Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Saturday, August 28, 2010

Returning Ashes



rarely do the angels bring me supper
i am hungry most of the time
sometimes i pretend among the shadows
that what's coming in the end is really mine

i dreamed of bleeding thorns among the roses
in the distance where the lightning flashes
i think i saw a goddess in the garden
born inside a heart returning ashes

returning ashes
returning ashes
in the grace of her sweet hands
returning ashes
returning ashes
hold me in the heart of your hands

the young man lay beyond his body
where his soul had gone i couldn't tell
his mother and his brother sit in silence
and for a time they live inside his shell

another one has vanished altogether
said goodbye and left a lifeless form
i saw a random goddess, a reminder
you are not alone inside the storm

you cannot hold on to this life forever
not everything can be fixed with more patches
the cloth that is your body will burn up
to be reborn inside a heart returning ashes

returning ashes
returning ashes
in the grace of her sweet hands
returning ashes
returning ashes
hold me in the heart of your hands

when i see her face i see the summer
a light that hangs on in longer days
the sun sets in the west among the whispers
you can hear them in the fading of the rays

my bones are weary in the winter
time is giving me its lashes
i turn to see the goddess in her slumber
in her dreams she is returning ashes

returning ashes
returning ashes
in the grace of her sweet hands
returning ashes
returning ashes
hold me in the heart of your hands

rarely do the angels bring me supper
i am hungry most of the time
sometimes i pretend among the shadows
that what's coming in the end is really mine

i dreamed of bleeding thorns among the roses
in the distance where the lightning flashes
i think i saw a goddess in the garden
born inside a heart returning ashes

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Friday, August 27, 2010

The Opinuary Column



i have dreamed a wild dream
i have suckled so obscene
i have taken many hits
i must be really lit
i'm having a strange fit
i see three hundred million and ten
three hundred and ten million tits

i was fumbling with her bra
a billion hooks that grab like claws
i would woo her with my wits
we should be putting on the Ritz
please somebody: somebody help me with these tits

oh, momma
oh, momma
valhala
wow-wowza
oh, my darling
oh, darling momma
man, you have a lot of tits

i brought her close for just a taste
not a drop would i dare waste
let me cradle with my mitts
like fine cherries without pits
three hundred and ten million--that's a whole lot of tits

we were kissing at the bar
then i walked her to my car
she is smart, she ain't no ditz
she filled my heart with so much bliss
and she had so many tits!

i was fumbling with her bra
a billion hooks that grab like claws
i would woo her with my wits
we should be putting on the Ritz
please somebody: somebody help me with these tits

oh, momma
oh, momma
valhala
wow-wowza
oh, my darling
oh, darling momma
man, you have a lot of tits

now i'm old and low on cash
putting ointment on my rash
i still have a burning need
i need those tits so i can feed
please somebody: somebody help me with these tits

i have dreamed a wild dream
i have suckled so obscene
i have taken many hits
i must be really lit
i'm having a strange fit
i see three hundred million and ten
three hundred and ten million tits

i was fumbling with her bra
a billion hooks that grab like claws
i would woo her with my wits
we should be putting on the Ritz
please somebody: somebody help me with these tits

oh, momma
oh, momma
valhala
wow-wowza
oh, my darling
oh, darling momma
you have got so many tits


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Public domain image of She Wolf suckling Romulus and Remus from WIKIMEDIA COMMONS.

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Tuesday, August 24, 2010

No More Room For Little Lies



they told me all the dreams are over
they told me just you better cry
leave behind the hall of wonders
no more room for little lies

no more sand men in the castles
no more shadows on the wall
the giants are all quiet
no more footsteps in the hall

but the blue dog often lingers
you can see him in the night
the blue dog has a presence
but he vanishes in light

goodbye to corner people
goodbye to turning men
say goodbye to what's becoming
say goodbye again, again

goodbye
goodbye
goodbye

i heard him barking in the kitchen
stuck behind the maze of jars
there are cobwebs in this vision
beneath a canopy of stars

the ceiling was a great pretender
it opened up and i was high
now the universe delivers
we are all up in the sky

hello
hello
hello
what is this up in the sky?

they put trinkets in the pantry
where the cans all used to sit
ballerinas and tin soldiers
they never move a bit

into gardens in the backyard
into the secret places there
little children in their dramas
say goodbye, they are not there

goodbye to corner people
goodbye to turning men
say goodbye to what's becoming
say goodbye again, again

goodbye
goodbye
goodbye

they told me all the dreams are over
they told me just you better cry
leave behind the hall of wonders
no more room for little lies

no more sand men in the castles
no more shadows on the wall
the giants are all quiet
no more footsteps in the hall

but the blue dog often lingers
you can see him in the night
the blue dog has a presence
but he vanishes in light

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Sunday, August 22, 2010

A Large Helping of Chauncy



Our cats have dropped all pretense at civility and have initiated open hostilities against our persons and our belongings. My glasses, without which I cannot drive or read, have been batted about the nightstand and onto the floor repeatedly of late, the frequency of attacks increasing even as the summer wanes. Seven in number, these gatos locos have been hissing and pissing with abandon, as though some switch has been flicked off inside their bird-nest heads: open war has begun, whether we engage them or not. Though my wife and I do not cower beneath the bed sheets, neither do we embrace our peril. As sleep arrives we hold hands in solidarity, watchful for the seven pathological assassins who slink in the night across our prone bodies, their claws like crooked daggers, waiting for the right moment to dispatch us to the distant hollows. But fate allows us one measure of compensation: Chauncy, whose face and love are a comfort to us.

And as for all the cats: come, my pretties, and do your worst, for we fear you not--Chauncy is at our side and we shall fear no evil. And because Chauncy has existed he has also participated in eternity, and will always have existed--no back doors for Nine Dimensional Cat Mercenaries to enter and wreak ever more elusive havoc. All manner of creation rolls back on itself, purring in the logic of its own improbability, but Chauncy merely smiles, and rests his head beside us. We may yet wake again in the morrow, with Chauncy at our side. Thank you, Chauncy. We couldn't have done it without you.

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Saturday, August 21, 2010

Now About that Crow

Crowing Daze
(written for Sy Safransky, editor and publisher of The Sun magazine)

the greatest shadow bird ever
a crow of vast expanse
an impossible dream bird
that's who's coming up the stairs

its feet are claws are prongs are reptiles
its eyes are molars in god's mouth
its center of balance is you
up it hops, up it hops
did you have stairs coming from the darkness
when you were young?
because it's your bird now:
gonna feed it?

it went outside
and mocks traffic
so fast, so slow

gonna swerve so you don't hit it?
think it knows something?
it does and it doesn't

listen:
you have figured out every trick
you have guessed all of the outcomes
you have cursed at formality
you have puked at causality
you are in the perfect place
and you know that when you name it
it is entirely gone

so don't name it

the greatest shadow bird ever
is your buddy now
its wings will fly you to dharamsala
where elephant boys sell trinkets
to the tourists

you will never be free of not being free
you will never be one step behind or ahead
you will always be flying with a great dark bird

when next you meditate don't meditate
not everyone controls prana
not everyone is a bird

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Friday, August 20, 2010

The Opinuary Column



The Opinion "Jesus died for your sins" has itself died, having been gutted with a kitchen knife by professional language assassin Sarah Palin. The Opinion was not quite 1,700 years of age.

The Opinion had enjoyed a very active social life for centuries as it reminded people who were too poor to be wealthy that they had better behave or 1. they would hurt Jesus' feelings 2. they would piss off the old man and be burned in a lake of everlasting fire 3. be diddled by a Catholic priest 4. they might get just a bit too big for their britches and face a comeuppance of biblical proportions. The all-pervading canopy of guilt and suffering that the gruesome sacrifice entailed often sufficed in making lives that already sucked just a little bit more depressing, just a little bit more unworthy, hollow and removed--one can never be Jesus, and one can never ease the suffering of God--but, other than that have a nice life and try the lobster.

In lieu of flowers the family of the deceased Opinion suggest that perhaps the young men and women who have died and continue to die in combat in our various wars, currently throughout the Arab lands, are the ones dying for our sins. Others who die for our sins are the children of the Followers of Christ, children who die for lack of medical care and a surfeit of biblical literalism--children of a god who can't always be expected to help out. Every day we put a variety of people up on a cross to die, so that we won't have to sell our SUVs or turn down the AC in summer or confront the future as something that is living now. Every day we participate in this waking dream, and do what we do, for good or ill.

Truly, people die every day in this world, often simply for the sin of having been alive, and sometimes this quid pro quo seems a fair bargain, while other times it plays out as a heartbreaking tragedy--so it goes.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.


William Blake

Be well, be wild, love dearly, sing from your heart, and steer clear of Raptor Jesus. I fear He loves you not.


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Saturday, August 14, 2010

The Opinuary Column



i was looking for a hero in the GOP
one who stood for you and me
someone to celebrate in story and song
still waiting for that someone to come along

the children shuddered and cried in fear
who will save the day, who can we cheer
who is the one to face the foe
stare down the devil, let the river flow

they sold their souls to the two percent
they sold the family for a couple months rent
they sold the future and burned the past
for a few dollars more they will kiss your ass

gather around in the darkest night
we tell tall tales by the fire bright
watch for the devil who was heaven sent
they'll sell their souls to the two percent

they put on suits and painted their skin
they hurt their moms when they were born again
they made their way to capitol hill
the two percent gave them such a thrill

they sold their souls to the two percent
they sold the family for a couple months rent
they sold the future and burned the past
for a few dollars more they will kiss your ass

damn the country, damn the earth
by gum damn it for all its worth
share the love until its spent
ain't nothing like the love of the two percent

i was looking for a hero in the GOP
one who stood for you and me
someone to celebrate in story and song
still waiting for that someone to come along

the children shuddered and cried in fear
who will save the day, who can we cheer
who is the one to face the foe
stare down the devil, let the river flow

they sold their souls to the two percent
they sold the family for a couple months rent
they sold the future and burned the past
for a few dollars more they will kiss your ass


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Friday, August 13, 2010

Big Dog Head in a World of Worry



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Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Go Down



it was part of the process, part of the parcel
part of the particles that explode in the sky
silicone pixels in lime jello splendor
the doors of perception go black in the night

no more the journey to infinite wisdom
no more the foray deep into the fray
succumbing to visions, seeing existence
it's all black and white that fades into gray

go down
go down
lift up your life and start to go down
look out
look up
take a deep drink from the loving cup

it was an elegant effort, down by the ocean
we took off our clothes and swam in the sea
the moon was our lifeguard, the night was our cover
everyone everywhere started to sing

go down
go down
lift up your life and start to go down
look out
look up
take a deep drink from the loving cup

there are pieces of silver in a dead man's chest
there are thousands of sunsets all riding the waves
say what you will as you run from the winter
save all your sorrow but you'll still have to pay

it was part of the process, part of the parcel
part of the particles that explode in the sky
silicone pixels in lime jello splendor
the doors of perception go black in the night

no more the journey to infinite wisdom
no more the foray into the fray
sitting in visions, seeing existence
it's all black and white that fades into gray

go down
go down
lift up your life and start to go down
look out
look up
take a deep drink from the loving cup

it was part of the process, part of the parcel
part of the particles that explode in the sky...

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Monday, August 09, 2010

A Breath Before the Candle is Blown Out



Meditation time...



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Friday, August 06, 2010

The Opinuary Column



The Opinion "Gay men and women should not enjoy the same constitutional rights as their (purportedly) straight counterparts" has died from complications arising from an attack of reason, wisdom, compassion and love. The Opinion, born in the Bronze Age and raised in the fevered minds of dutiful religious congregations, left this world surrounded by a host of frightened, hyperbolic, fear-based family and friends. It leaves behind a bunch of suckers, and more are born every minute.

No services will be held at this time while the family weighs its options and blames Satan for its loss. Thrice married Newt Gingrich reacted to the passing of the Opinion by spewing a steady stream of undigested horse dung that cascaded like a conservative rainbow across the crimson sky. Though a palpable stench has arisen from the rotting carcass of primitive discrimination that was Proposition 8, an autopsy by federal district Judge Vaughn R. Walker has revealed that the decedent had in fact an unremarkable chest cavity, save for the absence of its heart.

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god is love, satan lust
god above is what we trust
but god declines to take the stand
or on the bible place his hand
when the smoke at last is cleared
we are all equal, straight or queered


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Sunday, August 01, 2010

Blue Glass



i was gonna run off to the palace
i was gonna make love to the queen
i was interrupted by the blue glass
i was thrown off balance
i was just a shadow in a dream

i was gonna dance by the river
the water was gonna be my answer and call
i fell asleep and the breeze remembered
took me to the empty stage
i was just a shadow after the fall

blue glass on the window sill
blue glass from the goddess divine
blue glass and the promise of sorrow
blue glass till the end of time

summer nights are easy to love
drinking wine at the end of the day
i heard the coyotes in the distance
doing their best to survive
they never, ever pray

what you gonna do when the dream is over
who you gonna call to fix the past
her beauty gave me the shivers
like the memory of the moving river
and blue is the color of glass

blue glass on the window sill
blue glass from the goddess divine
blue glass and the promise of sorrow
blue glass till the end of time

i was gonna run off to the palace
i was gonna make love to the queen
i was interrupted by the blue glass
i was thrown off balance
i was just a shadow in a dream

i was gonna dance by the river
the water as my answer and call
i fell asleep and the breeze remembered
took me to the empty stage
i was just a shadow after the fall

blue glass on the window sill
blue glass from the goddess divine
blue glass and the promise of sorrow
blue glass till the end of time

what you gonna do when the dream is over
who you gonna call to fix the past
her beauty gave me the shivers
like the memory of the moving river
and blue is the color of glass

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image by mjs

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