the too familiar cave

I thrive only in a world lit by sunrise; old lurks within a tunnelled cave where I have to sleep. In my nightmares, the familiar knocks insistently on my room too forcefully to remind me of nothing, until the tunnel collapses on itself, and the taut darkness suffocates me. Oh, how I dread raging only for the sake of raging. Rage only cries in the darkness, which makes me afraid of where I sleep. I detest this cave—I know it too well. I am much too familiar with the man who has lived his life in regret and lives the rest of it in stupid compensation. Who stains his life with anger, and insists it on mine. But smiles too quick when either chance or deceit lets him see a twinkle of love in the dark. I’ve hated looking at the woman who lives her life unaware that her suffering comes from choosing the road most travelled. Who lives, as if she were still that woman the time she chose which road. They know nothing of the skies, the trees, the river, or the road lit by my sunrise. And so in their darkness, I can never will myself to smile. I rage, only for the sake of raging—it’s what I’ve known best to do in the face of darkness.


Love is too big for just you

I guzzle from the trophy cup of all happy-reached
men at the music festival of Life
          Of and For All Those That Truly Lived,
revel in the glassy, minty sting of waters hushing,
whispering as they undulate
          under my sunset-glossed shoulders,
fly alongside whirling winds under the cotton
gradients of pink clouds and hazy
          blue sunlight at the dawn of rain,
dry myself of earth’s fresh mud with flower petal
towels, amidst the sweet howling silence
          of the dewy-green sea,
and munch gushing watermelons
under arid orange skies to thank the great
          All—the all that lives now and simply is.

Though I too, mourn with those who seek in greed
to the All of only loving goodness, with saluted
          arms in desperate flight from mortality,
wipe my tears for those that have walked
the rich and generous race of life
          and for those that had rushed it blindfolded too,
rage with those whom the truly powerless All
has wronged—for those who have been robbed of the riches
          of happiness and ultimate virtue,
lust with the simple dogs the material pleasures
of nonsense love in gilded disguise
          as such ugly emptiness glimmers with divinity too,
and even cry out at the rock concerts of the devils
in collective ravenous celebration of Death
          Of and For Those Too Afraid to Have Lived.

I am the conscious god who binges
to the music radio of the All; and here
          I’ve found you—a great artist to listen to.