For------

For -------

Great sage,
the soil will nourish you
& your Christ-birth
into eternity,

Knowing how life begat life,
mind-vessels will be inferior and
submissive.
Holding grass, the coarse pieces will
set themselves ablaze,
sucking ash from every crevice,
the distant dust drifting clinging
to solid and slush,
dispensing every ripple from ripple
thru atomic yelp!

Never-mind
going past affluent embodiments
of cynical longing,
naiveté wet-dreams of green death,
the iron industry phallic of progress,
raping the arched bough of eternity.
Underpass psalms of salvation,
Edisons electric crucifixion:
glory be to the great grid!
Clenching the ink bubble of clouds,
reclaiming shattered earth, to offer piece
by piece to the sky.

Mind heavy with the frost of abstraction.

II.
The magic jazz, Coltrane couldn’t palm
heaven quick enough to catch faint scents.
Illusions of smoky high C#,
Christ incognito raising kings and queens,
diamond torn against jacks heart,
stranger to the broken pillars of
Philadelphia,
underground change passing thru…
snap to ancient beats,
self propelled forward,
burning traces,
angelic prophets between the barbed wire,
scrawled words, and the crown of thorns
itself.

Alliteration Nation Will Lose Control

Alliteration Nation Will Lose Control

Cataclysmic conclusions condescendingly compel creation,
contradiction and conditioning continuing cycles of carelessness,
until complex controls cease to captivate and concur.
Consequently, I struggle with these strange idioms
and thus fall into:

omniscient outlining observations
ovulating outrageous onslaughts of outside
organisms overruling ongoing outputs.

Still,
I am…
neglecting no one,
never-the less nothing nor no one nourishes
my narcissistic neurotic neurosis, napping
noisily non-conformable at my self.

Though, this tight translucent
turbulent tide tricks
this thought, turning truth
to trepidation, tripping
this transcendentalist to
trust truth.

Really,
Really?
Really realizing rational revolution revolves round
ricocheting righteously,
requesting, rethinking, reshaping and replacing
this “Rison de arte”

Only with onslaughts of outlandish ongoing oft-misplaced orgasmic origins,

will we ever:
Lovingly lose this lacerated lost lion of
longitude and latitude,
letting loving kindness leap!

Laughter and Communion

Laughter

When she laughs, it’s an odd cackle,
loud and vulgar.
Even the air feels violated
for being exposed to it.
When she walks, you will hear the
industrial age cough and choke.
When she spits onto the ground
time flies by,
and nobody notices.
O’ beautiful:
you sleep on walls, holding the thread of life/
haphazardly, with your heart towards heaven,
and your skin towards dust,
and you expect my gratitude?
Numbly she dances, nimble and sincere,
…I know this is her,
and not that violent laughter.

Communion

Intro: Somehow I am always caught
between Zen and my narcissistic self.

Stepping outside I grabbed
the wind and shook it furiously
in my hand; and when it yelped,
I exposed my palm and set it free.

Sat down and saw God anxiously pacing
these streets, chain smoking,
rubbing his bare feet deep into the gravel,
leaving a trail of blood where he walked.
So, I ran to the street, bowed down
and licked the pavement.
Swiftly, a bird flew down and whispered into my ear:
“That’s God you’re eating.”
I looked up and saw a brilliant flash of light….


The lesson:
Just sitting will show you more than
moving in circles.

Big Bang (Go Boom)

Big Bang (Go Boom)

I.
I am scratching beneath the soil,
to search for what can not be named.
My television seared strange halos
into my skin, and it’s distracting me.
Deep in I see:
life is circling,
spreading its’ carbon waste
in a thick pool,
we wait to drink from.
So I walk for miles,
empty cup in my hand,
waiting for you to fill it.
I craw with open
hands and mouth,
waiting to taste it.

II.
I will lick the filth from the ground,
and attain God, because unlike you:
I am searching.

I Lay naked in the embrace of the gentle earth.

III.

The posts are screaming ashes from their bases!
Rising seductively from itself, and the silence
is shrieking!
Shaking itself madly over the soil,
we collapse, confused & confined,
(waiting to hold)
and our hands like rubber, just form (and we sigh).

I want to rub this into me,
breath and eat because:
I am the big bang,
and this infinite sense is both ugly & beautiful,
and we are still trying to hold/ this is still strange.

…I am writing simply because I am afraid of running out of ink.

Alarm Clock and Brooklyn

Alarm Clock

Let us begin,
realization of revelations,
static, stoic, and impatient,
Understand the individuals
perception is just that,
shade and tone,
the bleak machine rattle of progress,
unfolding perilously,
disguised by loquacious euphemisms.
Surely heaven must cry ink tears &
write in blotches to be discovered by
the patient,
surely this incessant buzz will be
the source of awakening,
like an alarm clock for us all.

Brooklyn

With ageless eyes,
& long beard sweating proverbial
flat top wailing!
W/ no mind in the Bowery,
egg spiked children between the thickness.
And days! Oh, days of underground
meditation, listening to wild announcements
begging for change,
slight whims,
cereal spit between yawns and long divides,
Newark’s detox skyline,
angelic loves,
pushing the excrement through sobbing birth eyes,
grain fields rough from the industrial plague.

Drunk Sunrise

Drunk Sunrise

Oh what a glorious innocuous sense we breath!
Hanging from signs til’ they bend to the streets,
and out of sight!
In this concrete jungle
only water is free,
so I go back to the point of forms and become:
formless.

Last night I gave into
my strange friend, leading me
from this warm worn mattress, and colored tubes
feeding my relentless hypochondriac self,
and I spun the age old yarn,
blissfully, til’ direction imploded,
and I grew sick and spat myself into
the warm arms if summer repeatedly,
til’ drifting I saw strange illuminations in this self.
Now, I sit recalling all,
to spin like the spiders cryptic web,
each strand holding the sum of my parts,
waiting and dangling from tenement rooms,
lit by cathartic cigarettes, and this sense of…
awe!
And flowing wine,
the constant hum of electric fans cutting
thru the thick heat, while I cut through the
thickness of the self I am struggling to
eradicate.

Yet the soft silhouette of
reflected street lights
fighting to claim the skies
from eternal sun, are beginning to crack!
And the staccato hack of global lust is settling
with a sigh, and feet are
again digging into the
awkward wet soil, as
spines straighten to its lackluster touch.
And this spinning slows to a translucent calm,
my body/self drifting to the edge of nothing,
settling like dust after the storm,
here to watch and wait again.

Morning Walk / Job Thoughts

I.
What will become of abstract
chairs on tabletops?
Coat hangers inhaling first
gasps, crouched on stone,
legs numb, no-mind,
staring into perpendicular lights,
the sun rising suspiciously
before my fogged eyes,
giving way to the white lines,
soaked in ash, fizzling deeper into
the cornea, then spat back into the new sun.

II.
Was it these monotonous languages
scrawled into eyebrows, which left you
searching for god between fibers,
without the whole?
Ruined angels now starved
looking for nourishment in plastic,
while I shell for shell,
rip bricks apart.

III.
Ah,
the sweet smell of mustard gas and
marijuana!
The tragic clanging of metal
& false accusations, empty glares and salvation,
fat sobs from eyes, clinging to electric lights,
dripping constructively & running along cloaked walls.
What a strange existence,
blurred between frozen meditative bliss,
and chaotic big bang catharsis,
extracted from every light and life,
to be dropped casually thru eternity,
laughing: drunk and boisterous:
held by holy crutches upon which stands Dionysus at
ripe old age to wander deserts,
stench foreboding, learning the truth all over again.

Afterthoughts:
IV.
A pure mind is like a bottle of wine:
the longer it is still, the stronger it becomes.
Yet, just like when we drink wine,
if we drink too deeply,
our minds / the ego: becomes drunk.

New Poems fresh from the oven of my disorted mind!

Hello,
It has been a very long time since I have updated this site, this is due to extensive travel and also a good deal of aimlessness. I have discovered much during said time at wish to share it with you all, most importantly though, I am laughing again. So I’ll leave you with a musical quote: Life is short but sweet for certain.

Peace
Jon



Rain

In this age of narcissistic information &
exploding expectations
it becomes:
impossible to cease the relentless chatter
pilfering emptiness until the complex
is whole.

In this space,
benevolent rain,
remains whole.

Did you attest to rain,
beating the ancient rhythm forward,
smoke clearing itself through.
Rain hanging onto lifeless oaks,
until the strange merciful wind tears it down.
Rain! This endless chatter,
beautifully drawn across, stretched thought…
tension the governing body of the soul/washing in the rain,
returning always to the birth.

God is Electric

Have you ever been mesmerized,
by the arcane glow of electric gods?
Time washed from broken faucets,
sporadic as rain: constant as the breath.
Have you ever known your true self.
naked & soaked; screaming,
much like before you hurt beautifully & …
collapsed,
dropping through endless heavens, tasting salt with
wry grins?

When it rains, everything is thicker,
even your thoughts.


A Reductionism Poem

I started with God,
my notion of supreme determinism,
the idea that we are being governed.
But God is merely my ego-conscious
scraping at identity for meaning.
So I turned to my mind,
creator of perception and consciousness,
until told that I am a byproduct of
electricity and my self is simple chance.
So I turned to chance, trying to understand
where to wager meaning, until realizing
that chance is another bullshit ego-delusion.
So, I suppose I am left with nothing,
yet that’s too nihilistic, so there is no mind or form,
which is where form beings?
True mind is no mind.

21 Year

21 Years of 21st Century Angelic Consciousness

Golub mountain satori,
over Cherokee Delaware,
hot grass sticky and stiff,
illuminated souls in bleak university grander.
Acrylic happenings in late night whiskey
induced trance,
funneling Coltrane in hopes of realizing the self.
Bouncing between beat Philadelphia: with its’ mad
poet Buddhas, septic serpents,
all night anxious imploding meditations & angelic goddess worship
in Bethlehem.
Isolation in peach cream walls,
starving for green in artificial colored markets
of opulent attachment,
chaotic notes between sighs of complacency
in holy cathedrals of bureaucratic chains.
Slept in academic walls,
bored with conventional wisdom,
dropped out of the American dream
and into the seven circles of the self,
(and cried at each level)
Lost attachment to self
(still working on desire) forgave past trespasses and those who
trespassed against myself,
developed cynical longing and lost it,
lost God and found it,
walked aimlessly for a year &
grew roots into these streets.
Dug jazz induced love of life,
broke language into primal rhythms,
deprived myself of love and nourishment,
than ate greedily,
read volumes,
accepted new consciousness:

first I was crazy,
then enlightened,
now I’m just fucking nuts.

Learned to love beautifully again,
accepted change but denounced current,
accepted new rhythms, mobilized nimble
meditative fingers, sang blues on Columbus Boulevard and Frankford Ave.
with the yuppies, hippies, jazz men and blue women.
Received smiles and magic bills from reformed
junkies who claimed my music was redemptive.

Lost all of that, and still content.
Saw God with my sorcerer brother,
and cried when life was too beautifully
shy for him.
Barreled down grey highways with my beautifully mad love,
deconstructing ancient myths and burning
ahead towards eternal bliss,
sought solitude and grander,
wrote of all this madness,
and stood at the end,
happy to show it all.

Estatic affairs

Hello, I’ve been avoiding posting of late due to days spent in bed contemplating the universe, and meaning, while staring silently at blank walls, forgive the lack of post, and enjoy these questions.

Peace & Enlightenment,
- Jon

Recollections of the Wooded Hunt

I recall that night, leaping from vision to vision, responding to the chorus deep in the soil with shouts, cooking the scent of wet pine and moss to an intoxicating brew which hovered beneath my nostrils indiscriminately, as I wondered through the woods guided by the trickling moonlight filtered through the evergreens, searching for enlightenment between every living thing around me. Creeping stealthily at moments, tersely at others, I would wander until finding a clearing within the woods where I would sit; and, reaching into my pockets grab a stale cigarette that I had bummed from an old landscaper named Henry. I would entertain his speeches on being a failed writer, in exchange for smokes, which at the time was a strange luxury. Silently, I would lay there in the dirt and overgrown grass, staring at the treetops, swirling in the breeze, the sun’s light playing hide and seek with the dusk. Solitude for me; was an escape, I did not fear the loneliness, for whatever mood the woods were in, they spoke in tones, never with words. I can not recall them screaming at me through delusions, nor did they mock my hopes, nor did they judge my soul. I would lay their breathing with the soil, as content with her as she was with me. Tentatively my hands would run along the bark of some tried trunk, and though logic now permits questioning, I could of sworn my hands grew warm, and the tree would whisper.

Water

Water

I’ve been thinking, scatting holy rhythms,
trying to cope, shadows on these walls,
they are as confused as I am.
Walking through paradise,
listening to water roll across these stones,
I saw finite wisdom
carved into the stream,
out of focus to my tired eyes.
For every line written,
I cease to know,
standing in front of windows,
lit smoke,
I dream of tangled messes, and I
can’t understand this
urgency to begin and this
heart to end.
These eyes are haunting me, beautiful grace,
suspended in heaven telling me:
“Look, it’s all there!”

And the rhythms, the rhythms, the rhythms,
and the sound.
I am safe here with your cries of exasperated
orgasms shining like crosses, and god-like breasts.
Embracing in the river,
howling
I want this, like blind men wish for sight.
I want this like how we all suffer.
I seek enlightenment through lowered lips,
reversed entry, going back to where I’ve come from.
I want to hear again:
you.

Survey

Survey

I’m taking a survey of everything,
so on a scale of one to five,
how would you rate your experience?
Do you feel that you’ve obtained unknown
truths lying in bed staring at blank walls?
Do you feel as if all suffering leads to great things?
Or that late night meditative cigarettes leave brilliant
ashes on your stoop, to be washed away by the next rain,
returning a small part of you to the gentle Earth?
Here:
I am thinking of what to say, now that everyone
is talking, and singing, and eating, and drinking. And I
sighed in their warm embrace, and I sighed on that
silent drive home, and I sighed while making love,
wondering who I was as I stood naked on the front lawn
of eternity, unsure and scared.
And I’ve silently chanted to anyone listening,
moving in between counters. I went back to my day job,
but I saw it everywhere, even in their benign attempts
to be civil, and I wondered how much of it was real.
So I drank to subdue the questions,
and I smoked to seek some answers,
and I laughed at myself and cried.
So now I’m left with these faces,
moving forward, though I question the
absurdity of it all.
Please respond A.S.A.P.

Sex with Strangers

Sex With Strangers

I. Another slow night, dreaming of
flying in the cool eyes of
strangers.
Each passing breath shaped by
clouds, each lingering scent
unfolding like an old book
beneath our tongues.
Shifting thru day old goods,
rotting in their self-righteousness.
(A silver slice)
These sly lunatics are fucking famished!
Someone must serve us and quick!
But, as night goes on,
I’m left counting matchbooks
to kill this idleness.
I’ll create a heaven which they
inhabit and rule…Matchbox kingdom!
II. Blue eyed chicken shit,
spitting life all over the tired old women,
singing praise to the all knowing,
sucking the economy dry with lipstick
drenched smiles, very aware of the lust
they inspire in shallow young men,
who try to own the neon night,
without knowing who she is,
or what she works for.
But like an untouched phallic,
their minds explode before they realize:
1. the universe is infinite
2. respect is indifferent
3. god is in us all

III. So before death, we all drive
madly thru the oaks,
bouncing between life &
beautiful sleep.
Enjoy your strange wine,
vision giver, you’re too ugly
to hold your voice down,
and too shy to sing.

IV. Be drunk on your deathbed
so you can smile and say:
“Come and get me, fucker!”
Be silent in heaven so you can
inhale eternal poetry,
be humble so you’ll know the difference.
Kiss the stars each perfect breast, thigh, & lips.
Accept brutal hunger to
drive deep into twilight,
lost in curiosity & morose
tones, jubilant exile in
shadowed womb,
beneath the flooded promises.

V. So great: that salt, burnt skin,
that I don’t much mind giving myself
to strange gods and odd rhythms.

VI. Even though it’ll be a hundred yrs
before I surface and scrape a shallow
breath from the sky, eyes bloodshot, yet seeing
clearing for awhile, it’s…ahhh
I’ll dig my hands into my face
ripping off the worn pieces,
(I’m born again!)
Any actual likeness in this
life to reality, or heaven,
is done with a healthy dose of humor
and a fucked up sense or mortality.

VII. So we write & write & write $ write,
and take our prayers, crumble, rip, and throw
them away.
My last few customers bled before
my washed sight & made innocuous purchases
one after the other