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Thursday, April 23, 2009

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.


Wednesday, April 15, 2009

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