Epiphantile

Epiphantile


I. A tribute to e. e. cummings and Nikki Giovanni

outrage is just a stone,
 it does not melt away,
  but it is ground away in the machine,
   and becomes a thousand useless little irritations.

yet  ... o (no),
 u left your ! and made even the most . a ?
and those () dear friend.  They belong to JONES
  softer more uncertain than the [],

buried

and our bodies for what they are worth,
 were never meant to be accounted,
   and when multiplied, squared, or exponentialed,
    these conceits form no transcendentals.

I yes I yes I

II. Reflection and an important allusion if you want to understand this poem.

why do the heathen rage?
it is because I know a boy can fly.
that's why the heathens rage.

C. Gulliver on the shore.

Once he lay asleep,
"Them" up to him softly creep,
Lest he turn and "them" there  bury.
A thousand million eyes are wary,
Of any gesture he should make,
To give portent that he awakes.
And with their little ropes like thread,
Try to fix his arms and legs,
But foolish, nameless, hapless elves,
Their magic works but on themselves,
and When his shoulder starts to rise,
The terror fills their bright wide eyes.

4. I reflect on what I am doing

but why talk so bitterly,
and in couplets give any accidental praise,
to consider their vane thoughts,
in terms like human innocence?
no, they gave up their humanity,
the moment they ate again of the tree,
and no third coming's coming,
to replace the second fall.

All miracles are virtues in an evil age;
and what can be more natural,
then to deny the supernatural,
and see nothing outside the ego cage?

None. The real problem is the answer came before the question

Mirthless laughter heals no wound,
And mockery mocks down friend and foe,
"But this lies all within the will of God,"
Yet, I swear this is not the only language I know.

To see, to hear, to taste, to feel,
We turn towards the cooler air,
Perhaps we shall find him there,
And his shadow passing over, heal.

For to Job was given a riddle, and to Jonah a great sign,
To Elijah a widow and her child, and to Peter two coins.

I myself am rooted down by a thousand cares,
but may heaven forgive my pride,
not, of myself; No, I would not compare,
or dare think myself in that way justified,

The poet is infinitely greater than his poem.
No machine exceeds its inventor,
But there can be no art without an artist,
and praising a creation I praise the creator.

Lyrics to "Sins Against Hope"

Sins Against Hope

Never thought it would be this way

Hand-to-mouth, struggling through every day

Life is nothing but bills to pay

A better life – just empty words to say

But I am American

I am American

I am American

And I’m gonna be OK

You and I with a world between

Though I speak, you can’t know what I mean

Our eyes are glazed over sights unseen

Occupied, purple states and going green

But we are Americans

We are American

We are Americans

And we’re gonna be OK

Bombs away!  Daisy cutters, marching bands

For the young, blood soaking through the sand

Iron fists, velvet gloves and helping hands

Disengage, or kill what we don’t understand

But we are Americans

We are American

We are Americans

And you’re gonna be OK

Lightning Bugs (& Glenmorangie)

It amazes me
how lightning bugs
have the power to entrance
higher beings
utterly
with their brief flash of light
in so simple a form.

Perhaps the angels wonder alike
at our brief moments of grace.

Before

Before

Kiss my lips while they are still warm
And the breath you gave me
Still dwells in my breast
Before the last sigh
While I still have time.
Before.

Who named me such a name,
To bear before the world,
A constant accusation,
Of all the pagan gods?
To remember for all,
That our days are counted,
And every sin is weighed.

Open my lips, so that I may confess
Through suffering and pain,
But before torment.

The empty

Don't you know he can fly?

Willow, willow, wailing
We will wisp about the baby
With a nonny-nonny-nonny
And a nonny-nonny-noo

With a nonny-nonny-nonny
And a wisp-o-will-o wailing
Wisp-o-wispy whisper, whisper
Willy-Chilly-whispy-whisper

A nonny-nonny

Empty all about the shadow
Nothing about, nothing about
Steady, steady, hand is shaking
Breathless giggles, giggles quaking
Laughing, smirking.

Colder lips, lips upon my cold lips,
Breath taking, breath stealing,
Dull dead air lifeless air
Stirless, black, and silent air:
Sharp as flint, hard as stone,
Shiny and black against the dull, dull, shadow

Eyes winking, eyes twinkling,
Starry, splintery, glintery,
Nonny, nonny, whisteley
Prickly, prickly, bristeley

A sudden Crack

A snap, a snap, a mighty snap!
A snap a snap, it made me clap!
Twig, twig, dance a jig!
Dance a jig, with mister pig!

Worse o worse to think of things,
Things with featherless, leathery wings,
Wings that beat upon that air,
Shrunken, twisted, clawed or fisted.

Nonny-nonny, will-o-whispery
Empty, O God it's so empty!
Nothing at all about it,
Nothing there, there's nothing there,

Empty-hempty-shmempty
So giggly, so wiggly-jiggly
All about, so empity-jempity
Giggaly, wiggaly, let's all be giggaly

What is that sound
In the distance
That dull thudding?

if and when

Young man says:
I want folks to treat me with respect,
I want folks to know what I got inside,
know that what I got can't be bought,
and I ain't sellin'

Young man says:
People are going to look at me and they gonna say:
Look where he's been!
Look what he's done!
Look who that fella knows!

Young man says:
Ain't no place gonna kick me out,
My skin be black as coal,
and people still gonna let me in,
If somethin' ain't right,
I'm gonna tell 'em,
and they're gonna listen.

Young man says:
What's nasty is nasty,
Ain't no use lyin' to people to make them feel good.
I know what's right and I know what ain't,
People are gonna listen.

Young man says:
The world is on fire,
It's burnin' down and goin' to hell,
And if I go with it, I don't care,
because I did what I wanted.

Young man says:
If and when I die,
I'm gonna die knowin'
I didn't take nothin'
That I didn't want.

Old man says:
Let me breathe...
... one more time ...
... without no more pain ...
... breathe ...
... one more time ...

Sparkplug Soul

Ok, so "Motorhead" does not really have a song entitled "Sparkplug Soul"; they should have. It fits them.

If they did, I think it would go something like this;

"I wish I had a sparkplug soul,
to go along with my rocker-armed mind.

I wish I had a sparkplug soul,
to lay down some tread on some weary bones.

With a sparkplug soul,
I'd fire every piston.

I'd slam them into my rocker-armed mind.

Electric blast feeling the gaseous sqeeze
in my spark-chamber brain.

With my sparkplug soul,
synapse they fire,
and my crankshaft legs,
they fly, baby, they fly.

Oh how I loves my sparkplug soul.

Sizzle spark.

Sizzle spark.

Sizzle spark.

Ram it home, baby.

Fire me up another spark.

My sparkplug soul.

Insomnia

At night my mind devolves upon
a rising tide of pain
that quells the echoes of God's voice
and spreads the mortal stain

And sleepless, facing fears unknown
to the clarity of day
One paranoia climbs another;
thoughts surmount and fray

How to subdue an unchecked mind
put down this madding fission?
Tame this beast of consciousness
and regain sober vision?

Till gears are stripped and bearings lock
and shafts both burn and freeze
Abed I'll lay tormented just
a madman at his ease

Twightlight Fell on Forest Hill

An old man enslaved. Chained, to his will. He champed the cigar, and considered the till.

He chewed that old stogy, and his mind melded in a falling, twilight sky.

An unbelievable shade of blue it was; and it is true, there can be no doubt, absolute. He'd never seen nothin' like it, in all his years beneath them mountains he always held, so dear and close to his still beating (thank God), heart.

It was such a pale blue. It mimicked his eyes, and a tear almost came, but then came to subside.

Fireflies flickered against this pale, beaten sky, and his lantern, it shimmered, in rhythm to an oncoming, dark sky.

He knew there'd be stars, later that night, and they too would flicker, and rule the dark sky. They surely would live longer than these seasonal flies, but somehow they were kin, and their existence...in line?

But in that moment between, when it's neither darkness or light, the old man took repose, and considered his plight.

He was abandoning, in sort, but grasping in another. While his life had been through changes, he'd never quite given up - even through changes there was not a quitting, but only a shifting; like a chain on a sprocket to a tearing, new high.

This change was no doubt of monumental import; but somehow he took refuge in knowing the sort.

On Forest Hill he did love, he built and he toiled. He had his own place, and he sewed fertile soil.

One thing was for certain in his dubious mind; here he would live, and here he would die.

This circle of life, what a grand scheme it is...it yields perfect habit, of that, there can be no pretense.

So the old man did puff another deep drag, and ponder his existence in this fairytale wag.

What a beautiful life it is, against this deep, blue-green hue; another day just shy of heaven on this forested hill, this shelter from life's cruel skew, with an explosively simple, and monumentally incredulous, serene, sweet view!

He gasped one last evening gasp as his soul's eyes did peer, upon the heart of the Lord in a splendor he so deeply revered.

And with that, he turned in, awaiting the fray, for the changes that come in yet another, new day.

The Chattering Tale

This is the tale of a cutty-sark sail,
of a winch's lip
and a Dragon's tail.

Of Dragon Beast' foal
running down Dragon Beast' spine
with sprocketed chain
chattering metered time.

Humming in unison
they soar, head to tail
the beast clad in iron,
they run as on rail.

"And what is there mission,"
quips curious, young lad
"for they run and they run,
turn 'round back up, it's sad!"

Answered, old man:
"The mighty Mother, Dragon Beast,
she calls out her lads,
she sends them a' scurry
for the dreams that she'd had...

From points farther East,
her breath doth return
as mist from the sea,
cooling belly fires that burn.

And her children have riders,
like Wraiths, they hold on
through the spine's knotty curves,
Man, maiden and sons.

Young girls they line up,
for rides on the beasts,
their hair like the pony,
leather clad for the feast.

Mortal food's not their object,
on this ride through curved hell.
To be seen by the subjects
those Demons 'neath scales.

'Tis a long ride down'
cries bloggers from sides,
"and over edge you will tumble
for the Demon's dark prize".

But onward and onward they travel
they travel, they do
their purpose, you ask?
like their piston's, redeux.

They clamor and clank
they hum, and they purr
but kitty's not timid
wire rifled, her fur.

"But where will they end up,"
questioned young son
"since their mission like piston
see-saws backwards and yon?"

"Ah, their's is no mission,
on that you can bet
to ride Dragon's tail
is all they have left."

"But what of the wraiths
holding on to their backs?"

"Ah, they will keep going
long as God sets their tracks".

And the winds blew the fog
from far out at sea
the sails like chains chatter
a Pirate's ship carries "she".

The winch, she is coming,
like a whore on a breeze
she comes to take mountain,
Dragon's lair at it's knee.

And what will be left of stout spine
and it's brood?

The foals, they will gallop
and wraiths run for good.

And Dragon, she'll stay
and lick at her wounds,
until another day
engineer's and their children
and eggs hatch new brood.

And so they will run
and race through those curves
Until winch and ship come take them
and send souls beyond Earth.

-Sir S.E. Visum, esq.
on being brought back to life

Agape

No one loves God as Jesus.
And for Christ, none could love Him as God.
From the wilderness we cry "Jesu, Jesu, Jesu",
and from home, only, "My Dearest Dear Lord".
But alas, we must all and always merely, pitifully and meagerly try, try, try.

For grace, it is, good enough?

The Spinning Song

It's stuck in my head, really.

Has been, all my life.

A catchy ditty, it's about spinning.

Not auguring, or falling out of the sky in a tail-spin; not political either - it's plain, old-fashioned spinning, on a spinning wheel.

No, not like the song from the 60's (let the spinnin' wheel spin) - yarn (and not "talking a yarn" either, actual, bona fide yarn (of the kind used to make afghans, and funky capes that old women and hippies wear).

It's actually a song, composition, really. Played on the piano. It's a catchy tune.

But, isn't that the way of spin. Spin is contagious...it sticks with you.

It binds, and it magically takes small fibers and through some mystical quirk of nature it forms them into this structure that does not unravel but yet clings in a manner that can not be fully explained (or at least, not to satisfaction - why does it not simply unwind?).

How is it that this song, this piece, this composition is so like the yarn it tries, through cadence and tonality, through rhythm and vibe, to mimic?

Da, da, da, da, da, da...da DA.

Over and over and bloody over, clickety-clack, just like that damned wheel...spinning, pumping with their feet, spinning, spinning, spinning.

It's mind numbing, really.

Like the political quacks and hacks...always spinning.

I have to ask, though; with the yarn, it binds and makes something useful. Something we can wear, or keep our bodies warm in the Winter (if we are old women or hippies - although I did once see a bikini made from afghan - quite fetching until it got wet at which point it looked as though she had cocker spaniel puppies attached to all her nasty bits. Wet and nasty cocker spaniel pups. Oooo, I just keep getting a deeper state of funkiness).

What then is accomplished by the political variety of spin? Is there a double-helix array formed from the spin that binds into this form that covers our bodies not unlike the array that forms the skin that contains and manifests our bones, our brains, and even, to extent, our souls?

I think it more like the airplane, beginning its descent in a tailspin, and then like the auger binding itself into the muck of the earth. Rather than forming something of the earth, it digs into its mire.

Ironic that political spin would be of that sense of the word, you know, twisting into the dirt seeking its origin in the depths of the planet - in the hell from which it was formed rather than providing anything of noble use to man.

Oh well; I do have to get my heart right. It is, after all, an election year and it is, frankly, time to talk turkey.

Clickety, clickety....clack.

A high field

There is the field at the top of the mountain,
Where knee high grass is woven in patterns by the wind,
and Moved aside but not broken by the passage,
of Wild animals, children, and angels.

It is not a place of prideful self-congratulation,
nor a place for healthy disraction,
It is not a gateway to another kingdom,
nor a secret garden to keep in silence.

The sky there is hardly less distant,
And no new monument needs to be made,
To boast of man's indomitable spirit,
As evidenced by the remoteness of that place.

Yet, if I were an Irishman I would call it enchanted.
They did not look far for the fairy realms,
The dancing and singing of little people,
May come from the other side of a hedgerow.

And between the folds of the ridges below,
The dark, heavy trees fade away among the clouds,
What we have left is for the moment forgotten,
And all that we are is all that we brought.

It is a high field,
A place to be grateful.

9:25 AM, 101st Floor

Though perched above the fires
that roil and send up acrid clouds
for now my view is clear

Before me untouched majesty
stretched out across a whitecapped sea
too far to be so near

Around me: screams and sobs and cries
and panicked prayers and futile rage
of those about to die

Heat must rise, and so it brings
in waves upon a fiery tide
an anguished tear to eye

Confronting my oblivion
yet still with choice and still with will
for minutes or for hours

Before me on my office desk
the icons of a life soon gone
to rubble with the towers

A picture frame of summer scenes
a beach with children, smiling wife
my shattered conscience learns

That all such things are treasures
for beyond the frame and through the glass
the second tower burns

Machines have failed, there is no way
to reach out from this flaming tomb
and touch those fleeting lives

Yet still I live, in mockery
powerless to save the life
from which my will derives

And so, again, that single choice
the choice to burn or fall and die
sum total of my years

I stand as I unknot my tie
then fold it, lay it on my desk
damp from unchecked tears

And walk to where the window gapes
where others, early pioneers
have given will their voice

And face against the endless wind
eyes closed, mouth dry and clenching fists
I make my final choice

Nikki Giovanni on Current Events

Oh you rotten Musharraf!
You nasty, no good wanna-be white man!
You can blame the brothers
But we know you offed Bhutto
you nasty SNAKE
with your olive-drab army pants

You gonna get it when my bitch-goddess is callin' the shots

My bitch-goddess is gonna tear you up
you rotten Musharraf

ode to the pastoral cityscape

the diesel fumes confront me from the riotous city's splendor
of traffic lights reflected off the shattered pools of water
on concrete covered earth that conceals all soft or tender
each street a tomb of meadows, monument to ancient slaughter

the horns a-blare and distant sirens echo from the walls
that rise around me like the fists of man's complete dominion
their imperfections hidden by the night ere morning falls
and men arise to share their lot with rat and roach and pigeon

Refrain, oh ye Profane

Ode to the Profane,
may ye live in peace.
Through Cerberus disdain
he chases you, your pain
and no refuge found in any crease.






Ode to the Profane,
may your days be always numbered.
Like that killing brother Cain,
for you, there, a trouble that is lain.
In whithered hour, your dream-color, only umbre.

Ode to that Profane,
life for you to only agonize.
In your life, only pain,
the devil in your eye, pure disdain,
and all those about you only patronize.

Ode to you, Profane.
Tis a life not worth living,
birth for you ney again,
(for that first, from womb, was never sane)
and now your life's blood is only for the giving.

Ode to you, Profane,
your books you may write,
and the necks, they may crane,
but on the minds only strain,
and yours is a legacy of the trite.

Ode to you, Profane.
While great bastions from ye are pummelled.
But in the melee of that great train,
your thoughts, they sum in a certain refrain
of the fact of a life that is never humbled.

Ode to you, Opie Taylor
for yours is the heart of a Louveteau.
While your idol is Kaaba,
The cowan's heart in you, Jablichas
pitied soul pours forth like blood from wounded doe.

A Poem for a Poet

Two faced god of night and day,
Hot breath, foul corpse, mocking fear,
Corruption, skull, grinning from ear to ear.
Barren desert land beyond a boatless quay.

You I know, I know so well, I know,
I know, I name a thousand ways,
And each name its own annointed tome,
A great new novel or a novel poem,
But each is all the same

The same great devil within each thought,
The same wraiths in each inkblot,
The same fingers split between the rocks,
The same last gasp beneath the waves
As I am dragged into that liquid grave.

This I know, I know I know, I know.
It's all I hear, it's all I see,
The steady beat of tuneless drums,
The drums that call, I come, I come!
Fly far away from me.

The City of Man

The world it slogs and trudges on
the same dull battle every dawn
the veil unrolling cross the land
unrolling doubt in every man

No sooner does that sun arise
than man awakes and purpose flies
betrayed by light and roiling heat
betrayed to flesh and rotting meat

Though stalwart hearts arise at dawn
by noon all goodness long has gone
scorched by the world's relentless might
but empty husks before the night

So sleep does come and peace arrives
whatever grace a man derives
will empty soul and heart restore
to wake and lose the fight once more

Perfect Opening Line to a Perfect Country Song, No. 673

"Dear Lord...bring me somebody who'll treat me, just like that gal who treated me so fine, a'forin I treated her so rotten, right before she treated me worse to get back at me, and then treated her fiance so bad when she said there, on the daince floor, in that smokey ol' pool room that she wanted me back, which led me to think (for the rest of my life) what I really wanted, which was 100 per-cent pure (and unadulterated) true love, of the variety of sorts that existed a'forin all the above-said crud went down...holler julia! I am HOOKED on luv!"