Race for the Crystal Skull

The Crystal Skull was cut across the grain
Thought it was their god, and treated it the same
No human hands made the relic of the cave
It would’ve shattered as chain on brave.

Welcome to the city of supreme beings,
I’m sure you’ve seen how sausages are made
Factory farmer fallen behind the tour group line
We stare into the void that guides the mind.

We don’t hide here or needs remind us.
We are the word written and spoken, awoken
The form follows the function, but why?
Or why not, am I right? Is anything possible a lie?

Not just anything anytime you want to be.
Only specific, particular things are happening.
Automatic writing, our lives in history shown.
Read aloud, that’s a grown up thing to do.

We once courted ladies in verse and now
We settle in court, or private browser mode.
Kicked over the castles built on a sandy road,
We used to woo her and wow her and now we just cower

I fire the main dish and plot a course westward
for unknown shores, a wake from the meme wars,
The bards, the jesters, the fools and the game testers,
the evangelists, protestors, the sidewalk and stadium whores.

We are not the sorry-but-I-did-my-best-ers,
We are the whole heart, the all investors
We are the tribe of truth sayers
My dear hunters, the bloody roulette players.

We praise without pronouncing the name,
We tease without shame, teach without blame.
We find nothing missing, no time or place,
We are the wilderness willing to be tame.

Progress is a series of Left and Right Steps

Steeping up a gaiwan of OG Green Tea
with a kush buddy, a little pupperoni
Watching this video by Doctor Jordan B. Not Samantha, please.

Get into the YouTube, really check it out though, he’s a cool dude, not rude.

He’ll break it down for you, and build it up way higher.
I’m not screwing around right now,
I’m a lot of things, but not a goddamn liar.

Like what’s the point of all this
madness and fights over bullshit
We all have rights and are done wrong
but no wrongs can be undone
with more wrongs, what’s done is gone.

We don’t have long, let’s just move on.

I’m not a moron, and neither are you, obviously but it’s not the group
It’s just you, the divine individual
in full glory, the spark in the heart
of the hero of each own story
Not feminist or misogynist, misandrist or antichrist the protagonist of everyone is the catalyst for existential bliss.

And that’s how it is.

The Pebble

A little girl picked along a stream weaving through the cedars and pine near her mountain home.

She looked left and right, under her feet, across the water and all around, picking up a shiny stone here and there, placing each one in her apron pocket.

After awhile her apron grew heavy and her stomach grumbled, so she left the stream and walked home, leaning on the quiet trees she passed along the way.

Her father was just arriving with two buckets of water on a plank settled across his shoulders. He saw her waddling towards him and laughed into the sun.

She heaved her swollen apron onto the great stump father used to split wood, spilling out the jumble of stones in an oracle’s dice throw.

“Mama mountain laid eggs!”

He reached into the pouch at his waist and held out his hand, wide as the stump, showing her a single dark red rock.

“And what will this hatch, daughter?”

She wrinkled her tiny face in thought, while the hatchet in his other hand swung in a blur over the stone, casting a flock of hissing sparks into the fire pit at his feet.

Her eyes grew wide and she smiled.

“A Phoenix!”

Soon steam began to rise from the pot hung over the fire pit. He scooped some out into a clay bowl and handed it to her. The warmth spread into her little hands, and behind his beard, the father smiled.

Uptown Irony

Steamed almond milk in dark chocolate.

Gluten free granola with pumpkin seeds.

“Your hair is nice,” he said to me.

Waiting for a drip refill, not his turn in line.

“Looks like an angel,” he gestured to her

“Don’t you think?” As she spun the register.

“That, this and your total is six sixty six.”

A laugh that would not be held back

Came out a boulder after Indiana Jones.

“There’s some irony there,” she said.

“Can I touch it,” he asked with earbuds in.

I consented and bowed my head to him.

Look within my brother, see my sin

See my dying mother, see my crooked kin

Say you met me in a post apocalyptic place

You would not think this face angelic

Beneath this halo of hair a brown bear

A crown of horns and raven stare

Lovesick greed and prideful envy

Lust for every other empty

Troll and Cold War border sentry

Hooves and grooves worn in memory

I am the fire which takes your home

I am the liar who bleeds the stone

I am therapist and analyst and clone

I am the night which swallows suns

I am the oceans of desire

I am the all consuming one

I am the throne assuming son

I am the all sowing sire

The demon of eternal bones

All blessings be upon your way

You Can Think About The Universe

But can the universe think about you? You could believe that it thinks nothing about you, that it doesn’t recognize you.

But you must remember that from the beginning of this universe, and all the universes it contains, you specifically, precisely, were brought into existence, every atom is arranged in just such a way as to become exactly your personality and your freckles and your secret dreams, everything all at once, for all time in all directions, is connected.

It’s not the universe which doesn’t see you… it’s you. Better recognize. Look in the mirror. And by that I mean look around. You’re everywhere! You’re a superstar, a supernova, you’re blowing up! You can be seen across time and space, expanding, growing up.

You’re a star, you’re the Sun. Sol. Soul.

There’s a whole solar system around you. A speck of dust in your orbit has life bursting forth from cracks in the thin film of dried rock. What that life thinks of you, if it worships you, if it hides itself from your explosive integrity, it doesn’t matter to you. You’re not aware of it, not the way that life is aware of you.

Reign of Ire / Rain of Fire

Into the open wonder of all this

Material confounding our essence

In concordance with the fullness

Of spurious excess aesthetics

reckoning expenses

Expanding fences

Digging in trenches

Cowardice consent with offenses

Mental menses and critical lenses

Crippled and sinuous revelations

An end to the endless

Whether the climate wrenches

Life and love from our tenuous clenches

Or the immenseness

of our spirit synthesis

Supplants our senses

We sail on empty

We ride on rails reality renders

Just ahead of our advances

A thought awake

A wave relentless

Power condenses

Amalgamates alliances

Anneal us anoint us alloy us

Amidst our mounting defenses

Repentance resolves into

Precipitation of exegesis

The Curse of the Serpent

The mirror of mother

sleeve of every scale and color

venomic apertures and cavernous hunger

sarcophagus uterus crypt of crippled womb

a corpse in the room

scream in a tomb

and nobody blinks

where is the humor

in this hall of human beings

here have some death

and say your goodbyes

the sentence is short

the past here lies

to beat the heart

and soak the cries

hand to rag

haul to hell

and back for supplies

every once in awhile

End of an Error

This is the end of an era. The end of terror.

The era of pain and schismatic rage has come to a close. Will has come again.

Now is the dawning of the age of Aquarius. Water are us. 

Or love. Or hope. Or the molten gold ever flowing, pouring out to fuse the cracked heart.

To refuse the dark to restart the art of atoning that fixes and keeps it running regardless.

The age of apes grown up and childhood spirits returned to the sender.

The tender stalks in the blender. The vegan protein and jars of iced coffee.

The frozen cherries lend a sweetness. Tarts and treasures. Hidden pleasures.

Bonus games along the way.

Time flows and madness knows what is not clear, what crawls on rocks beyond reach.

Baby rattlesnakes without warning fork no fear in front, a display of play at the rear.

The end is near, the silence after the years of silence.

Words rise like distant suns split cloudy skies with long light rays.

Night is always on the menu.

The stage is set, sold out the venue, sound is checked, they’re waiting for you.

In the green room stands the one who holds the grace of a holy face within the secret space.

The show goes on, there is no cancellation. No beasts and no nation. Exit is performance.

There will be no protestation loud enough. No alarm pulled can halt the forward motion.

No platform to speak of something, anything like love.

God is nowhere, God is now here.

Good is not nothing. Good is no thing.

All good is being. All being good.

To be or not to be, it is no thing. Not nothing.

Nothing but a flightless bird wing, a dinosaur adapted to living

in service of singing rodents on the surface of a spinning magnet.

A growth of purpose. A eulogy for judgment, a ceremony of internment.

A camp of internal learning forms around the fireplace.

The stars in their firmament stretch into filaments.

We are here. We are. Here, we are. Here we are.

Are you here? Are you clear? Are you over it?

Not above it. Not below it. But understand you are standing under it.

To hold, to help, to heal, to feel. You are the hand.

You are manual. Not automatic. You are the gear shift.

You are the transmission of power. You are the drive.

You are life. You are alive.