Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

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

Sunday, March 31, 2013

Area Gopher Tired of Easter References

(Jivester News, Ltd.)  Stating that he was "exhausted" by local wags and their endless references to the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ in comparison to himself, area gopher Thaddeus "Tad" Kensington III has announced that his cave is not empty and that it "...can be plainly observed that I am alive and have not flown up into the sky to reign with the Father for eternity."  Noting that Easter was especially difficult for him, he declared, "As a Christian rodent I take offence at the comparisons of me vis a vis the messiah.  I was not crucified on Friday, only to be placed in this tomb and then "poof" gone on Sunday--only Jesus could ever do such a thing."   He went on to note that his habitat wasn't a tomb at all, but was in fact a mid-century split level ranch.


Saturday, March 30, 2013

 a salty dog


Wednesday, March 27, 2013

The Bard of Darkness


some stories should remain untold
some fates should remain hidden
some ghosts should never raise their heads
to plead you do their bidding
deep in the dark of the terrible past
deep in the madness driven

Part 1 – Happy Youth

the boy was young, and full of life
his days were ripe with wonder
he bounced the ball & raced down halls
and shook his fist at thunder
“none shall frighten me, oh, no!
so lay me not asunder!”

he vaulted through his manic days
a lad in love with sporting
he shot the hoop and tossed the ball
he laughed and laughed, cavorting
and yet each day the sun did set
his merriment aborting

there is a time that strikes at boys
between games of skill and chances
it waits until the bloom is off
and catches them in trances
“here is where your winter lives
and dies in broken dances”

Part II --  The Coming of the Gloom

the house in front was uniform
so bland you wouldn’t note it
you could pass it by in front
and never once forbode it
but in the back, the music played
and none dared say who wrote it

transfixed, the boy stood by the door
and took the knob to turning
hot the metal scorched his hand
the smell of skin all burning
and yet his flesh, it showed no wounds
and strange became his yearning

the door he swung, and crept inside
to hear his sister playing
notes so sweet and full of love
to set one’s heart to swaying
where animals frolicked happily
with blue skies never graying

Part III -- Upon Entering the Music Room

“there’s the boy,” she smiled
“a song of him so chipper!
a song about that little boy
a clever tune for nipper!”
she turned her head just like a doll
“it’s time to crack the whipper!”

and so she played, with her wide grin
and sang of happy matters
the brighter keys, the higher notes
of rabbits and mad hatters
“once there was a boy,” she sang
“who laughed and nothing mattered”

“once there was a boy,” she sang
“who loved ice cream by the mouthful
and would you know it, soon enough
the ice cream truck’s arrival!”
a joyous song, a hopeful art
a work that knew no rival!

but soon the notes began to blanche
and pointed out the error
the boy had rushed to get his treat
and soon was caught in terror
“the truck,” she sang, “next ran him down,
after all, I’m not Tom Lehrer”

Part IV – The Morbid Facts

this, her gift, this simple tune
as playful as an otter
did make her laugh ere as she sang
just like the devil’s daughter
she never, ever let that boy
escape his rightful slaughter

the boy vowed to stick to outdoor games
and steer clear of all the gloaming
if he entered the music room
it would end his days of roaming
if she sang to him of puppies
next came the rabies foaming

if she sang of golden days
down on the brilliant shore
next would come a giant wave
and he would be no more
if she sang of blessed peace
next came the dogs of war

and so the keys, both black and white
beneath fingers like Cole Porter
danced with great precision
and often crossed the border
between the light and then the dark
then hammered for disorder!

the salad days of youthful rays
vanished in sad rumours
she took him to a doctor
where she sang about his tumors
she dug a grave inside her head
and named it “Baby Boomers”

Epilogue – Return of Main Theme

unto this day, it has been said
she waits, this mad composer
‘come children,’ she is said to cry
‘come, sit a little closer!
oh, to see those gleaming faces
before they are bulldozered!’

gather close, if you can gather
sit here, and hear the droning
dredged from the crypt of the mystic void
the souls made bleak by stoning
listen to the wretched ones
inside the twilight zoning

some stories should remain untold
some fates should remain hidden
some ghosts should never raise their heads
to plead you do their bidding
deep in the dark of the terrible past
deep in the madness driven


Dedicated to my madly creative sister Bunny!


Thursday, March 21, 2013

Christianity Explained


Tuesday, March 19, 2013

In Central Oregon, a Glimpse of Eternal Love

i see you on the distant shore
and long to be with you forever

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Candy Says

Live --  Antony and the Johnsons

"In interviews around the world in 2010, Antony described his work on Swanlights and The Crying Light as "a collision between joy and a sense of hopelessness". Antony said he was struggling to come to terms with the idea that he was part of a society that was having a “virulent” impact on the earth.[9] He suggested that the degradation of nature was partially a result of the subjugation of women and earth-based spiritual systems.[9] Antony also blamed the collapse of humanity's sustainable relationship with the earth in part on the rise of patriarchal religions that suggest the destiny of humanity to be "a paradise elsewhere". Interview Magazine describes Swanlights as “an emotional personal call for global, collective change”.

From here.


Wednesday, March 13, 2013

I caught you, you catch me

just behind the right shoulder
(the one that ached in winter)
i could just make out the past
it's forms, its shadows, its hollow grasp

just behind me--right there i insisted
everything that was, was still there
only slightly out of breath
only slightly dead

i'll give you an example of this distance:
say you walk in circles, but then you start to catch up
catch up to yourself
and you speed up your walk, and shorten your circle
and you're right on top of your own shoulder
so close you want to pull over
to let yourself pass
that close

i went to the garden thinking of nothing
except the cold, and of my hands
i did not walk in a circle
i did not catch myself
however, i did something funny:
i put winter just behind me
behind my shoulder
we played spy in the garden
the exact place where spring was hiding
that was where we would wait
that was where we got caught


Vatican Shmatican

"Cardinals too stoned to select new Pope, play video games and watch LOTR II (extended version) prior to flash mobbing tourists.  Story developing..."


Sunday, March 10, 2013

The Invisible Cold, Dead Hand of the Free Market

Potential editorial for Guns and Ammo?

"As a way of giving thanks for his enormous contribution to the NRA and gun manufacturers, a memorial honoring Newtown child killer Adam Lanza should be erected outside NRA headquarters in Washington, DC, the sooner the better.  While many have suggested that the pronounced increase in gun sales after the massacre was tied to fears about the nation's half white, half black president coming to take their guns away, it is only fitting that the gun lobby and the gun manufacturers themselves pay homage and construct a shrine commensurate with Mr. Lanza's contributions.  After all, it was his extermination of six adults and twenty children (and the murder of his mother immediately prior, with his suicide immediately after) that precipitated a tremendous uptick in profits, and put Wayne LaPierre's face on TV for all to gaze upon.  Perhaps a posthumous "Cold, Dead Hand" award should be given at a graveside ceremony, reminding all of the benefits of the free market in times of stress and anger.  The stockholders should insist on nothing less!


Thursday, March 07, 2013

this is a shape that humans have known a long time
this is a shape from the dawn of time
our time
a curve and a whip and a straightaway 
straight out of mind

adam had a snake for a friend in the olden days
it talked and smoked and rode a funny little bike
the old man yelled at adam and the snake
telling them to keep the noise down
the old man was a piece of work, for sure

most gardens are pleasant, full of growth and tenderness
plants grow all day in the warmth of the sun
adam had a landlord who was an asshole
adam fucked a girl and is now on the run
with a gun

when you are banished the trumpets are blasted
great horns announce your lowly estate
louis armstrong could have played 
outside the lonely gates
the old man would have to respect that

i think i cannot make this thing do tricks for us
it just slithers and darts and slides
i was wondering if i could put god back in the garden
and then jump on his bike and take it for a ride
(the snake could ride in the basket)

a curve and a whip and then paradise


Sunday, March 03, 2013

Term of Endearment goes horribly, horribly wrong...