Nature's Value
Man must acquiesce,
No matter the room;
The room..
Is of little consequence,
For the value of a room
Is dependent on a view,
No matter the room,
How exquisitely crafted.
If it has no view,
Value is questionable.
From the room man made,
Value sees fit
That view be provided
Of that untouched
By the hands of man.
A man made room
Must have a view of that
Which is not man made
To allow it to make claim:
A room of high value.
New Phase of Celebrity
Under space of a year,
He gave his parting benedicition,
And with a firm grip
On the elephant's ear
Took leave
In his circus finery
And well-worn shoes
Returning,
With spade in hand,
The soil of home's grave.
A raspberry culled
From lips of a ghost
Sustained him,
And gained him
Amateur magic
And a choice selection
From envy's repertoire,
Befitting the Empress's hand
Resting
In demure social discovery.
This was where the lightning hit...
This moment that marked
A new phase of celebrity.
Nine O'Clock Sailing
An unpromising security;
The best he could sift
From ambiguity's history,
Even in superstition's absence,
The six months,
Multiplied by three,
Vexed his Hume-like skeptic tic.
Adjustments were okayed,
Permitting quick,
Energetic,
Sweeps that all happened
In a time
Befitting the conscientious time keeper's industrial eye.
A giant step
And a set of staccato hops
Were made to mind's library,
Where shelves of immaterial fables,
In their infinite bindings,
Made their presence
A meaningful event
To all visitors
Holding the necessary papers
For entry.
Moonlight
Acted as dead weight
To the armless silhouettes;
Gracing the royal decor;
Studious
But aware.
Palming the tiny key,
And squeezing through
The curtain's aperture;
A fool's knot
Held the vehicle of God
Idling for a passenger's participation.
With one nod
To the flying tambourine,
The intact seals
Remained as they were,
Calm,
And genuinely plain.
Only a violent transport,
Prophesied
For the present generation,
Would move us all
For the next sailor's call.
No Net To Catch Me
Reason's Hordes lay in wait
Under dull-lit doorways
Gripping the cerement
To wrap me and trap me
And throw me to a watery grave
Where only the ghosts
Of fishes can benefit.
Minds of these men only rest
When I am owned
By a domed dagoba,
The boaster of my bones.
Humor sees fit to allow
The Light of Being whose nature
Is that of the free-blown
Where nets and snares abide
In their sad isolation.
When the causeless builds
A fortress, the dimensions
Be Homeric and there be no
Paper so rough to scratch
The surface of Impenetration,
The surface
Of the Mind's Sublimity.
I have no grudge toward
My foes of infecundity,
The purveyors of monkeyshines
And border-grafters of the
Reality Cube.
I'll pluck my song as an ostinato
To bring them along into
My Holy Dream.
