Mayfly Showdown

Entrapment, it's what's done.
Welcome. Follow the flashlight beam
scurrying down the stairs, into the basement.
It's where talk happens. Talk about entrapment.
The most efficient traps are the ones
where those caught in them remain unaware
they are trapped. Now a new turn begins.
It is well known that there is a war
going on. What is not agreed on,
is exactly who the key players
waging it are. Regardless of
the answer, the one thing
commonly possessed, whether
agreed upon or not, is every
individual caught up in this war—
whether enthusiastic about it or not,
and for better or worse—commands a great
many pathways to happiness. Denial seems a
quick easy route. (Is hot tea favourable?
There's always tea brewing in the basement.)
And here we are dipping into the rapid
streams of time with an inkwell for the river
and a sliver for an oar, ivory capped typing keys
and a blackened pie roller, dust, and a quill for the paddle,
a plastic keyboard electronic matrix as the nib to dip
in the icy current of a clear drinking creek seeking
one direction from infinity into a moving stream
of pixels that trick us into forgetting that
from here on out we'll be mixing a tape
of our lives up so to speak, that is,
about what we want everyone to know
about our lives. In the interest
of taking honesty to its furthest
shattering point I've construed an
elaborate method by which our seperate
life story threads might intertwine.
I've devised many different angles
from which you might piece together
our story. Really I'll be giving you
the filler stuff and the important
parts can be plugged in with your own
private details, considering that the
rest will come naturally, I mean we're
all human despite living together in the
same place, right? Same place, haha—good
one, huh—yeah, right. Earth is the same place
last time I checked. That river was the same
place last time we checked. That tectonic plate
was in the exact same location since the dinosaurs.
And the shop across the street was full of whores,
I know. But listen. Somehow they got rid of us.
That's why we're standing here. Now. Abandoned.
Don't you get it? Look, we're the only ones left.
That much should be obvious to you. The fact I'm
even having this conversation—that you're hearing it,
your ears scanning my voice—and blinking no comment
reflecting indifference to the various injections
we've suffered together, I mean it's all the same
transfusion right—cuz you know they're using you
and you're used to it—and they know it and it's
part of a network and *phone rings*.

The point of the matter being simple.
No such thing as the same place twice.
Don't believe in naughty or nice.
Wanna drink wine better make it from rice.
The bees are dying from an Incorperated heist.
You wanna talk robbery.
It's called passing the buck.
And if you ask me again I won't give a fuck.
The reason things stay the same can't be proven.
Its like trying to measure a hologram as its woven.
Don't talk to me about illusion.
I know relativity can be confusing.
Einstein postulated imaginary time.
I don't even know if he knew it rhymed.
My calculations always come out the same.
Like there's a refraction coming out of my membrane.
A higher distraction I'm too blurry to see sane.
So let me try to get you to understand me.
There's an entire universe out there I'm a part of.
Stars grow deep in my heart so to speak.
Isn't it this way for everyone.
Discovered that, when uninstalling
old software from your head,
remember to begin with those
most recently installed and
work backwards, like a reverse
layercake. Don't forget to empty
recycle bin. And you're good as new.
Only one hundred and thirty five dollars,
billed to your electronic web account.
But they'll never get those symantec bits out.
Haha I'm just kidding. Our lives are nothing like
computer systems, that's a myth. Computer systems merely
resemble our lives. Our heads. The way we unmake our beds.
And never lie down in them twice. It's not the same bed,
it's not the same river, it's not the same head,
it's not the same bitterness, it's not the same headdress,
it's not the same cleverness, it's not the same anything,
it's not the same bling bling, it's not the same corruption,
it's not the same eruption, it's not the same consideration,
it's not the same alliteration, it's not the same expedition
and it's not the same cognition. It's not even the same degree
of maintenance that affects the same results or effects.
It's not the same anymore. And it can never be the same
again. There can never be the same amount of difference.
There can never be the same amount of inference.
There can never be the same degree of anything.
It can never be the same again for everything.
We can never be sane again because there is no
constant for sanity. We can delve into sanity
further and establish the possibility of fair weather.
But the clouds might develop to blot out the sunshine that
otherwise pronounced the clear outline of our shadows.
If these are the conditions in sanity, imagine
the conditions without. You can't. Because
there is no such thing. As sanity. It's all
in our heads like a dream. Or a vanity.
Like a scheme. That we planned, you see.
Only no scheme ever unfurls as planned.
We all know that, deadpan.
So what's in a scheme.
Nothing but a flowering idea.
And we all know what they say about flowers.
Flowers have no hope for tomorrow.

Mysterium...

for Jhon Longshaw


...the root of the word mystery lies in a secret 
or hidden meaning, from the Old French mistere 
and the Latin mysterium, "A secret rite, a secret 
worship, or secret thing," and Greek mysterion, 
a secret rite or doctrine, and deeper to mystes, 
"one who has been initiated," in other words 
a mystic, where the sense goes back to the Old 
French mistique and to the Latin mysticus 

One who has been initiated into being connected 
with the mysteries, associated with sacraments, 
exhibiting outward signs of an inward spiritual 
grace, like the eucharist, being a consecration 
and a mystery itself,  in other words sacred, 
which is to be made holy, in other words to be 
kept intact, a thing that could not be transgressed 
or violated, but kept whole, from Old English hal

"Entire, unhurt, healthy," where health is equated 
to being whole, sound, or well, from Old English 
willan, "to wish" arising from will,  from Gothic 
wiljan, "to will, wish, or desire,"  from Latin 
desiderare "to long for, demand, or wait in 
expectation for what the stars will bring," 
(de sidere), to consider (from Latin considerare) 
the stars, what we now refer to as sidereal, 
from Latin siderius, meaning "starry or astral, 
of the constellations," from Latin astrum, star 

Old English steorra, Old Norse stjarna, Greek 
aster, Latin stella, performing the lead part, 
the starring role, a part or character one takes, 
the symbol or imprint on the soul, from Old English 
sawol, "the spiritual and emotional part of a person; 
animate existence, of uncertain origin, ancestry, 
or race; from Old French origine, and Latin originem, 
"a rise, commencement, beginning, or source through 
descent, lineage, or birth, from Old Norse byrdr

"Birth, descent, race; offspring; nature; fate," 
from Latin fata "a prophetic declaration, oracle, 
or prediction," the sentence of the gods, from Old 
English wyrd, "fate, destiny", literally "that which 
comes", Old Saxon wurd, which is also to turn, 
and bend, from Old English weordan, to become, 
and weirder yet from the root -wer, or versus, 
from Latin versus, "turned toward or against"

Weorthan, what befalls one should he dare, from 
Old English durran, "to brave danger; to venture, 
presume," to risk the loss of a thing about to happen 
by chance, fortune, or luck; once upon a time, all 
these things described were one and the same, 
and the weird thing today remains, that by turns 
of phrase, they've slowly been flowering back into 
secrecy turning once again into hidden mystery...  

Return To Sender

for Ward Churchill 


Frozen in abject terror
Flowing through 
Imbedded roots with
Skin curling blackened 
Away revealing red raw 
Ruin where once was 
A mask and never a face
Feel the wind for
The very first time
Then season the silence

With a sigh and cut
Out your own tongue
Hand it to the head of state
On a white napkin
Upon a china plate
Bow halfway with 
Feigned good grace
This has explained 
Such gifts as a voice 
Are a waste

March Forth

for Gareth Griffin


March forth into the unknown because we're all doing it anyway.

Consider being given nothing a treasure,

and no one can take your good fortune away.

Why do they call it The Present? Because it's A Gift.

Don't Leave It Unwrapped or let it Collect Dust

or abandon it tossed in the corner, nor from misuse allow it to Rust.

Accept it with good grace and see it's all that's yours to Keep

and All the Rest, even your face, the knickknack paddywack pieces of your home,

will peel away like leaves of flesh falling off the bone.

Funny how material things will only fade away

and the Nothing you've been given is Freedom here to stay.

March Forth into the Unknown, it's really all you can do

Clearly an adventure with Something to gain and Nothing to lose

Peel Away the Fears that have collected over the years

like so many cancelled stamps, and you will find

what you thought were the bars of your own prison cell

had only built up in your mind.

The high temperature of your own private Hell

you set to broil and switched on yourself.

And what of the Scars from your X-degree burns?

Go out at night and stare at the Stars,

and think as you walk how the Earth still turns.

Then when you get home, Take A Look In The Mirror

Straight through the Eyes to your Heart.

It still yearns, does it not, and beats every night

even while you're sleeping.

So March Forth into the Blue, smiling evenly,

Stepping through light, untying the knot to ease the rope burns.

Still your thoughts, close your eyes to the hate,

Let it all go in a slow dissolution, Escape from the mold clamping into the quick

that is selling your soul getting old quick and the trick is to keep moving

or the walls will close in and the hallways will whisper

all of your sins can slip between cracks, take root and grow tangled

all around you, a cocoon of comfort called homespun numbness

mistaken for the crumbling fortress of dreams

when really nothing is as it seems

because we See what we Believe and we musn't forget

if we want to leave this Scene March Forth into the unfolding brand new dream

you make up while awake; this is nothing to shake a stick at

if you're Sick of It make a Break for It Right Now There Is No Time

like the Present, and you Know Tomorrow Never Comes,

so Throw Sorrow Out the Window and pick up your feet

to the rhythm of the sound of your own drums.

March Forth with the Brave and the Bold and you might find

You'll Never Grow Old; Learn to Unwind with Clear Open Eyes,

Realize you are breathing The Sky!

Marching Forth without Fear will erase the bad years

Keeping focus on the Gift close at hand.

Pick it Up from the corner, blow off all the dust

and with Trust, March Forth and Make Your Own Stand.