8/19-21/18

We ache to be seen.
Respect me!  Make me real in your

experience
eyes, ears, and outward
Make me more than these internalities.
Don’t just preach at me --
make me see
that we are we
-- not internal me/untouchable you


8/21/18




My comic book refuge
adventures free from
confusing human reality



Doubt is about thought
The thought that what is given may not

be Truth
or even that Truth has dimensions,
which can be found
differently.



a silent oligarchic coup


8/19/18

twilight

~twilight, dear goddess, call to song to aery dancing.

Lady fair your fiery trance rewinds our souls;

enjoy these offerings of fancy: all art is yours ~

 

 

 

Degree of natal Hekate --

a liminal decade for the dweller

on the threshold.

The search is for clarity,

expanding borders,

elasticity as integral character.

To see, feel, merge and undulate

through; to discover, uncover, swim

in the glory of original grace,

ecstatic beauty.

To see, to feel, to breathe in

all exquisite luxury of prescience; to hold,

transmit as cellular energy.

To paint upon translucent canvas

subliminal etchings, private symbols

generously revealed.

Sagacity gifted, re-gifted,

planted in potent fertility

of visions, of cantations -- tinsel of starlight;

the subtle scent of phantom pain;

the feather touch of eternity.

I fall into velvet voice, enchanting form.

Move with the rhythm;

caressed within word and worlds'

mysteries.

 

 

 

 

Resolutions.  Revelations.

Look into the molten glass, sparking visions.

Star twinkles ask not, glorying in terpsichore;

no written lines obscure wide sky, open beyond horizon

mistily expanding into rolling sea.  Drink

to oblivion, to ecstasies bequeathed in excess emotion,

rolling, amniotic, amnesia of expectation.  Breathe --

vestigial gills awaken.

 

This is the first measure of the first movement,

a pirouette, a dervishly delightfilled whirl.

Cast upon this rocky estuary, dance inner wise,

third eye calling dawn into destiny.

 

 

 

The new day,

dawn's cloudy brew.

Cumulative immersion with pollution,

anthropic chemical solution

under which we were formed.

It will encounter clouds and hailstorms,

turbulence and destruction.

 

 

 

The curse took no notice of time or circumstance.

I existed in a liminal state of vague dream images,

static discharge of random sensory neurons.

I did not expect; I did not wait; I was not aware of being.

 

Caught in conundrum ‘tween twilight and dawn

Formerly someone, lost without form

Back to that question you asked being born

and the answer that started when?

 

 

 

At the crossroads, past midnight,

before the power of

peeping dawn, blessed in colors of awe.

Songs that entwine backbrains, insist

we all dance one foot, one mind, one goal

or another.

Face off, blinded, emit sonic rays as walls

so steep, so hard, so badly soiled.

 

 

In quiet before twilight, before time,

vagrants paint with bloodied fingers, examine

interstice and flow.

Slowly, as viscous waste, then quicker pick up

of pace, then light takes hold, caresses gentle

as a kiss of friend intent.

Will you let it in?  Will you let your vision bend,

extend, begin?

 

 

 

Beginnings never warn of battle

flame or drunken dares.

They only promise vague

adventure, valiant possibilities.

 

wild in the sun, in the shadow, against the highway

moving I to I in the twilight

anticipate memories to come.

 

 

 

There is a viscosity to twilight

Cut from the core

fruit of neural womb, gestating,

sluggish, subject to cravings, livid dreams.

Within the secrets of the seed,

occluded aspects of beginnings,

unfolding

petal by petal,

sacred in the morning dew

enticing fragrant fields

as if myths foretell our lives

 

 

twilights of harmonic symphonies when Sun

touches green horizons.

 

 

Twilight, trace forecolours of dawn, silence deepens,

counterstroke to what is to come.

 

 

As day end melts into familiar

constellations, migrating like flying life,

early harvest still feeds celebration.

 

 

 

Liminal Spaces

 

 

Twilight, the wee hours,

the dark of the moon

liminal spaces,

places where magic reigns,

crossroads, crises, cusps.

 

There is static on the radio.

A song

my voice was singing

taking flight to surround me,

the sound of music,

a comforter of down

to ease my soul.

 

I've been trying to define a taste,

a sense of bittersweet and salt.

I've been trying to find a trace

a footprint in the desert,

a sound, a scent,

a memory.

I've been trying to find a trace of me,

a piece to fit the puzzle,

my contribution to the grand design.

Seeking in the shadows,

the space between

myth and matter,

those places words

cannot define.

On those insubstantial plains

of myst and awe,

the stuff of dreams,

threshold of wonder,

creation begins.

 

 

 

A brief eternity before dawn,

supplicating the night sky for

solace, this soft moment before, 

an unmarked road

to ride along home.

 

That liminal space

Between my body and the airwaves

Creates a dance.

 

 

 

Rather like a faery spell,

those dawning tendrils

sneak through my windowshade.

But it's much too early to be rising.

So I'll dally in illusive romance

without recalling

I've no one to wake to

beyond the dawn.

 

 

 

Simple acceptance.

The dancer with the dance

enter pre-dawn mystery,

quiet interval,

incanting music.

Undulating reverie

glistening in firefly light

 

Tell a rollicking tale,

we demand of the piper.

We have paid all the long

seasons of darkness.

It is time to reap an early harvest

of dreams dancing to dawn

 

 

 

Every dawn could be inspiration,

bounteous gifts free of obligation,

uplift of

energy gleefully received.

 

 

Symphonies,

drums at dawn.

Inspiration and instruction

carried forth through song and stage.

Vibrant murals painting onward age to age.

Taking up the challenge of the tale

that twists, turns, meanders,

providing kaleidoscopic opportunity

ever to begin again.

 

 

 

Wrenched gut throbs, eyes blurred to the howl.

Twilight crowd a'clamor for loud resilient community;

tranced instant glamour distant from day's insanity

entrains yearn for humanity.

Learn flexible grace staggering tribal stadia;

fade lines between day and night as you play

 

 

Grooving through the twilight.

Twirling through the fade.

Relax into madness,

dark magic

masquerade.

 

 

After images,

ash sparks in the twilight,

take flight, swirl within echoed breeze.

Readiness to ride the free winds of chaos.

 

 

 

Here, in a world of fog and fury,

blurred in twilight vengeance,

crows, ravens, portents of

black flight circle above.

A crown of shrieks, feathers

cascade, rain like pestilence.

No blame in blindness.

"I could not see through feathered fog;

could not save you."

 

 

Signpost in the fog.

Thick dry-ice blue billow emits formulations.

Liminal, portals

rise back, diminish time,

disarrange context.

Sear of light, brutal panic.

Quiet.  High-pitched sonic

memories

 

 

 

Eternity of now

burns through bone,

marrow -- flimsy narrow gate

Liminality is waiting

 

That liminal dimension between the pain

and the screen selection of feeling, immersion

away from meaning:  what you don't mean

 

 

Twilight passages, when possible expands.

Pre-dawn messages, first-draft images,

subconscious doodles before thought can capture plan.

Empty enormity celestial map demands.

Continuum of spectral light draws sight

against backdrop of shadow’s span.

 

 

Midsummer twilight,

fairytales brought back from sleep.

Sprinting across that abyss,

goblin mouths, hungry ghosts.

 

 

Dusk’s purple sky imagines

streets aglow in festive lights, flights of fun.

 

 

By liminal command, young aggressors channel

to sport, fantasy battle, adventurous work.

Next level survival demands we assess, re-learn.

 

 

 

last of dying light

first return

liminal moments -- dusk, dawn

 

 

Oblique bands dapple into twilight.

Far away forests call.

Peace floats softly in trailing starshine,

mystically inviting.

Dusk whirls of wilding sands.

 

Gentle twilight, before the night, before all the freeze of laughter,

bubbling partying, high hats and hands, desperate to ignite,

to touch and become.

 

 

free of temporality, ephemeral, rare and precious and of the fleeting moment, exquisite beauty without further responsibility.

 

Yet again, "be here now"

ever changing landscape; ever changing dance of me to you.

Leaning into illusion theory.

Too many coincidences/synchronicities, object lessons, deja vus.

There's too much that makes too much sense

in a totally fantastic way.  I feel slipping,

down the rabbit hole, through the mirror, into the Twilight Zone.

 

 

 

Welcome to the Twilight Zone

 

 

Welcome to the twilight zone

for twilight presages the night

the beautiful, magickal night

where anything can happen

any dream can be revealed.

 

I ride a marvelous nightmare over evanescent swamplands,

mysterious passageways into undiscovered treasure hoards.

There is so much, mirroring its way into the future,

recombining images, sounds, visions, eery macabre skeletal touch.

Endlessly morphing images, whirling through me,

each fleetingly touching its sweet taste onto my tongue,

eternally cherished in a magnificent instant.

There is no future in the night, no past, no present,

only dreams and surreal landscapes, seascapes, skyscapes.

There is an anticipatory quality that moves and dances,

ever out of reach, never coalescing into form.

This is the essence of magick.

This is the promise, the curse, the incantation, the lion's roar.

This is the homeland of vampires, lycanthropes, sorcerers from beyond.

This is the holy see, the mist shrouded mountain peak, the smoky lake,

the boundaryless mystery.

 

Welcome to the twilight zone,

the band of pale purple light

that draws us home.

 

 

 

 

Darkening into heavier compression,

molten heat.

Density increasing toward

event horizon.

Twilight,

on the apocalyptic battlefield.

Inside the box,

are we dying

or transforming?

 

 

 

Another rainy day

allowing dawn to hide behind

weeping clouds.

Sunday into Monday,

weekly transition.

Giving in to who we are

despite our dreams.

Look!  Listen!

 

 

 

 

The sounds, the smells, the awaited adventures

Anticipation . . .

Or merely another day?

Do you long for love in the dark, dusky evening?

Do you count the countless stars,

knowing a miracle is on its way?

Has the chill of eternity captured your imagination?

 

 

Light coalescing into sound into waves into sea?

 

What is the demand of sky

of sea

of fire

 

dripping through the twilight?

 

Reflections

 

half moonlight, half mind.

 

 

 

Someday soon the piper calls

a merry tune you're too afraid

to answer;

you are no dancer.

Still afraid at dawn,

chirping birds upset you.

Those who have not met you

no longer matter.

Mad as a hatter,

you open your soul to the night,

and find, though blind in your flight,

better ventures than fright

now bid you to believe

your fate.

It may not be too late,

too close to the dawn.

I hear the nightbirds pleading

for just one more song.

 

 

 

 

Like you, I've learned everything

I know

from late night movies,

lyrics on pre-dawn radio.

 

I look behind to shining grace,

realize my place,

out, far from grim, grey dawn

upon dawn.

Listening for enchanting pipes

of Pan to follow

past the painted sky.

 

 

 

 

Longshoremen, in early dawning,

stinking of dead fish,

seagulls' wet crying.

Desolate, the sea entwined

with sky, casting about

into another day.

 

 

 

Dream Street

 

 

Bright colored lights,

Boisterous music,

Gaily chatting people

drawn in by wares.

Carnival beauty

painted so prancy

whirling romance

casts off daily cares.

 

Dark end of the street

quietly peaceful,

drawn in to the pre-dawn air.

 

 

 

Birdsong, voices conflating

the sum of experience,

let loose into this foggy dawn.

Colours, still subtle,

arranging,

catch liquid,

dissolve in

undulating air --

tell a story.

 

 

 

Coloured atmosphere,

diffracted light

The many metaphors of dawn

Layered clouds, clarify ecstasy

perfect

inspiration

dissolves the lock

twixt everyday and magic.

 

 

 

 

Times, forms, enemies change.

The game goes on.

 

 

 

Bright golden Sun absorbs mist from

a glorious dawn.

The smell of lonesome prairie after

the train's rushed through.

On this side of the bars,

life is slow,

awaiting judgment.

 

 

 

 

A brave touch twixt worlds

Can change minds into consciousness

with such subtlety

"Of course, we knew it all along."

 

 

 

on the threshold

before the eclipse

before the dawn

before we are given our missions,

sent forward in time,

we must be ready,

must rise to the challenge

without map or guidebook to prepare.

we endure the patience to exercise

control over every capillary,

every synapse,

of our being.

 

it's not the believing, but

the seeing.

a better world needs a new kind

of ware.

be a ware

for peace, for life,

for consciousness

before the wake.

 

 

 

 

quest

 

 

Deep in our ancient lives

Far from our daily chores

Hidden within our minds

With no bright line to follow

Could I be true?

Breathing, a mist so fine

sprayed from brave ocean floors

Seen in dreamlike design

shades dark and blue.

Dawn's pink-purple hue

breaks through over time

while I wander in dreaming.

What could be true?

 

Torn by my primal cry

how would you answer?

 

 

 

 

Words of Peace

speak beyond structured language

sharing profoundly

in joy,

graceful dancing

to music of each dawn.

 

 

 

 

morningbirds

 

 

Welcoming the light

creamy purples into day

so swift the change

(when it happens)

from predawn mysteries.

Trees sway gracefully.

Morning birds are singing.

Primeval emotions

awake in my dreams

before I remember

to whom my day is promised.

 

 

 

 

 

Old King's Cold/Grail King

 

 

And the old King dies.

Sends out his mortal ghost

to dance on Olympian plains.

I am the mighty he;

ruled wisely while I was allowed;

sold my soul to please the crowd;

withered on the vine divine.

There is no more of me.

Drink from the golden Grail,

Oh New Found King.

You are triumphant.

A bright dawn upon the kingdom

offers sparkling hope,

new dreams aborning.

Don't despair old peasant folk,

though you think despair all you

can cling to.

The Fisher King has returned

from his desert adventures.

He brings the tides to

slake the thirst

of this arid land.

I beg you yet again

to take a stand.

Take harness, plow your pastures.

Believe that the seed will take hold.

Listen to the heralds

shouting lines in the sand.

They know a flood is coming

after many a hard rain --

but don't despair!

It is a flood of fertility,

a harbinger promising carpets of grain

and lush vegetation.

All this is promised if you

do your part.

The old King, so long dying of his

festering wounds, has poisoned you

with ill-fated rule.

Cast out the poison from your hearts.

Tend your fields with a will

and a song.

Never forget you are free.

Never forget that responsibility.

 

 

 

 

May I say, I am awed by

the way your presence echoes,

keeps time and space at bay,

as if you create each new

dawning day.

 

 

 

 

A new day dawns cloudy and forbidding.

We are entering San Francisco in the morning fog,

early, early, the world still dreaming.

Or maybe it was Cambridge, Mass.,

lost in the fog, unsure of time or space.

Sometimes there is singing:

something about a "Yellow Submarine" or "Strawberry Fields"

or sometimes haunting melodies without words.

But it's all about the words, even those implied by the music.

Wine can help.

By the gods, wine is sometimes all that can help

(tho sometimes even wine betrays me).

The stinking debris of mornings after the night before,

or just morning by the coast with the stink of rotting fish,

the cries of gulls or sirens, the emptiness without tears, the cold of morning

-- I remember that too.

That no more mornings could touch me,

that I could hide contented in the night dreaming

flying dreams so none could touch me.

Fragments. Taking life in fragments. Folding each shiny fragment

into tender velvet pockets sequined to reflect the light,

let them be all right, feel cared for.

Let the nights protect us from the days.

Like a wandering hermit with a self-igniting lantern . . . .

 

 

 

 

Coming to the Light

 

 

My mind playing tricks on my eyes

That golden glow bringing me into

worlds of pumpkin coaches,

Valkyrie in flight,

neverlands that never were,

yet so much more real than

what passes for day to day.

 

Sadness is beauty brought down by ugliness,

truth succumbing to convenient lies.

Joy is opening all senses into the

spectrum of beauty.

No moderation,

no limitation,

no convenient structural captivity.

Let the stars be shining beacons

calling us home.

Let the wind be a magical cloak,

the rain an exultation.

Let the cold, dark night be

a treasured, inspiring friend.

 

Let the night take me forward

Into everfulfilling fantasies

The never empty cup,

the magic wand/magic word,

sprinkled with faery dust,

toasted with the fine bubbles

of celluloid champagne.

Let us, the night and I, sneak off into

exotic adventure.

Let us learn the secrets of the Moon and Stars,

ancient runes and alchemical wonders.

Let us play upon the backs of dragons,

learning to fly,

learning to breathe fire,

learning to explore the mountainpeaks

and caverns of

our chthonic fears

and spin them into gold.

 

The new day dawning

it will encounter clouds and hailstorms,

turbulence and destruction.

It will be a day of startling showers and

unsettled wind,

of unreasoned pain

and empty solace.

It will be a day to try our souls.

But it will be a day of infinite possibilities.

 

Let my good friend, the night,

join me in play

to help prepare me for the day.

Let the earth and fire and rain and wind

infuse my spirit

that we all be fellow friends

in the new ventures

coming with the light.

 

 

Early morning dawn awakening

to a season of wild abandon

a golden moment of sensation

In a flash -- alive to an open season

Alive to a new awakening

Alive

 

 

The future descends

from the fear-embroidered skies

the vision is of holocaust --

when everybody dies

A new day is dawning, but is it sun or storm?

We have a chance to make our mark

but is it right or wrong?

 

 

 

They dream of liquid floating in suspension and do not understand.

We are the product of their dreams.

We suck you of your life fluids, moving mouths on every part

of your body. Vampires of experience, we will not let you go till we have sucked you dry.

Like a vampire's victim, you will crave the life, the experience of others,

will suck them dry to gain eternity.

We suck you and lick you clean, fondlingly.

We again enter you through every opening,

cleaning you through. You have been exhausted.

We complete our ritual cleansing as you lie immobile, beyond response.

We symbolically cut off your genitals, cut out your heart. We now own your soul.

It has been a good night.

Dawn has long since risen;

they will wake soon. Soon they begin again,

another day of their busy aimless lives:

rise, work, unwind, sleep, and, oh yes,

consume those predigested market-attractive packaged

products of the mass media, the mass brainwash, the mass society.

 

 

 

 

Silent, the singers are searching for voice

They know in their souls it's a matter of choice

They need to find reason, a cause, to rejoice,

A newly turned path to felicity.

 

A new day is dawning, but where is the sun?

Our freedom and faith are defined by the gun.

The symbol of power overrules everyone

'Til we create our own electricity.

 

But under cover of darkness a banner's being stitched

Of patchwork-bright colors and radiance

To someday soon be unfurled in the breeze

As we march to freedom's song.

 

 

 

If life were simple,

childish agonies

dispelled with dawn's

bright kiss,

we would laugh

cross-purposes, cross-talk

easily sorted out in counsel.

We could harness the Sun, Moon,

birth of stars,

simply

allow minds to grow.

 

 

 

Growing Out of Liminality

 

 

Thirteen Wizards Shall Guide You, rotating in 7s,

to be chosen from a wizard test administered at regular intervals

to any who wish to apply.

Each wizard shall serve at his/her pleasure -- until they decide to move on.

Any wizard may return by retesting and getting the highest score amongst

those currently in line at the time of a vacancy, like any other candidate.

The test to be devised by a wise pre-council to ascertain qualities of

wisdom, compassion, responsibility, integrity and clarity of communication.

The test may be reviewed and revised at any time that the full council agrees

to do so, based on evidence of better result to be gained.

The wizards do not make the laws.

Laws are made by direct democracy, after a sufficient period of debate when

an overwhelming majority of consensus seems likely.

Wizards do have veto power.

Wizards do not control the economy.  That is the province of the market.

The wizards do oversee the use and conservation of common resources.

They do oversee a social infrastructure that assures everyone a comfortable, secure

livelihood.  They do oversee disputes to assure that everyone is treated fairly

in the course of commerce, and in the course of community life.

They are not paid an outright salary.

They are given comfortable living conditions that their minds may be free

of personal want.

 

 

 

 

 

 

True shamans aren't ready for this world,

dreamcatching from all hallowed and harrowed.

Wrapped in a cloud of moonbeams --

query and call; capture fleet answer and call --

Eerie, yet wondrously apprehended

in glory of original grace,

ecstatic beauty,

to remember we only borrow tomorrows

on our return to eternity.

 

 

Uplifting notes,

affecting themes,

track social rhythm, mark liminal time.

Lyric, simple sweeps of tone and cue,

never meant to trip up but evoke true

meaning.

In unknown dark,

shadow hosts

deep thought to lark and lounge.

Dawning form seeps toward reward,

to speak out what’s been found.

 

 

liminal wisdom

promotes calm acceptance of non-rational realities,

promotes reintegration of self as programmer

promotes self-reprogramming in alignment with

self-progression to a place of bliss and

dharmic awareness in which

every piece fits, magically finds its place

in expanding space eternally unwinding.

 

 

 

Being, not being, letting it be.

Day upon night swept by twilight.

Vague images coalesce, remain an instant,

slowly disintegrate.

Ghosts in smoky distance reset dimension,

eternal reconfiguration.

 

 

 

Twilight of Goddess Revelation

 

 

What twisted so maliciously your mind?

Your God -- Created that greedy leaders may more easily prevail?

Is it guilty shame, seeded by consistent training insisting that you fail?

Lost to balance, whole possibilities, unable to be free or sane.

Eternal life is yours, we scream, while you destroy our birthright

in service to conjuror's dream of denial.

 

but it's just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start,

each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart

 

II.

 

Born other than imperial, torn into what we are told is real

without power to protect ourselves from venal brothers of the order

spreading hatred like any venereal disease.

We no longer need to meet you cowering on our knees.

Karma's a hot potent bitch unschooled in mercy.

Witches reclaiming noble heritage, reframed herstories will prevail.

Though born, forced to service, in our master's jail,

lost and lonely midst the masses, masked to fit expected forms.

 

but it's just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start,

each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart 

 

III.

 

Listen, little one, watching every moment for our chance,

we will break free to adventurers' romance; dance away the chill of

foreign hills enrapt in leaves and grass. Hiding in primeval castles,

tightly aligned to a bright inner sphere, holding to hope of life to hold dear.

Learning to fly, ride to some unknown side, escape from the herd hate stone,

can't be as hard as learning to stand alone.

 

but it's just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start

each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart

 

 

 

 

So she drifted through the night,

content, serene,

laughing at silly little private jokes,

singing wisps of songs as they floated by,

making up fantasy landscapes and stories

from the shadow shapes as she passed through.

 

As dawn approached, shapes became more distinct against the color infusing sky.

She understood that her journey was over, as the memories returned in one last burst of clarity.

 

 

Leaves twinkle falling.

Stars arise in twilight.

Their song soft, insistent

siren call.

Lost to primeval moorings.

Washed by eternal storm

to awake

transformed.

 

 

 

Twilight at the Dark of the Moon

 

 

Moving inward.

Spiraling

into deepest silence.

Feel me here,

oh my most darling.

Here is the free-est flow,

river of bliss.  Bounty

of years of grey resistance,

incrementally awakened to

swirling shades --

mystic purples,

mad magentas,

sky-eyed blues.

There is ancient music,

crescendos to peals.

Layered millennial ears,

creatures of seas to trees

murmur through.

Ripples of soundwaves,

broker wisdom

not yet condensed into words.

Romances spun of clay and sand,

woven into fashion’s fabrics.

Hearty voices join,

create regaled mythology.

Star-shaped world story

reverberates with

chill and heat.

Nascent strive for enriched clarity

that must open ever more widely,

a luminous spiral

up, out, in, around.

Come, brave as you imagine.

In that brief eternal interval

all of energy

coalesces.

 

 

 

Imagine the day that dawns when

you are no longer dreaming.