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Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Perceptive Bliss

Perceptive Bliss

I. Great transitional star-lit
balconies, from which we
sat in subdued bewilderment
spitting at obscene hours of the night.

We Said:

“This entire existence is
addicted to its’ own
scent and stench.”

Yet we lived on as suppliers
to their erroneous needs.

II. In the wake of this
fire, we silently observe
the smoldering ash,
extinguished with words
unspoken, quenched by
startled inaction.


III. At the ripe age of twenty years,
I feel I am halfway thru
this funneled vision of the self.
My existence certainly isn’t
permanent, my work far from some
grand cure for the masses.
My life, a daily reoccurring
enigma, with soaked pieces
that no longer fit together.
A wandering, syncopated line,
in love with the (as yet) unfulfilled
promises of heaven,
while trying to relinquish
this spiteful vision of the self,
that I (myself) despise.

IV. May-be this vehement insecurity
is a mask for jealousy and contempt.
Right now however, I would give
my fucking tongue to shut these
voices down.


V. I apologize for each
breath that I’ve squandered,
I apologize for cursing
the unseen order,
I apologize for disbelief
in the self,
I apologize for blind
belief in the self,
I apologize for dwelling in the realm
between broken lines & closure,
I apologize for my expectations & yours,
I apologize for not existing,
I will not however,
pardon my existence.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Bridge and Pratt

Greetings, it has been quite some time since I have updated this site, mainly due to the wonders of executive power existing in the shadows of corporate America; but, I supposed I shouldn't complain, at least I have a job. That being said, here are several new poems, including two epic poems as well. Also three new jazz videos on youtube. Coltrane's “Giant Steps”, Miles’s “So What” (This time electrified) and Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” please enjoy the new work, and remember,

Peace and Enlightenment.

As always,
Jon

Bridge & Pratt
Staring down Pratt, I see the woman
embracing the strange, & walking through streets made of paper.
At Orthodox, steel cages house the people,
& contain the cold.
At Church no one prays to the metal God,
speeding through their apparent lack of hope.
At Torresdale, I pass over century old rooftops,
covered in the dawns dust.
At Tioga, broken glass windows are art deco.
At Allegheny the woman in blue stares cautiously,
& an old woman smiling quiets her child.
Somerset passed over Uncle Sam’s promises,
(all shut down, or bought out)
Cheap! Sale! Free!
At Huntington we stopped too long and
the cathedrals wept.
At York I realized this is all pointless,
as the great bells foretold.
At Berks I reminded myself nothing is insignificant,
not even the decay, or piles of non-sequential shit
between crumbling smiles.
Girard had more emptiness than before.
Spring Garden brought Liberty Towers &
the promise of tomorrow into plain view
a phone poles’ shadow cast Christ and Buddha
on the wall.
Around the bend I fell beneath the streets,
away from light.
At 8th Street I rose up again.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Holy

Holy

That morning when you
rose from bed and declared
yourself patron saint
of the lunatics, I
simply smiled and went
back to sleep.
I watch with disdain as
these streets are bought up
and the luminous sky is
covered in faux salvation. Still,
I must admit this prospect of
happiness through a sensible
payment plan is just
delicious.

Belief

Belief

I can’t believe
this miracle of being,
here:
this fraction
this green scented
wooo (sound it out)
Step out,
tune in,
this mind/low hymn
helps you/holy hymn

Begin:
Shouting down car
reflections,
we retract into our
beautiful selves.

Ode to Insomnia

Ode to Insomnia
January 21st was the day I checked
myself into the Fall Hills Sanitarium.

I. As I was tired of the apocalyptic
buzz in my brain, and the stealthy
yet brutal visions of blue.
For weeks the old woman
had screamed warnings of
the pending catastrophic dawn
into my bloodshot eyes,
I’ll be damned if she’s correct.
So great night, I send forth the
citrus Gods & blind men:
for they hold the keys to my
pale kingdom.
And honor thy Mother who spat
you from dark womb into this
sensation called life!

Still, I can’t keep from this sound,
faint yet sustained.
Calling and shifting before sight receptors.
Christ, Buddha, Yahweh, what do you want from me?

II. Mind Vessel / will you
drive the great rhythms /
forward thru starless melancholy /
leaping between pillars / to my pillow /
while I weep.

III. Waiting now for someone to
collect scattered ashes
between this life and tomorrow.
Counting great temples to calm my breath,
still trying in vain to observe fragments,
like the blue ribbon lady searching soup cans
for the best date.

Exile

Exile

I.
I am an exile in my own home,
wanton,
estranged.
Could you remind me of
the soils touch & scent,
before I retreat deeper
into the white noise?
Solemn angel.
Keeps dancing out of reach &
calling.
You remind me of
emptiness as naive bliss,
speaking in hushed tones,
eternity was possible,
as we lay deep.

Juts five years have passed &
suddenly I no longer feel immortal,
though from time to time I still
catch the echo between
each space.
And in those moments,
the universe is infinite again.

II.
I am an exile in my own
home, so I have adopted
these cold granite slabs and
carelessly discarded youths
as Aunts and Cousins.
So I will grasp heaven in
my hands like a garden,
and squeeze the juices
of eternity from its fruit,
letting them run over until
everything sighs and breaths again.

III.
I am an exile in my own mind,
creating a void which expands
and contracts leaving its sporadic footprints
stamped through time.
In the end, I’m just waiting in the shadows,
to dance with you again.