Astrolabe (From Vixen's Den)

This is a mirror of poetry I have at another domain:

Astrolabe

(in voices)


Disclaimer: This was written under the influence of a huge amount of caffeine. When I wrote it, I could actually hear separate voices in my head. It's better when read out loud. The title has an interesting story-in a way. You may have heard of Peter Abelard and Heloise. If not, here's the briefest of synopses: Peter Abelard was a French philosopher and theologian who was about to take holy orders when he fell in love with a young woman he was tutoring-Heloise. She gave birth to his son, and they were secretly married. This made her family go ballistic, and they had him emasculated, and both of them ended up in holy orders. They were kept separated for the rest of their lives, but kept in touch through wonderfully romantic correspondence and were actually buried side by side, eventually. Their son was named Astrolabe. Although I'm blown away by the story-which I find romantic, and am impressed with the philosophy of Abelard, who held that universals have no existence outside of the mind and that truth should be arrived at by weighing all sides of an argument (way ahead of his time, that guy)-the truth is, I'm simply taken with the name, Astrolabe. They named their son after an instrument used in astronomy. Historically speaking, all the big to-do about astronomy-you know, with Copernicus and Galileo-didn't happen until about four hundred years later. So these people were-I don't know. I get carried away. Anyhow-Astrolabe-the son, I mean, you don't really hear about what happens with him. If I were Browning, this would be a dramatic monologue. I'm totally not Browning. This is a thing with a bunch of different points of view. And it doesn't really have anything to do with Abelard and Heloise. But here's something to keep in mind-


Peter Abelard was influenced by Scotus Erigena, who said that all things that were, were stars. This is about holes. Everything is a matter of perspective, huh?


*****


I see nothing but holes out there.

Millions of little, sucking pits

Ready to eat. You. Up.

All those holes, those floating holes.

Touch (Vixen's Den)

Could your hands touch me just enough

That I could feel you,

In them, moving me?

I want hands and lips, here and there,

And then, to know why I waited,

Only dreamed-of touch.

Even when I do not wake

And have no thought of you,

Something in you is real to me-

Still waiting to be touched.

A little religion (Vixen's Den)

Together we'll believe that your word is final-

One prophet, one disciple, in all, one.

With even occasional heretics, duly chastised,

I believe. Believe is the word-

My faith in a candle, shunning the shadow cast.

But that shadow must be me-

All that's left behind as you shine.

But just recall, there is no bitterer soul

Than one recent apostate-

And some sudden new sect springing

May take to nails with its complaints.

Two Sides of A Break (Vixen's Den)

Can't it be another way?

I found myself

And lost myself

In your arms.

Is there nothing left to say?

I made myself

And broke myself

Before you.

It ends without my asking,

Without my saying.

I can not have it another way;

There is too much I'd never say.

****

I waited like my breath would kill me-

I'd choke from wanting loose.

But you would not let me go.

I grew-I'd been a child

And you were there-but I'm tired.

I hoped you would grow, too.

But all you grew was friendship-

Not love.

I won't look back in anger-

Just regret we couldn't end it sooner-

Before it felt like this.

Love is that thing with fur (Vixen's Den)

There was a man with bottle-green eyes

Who taught to all the terms of his love:

That to love him was to love perfectly,

That to love perfectly was to enjoy

An endless lasting hunger,

And to hunger without end-

Which meant never to be having,

And never to be had.

In me he saw the mistake of flesh,

That I was ripe to know the sins

Of all the closeness of having,

Being without thinking.

It offended his esthetic sense.

Poets may sing of perfect love,

And crave an icy muse whose touch would burn,

But I burn to touch.

I scorn all perfect love,

And would not bear that equal pain.

Perhaps so few things are perfect,

But it seems to me a crippling thing

To cage a passion that will never fly

Or cry out loud and hear no echo-

Perfect is perfectly alone.

I suppose I'm not a muse, or even

A lovely thing, and so the right of love-

The rite of love, I ask,

To both have and to keep.

Grave Song (take it as you will) (Vixen's Den)

She should have a grave digger's name-

A not-unusual coincidence. A shovel pen

Flinging up the clods of her thoughts-

She buried herself, you see.

The witch-hair doll-face lover of death

Has been more than enough encouragement

Not to see myself in my personae-

While I can take the revealing line

Right below the modest decoupage,

My bared breast is possibly fake.

But still I think of her,

And that other singing sister-

Can one sing oneself to madness,

Call up a spell with words

That can not be undone-

And croon oneself to sleep with

Hell's own lullabye?

I'd rather uncast the curse

And sing to life what sleepers I could,

Even if they wake just to quiet me.

Artist in F sharp (Same as car horns, actually, meaningless trivia) (Vixen's Den)

My never is not your never.

My never sounds once, base, punctuated forever

With a question mark and a little laugh,

I can still ask-"Never?"

Neither confirming nor denying.

Was it a question or and answer?

My never must have some possibilities

Even I don't know about.

Light (Vixen's Den)

Happens with the best, the worst,

The breaking of a trust

Between the one and all-

Something must be split.

And so the man must cease to be,

Or begin to find his soul.

It is a crux that comes

When the father of a man is gone

And bitter gall is the wine-

Could you change your tears to that?

No, the kingdoms of this world declined,

What is left is mere son of man-

Or rather-woman-born.

And magic that was not learned here

Must be learned in the grave.

There is a death that must be seen

before the light,

but once that light is known,

the fracture is repaired-

the one, the all, reconciled-

When at last you know you are a stranger,

You learn to save yourself.

Honesty (for the person who doubted mine) (Vixen's Den)

Grief, I felt that, yes,

Loss, shaking, and other things-

But it was not all you.

Funny that you should not know,

But death and stress, and life,

As always, these held me down-

Fear of the future,

And other things,

And if it seemed I was alone, I was-

But better that than to be

Disbelieved to my face.

Better to watch you doubting me,

From somewhere further off,

Than have you in my face

Telling me what to believe.

Aphasia (Vixen's Den)

If the words at last should leave me,

How would I know myself?

What thoughtform would the next step be-

To make myself make sense?

As if I do right now.

Playing Ophelia (Vixen's Den)

What songs and snatches came that catches voice

And lyrics so? I was half-mad-but could

Not * quite * go mad. I could break into tears

at a whisper and storm with off-hand rage-

only in the softest voice that I knew.

Dying was what I demanded-as if

That was the best end to tragic longing.

I might have liked a manic public scene,

Or made a lovely portrait for Millais.

But all the same I could not * quite * go mad,

Yet only acted a drama out loud-

Played- out to entertain myself.

Musing (Vixen's Den)

Black inside the red red rages-

White the light your eyes have shed

Unholy, and therefore, human-

I may have seen a glimpse of you.

Strange you make the poison sweeter

And take the edge off of the blade,

Find a way to wound that's newer,

And make the sickness in you spread.

By taking the breath you inspire-

Twisting the knife as you do

With a beautiful smile at your worst

That makes it pleasant to be slain.

Only with pain do I feel you

Close enough to nearly see right past

All those surfaces you've made

To hide yourself from yourself-

And were I as close to you as you are,

I might hide myself, too.

Vixen's Den (Reminder)

I'm posting like, a billionty things that were at my old domain, just in case. This is old poetry--some written almot 20 years back. I don't have dates on any of it though.

Poetry at Vixen's Den.

Of Secrets (Vixen's Den)

My altar is the world, and I

A priestess without a god

In sight. Here, alone,

I seek the truth,

But find I remember lies instead.

I ponder what you've done and been,

That makes you what you are to me.

I ponder what I've known and seen,

That keeps me silent, still.

Your favor was no favor to me-

Only to something in yourself,

And yet I wonder what it is,

That lets you keep your lies,

And makes me keep my secrets.

Observation (Vixen's Den)

Sometimes one bed of calm

And warmth and decent things

And dreams that feel like

Childhood truths and joy

And all we pray for,

Is a bed lonely except for one

Who completely understands,

Or doesn't pretend to.

A Vision (Vixen's Den)

A thing from heaven that can't be put

As eloquently as curses from men-

But can still be held.

What he is to me is the candle

At night, keeping me

From all that darkness

I still see.

The world can not end-

No, he is there.

It is a if innocence could be regained,

As if hurt could be forgotten,

As if wounds could heal.

The world may even be right,

If he is in it.

I could even believe.

Self-Portrait (Vixen's Den)

And some would even call me ugly,

If they knew what I was-

A blasphemy on the lips of saints.

I am a woman-and violence

Stirs the air around me,

But inside, I'm an explosion-

I seethe, I burn-

This is nothing new.

I will not bother to be vague.

I know hate too well

To veil my words with words.

I have lies outside of me,

But that keeps truth safe within.

I am a woman-

Too strong to be foolish,

And to weak to be clever.

I am the only portrait of myself

That is real.

Ramses II (Vixen's Den)

I see now in the stupid flaring of your dark passions

The ironic symbolism and the one great truth,

The making of all legends and

The genesis of the poetry that inspires you:

A man can't stay hard forever.

No, not even yourself-but must give way with time

And constant friction and care.

This is no slight thing, but rather all mortality

Caught up in a single moment

Of distraction.

And the strongest blow against me with time

Too, shall soften, naturally,

As your impression fades.

And I can't help but call that to mind,

Thus: your passion.


You are not the father of the darkest part of me.

Against that you are impotent,

Mute, numb.

It is greater than all you ever did or said.

I made it with bitter spit and sweet tears-

You stood there as I passed.

That Words Won't Suffice is Enough (Vixen's Den)

You have rooted my sorrow

And the days have buried it deep.

It will not be moved.

Hate will not reach deep below those days,

New love will not destroy those roots.

The sorrow stays where it is, as it is.

If I do not see you, you will also stay-

As you were, where you are.

You will not wither.

Not nourished with such strong roots as these.

Philadelphia (Vixen's Den)

My filthy city

Wraps around me

Like a worn-out towel,

Light and breathable.

I am safe inside it;

I disappear.

And the city is so much bigger

Than me.

I am lost.

I can go days and days

And see no one I know,

Or knows me.

At a certain hour of night,

The city is all highway-

A blister on I-95.

The three o'clock air swishes in

The car window-

And the sound roars in your ears.

A beautiful night-picture it:

Sixty-four degrees

And a pitch-black sky

Highlighted by the refinery,

Passing the exits, one and another,

And another,

Each one closer to home.

From here, the city is all highway,

Nothing but cars,

Few at that.

You drive fast-

The night knows no speed limit.

The bars are all closed,

And the city either sleeps,

Or drives.

Take some dozen miles in your life,

Looking for the perfect high

Or whatever,

Some dozen thousand make up your life,

But you go over this same stretch

Over and over again,

Like déjà vu.

Where did you go?

Out.

Exit after exit,

Stiff, tight, tired,

The wind in the window

All that keeps your face off the wheel,

You're out all right.

But all the bars are closed,

And the city's just a highway,

After all.

An Animus (Vixen's Den)

Have you seen a green man?

He is evil, and he lies to you.

He says he is a thief,

But he is a wizard

And he will take you away

Where the dark things live.

He is a cunning man,

With black gloves that feel like fur

When he touches you.

He lives like a king

Where the dark things live-

He can make you a queen,

But he takes you.

Music's his air,

His food like honey,

And you are never left alone-

Never alone.

He can tell a grand story

That begins with a river

That leads to a cavern,

Deep underground,

Where it flows to a spring

Where the water is sweet,

But it makes you forget.

He takes you.

You can never grow old,

And he will never die.

He takes you.

The sky is not blue.

The world does not spin.

The sun does not shine,

If he takes you.

You will live on old songs

And drink riddles,

And sleep well,

But not deeply,

But not often,

If he takes you.

Reflection (Vixen's Den)

Mirrors:

A reminder one has a face,

A mask,

Expressions.

See yourself,

Both hidden and revealed.

Not yourself?

Your expressions are personal,

But your face is not yourself.

Can one love a mirror?

It reflects what is,

But not who is-

But you are behind your reflection

Like black behind a mirror.

Keys (Vixen's Den)

Strange, isn't it,

The alchemy that turns

A god into a child,

A man into a snake?

And strange that words

Make things, also

And that people make much use

Of words.

A word is a snake

You must handle with care.

It may turn around

And bite you.

Still (Vixen's Den)

My heart, for once, perfectly still,

The ceiling close, and I can feel

The thing I nearly want-

But after stillness, pain,

Life refuses to yield

To will, and I'm no longer still.

I feel the love song bleeding out

Through numb fingers

That shake. Shaking-I can not be still,

And electricity finds my arms and legs,

Hurting me as I rise,

And search the room,

Eyes stinging with tears,

My throat fills with something

Sweet, so sweet I need it out,

And I race, then,

Aching, aching, until

I can let it go-release it.

Then my heart truly beats, and I

Feel disgust.

Sometimes I feel that still.

A Remembered Fortune Cookie Conversation (Vixen's Den)

I think he meant it wasn't fair

That we all grow old and die

Spending most of our lives

Between hating and fearing

A god so far away we

Don't even see the lines of his face.

At least, I hope that was

What he meant by

"There is no justice in the world."

I almost understood.

But of course I wasn't like that.

I argued.

Believing the world isn't just,

Or isn't fair, is to say there are good people

And bad people.

And some people should be punished,

And others should get good things.

To say the world is unfair is to judge-

It can't be done.


Before I call the world unfair, I look at me.

I'm unfair.

Or at least, it was unfair of me

To argue with him.

Short Observation (Vixen's Den)

Sometimes the night is like

A phone about to ring

With a world of bad news

At the other end.

I wish I could sleep through it

And hear the news second hand.

Settling Things (Vixen's Den)

Last night, dreams that wracked my rest

Like stranger's advances

Brought thoughts of you,

Who had always believed in portents.

I judged at once from whence they came-

They came from you,

For you would dare

Disturb my rest-

Even sell your blood to do it.

But I made a spell

By my bright lady-

And this I pled,

You'd have such a dream of me,

As would scare you silly

And make you leave my bed alone.

A Little Modern Love Regret-Thing (Vixen's Den)

The odor of sugar, tobacco, and

Sex

Lingered in the room,

Large enough to inhabit

The whole of the building

And spread out to the block-

That was your scent-

And I have never been a kink for stink,

Being more visual than olfactory

In orientation, but it's your scent I recall,

Like a dog scenting out the same prey,

Hunting season coming round after

A year (that's a long, long seven to a dog).

Not the sight of you,

Though I studied that face.

It was so something,

So obvious-

In your face, a child, a man-older,

All you.

Not the touch of you,

Though how I cried

When I was shut of your

Muscular solidity,

And my arms felt empty

And my whole soul bare,

And didn't I compare

Other bodies to yours-

So hard and yet gentle

And packed with determined grace.

(Oh, but you were not the greatest lover,

I'll have you know,

Now that I lay myself bare.

You were too deliberate,

Fixated on my pointless orgasms and your own.

Even I knew better than to say that.

Then.)

I wasted time, thinking on you.

I thought of chance encounters

Never to be had,

On my own redemption,

As if I had sinned-

But all I did was love

And accept that I was one long

One-nighter

And when dawn at last came,

You slipped out of the window

And into the day.

But so you know-

Here's me-

Older, wiser, better-

My love could put you away,

And I belong to no one now,

In the way you never belonged to me,

And I once belonged to you.

And maybe you still belong to no one,

Or maybe a little bit of you,

To more women than you can count.

Maybe other women you knew

Think of you that way,

Wondering where you are

Beyond the bridges you burned.

But they can't put it into the words

I do.

But they must realize,

Like I do,

There is no you to hold,

To belong to.

You are a scent on the air,

Or a deliberate touch,

Or a theme in a story

You don't hear

Every day.

You are a romantic, and a cynic,

And a constant judge.

I loved you once.

I think of you still,

Like a mystery I never got

And never will.


You are gone, and I'm still here.

No ideas you say? (Vixen's Den)

Still no things yet, only poems

And nothings that just materialize,

And inventions of the tired mind,

But alas, no things, themselves,

You see, only ideas.

For somewhere an ideal flower

(which does not exist,

for I just said so)

opens and reveals to me

the fragile nature of-

something.

I could pick it, or tear it to shreds-

But I make a poem of it.

Now, it is immortal-

And still does not exist.

On a Bathroom Wall (Vixen's Den)

My posture is a pose that saves me from the proof.

The thing that I am not is the thing that I most seem

So that what I hint at neatly escapes the truth.

I am a timid whisper drowning out a scream.

And Still What? (Vixen's Den)

(Having thought over an uncomfortable conversation)


Worrying over it is pointless,

Hating it, stupid,

Violence is sheer impossibility;

There is only awe,

Understanding, then love.


It isn't God's fault.

Did you believe when you first hated,

Or see him in the gun sights

When you learned life was not fair?

And why do you feel there is no justice,

When every man Jack dies?


Perhaps it was those fairy tales

They tell the sleepy mind-

But I was never lulled with lies.

No one taught me this-

As sure as blood runs through my veins,

My blood is my own.

So long as I hunger, the hunger is my own.

So long as I breathe, my fate is my own,

And my blame is my own.


There is nothing not in these hands,

And I see it as a gift,

That there is no father that betrays,

Nor mother that can't love,

Nor son to leave in your old age,

Nor daughter that sleeps in the street.


Wisdom is none of those.

When were you mislead?

We live our lives, and suffer-

If we choose. Not others.

And what of other's burdens?

You can not know their weight,

Nor measure justice by their scale,

Or measure mercy by God's.

You can only know they suffer,

And like you, they die.

Men may wrestle with angels,

But all men lose to time.


And hopefully unfold fists

Curled like baby fingers

And spread them out in awe,

Understanding, then love.



But most don't. No, they clench their fists

Right to the grave,

Holding nothing in them,

Not even love.

And of those that live,

Most are scarred, even by being born.

We all have seen the horrors,

Or worse, the blandness,

And all have seen injustice

Of man against man-

The struggle of the mediocre

Against the pathetic,

The striving and loss.

The waste.


To be morally outraged is to guess

There is some place for being moral.

Perhaps.

But that alone won't save a soul.

You can be whatever you like.

The world was made by doing.


We could beat this ass all day

And never hear it speak.

I see the imperfection of the world

But can't contain my hope

That there is still nobility,

Warmth and possibility.

I can not show it-I failed.

There is no justification-

Only awe, understanding,

Then love.


The ways of God to man?

Hell, explain yourself to me.

Historical Reflection (Vixen's Den)

Here are the tracks of the dying gods, note them well, now students, and recall the lesson to yourselves-

Flesh is tragic.

See, we follow these mud traces back through the cavern and into darkness.

Shout out a name, any one.

There, that echo is your answer.

Remember, flesh is tragic.

You don't see anything, do you? Shout again-hear that?

These walls reverberated with the echoes of our ancestors.

This way, now. Let's see where we end up. Mind you, don't trip. You might break something important.

Here it is, Nature's belly button-watch it, damn you!

The source of all mankind. These are the bones of their sacrifices. Over there is some trash-probably nothing special. You think they'd be more careful.

Primitives!

This way now, you've had enough.

Don't leave anything behind you, keep an eye on the person in front of you, and don't trip over the mess.

No Sin is Terribly Original (Vixen's Den)

The sin comes from the dirty old fact

That we are not always feeling creatures.

We think-

Animals don't, nor sin, nor laugh,

Nor realize that they can die.

If thinking so, makes us so,

Sinning is part of the old pact.

Contemplate that and have a nice day.

Conversation (Vixen's Den)

Conversation


The fear that never leaves-

That communication is impossible.

That we're reaching-never touching.

The gap is never bridged.

Confident voices soar

Answered by questioning eyes.

The poet is not only unheard,

But inaudible.

Touching my own skin,

Kissing my own lips,

Reading my own words alone-

Understanding them, never again.

The moment is broken by the next.

The realization that you are alone-

That you are one thing

With a beginning, a being,

A question-

Lifts you from the earth

And throws you back,

Still finite, still contingent,

Brutally zen and not the

Better enlightened.

You can explain it to no one.

Communication is impossible.

I can say you've felt this,

Because I have.

You can agree,

But we can never know-

Was it the same?

Are our souls of a size?

Do we have the same gods?

Jazz Hymn: To Repeat until We Feel Blue-ed Out (Vixen's Den)

My dark mood cast a shadow so heavy

It leaves cracks in the sidewalk

You can fall into and die.

My dark mood is the same exact color

Of the pupil of the eye of a cyclone

Headed for a packed church

When a wedding is going on.

My dark mood is invisible by night

Ugly by day, therefore

Chiefly nocturnal.

My dark mood sounds

Like a playerless saxophone

With a cool hot wail

Only the desperate hear.

My dark mood is like

Satan's day off

When we got no one to blame

But our own damn selves.

And my dark mood

Goes on and on

Like a fire's damp remains,

When the sizzle has gone cold.

Ramses (Vixen's Den)

It is a sickness with him to remain beautiful

And exude human warmth.

He sits beside me like a museum statue

And insists on being a man.

I cannot take his brilliance;

It makes me too happy.

He is dead to me.

He is foremost in my memory.

I can't even be unhappy about him.

A Curse (A Promise) (Vixen's Den)

I was subdued with kisses

And bound hand to hand

My paradise destroyed

By words that made a hell

Of greeness.

The blood of the evildoer,

Thick on the blade,

Cried out to you:

Make evil.

The old ways are not to be

Forsaken,

By mine,

Though you forbid them,

But yet live on in you.

And our names,

Immortal as our days,

Will be sung,

And she will walk among you,

With eyes like a dove

That mourns.

Brazen Serpent (Vixen's Den)

Turning,

Turning in all your coils

Feel God is fire

And know

The way up is the way down.

To deny motion is death.


These things happen

To the best of us.


And it is a hard thing

To drown by this anchor,

To be cast aside

By these deaf stones,

To take on the weight

Of so much dust.


And you were always

The best of us.


Turning,

Bitterness fills your mouth,

But here is sweetness.

There is no way that is not,

You would understand.

It shall be

As written


But it will be hard

For the rest of us.



And you will not be broken,

Not you, the stronger vessel,

Not broken though pierced

Again by the raven

Again by the thorns

Again by the mistletoe

And shot with light.


And darkness fell

Across the best of us.


When it is finished,

Dying is finished,

But motion is eternal

And cannot be denied.


I have remembered you of old

And my heel

Still stings.


Return to your Mother.

Age of a Woman (Vixen's Den)

don't feel young to myself (or just right, either.)

I feel old, unspeakably old, unbearably old, old!

I'm so old, I've seen great mountains fall,

Toppling into eternal, self-renewing seas

As volcanoes erupted red and white hot

Becoming cold and ancient mountains themselves.

I've seen the scum of stagnant pools give birth,

Bringing forth a dreadful flow of life

In terrible and awe-inspiring variety,

And I have seen that pageant of life

Decay into stagnant pools of muck and filth.

I'm so old, I threw the acorn of the

Great-great-grandaddy of the tallest oak in the world

Into the ground,

And watered it with my tears at the so-called fall of man.

I'm so old I was Rahab's madam.

My toenail clippings are older than your deepest fear.

I had a scarab farm and a pet dodo and the first wheel.

I am so old that I spoke the first word ever

Spoken in the first language ever known to the

First person ever to hear something and

Not understand.

I am old, do you hear me? Ancient.

But you, now, you're a new wrinkle.

Recessional, Obviously Different

Light

Down, decaying, dying down

Receding like a wave

Down decaying, dying down

Behind my closed eyes

Down

Dying

Down

The red of the black of a closed eye

The hum of the pounding of a pulse

Down, decaying, dying down

A body receding like a wave

Down

Dying

Down

The body at rest losing heat

And the heart slows

Down, decaying, dying down

And time is liquid, pouring slow

Down

Dying

Down

This is the very best of moments

Down, decaying, dying down

This is the very truest of moments


Down, decaying, dying down

It can only last forever

Down

Dying

Down


And end.

From Vixen's Den-- Grassy Fortitude

Grassy Fortitude


There is grass in me;

An unkind whisper repeats

On the wind on me.

I have a grassy tendency

To lay in the wind

And to wave and wave.

There is grass in me,


A thing like a carpet;

An underfoot thing,

But every inch alive.

I cover things and spread

To cover more and spread

Over defects and dirt

And I grow.

There is grass in me.

And weeds in the grass.


It is green, very green, to me,

To be so grass-full,

Expansive, flexing, bending,

And always changed.

From Vixen's Den-Under a Different Oak

Under a Different Oak

(for D.H.L.)


The dread of night is wonderful-sacred

As sunlight, forceful as wind.

Standing under the black sky, my essence

Is distilled-like a Druid,

I walk steadily on earth I cannot see,

Secure within the dark Nature.

Beneath this powerful tree, the fluid

Of my soul receives rejuvenation,

Drinking in the vital stream of a growing

Thing. I tell you I grow strong.

How do stand before me,

Sapped, your life running out?

What have you to do with the night,

You, trembling under this mistletoe,

Unkissed, whining under an oak?

I tell you the night is wonderful.

This night has a place in your histories;

This common, ageless night,

Beneath this ancient tree;

This dread-inspiring night

Has time and space enough for me-

Time enough to curse those mysteries,

Bleeding through your head,

Filling you with dread.

The dread of you and me.

From Vixen's Den--As it is

As It Is


Time is not a fugitive

Running along like an insomniac river

Along an unsmooth bed.

Time does not fly.

That fluttering that you hear

Is the stirring of calendar pages

Ripped out in succession,

Disturbed by the passing of heels.

Time waits for all men,

Sitting like Wednesday

on its hump.

Time does not march on,

Solemn as a month of Sundays.

Time is not money;

You can not change it

Time

Brings

Nothing

To pass.

It bears nothing away.

And you can not kill it.

From Vixen's Den-- The State of Things

The State of Things



Every wound

Is ultimately mortal,

And every scar-

Permanent,

And every passion-

Endless,

And every breath-

Final,

For right now I can tell you

Just what wounds I am dying of;

And every scar I have had,

Though unseen, I can show you

I can conjure any passion,

Once fresh, into life again,

And every breath I take stops-before I take another.

From Vixens Den--Advice to the Yet Younger Poet

Advice to the Yet Younger Poet


I have been asked,

"How do you live your life?"

I say, "Keep your shoelaces tied

And your nose clean."

Who am I to flaunt

The wisdom of the ages?

By opposing,

End the lies and misconceptions

Of an outrageous history?

A file clerk against the alphabet?

A metaphysician claiming

The universe is sick?

Not me.

That would disturb the universe,

And I don't dare.

To offer a new perspective? Why,

That is the job of a genius,

And I was never one of those.

I shall tell the truth

And I shall lie,

And you would be wise to do

The same.

From Vixen's Den--Hamlet in Paradise

A Hamlet in Paradise



Here in Arcadia I, again

Stand,

Ready against my unready spirit,

Not doing what I would,

But not doing.

I stand here-

Arcadia-

Sylvan, lush, uncertain,

And solid,

Still grappling with myself,

As Jacob must have seemed

When the angel tried

To knock him down.

From Vixens Den--Art of Poetry

I'm moving some of my poetry here because--it's just good to have mirroring,

The Art of Poetry


What are we after here

But the subliminal alteration

Of the universe

By way of whispered suggestions

To the grass?

What more do we trace

Than an immortal pair of feet

Running through the world

Leaving a trail

Of broken twigs?

And what better way to do it,

But by proving things

By not proving things,

As in a nightingale's argument?

Letting myself go

letting myself go
letting myself go out
letting myself go out looking like that
letting myself go out in those clothes

letting myself go
letting myself go on
letting myself go on being interested in things
letting myself be who I am

letting my "self" go
letting my "self" stop judging
letting myself stop hearing what other people say
letting myself stop saying those things, too

letting myself go
letting myself breathe and eat
letting myself drink and feel sun on my skin
letting myself fall in love with me

letting myself go
giving myself all the permission
to take care of myself
setting myself free

letting myself go--leaving myself be
not worrying anymore what others see
let them look, let them stare
I will still be me

Rand

I guess my issue so to speak is with Objectivism, which doesn't match with objective reality as it happens to you and me, because I produce what I do in my downtime for peanuts, but my real nut is what I do for the state, which players hate but appreciate I deliver a service and give a hundred percent and reap benefits which are because of my union, because collectivism is a recognition of the limited condition of the singular entity facing the reality of a combined circumstance of their mortality aligned against a million things that might kill you--that alone should thrill you to the possibilities of finding a plurality that might make you strong, a tribe to which you might as well belong, a system of others who are gonna get your back.




Now you might attack like your uniqueness has a say in how you are going to live today, and your ego might say "No way" in letting others build from what you made up, but in fact history is cumulative, much like math or science, and your defiance in rejecting the desireability of adding to the general pool of knowledge makes you a fool if you think that going Galt is the moochers' fault, blaming people who got no power for what you decide to do is busted and maybe you aren't to be trusted if you assert that, so flip back and try to undo the hurt of thinking you got what you got because you earned it if you don't give back, because then you just burned it and you are the appropriator and instigator, the looter, the moocher, the taker, the hater, like Koch brothers, then we'll fade and play you and make your dollars into Monopoly scrilla by announcing you're putting the thrilla from Wassilla out in the TeaParties or backing Beck--and people with self-respect, will recognize with refreshed eyes that you're stupid. So your dollars won't spend--just pretend, buying up blocks of nothing like Scott Walker or any Fox News Talker.




So I'm saying, recognize the game that the "earners" are playing with clean fingernails and manicured toes and the media flips fresh hoes that congratulate them for doing it to you for free, and wouldn't you at least agree they should pay for that privilege? Or else acknowledge that no man is an island or ever was, and all the civilization that we have is because, we collectivized, we organized, we recognized and we made a prize of understanding one another's human condition--it wasn't a mistake that we made tribes, cities and states, appreciate the pyramids weren't built by any "one" but like any project of mankind were begun by people who recognized things larger than themselves and perhaps all of humanity dwells as representatives of a great collectivism--see--?




There is no place for an Objectivist me--no person is an island, woolly mammoths fed ice age man by collective hands making spears at the ready, and this was greater than than any ideologue today trying to make their way by ugly buildings or fast trains to nowhere because of egos. The situation is where humanity survives, there morality flows, so you recognize your brother, the other and respect how he goes, and like you once were a baby, you recognize maybe the reality is we are all just victims of fate--and we drop the player-hate and accept multiple personalities are altogether acceptable, and all of us are bound to a better future if we want it. And those of us who have seen it might flaunt it--but we'll deal you in if you drop the sin of seeing "selfish" as the basis of reality when the human place is mutuality, empathy, consentuality and progress. And recognize mere profit an abstraction and a regress, magical thinking that doesn't make up for all the complicated things that humanity brings, but dumbs down to a points'system that anyone might reject or lend no respect to once they realize we're all our brothers' keeper.




Which isn't anything you'll find in Rand--she don't play that. And human dignity?

[ TW ] Your statement?

Will I wear these proofs long enough
for you to see I had no intent,
but
my words failed from fear
when he would not go
and I could only mouth them....
(no, no)?

Written on my traitor skin
that held me trembling but still
with pain before I tried to push him off again,

(shocked that this was happening
stunned that this was me)

already started, articulate too late,
my struggle signed in dark ink
from my veins.

My only proof as good as written
in air to testify to the "no"
he didn't hear.

Will a photograph fascimile
be the "no" I want to world to see?
Or is it worth a thousand words
from everyone but me?