MONGRELS

Demons possess mankind yet do not exist
autonomously.  Only by taking possession of
an individual may a demon come into existence. 
This old secret has been lost on a population whose
imaginations always seem to get the best of them,
but what can you do.  While everyone is caught up
in the fading phantoms of their conversation, angels
walk among us.  Their reality determined once again
in the full blown possession of men.  Each extend
their arms through the race of human kind,
engaging in their dance after wings have spread
and talons blackened the bedsheets in shades of the darkest wine.
Yes, angels and demons are real my friend, intertwined
in genetic suspension they spell m - o - n - g - r - e - l
as close to a definition of modern man as one could understand. 
We project these innate qualities of ours to protect us from who we are.
To distract us enough that we just might think devils like these
could be real, bring us to our knees, and plead for the angels to save us
when all along the only ones who could do that are ourselves;
oh, yes, those mythic beings are real, alright:  they'd watch over
us at night if they hadn't fallen asleep themselves...
during the day they're usually spotted in hallways, 
bathrooms, and cars. Anyplace there are mirrors  
for one to look into.  Like you.  Both demons and angels 
are each distinguished by purity. Therefore true possession 
amounts to the total absolvement of impurities.
The prison of flesh where all angels and demons are banished
has been known throughout history by one word, humanity.   

DON'T TOUCH THE RED BUTTON

They're not crazy because their colorful discourse
can be balanced like any chemical equation;
trim the adjectives, adverbs, and advertisements
and what do you have left? Birdsong.

You have to have a head full of nuts
to even try to communicate a thought
in the first place. No one knows what
crazy is. Only relayed messages exist.

It stands to reason that why should we worry
if the sands of reason blow away in a hurry
we keep stacking our grains up into a keep
and occupying our brains so at night we creep.

If we're asleep in our dream not knowing
we're sleeping are we awake in our lives,
unaware we're alive? Don't touch the red
button unless you know the difference.

Between dreaming and living it ends up
becoming our parent's advice.  In this metaphor
what does the red button stand for besides
the reset of complete annihilation?

COLUMBIA

In the land of the craven
short sighted vision
breeds blindness 

and by degrees 
you'll find us

in the weeds strangled
by the debris of our
own lies receding 

as far back as the sea
stretches over the miles

back in time to the dawn
of our lives when innocence 
remembered the combination 

entered was trust in 
our lady of the sand 

for that which we carried 
our last reprimand 

was in the talons 
of freedom's wings
which beat a retreat

across the bloody beach
of history, and each

single one of those
sanctified lies becomes
etched in the lines

of unblinking eyes
that must stare in

the mirror of its own
hijacked self where
lessons like that

are not taught
from a shelf

THE FIRST SEVEN CONFORMATIONS

A head emerges from the limitless

Providing nine emanations

Before this the earth was desolate

The crowns of old kings had been lost

Their wearers dead for ages

Back when nothing faced itself

Until the day arrived

The vestments of honor were communicated

By this crowning countenance

Carrying nine seeds born to echo

Held dormant in trinities within

Their own dark equilibrium

Incomprehensible and as yet unseen

Though heralded to ascend

From never into being ever after

The simple triple trinity

Annealing complicity

Keeping the mystery secret through

Forging a cranium for crystalline dew

With victorious skin made of ether

Hair as of the finest wool

Covering a benevolent forehead

Derived of the prayers from seeds

With an eye always open and awake

Perpetually keeping watch

Over this glorious network

Of gifts and receptions

Where the appearance of the lower

Comes from the aspect of the higher

A spirit blows across the kingdom

From mighty twin galleries

To rush forth over everything

In the beginning the six was created

With this breath of life

As it was drawn into himself

Through the most dignified beard

TIME WILL TELL THE TALE

What if the child were the hero
In his own story for instance
We all know there is
No story without conflict
So boy are we in luck

Our arrival is wrought 
With conflict from the get go
And there's the rub for how 
Do we mutually determine
Just exactly when that is? 

After dwelling on the matter enough
Consider it personal and recall 
That most useful of maxims,
Silence, believe me, there's a story
And it's a good one.

NINTH AND FIRST ON TWENTY THIRTEEN

Eighty-two, ninety-two, two-thousand-and-two,
twenty-twelve, twenty-twenty-two. How many
years from here would it take to get there for you.
From where I sit and this is writ the answer would
be nine. In twenty-forty-four when I'm seventy-eight
I should be feeling fine.

I don't want to tempt fate I want to anneal it and kneel
before it to implore it that before it gets fully settled in
or set in stone would it be okay to stall foreclosure on
a loan made in advance when we couldn't have known
all the facts in the case of the passage of time that for
sixty-two years might erase all we found?

So I'm learning to listen just because it hasn't answered yet
how much you wanna bet the older we get the better we get
at discerning the whispering wind from a friend and the other
way round when your brother's not around yet you hear him
in your ear speaking clear out loud beneath the cloud covered
crowded stars.