free poetry

The atman adrift in space
sees stars’ results: novae;
a black, swirling eon of brilliance
condensed under such pressure
the center produces heat that glows
out the incandescent surface sphere.
Conditions ripen. Moisture warms.
A chemical reaction takes place.
Shoals sprout terrestrial life.
In this one-hundred-and-twenty-five-
billion-year window of opportunity
how far are we from either end?
Emptiness circulates. Displacement pulls
an ion. A basket is floating downriver.
Currents rock the infant to sleep.
Crashes with rocks jar him awake.
Eyelids slightly separate.
The flow skirts every impediment.
The journey through time continues.
The distant star is visible ahead,
on course in this trajectory.
Consciousness: where I am headed.
Ha! I atman am without any essence!
The diameter to the opening widens
the closer that the threshold looms.
The probability of crossing increases.
Inevitability takes strange form:
a beauty I cannot but love
in an enigma I cannot face.
The ion blanches before the portal
at the magnifying glass mirror inside.

Cassandra chews the laurel leaf.
She is a Native American shaman
at a pyramid in Mexico. She stands atop
the Temple of the Sun, offering
herself in sacrifice. I foresee
rape and plague. The Aryans are coming.
They want to take over the Earth.
Enslave us to serve their Great White [shark]
Society. Spice! Recollections from girlhood…
Salt, the flesh and the temple.
Zen samurai assassins, we need you
to aid us in beating back the scourge.
Yes, the man of few words,
says in Japanese: Hi. Through practicing
zazen meditation, I finally realize
the fundamental problem inherent
in the Western mind. Que bueno,
Cassandra replies. Diganos por favor.
Dionysian decadence. Party like Apollo,
the golden haired rock star celebrity.
Andy, may I introduce you to Jim Morrison
leader of the world famous Doors musical group?
Hi Jim. Hi Andy. Wow, what
beautiful eyes you have. The better
to scr[illegible] you with my dear!
Paris bathtub, 1971. Pere Lachaise cemetery.
Buried next to Baudelaire.
Vines on tombstones. Les Fleurs du Mal.
Enlighten us, we are awaiting understanding.
The sage says: Frankie Say Relax.
Martyrdom is a mental illness.
But this sucks Lord, one of Jesus’s
disciples complains in Gethsemene.
Why do you have to die?
It is written. My Father hath ordained me.
No it isn’t. And if he did, perhaps
you should disown him. Parricide.
I love you more than anyone else.
The sermon you gave on the mount
was the most profound thing I have ever heard.
Stay alive. Keep teaching us.
I am sorry. I have to die.
No you don’t! The saint is enraged.
He wants to slap his master in the face.
It is said that zen practitioners
have attained enlightenment that way.
The teacher slaps the pupil.
Wake up, you sleeping mind. Snap
out of this dream! The world is an illusion.
Events transitory. These bones we are in,
prone to fall away in decay and dissolution.
There is no such thing as God;
at least not as you are perceiving.
The powers of the Buddhamind
are vast; even infinite. However, there
is one simple principle, which is, to quote
John Lennon, that All You Need Is Love.
There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done.
There’s nothing you can do but you can learn
how to be you in time. It’s easy.

Pink Floyd performs at Pompeii to an audience of none.
They sing Echoes in the amphitheatre of the ancient Roman
city drowned in volcanic ash and lost to history for one
thousand and five hundred years. The concert is in 1970.
Beside the band only the cameramen are present to record
the spectacle. A Saucerful of Secrets is the most primal
ditty in their repertoire. We see Roger Waters’ silhouette
banging on the gong like the ape with the antelope bone
the drum in Strauss’ overture for Thus Spoke Zarathustra
in Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, which came out a couple
years before, in 1968. Floyd probably viewed it on LSD,
as did many hippies back then, in their home movie theatre.
The young rock stars were rather rich and very popular.
Time passes to 1975 when they release the first installment
of their existential trilogy: The Sorrows of Young Waters.
We may proceed further to the aftermath of their dissolution
and the dawn of MTV. Dire Straits covers the rife subject
in their hit single, Money for Nothing, the lament of the poor
rock star who is rich and can have any woman he wants.
I want my (x3) MTV. Look at that (x3): That ain’t workin’.
That’s the way to do it: money for nothin’ and chicks for free.
Roger was never satisfied. His expressions of vain frustration
preceded themes of alienation that would become the rage
in goth and grunge rock in the 1990s, as voiced by savants
such as Trent Reznor and Kurt Cobain. So you think you can
tell heaven from hell? Blue skies from pain? Can you tell
a green field from a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil?

Pink Floyd is so powerful while in the midst of arranging
Dark Side of the Moon; they are able to perform at Pompeii.
But their trip turns into a bummer. While the music is cool
and extraordinarily successful, the mind of the genius behind
the whole concept has been ruined and is slipping irrecoverably
into depression. His best friend, Sid Barrett, the true luminary
who conceived of the idea originally, got burned out by acid
and could no longer play the guitar. Sid, Wish You Were Here.
Wishes, hopes, dreams of the Roman populace of Pompeii…
Echoes starts with the tinkling sounds of crystal stalactite
drops away inside a cave. Waters’ bass thumps off the walls,
through the vacuous passageway. David Gilmour sings soprano:
Overhead the albatross hangs motionless across the waves.
Deep beneath the surface sky lying willowing upon the sand
the echo of a distant time rolls its way through labyrinthine
choral caves to mouths open onto ocean bottom darkness.
A silent cry climbs toward the night. Then begins the 18-minute
jazzy instrumental bridge, which is interjected with audible
visits to primordial forests where some extinct species howls.
Black lava glistens, bubbles. The director of the music video
takes stock footage from the files of geology. The archeology
here is impressive. The men are in the center of the stadium,
playing. The rows where spectators would sit are grown over
with vines in the background. The role of the place is subdued.
The statement is the fact that these precocious British boys
are in Pompeii, performing rock n roll for cameras in 1970.

Echoes is a long song, but does have an end. Later on we have
Welcome to the Machine, a dirge; Shine on You Crazy Diamond,
a tribute; and Have a Cigar, a complaint. The rock star is whining,
How come nobody is nice to me? The answer comes in Animals:
People are pigs, sheep, and dogs. Definitions in the Orwell book:
the fascists, the masses, and the police; or in capitalistic instead
of proletarian terms, as we might better understand them today:
the corporations, their products’ consumers, and their executives.
And finally: The Wall. We are shown a movie of a bad acid trip.
The double album is too multi-faceted to describe in detail here.
We may concentrate on the most important part: the protagonist,
Pink, understood to be Waters, with suggestions of Sid Barrett.
Life has been a horrific ride. We were born of the war generation.
Daddy’s flown across the ocean… A snapshot in the family album…
Mother do you think they’ll drop the bomb? Will they like this poem?
A couple of four-minute songs: that is my childhood biography.
In climax I shave all the hair off my body, including my eyebrows.

I am waiting for the worms in a hotel room, the penthouse suite,
which my manager booked for me. Outside is a fascist society.
I am huge. The stoners adore me. I am their beloved anti-hero.
The State tolerates my antics because I act in service to it.
Music is the opium of the masses. I smash the full flower vase
on top of the thick glass table with my heavy electric bass guitar.
The spot erupts in shards. The strings that vibrate the instrument
twang as they are jarred by the unloosed inner components.
And the beach-wave broken glass: Tsh. The ocean’s pull-back:
the settling in the shards. The edges are as many million mirrors.
I kneel upon the pile as a penitent hermit would in desert dust.
The flesh of my knees is dug into and slashed. I bow, look low
into the reflective remnants. None of this mess was my property
to rightfully destroy. The vase and table belonged to the MGM,
while the bass was Warner Records’. Those roses however –
were they mine? Given to me by my fans? No, we never met.
The flowers were delivered with a note before I even arrived.
The message was generic. Lipstick kiss. I could not recognize
the signature. They were beautiful though. Still are. Red petals
soaking blood from my knees. Wounds from glass or thorns.
Come to think of it, the vase might have also come courtesy
of 1800 Flowers; not MGM. These knees are mine least of all.
I haven’t come by bending them volitionally. I’ve been brought
on planes, in cars, in wheelchairs, up elevators, and placed
in the penthouse as passively as the roses, except nowhere
as carefully arranged. I am an insane neo-nazi. Name’s Pink,
Leader of rock group, The Furor. I am currently touring my new
double album, The Wall. Design: 3-D graffitied screaming faces
burst like bubbles out of the seething void on which civilization
tenuously rests, like snow on an iceberg in the permanent spring
of arctic global warming. This is the final act of my tragic trilogy.

Platinum records. Over ten million sold. Bricks in the Wall.
Broken glass. Tonight my show. The room is centrally located
in a prominent city in the New World Order. It is now 1982.
It is cloudy. I rise and go to the window. Stand looking out.
Buildings burning. Police sirens flash. Ghastly billboard ads.
Otherwise, everything else; the street lamps and traffic lights
are in shadow, seem obscured. Dusk. It is almost dark already.
Must be 6 o’clock. Three hours until I’m on. Suppose I should
shower, apply make-up, pick glass out of my knees. Knock
knock. Coats come to escort me to the venue. They operate
like mafioso: 100% professional. They do not want me, erratic
artist that I am, to step out of line; for if I did they would have to
shoot me and then later explain why they did so to their bosses.
I cannot be killed yet. Tonight is my scheduled public execution
before the teenage audience of Hitler, Mao, and Putin Youth.
The fans want blood. But I have given so much already, I think,
slouched in a limousine, being driven through this hellish city.
Death stalks with sister fear. Nobody in the streets. Only cars.
Behind bulletproof windows heads having dinner converse.
I am slave to the machine, Worm Incorporated. The world ruled
by human beings, entirely in their minds, burrows through
the universe in loops around the sun as a worm would dirt.
Time is the earth, the soil. The machine, Worm. Civilization,
its tubular intestines and visceral innards. Faceless children
process in step through an industrial factory. Cattle queue
for slaughter. The meat grinder welcomes them in warmly.
Ground flesh and bone is spit out in bunches of pink reams,
reminiscent of maggots. Next shot: larvae puss and swarm.
I am a helpless rock star, sitting in my ten thousand dollar
costume, eyebrows shaven, white raccoon face staring out
a tinted window in a long, speeding limousine. Every inch of
this city is artificial. The highway has been cleared by police.

I cannot go on tonight. I feel dead. I must. They will kill me.
The kids need to believe in some sort of illusory message,
I have been told by officials in explanations over my duty.
My mental life is excruciating. I make large amounts of money
writing and singing about existential crisis. The kids are into it.
The machine chugs along. The worm excretes toxic gas like
lubricant slime. Fans flock to my concert. Twentieth century
soldiers; boys no older than twenty. The friends of great, great
grandfathers are mowed down trying to scale the trenches.
War everywhere: 100 years. Enemy conflict and internal strife.
It is 2012, an era inconceivable in 1982. The Wall has only
risen since. It is comparable to the Tower of Babel in scale.
The essential difference is that climbing has been forbidden.
Heaven is nil. The Wall is for looking. Its purpose, intimidation.
Night, around 9 o’clock. Dark, nocturnal energy comes on;
one thing that hasn’t changed since 1970. I take the stage
in Pompeii. I am not a musician, per se; more of a conjuror.
Neptune has had enough of this fascist crap. He enlists
Pink Floyd to conduct a ceremony to spark off an inferno.
Neo-nazis crowd the Roman amphitheatre, raising their right
arms toward The Furor. A volcano erupts. They drown in ash.
Waters’ slim silhouette hits the gong with primitive enthusiasm.
Echoes resulted in the Wall. A Saucerful of Secrets ripples.
Overhead the albatross hangs motionless across the waves.

Vile wretch that I am, I identify with Shakespeare’s
Hamlet, especially his famous soliloquy: To be or not to be.
It is more than a question. It is a choice. Yet how
can it be if I am so fatally compelled to the latter?
Starvation, isolate sexless insanity… I admit
I am hungry and desperately in need of love.
I am weak. Can hardly write, though it takes so little energy.
To suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
and take arms against a sea of troubles. Is this then
what I am to be? A ghost, walking among upright corpses?
A death-obsessed misanthrope, skinny, unable to sleep?
To die to sleep no more. And ay, what dreams may come?
I believe in religion which calls this world illusion.
Acknowledge the improbability of the mind,
the absurdity of its conclusions, and the vanity
inherent in my motivations. The body consumes itself.
Death, it is stated frankly. Is inserted a rapier tip
in the heart. A child dies in war. An adolescent
commits suicide over his own internal conflict.
On the surface, nothing is wrong. Below, however,
I try to describe the permutations of currents turning;
destiny, to actualize as it does: so disappointing.
I was mean. I did not show up to the friendly meeting.
I decided to be alone. And now I am complaining,
holding a skull in my hand as a theatrical prop.
Why am I a coward, a proud man’s contumely?
Because my father is a murdered man’s ghost.
My mother a Gertrude. My love the sad Ophelia.
But soft you now fair nymph, in thy orisons be
all my sins remembered. I am deservedly alone.
O what a rogue and peasant slave am I.
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
the role I am performing in being the writer,
like Shakespeare? But in a fiction could force
his soul so to his own conceit? That from her,
the elusive female’s, working his visage wanned?
Sobs in his throat distracted his aspect.
A broken voice, written word. His soul’s function
in suiting forms… for nothing! Ah Hecuba!
The sun is setting on another wasted day
of loathing my intentions for their calumny, and
recalling acts of malfeasance. In lieu of escape
I will pen a play, a poem for my sins to be remembered.
He drowns the stage in tears. The action
takes place underwater. Imagine the audience
as cartoon fish, large sea slugs and crabs.
They applaud; clap their fins for the bard.
The dull and muddy-mettled rascal peaks
like John-a-dreams. The sun sets. Night.
Time to die. To sleep no more. I can say
nothing, no, not for a king. Am I a coward?
He is. Who calls me a villain breaks my pate
across; tweaks my nose; puts the lie down
inside my throat as deep as the hard-pressed lungs.
Who does? Ha ‘swounds, the gashed stigmata
of Christ! Our savior suffered for our sins.
Whereas I am pigeon-livered and lack gall.
Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous,
lecherous! O vengeance (shouted in vanity)!
Why am I the ass that I am? Son of a dear
father murdered; last, childless, son of slaves.
To what extent is it his fault? To what my responsibility?
Dysfunctional will. Inevitable choice. Arms against
a sea… A creative way to kill oneself, I have thought,
would be to swim out into the ocean and to keep
going till the moment of drowning. Life ends
at thirty, Prince Hamlet’s approximate age.
Prompted by heaven and hell, I like a whore
unpack my heart with words, as a writer,
and sink to cursing, a very drab, a vile
pathetic piece of shit. A stallion can never stay still.
Fie upon it. Foh! Fee fi fo fum I smell the blood.
About my brains. Hum, I chant to myself,
I have heard and even subjectively experienced
that guilty creatures when reading have by
the cunning of the author been struck so
to the soul that presently they have gone on
to proclaim their malefactions. Self-murder.
The silent tongue will make expression with most
miraculous organ: tragic poem. I will have my players
play something like the murder of my father.
This is a ridiculous plan. It is unoriginal and campy.
Nevertheless… The spirit I have seen – glimpses
Mephistopheles – may be a devil of pleasing shape.
A full-proof plan to set what I want in the future
by cold means of avarice out of my weakness
and melancholy. He, a shadow of myself,
potent, substantial, with multivariate spirits
abuses me to damn me. But alas, this is the fate
I have chosen. No recourse but to carry it out.
Nothing to it but to do it. The poetic myth,
the unhappy artist. I’ll have grounds more relative.
The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience.
Scrap heaps of useless words loom as obstacles.
He showers in the glimmer of ephemeral mystery.
Water beads upon the arms I take against a sea
and lash about the slings and arrows of fortune
until by sleep to end the heartache and the thousand
physical and psychological shocks that the flesh
is heir to. In the son are the sins of the father.
A mistake to be alive. A consummation devoutly
to be wished would be to die. To sleep. No more
to suffer this waking nightmare. Science proves
perchance what dreams may come. The body processes
the shocks. This pain will be forgotten tomorrow.
The context will only remain, but a trace; situational
placement; occurrences like birds in a cartoon fairyland.
He plucks fake feathers and I feel the sting of regret.