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Boys balderdash
At the morning of nightfall
The words are incorrect
With meanings deceitfully strong.
Painted with abstruse nonsense
The message is lacking
And the grammar; all wrong!

3/2/99
Yellow sable
In a blackened forest
In a golden age
With animals acting
The world is a stage.
Atoms dancing
As the fire lights up the sky
Their structures prancing
None of them even know why.
Like why does it do this
And that, why
Do you,
Do I
Sit in this blackened mental state
In this golden land
Where smiling faces
And happy facades stand?

3/2/99
My friends in Outerspace
Could an ounce of luck
Descend from the stars
With joined hands
Sharing the light
Of a distant cataclysm?

3/2/99
Cloth
A square of blue
To remind us of what the sky once was
Back when we existed as only a dream.
White pentagrams
To remind us of the heavens crashing into the earth
As it once, and still does spin toward an inevitable cataclysm
Red stripes on a white background
To remind us of humanities blood stained past
While the white will only become redder in the future...

3/4/99
Forever in a glass
Cloaked in omnipotence
Traveling through infinity at speeds not tangible
Yet always at the start looking feeble
3/4/99
Crushed by a rock
Searching for the words
To place upon a deical messengers hand
As an a-theologist it remains vexing
The angary is detesting
Upon the dearth of divinity at its demand
Rests the exalted, fueled by the presumptuous lords

A forfeit is facilitated while resembling deodand
Pseudo heretics find themselves locked in graith
But they say the days of the gibbet are ended
Assuming it adminicle that anyone with the audacity to fleer god has long ago been dispulverated
By a hypocritical eternal entourage initiated at birth
In a land where murder adoxally justified is floccipend.

Dionetic episodes remain hackneyed and dorty
With assimilation of the persona at the fromth
Then an incognizant human bound in ignorance comes next
Alas, it is painfully evident I am vexed
For denouncing the plebeians trite mirth
To obtain a dyslogistic eupathy.

3/7/99
Life
A delicate quartz chalice
Filled with the finest wine
Falls and shatters on the floor.
The wine leaves a permanent stain
But the chalice is in disrepair
The boy is dead.

3/7/99
Mona Lisa

All faded like those dreams,
Hopes and aspirations of youth
The big boys are fighting again
It looks beautiful to a child
As they stand with a pugilistic gleam in their eyes
Getting ready to rip each other apart
Over some futile words said earlier.

It's a picturesque fantasy to a small boy,
The surge of power
The grace
All the makings of a freke Mona Lisa
That runs off the paper to attack its fans
All those old people straining their eyes to see what's going on
But they cannot; they haven't one aspiration left
They do not even seem to dream of it anymore...
3/22/99
(no title)

When the nights turn to a welcome escape
Lacking dreams
And borrowing feelings ill expressed during the day
You know it is time
To lay down beside that eternal flame and look inside
The depths
Of what you never thought possible to exist
And still do not
Nor will the puppet ever see his strings
But god is good
God is supposed to be something great
God is strings
Unexplained tool of unexplained fate
Puppet master turn around
Look at the fire
What a lovely human
But go home without a heart because you are supposed to be shy
Scotched by the flame of perfection
Burning strings to a wry
A tear to dowse the flame
On a pillow fluffed and called home
Wake up tomorrow again
Alone.
3/?/99
Baleful goodness

Is it right
To hope
To dream
Even when the hope
The dream
Is wrong
All wrong
Even when
It is impossible
Despicable
Is it worth dying for
And suffering for
Being ostracized
And impeded
It is treason
No
It is revolution.

3/?/99
Ain't no Sappho

A great poet would say this another way
Maybe with a rhyme scheme
Or something interesting and eye catching
In fact I do not think they would write this at all
Because I write this to say
'I am not a great poet'.

3/?/99
The division joint

Maybe if I live in indecision
I will keep an open mind
And maybe if I shut my eyes
I will not go blind
There is a chance that the earth could sing
And faeries dance
While sirens ring
In an explicit trance
All in a world which is a speck
Spitting on the ground
Ten worlds I create and ten I wreck
And each of life's ambiguous lessons strikes more profound
An ounce of love is worth a cup of hate
A subjective circus snatching my attention
As I forget the life I abate
With tiny inane details of an absurd conviction
In the palm of my hand
There is no good or bad
No feelings
Just a universe I harbor and the audacity breeds
For I still call aspects of life bad.

4/4/99
Metamorphosis

Is it enough to hold the hand
While surmising tyranny
And having faith in the hymn
"Innocence and virtue is childish".

Will it preserve you
Fossilizing your unspoken beliefs
Because you lack the words
To say your thoughts as they are

Does the indecision grow
As the contrasting choices merge
And good and evil are lost
To speculation

Will the world be ready
For a contradiction
That will bring new meaning to the term
'mature child' and 'immature adult'

Is it enough to dream it,
Act it and hope for it
While under the weight of a culture
That condenses children to adults?

4/6/99
Ode to Darwin (in memory of the faeries and of childhood)

Dancing like water droplets on the front end
Barrier of a fantasy land
Glasslike border dyed red and opaque
Evolution of a human society at stake.

Unicorns de-horned
Faeries un-winged
Dragons quenched with water
A division bell rings

Upon the high planes
With mountains once made of gold
A wasteland from eye to the oceans
A summer eternally cold

Eyes shutting like doors of opportunities
Long ago lost to the pile of bad decisions
With false immunities
And mass extinctions

The earth is rusting
Our free flowing mutinous oxygen
An endless trade off of lives
The ant is nearly our twin

To smash the past
While somehow trying to create a present
Is building a castle with no base
A theory with an idea absent

And still we are alive by some catastrophic accident
Evolution is the god that saved our ignorant souls
And it's the god that is hell bent
On making us like the myths called history: decayed holes.

4/7/99
The man with a gun and a dog

You love, do you not?
You love,
The way the sun rises each day
And paints the sky like the fine artist it is.
The way the boys smile at you
And turn your male resenting heart to a promise breaking piece of mush.
How about those ugly pests,
You know you love them too
Because they feed those cute little kitties
That you hold in your arms as delicately as any mother would hold a child.
Even those annoying adults,
You love the way they make you feel superior
And most of all
You love the way you overlook and hate these things.

4/7/99