head's in a pot of magic-moving
thinking it can turn about on silver dimes
with sensations of the after-glowings
of love or the taste of fresh apple pie

don't know why this spin refreshes
or sends me into the realms of the dead
but i sit watching the blurring sweetness
fall o'er the face of my love

strange echoes seep up from the past
of longings more unsettled than truth
of lost journeys into the darkened future
into the place i'd like to call home

but i sit at the window of torn farewells
near the door where dreams long to appear
and wait, stilted and partially shackled
with cold envy clinging like a kiss

ah, my shadowed memories and heated longings
my short dreams of all that could have been
i stare at the door where death may early enter
awaiting the fire's sweet after-life

tho broken and disappointed through countless ventures
peace with life is what i've stoked



*...crowds are caught up in the rush to conformity.  Lured by money and success, they become raw material for dictatorships, and for the democracies which are partly or already dictatorships.  It sometimes happens that men decide to excel in order to institute reforms.  They usually end up destroyed, content to mediate between various tendencies, to adjust appearances, to bring laws into line with customs.  Others set out to be revolutionaries.  But to employ violence against these evils is to bear them in oneself.  As soon as a cause triumphs, it's time to oppose it in the very name of the value that created it.

My preference is for rebels, those whose sanity leads them to relativize the ideas and automatic reflexes that society produces in them.
-Jean Sulivan

do i believe?

i.

do i believe
i'll commit suicide
if i leap sitting here
neath "foul weather"?

it's a ? i ask
...but y?
fear?
of saying gd-bye
& movin' on?

what's in me
...or not?
courage?
failure?
mistake?

i wonder.

ii.

o Gd,
come to my assistance.
wash my sin away;
let we grow
[n] be a new man
...woman
or ever what i might b,
might be
...w/grace.

iii.

yes,
i say!
yes!
some art is madness
2 c.
b free.
b alive.
survive the sadness.

well, then, toward where do you stare
when the sour wind beats upon your breast
to shake you
stir what's weak in the worn frame of "genuity"
without the "in"
without the standbys, the make-up
we pretend to have when standing straight
without fault or sin
or any human broken-self within

ah! what a mess we transport like graves
even before death ever caulks us in our tombs

i wonder
staring toward the forever long forever
why we play our foolish games
pretending to be masters of the fractured world
gods of the universe dancing with death
when many cry, waiting for some seasonal grace
for a touch of light
to smash the darkness known so well
yet sick

o, to have an eye wide enough to see
grasp the momentary grace gliding past our face
spilling tears
heating hearts
pushing feet to walk a moment ahead
feeling the breath of God slide where we stand


*The West is the third world of the spirit.  Its sadness can't be fathomed; it's the sadness of those who are separated from themselves, insatiable.  The poverty and destitution of the third world still leaves room for fraternity in collective agony.  In the West agony is individual.  Old and young, sick and handicapped - all are placed in the charge of specialists but are irredeemably alone.
-Jean Sulivan

*Technocratic rearrangements are insignificant and can offer no remedy to the illness secreted by a profit society.
-Jean Sulivan