textured

Of whispers and bells
And dreams in their shells
with the way in night that is dark

I hear them in droves
their names and their roads
with each little question, a spark

enlighten my way
with each lasting day
the dreams that fill with wonder

as this is my best
just as the rest
fears I have wrought asunder

I feel in the frost
The work and the cost
The textures of my terrain

Floating wishes I see
If they are to be
In this Dimension again

Like something violet and blue
And gracefully new.
Their seems another way

And I look to the east
Searching for peace
And the coming of a new day

Arrakin Tragedy

It comes as
A reproduction of some other force
Like a Greek tragedy
where everything is more trouble than it’s worth
a landscape of sand and self-pity
consuming all of the purpose and meaning
dunes that creep along
some sun-scorched landscape
where monuments sit haphazardly
waiting upon the gross from some past charade
going nowhere in particular
conversations deteriorate
into a cheap disclosure
self-advertisement in a cacophony of advertising
laboring voices into an arid scene
like a crowd that never listens, yet wants to be heard
how lopsided this wind-swept landscape is
as we are forced to address ourselves in this way
like some indulgent vanity that we assert value to
like some corrupted conscience that cannot conceive futility
it presses onward into
senses of self-importance without pertinence.
I envision you in some sort of land locked battle-ship
Surrounded by tremendous dunes and debris
‘Who knows when that ship last saw water’?!
and you sit at its helm balking out orders
to a crew who, like yourself, cannot see how nowhere they’re going.
I have come upon this scene
Stumbled upon it like a wraith in the night
And I too, have become land-locked on all sides
as far as the eye can see
this shill of mirage
suggests no sensation
seeks no retribution
and delves beyond the echoes of that which you conceive
a mask that bears the frozen exaggerated expression
this chorus has become redundant
the vengeance of Antigone becomes forgotten
and we are undone in the entropy
rendered amidst the vulgarity
where the sun meets the earth
in a backdrop devoid of nuance
that bears no witness to self-respect
I am compelled to persist
this is not where I meet my end.

Forerunner

As specters in the night
Laced in opulence and clout
Through the tides of time
We are liquid and crystal
Clairvoyant and assertive
Eloquent and new
Shedding the deceit and deception of so many cycles
We are clean and concise
Classic and eternal
Bleeding technology into humanity
Folding the depths of so many layers
Into and
upon and
within
all of the dreams that I have drifted to-

led me to this one flawless moment
where reflection upon reflection
spooling our memories into the fabric of this reality
as we are stitched and sketched and lain bare
the sand of our nerves as windswept dunes
driven from some associative force
where the teeth and viscerally
reign in a primal eagerness
our memories are polished in desensitization
we are but inflections on theses emergent planes
wrinkles in consistency
made carnal and clean
surgically as raptors picking at the corpse of fallen kingdoms
the touches of momentary propensity
the magnitude of the magnificence
these give weight to the vortices of purpose
we become the nexus
as the aesthetics of our modern world
universes unto themselves
unfold at our fingertips.
And I touch them,
jungles of encryption
in the facets of the temporal
the tides of the Acheron
spilling out upon the shores of time
we stepped through them
deft little traces
into the cerebral convoluted landscapes
luminescent and melliferous
the conceptual excellence of this architecture
plain and complicit
yet, infinitely complex and crisp