an unforgiving pox on thee… or something like that.
Old English ain’t my drink.

Stagnation is seen as a defiant protest to any brand of formalism,
I marvel at the ignoramus who finds an identity as such;
It’s celebrated enthusiastically.
An expression of post modern morals, or lack thereof;
Judgment becomes obsolete,
as nihilism become the religion of the masses;
There is nothing,
so nothing rests upon a sacred pedestal;
Believe that, and you’re on your way to becoming evil.

Idol worshipers are afflicted with madness,
while the buckles on my straight-jacket seem to loosen.
Though nothing is as it seems;
I've been fooled before.

My… those are lovely shoes you have;
That shine reflects more in your soul than it does of their style.

Did you know that Mrs. Jones has a beautiful Golden Calf in her living room?
Know how much it costs?
Wish you had one?
Do you?

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Silent Shadows

In silent darkness, a gentle embrace frees the world from doubt;
Broad daylight showcases a freakish nature that reminds the world of abnormality.
Birds of prey, and delicious fowl, chastise each other with progressive modernism.
Carnivorous beasts devour the meat of a confusing set of circumstances.
With all the answers echoed by parrots of blind-eyed pirates,
Certain adamance in the face of bloody reality, blatantly contradicts reason.

In one corner of existence, a grandmother prunes her prize lilies;
Still another grandmother crushes the sweetest dates one has ever tasted;
Astonished by where and why their souls have crossed,
yet another grandmother smiles as she kneads her delicious bread once again.
These lovely ladies, who will never see or meet each other,
Greet each other with impeccable manners.
One would be a fool to expect any less.
Lifetimes apart, they meet in the spirit-world,
they share with one another how softly they touched their beloved grandchildren. My God… the pride that beams is blinding.

Contemporary wisdom demands that we renounce the archaic shackles of the dead.
Young eyes miss the cracks in a mirror that was broken 10,000 years ago.
We all have masters, my dear…
Whom do you serve?
To seek righteousness is not to claim it as your own.
Erroneous behavior may have dubious effects on credibility;
contrary to relativist philosophy, not all creeds are wrong.

Truth is not always a matter of interpretive performance;
Though, over-zealous proselytizing seems to bring out the worst in humanity.

Today’s Amphitheatres throw more than men to ravenous lions;
The unwitting throng of spectators is taunted by the greatest illusion ever preformed:
The rise of a middle class.
In the fantasy of their allusions, they imagine a fabled equality;
They fool themselves into an unconscious servitude to make life bearable.
Woefully, the helpless shake their heads at elitist prestidigitation.

The eyes of a wild and lonely quail cry long-lost tears on its yellow tail.
This lovely game bird has no concept of value for itself.
As the hunter corners this simple animal, it becomes self-aware;
Too late to contravene common-sense, the bird is caged.
It’s a shame that such a majestic creature is loved only for its yellow tail;
The quality of its soul is never debated,
But its uses are quite handy.
So why did that bird continue to forage in dangerous lands?

Explicit and subtle,
kisses of lovers enflame extraordinary jealousy;
When touches of love turn to poison,
Hate seduces much like romance,
And all to no end,
and to no avail.

The world is indeed a strange place.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Fraternity Humanity

cousin to genocide,
Traverses a well-known desert in this world.

Only God forgives his most egregious trespasses;
In his attempt to mimick God's love,
he attempts to reconcile with divine forgiveness;
We often fail.

Military whores beg for more, despite a change in tactical defeat;
While the eyes of sad seeds bleed the last of their youthful virginity,
A vagabond scrounges through the remnants of Babylon;
Callous feet cross deserts soaked in the sweat of fanatical reverence.

Good Christians say the Lord’s Prayer on Sunday morning five-times,
on their families' most prized hand-woven prayer rugs:
The call: “There is no God but God…”
Listen carefully;
You’ll also hear and see the same,
after a meatless feast at Shabbat dinner.

Madmen in caves are venerated by their enemies,
as they are martyred in their lifetime.
The Base, from which they operate,
now launches ships which have gusts from the Westerlies in their sails;
The Easterlies are no longer a primary mode of transportation, or concern.
The Students, they have their movement; it grows beyond mud huts and tents.
O’ Solomon, The Wise, your people need you.

From the holiest of lands,
screams of blasphemy prophesize the end of days;
Fools refuse to confront the heretics in their mist,
for fear of being left in the cold... or worse.
In the streets of Amman, a marriage was performed,
not a union of man and wife, but of lunacy and insanity;
I offer my prayers and condolences to the family of the cinemas’ great messenger.

The wandering peoples, who none will take in, are used to prove a point;
The legitimacy of a particular movement rests upon their grief.
Only God knows the consequences of such abuse;
Hate turns in unintended directions.
Like patient children, we wait for the sound of a trumpet;
Ever read Revelations?

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Lighthouse On The Shoreline

There’s a shore where a man sits in isolated solitude.
In sheer wonderment,
an optical illusion taunts his eyes with more water than the sea;
It reminds him of waterfalls.

He is provoked by a vessel, fine as she could be;
She sails into his private sunrise,
under a steaming sun, on a lonely afternoon,
and threatens to leave him one cold and devastating night.

An expressionless face stares aimlessly.

A secular phenomenon of biblical proportions,
thrusts childishness into maturity.

Rays illuminating other worlds,
now produce only the shadow of a glare;
Humbled by a simple ray of light, anger wells in his heart.
Furious rage soon begets an embarrassing confusion;
He comes to terms with impotence, and sighs in disbelief.

The main mast of his fading ship can catch his eye from a thousand miles.
His hands attempt to motion a limp-wristed wave;
Regret shimmies off moonlit waters in broad daylight.
Crashing emotions make waves against the rocky Pride below,
To navigate through one of Seven Deadly Seas is painful:

This is a showcase of what occurs when lighthouses refuse to communicate;
They cannot rescue lost ships.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Thank you everyone for stopping by my blog. It's been a tough couple of weeks in a row, and sometimes writing is like medicine to me. Since all of your comments and e-mails have been so wonderful, I want to share a bit of myself with all of you. I figured I'd start off with one of the best parts of my life: my mother.

I have an extremely close family. When anything is on my mind, there's nothing like hearing the voices of my parents or my brother (or my two spiritual brothers). Since I've been a bit down recently, I sent my mother a piece I wrote with her in mind. Wanna know why I'm so close with my mother? Here's why:


What a beautiful piece. I see your work in progress even now, "nosthegamtoo." I wish you could feel what I feel, the peace and the love from you -- but you never can because only a Mom has that soft, loving, peaceful place. I thank my Lord above for that wonderful, beautiful mind of yours and I'm so grateful that he never let me down. I love you as much as I am proud of you and that's infinite.

Love you,


Sunday, November 06, 2005

Coal Coloured Clouds

A graying cloud moves inland and settles above a pasture;
Livestock stomp their hooves and raise the roof of a rickety barn in joyous celebration.
Later that night, a woman lays in bed unsatisfied;
Her slaughter will be postponed, much to her dismay;
This is why the low-pressure front and the clitoris no longer speak.

Vagrants disintegrate into concrete wastelands,
As armchair revolutions are waged with theoretical ambivalence;
Fortunately, full-bellies will be filled again tonight;
There’s no need to worry, they'll be just fine.

Cruel humans sculpt desperate groveling into their personal masterpieces;
Madmen toss journals shaped like canaries into an already raging inferno,
All the while, Nero’s fiddle plays its same sad song in old Paris.
Do his stings ever tire?

To fear apathy is wise when vultures stalk fresh corpses.
The flowers beneath the treads of tanks may seed stubborn posterity:
They are called weeds;
And they are not easily pruned.

Did you know that men suckle both breasts and blood?
The aroma of both incenses the super-ego and fuels a lust for immortality;
The arousal is apparent.

Unscrupulous do-gooders squeeze dignity from the victims of their loving charity.
In the iconic fantasies they have manufactured,
they see the souls they’ve been trying to save: their own.
For them, that is more pleasing than the monster in their mirrors.
So they surround themselves,
with poverty of speech, value and intimacy to avoid a familiar nightmare.

The absurdity of privileged depression;
It makes sense if your gazpacho was served on silver,
even if your nanny spilled a bit of it on the floor.
Human suffering occurs in ghettos found in the confines of rich men’s homes.

The jewels in a crown
shine brightest in the eyes of those with their noses pressed against the throne.
Find out your mountain is a molehill; and you’ve wasted your life.
Think hard… this could be you.
But remember, people often get what they ask for.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

The Morning's Rising Notions

On the surface of the last raindrop to ever fall on Earth,
lovers dance a salsa that castigates a rabid throng,
as the most ardent of dreamers is struck with an epiphany that envelops the soul.

An unmistakable vehemence comes barreling through darkness;
Innocence winks at the morning dew that glides on beams of sunlight;
The center of the solar-system resurrects the sleeping forest each day.

Beasts prey upon each other, fulfilling natural obligations absent of morality.
Quick-witted feathers flap determined movements into a cool breeze.
Feeding frenzies mask insipid compulsions to biological urges;
Instinct is unapologetic.

There is an arduous journey that’s birthed at infancy,
it begs for a morsel of compassion.
The thinning autumn air relieves a sweltering confusion;
Devoid of nourishment, subsistence loses its essence.

Beneath feet that rest upon Eden’s majesty,
Damp terrain, the pride of the heavens, moisten thick skin;
The texture of soft whispers brush gently across a smiling face;
All the while, prayers recited eons ago are finally answered.

Sleeping spirits never slumber;
Their work is never done.

Unbeknownst to human eyes, cold stars blanket existence in God’s warmth.
Celestial quasars dip milk from the bosom of life;
Floating elemental particles were born to levitate through uncertainty.

The balance that is found in life’s harmony teaches wisdom;
Perfection is nurtured when reality is reconciled with purpose.
Conspicuous perils impossible to see are not invisible;
An open heart can see a thousand miles, and a million years.