Educational Hush

Twilight hush amidst the room;
a voice, rising through the shadow throng
commits the universe to notes
and I, swooning through the grace of logic, rise
drifted on the captivated stars
onto the mystic sea, glittering in
transcendental mysticism fires
that will not be bound by flesh:
a word, they say, a notion
but in that heaving sky
the rush of majesty;
souls which lie

Too Far

Vaunted tunnels lie within our night

the vaulted havens of our mortal sight

through and through

tried and true

fast tracks into

the biblical transcendence.

By flood or fire,

we drown beside the pyre

some half-hearted (but well-meaning) suit struck

with the force of a 49er’s luck–

mining, mining, always grinding

for that sweet and supple pining

that we had to carve up words to make it burn–

a terrifying notion for all to learn

you drive too fast, you dig too deep;

little Timmy’s gonna find a well he just can’t leap.

The Bitter-Bitter

Of all the things that earth yet whelps

a spirit stands by wonder of the mass

humanity cycles through the grass;

it springs by blazing lights

onto pavement struck by nights

running roughshod over skin and sin

a dancing has-been formed of thought’s chagrin.

Beneath the wan light, a man does dream of neon exits

too dull to see the dancer’s fed him by the bit,

because oblivion is just another state of mind

a symptom of the daily grind.


Across the bar, blue eyes murmur: the bitter helps.

A Touch of Madness

“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.” 

~Mark Twain

A portrait of the American writer Mark Twain t...

A portrait of the American writer Mark Twain taken by A. F. Bradley in New York, 1907. See also other photographs of Mark Twain by A. F. Bradley taken in March 1907 in New York on Mark Twain Project Online. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Lately I am stricken

as the plots to dear and mortal earth do thicken—

kneel, kneel lest it all too readily quicken—

for like the desert winds of old Sahara,

it burns to know the subtle motions Terra

should pass me by to other eras.


Rage, rage the old man writes

yet dead is light at the sour sight

of youth so bitter cast, paralyzed by fright;

where is devotion to seek out age

where privilege become but flesh and cage,

and still the younger cry: engage, engage.

Labor of the Heart

A labor of the heart

Is fickle for breaks time may yet impart;

Yet hearts all given up to labor

May find that flesh bears yet no flavor

Such that withered bones

Gilded on those rusted thrones

Reach evermore for other’s flames

To find the hearth within lies tamed.

No soul, within mortality leashed

Can ill afford to rush time’s feast.

Ours may yet be to wonder why,

But think too long and there you’ll lie.

Life’s purpose is the lurking feeling

That man must find his own life’s meaning.