"To J. Alfred Prufrock"

Did you,
Fail to ask the question?
I understand how you feel,
Bottled up, contained all in self,
Reasoning and analyzing your excuse,
Justifying and rationalizing,
I understand how you feel,
For many a time have I,
Failed to ask the question.

We do,
Know that there is a question,
and in that facet is surely bent,
The cause of our malcontent,
To know that there is a question,
Causes hesitation, contemplation,
Could it be that we are damned,
To the continued consciousness,
Of the question to be asked?

Some say,
That there is a point,
When all must ask the question,
But I declare that they are wrong,
It is quite flatly a possibility,
To continue in deep mystery,
With no wonder, no pondering notion,
To live in the grains and patterns,
absorbed by them,
Embracing them!

To never,
Be aware that there,
Is a question to ask,
That is the summation I propose,
To never look past the nose,
Or, God forbid, beyond the door,
Never search for something more,
Never qyest for purpose or meaning,
Beyond the indications of seeming.

How grand,
It must be to carry on that way,
Living moment by moment,
Day to day,
Robotic, yet the peculiar bliss,
The rapture and comforting joy,
Of the simple simplified and rused;
How great to live so confused!
To exist without meaning,
With only indications of seeming.

Slip far,
Away into the haze of impartial gray,
Meshing with fibers soft and coarse,
Meshing, mixing, flowing to and fro,
Skipping by as they come and go,
Silently blending beginning and ending,
No celebrations or lamentations,
Other than those of the normal tone,
Status-quo, so satisfied with status-quo!

From our,
Vast knowledge and philosophies,
You and I cannot draw such pleasure,
So we ask the question while we drown,
In the kingdoms under the silent sea,
Where they are constantly and busily,
Swimming, paddling, and sailing,
For whose sake do they do this?
They care not.

Envy,
Devours my jilted soul,
Devours me all; whole,
I envy those who 
Have no meaning for what they do,
I envy the ant who does his work,
Awakened not by the absurdity of it,
I envy the vegetables 
And the child that is unexposed,
Their worlds are much happier,
I suppose. . .

"Rat Race"

Rats crawl upon
The bones of
Their fathers,
Suck up the
Blood of labor,
And hang stones 
Of restriction
Around our necks,

Then dart behind
Shields of legality,
From which all 
resistance reflects;

The righteous spear
Returns to pierce
the thrower,

And dreams of tomorrow,
Access to drugs,
Illusions of freedom,
And occasional fornication,
Suppress the hungry souls
For yet another generation.

"When"

When there is nothing for which to stand;
Nothing to be had,
When there is nothing to be upset about;
No reason to be glad,

When there is no evil to oppose;
Not a one thing that is wrong,
When there is nothing for which to sing,
Not even for the sake of song,

Then that is when our world will end,
The circle will be completed,
But until then, I hope, my friend,
That our side will not be defeated.

"Turning to Gold"

"Lead to gold, simple!"
The alchemist yelled as the
Wind blew his scrolls here
And there and everywhere.

He plucked up the chunk
Of heavy gray metal from
The ground, gathered his scrolls,
And turned to me, smiling,

Setting the block of
Worthless lead upon
The piles of paper he
Exclaimed, "A paper weight!"

"In Praise of the Moon"

O' pale light of Diana show,
The alabaster curve's delight,
And send into the vacuum,
A pure white feather's flight.

Sphere of the infant's embrace;
Orb of the heavenly mother,
We implore your caressing care,
For the sake of none other.

O' Luna, I love you with fire,
From Prometheus' hand to mine,
As the grapes of Dionysus,
Swing freely from my vine.

Hearts are not the shape of hearts,
Which Eros's arrow does penetrate,
And love is not the shape of love,
When for a god it is turned to hate.

The ocean tides call at twilight,
To those of us who barefoot,
Walk within the moon's sweet way,
Where true love is placed,

Upon the highest of holy altars,
Not as a bloody sacrifice,
But as a gentle matron's gift,
Not as a sin or evil vice.

Moon, lead us to love life,
To love those who live,
Teach us softly the lesson,
Of how to gain by give.

"The Rose"

Garden green with life blooms,
Sunrise yellow warms the day,
As rose red petals slowly open,
To embrace the azure sky.

I am here within Eden's gates,
By crystal blue rivers flowing,
Under shady oaks dreaming,
Of being only with you.

Marigolds orange align the path,
To pine green groves in the valley,
Just east of the fertile river banks,
Below the sparkling emerald hills.

It is within these groves,
Where evergreens and roses brilliant,
Grow in perfection's symmetry,
Following the hand of nature's way.

And within the bounds of one grove,
Lives a rose which I love,
Yet watch it live and grow is all I can do,
For its thorns to me are poison.

Yet that is not why my hands hesitate,
From bearing down to pick the rose,
The fact that the rose would die,
Is the wall between it and I.

"Fragment"

What is this but a fragment of my heart,
Overfilled with the longsuffering,
Of never knowing your blissful touch?

How profound it is to wait upon a smile!
My heart drives me to desire,
The bed of nails upon which I recline. . .

How desirous is that sweet eternal emptiness;
Alone, with one, solitary, holding,
O' vicious curve, How sleek and voluptuous!

I burn bright with the oil of wanting,
But this desire is deeper
Than I ever wanted it to be.

Circle of infinity; mother of me,
O' precious valley where the river
Of creation flows from purity,
And form arises from the lushness
Of certain memory!

I feel the child in me being born again,
Set free upon the wind of a kiss
Blown to a distant lover. . .

The fragments of my heart were caught
In a locket and held tight
To keep my heart from breaking into splinters.

If I am sick with an affliction,
That affliction be not the burning of lusty desire,
But the sickness of the heart when one ponders
Over what might have been a fire. . .

"Pictures"

Taking pictures with a camera
I attempt to capture
A moment from the past
Forever frozen in my grasp.

Yet how true is a picture
Of what used to be?
How warm is a photo
On a cold winter's eve?

Yes, I have taken pictures
But the past just will not stay
The film is but the caster
Of illusive shadow; a summoner of ghosts.

Yes, I have frozen images
But what of reality?
I have recorded again and again;
I float ego less surrounded by icons;
An observer only.

I watch water slip through my hands
And I cry and I laugh
For both are the same
When one has watched
Sand sparkle on the beach
And thought that it was the sun.

"Haiku"

Three dogs are swimming,
In the dry summer dust of,
A lonely creek bed.

"Blame"

I cannot berate you for being blind,
Nor is it my place as ultimate judge,
I cannot correct you or improve you,
I cannot open or soften your heart,
Nor is it my place to dictate meaning.

The blame you feel, if you do,
Will come from deep inside of you,
The guilt you cry about when you are alone,
Issues not from ideas I have thrown,
But from your own knowing of the truth.

I am wounded and my heart does bleed,
But I cannot shout at you for being a tyrant,
I cannot be your moral guide,
I cannot help you to decide,
All that I can do is tell you the truth,
And the truth is that I suffer.

If you feel discomfort,
Or any angst that stifles you,
Look deep within and you will know,
That the blame is not a brand,
That I have placed upon your soul. . .