The Only Good that Could be Done

The only good that could be done

As wild oats to bran become

Has withered away with the guise of lust

And circled around with false mistrust

As rivers weep into the ocean’s heart

So tears can teach the crier’s lark

Of burdens and bruises that time will hold

So buried beneath, sequestering the soul

Like a seed cannot know which roots to trust

The ones that reach up, or those buried in dust

A mind will grope for some certitude

And cloak and mask and declare what’s true

But the body hums a different tune

When souls cry to escape their corporal cocoon

The ticking clock, unwound; a past, undone

As a waxing heart then becomes the sun.

A Recipe for Madness

First, take all your assumptions and conclusions, and throw them out.

Then, pass over all the possibilities of possibility

think through how you think

ask why to every why, and the whys of those 'why's.

By now (already) you should be well on your way to madness.

At this stage of utter befuddlement be sure to repel all that is definite

and continue in this state of oversaturated blankness.

If you are brought to any thoughts of 'truth' or a 'consistent reality'

ward off these thoughts as delusions of your lifelong training and conditioning.

You are brainwashed still, and need to purge with even more determination.

Hypoglossal Hyperboles

 It is the words that are the root of the problem

Not communication,

not how your body blocks mine as we cross paths

Nor the enticing gaze that sits on you

as you await your steadfast other half

No, it is the words

those incompetent fools

who command the caress of the tongue as it  

slides lightly around the inside of our mouths

playing victim, playing perpetrator

and it is we who give in to this game

pacified by the repeated stroke of their syllables,

surrendering to the construct    

of word, of language: of motion, of thought.