Help is on the Way

Dog Poet Transmitting.......

"May your noses always be cold and wet and running with music'.

I've edited the new song, "Help is on the Way".
(I know Patrick was interested in that (grin).
So, now all I've got to do is record it).

UPDATE, 21 FEB 2014

Visible has now recorded: ♫ Help is on The Way ♫

"Help is on the Way"

"I'm bringing home the starlight
With no bottom in my pail
In tranquil worlds forgotten
with no tiger on our tail

Is it the dust I'm made of
that has me walking blind
while you fill up and surround me
In the darkness of my mind

There's no one can oppose me
So make way I'm coming through
I'm walking through my falling down
into the heart of you

You can have these worlds of splendor
that wrinkle and decay
I take my passion timeless
and help is on the way

Help is on the way
to the better part of me
help is pushing sunlight
through my ancient judas tree

From the compost of corruption
comes the power to transform
all the worlds we'll ever know
you keep us cool you make us warm

you're the bending end of silence
my true serenity
You're the timeless
"look! I forgot my watch
don't cry, it's only me"

dry your tears upon my heart cause
it is only me and
help is on the way
help is on the way
Help is on the way

To the dying gulf of Mexico
in the fukushima rain
I can feel the mountains tremble
I know love will win again

no matter who opposes love
still love will find a way
to break our hearts and asses
while it finds a place to stay

I've been hungry for the homeland
I've been gone for lifetimes by
now I see the flames that flicker
in the fireplace tonight

I'm looking through the ever leaves
in the darkling of the night
from a place that is the future
my god its all too bright.

Help is on the way
to the better part of me
help is pushing sunlight
through my ancient judas tree

From the compost of corruption
comes the power to transform
all the worlds we'll ever know
you keep us cool you make us warm

you're the bending end of silence
my true serenity
You're the timeless
"look! I forgot my watch
don't cry, it's only me"

dry your tears upon my heart cause
it is only me and
help is on the way
help is on the way
Help is on the way

There's no one can oppose me
so make way I'm coming through
I'm walking through my falling down
into the heart of you

I've been drunk on wine and whiskey
I've been stoned and I've been shunned
but all of that's behind me
I believe I've found the one

I took some lives and detours
it took it's time and time again
but I am on the near horizon now
on that you can depend

they've been taking bets about me
for several thousand years
You can't compute the agony
that ocean is my tears

And now- Help is on the way
to the better part of me
help is pushing sunlight
through my ancient judas tree

From the compost of corruption
comes the power to transform
all the worlds we'll ever know
you keep us cool you make us warm

you're the bending end of silence
my true serenity
You're the timeless
"look! I forgot my watch
don't cry, it's only me"

dry your tears upon my heart cause
it is only me and
help is on the way
help is on the way
Help is on the way

What was it I was doing
as all this time went by
I was hiding in the underbrush
and now I don't know why

Now the moments on us
As we see the living light
Make ashes from the darkness
My god it's just too bright

it's a strange intoxication
that I'm impatient for you now
as long as this has taken
I should be stoical somehow

but there's no way up around it
it could be a million years
but I would keep on a coming
cause that's the death of fear

Yes, Help is on the way
to the better part of me
help is pushing sunlight
through my ancient judas tree

From the compost of corruption
comes the power to transform
all the worlds we'll ever know
you keep us cool you make us warm

you're the bending end of silence
my true serenity
You're the timeless
"look! I forgot my watch
don't cry, it's only me"

dry your tears upon my heart cause
it is only me and
help is on the way
help is on the way
Help is on the way

Patrick Willis narrates:

Help is on the Way

I know it's a little long but sometimes that's how it is.

No song this time because we already got one (grin).

Two Poems of Revolution and Change

You Can’t See Me

I am the Count of the Last request
the tiny dark man of utter wind
blown and beaten down a carousel of faded flowers
thrown after a departing rainbow

white to the eyes of all unbelievers
who did not see me climb the golden tower
who do not believe there is one
and who will remain forever white for their crimes

I walk among them daily too small and dark to behold

I come in a flame
the slow burn of understanding
that will strip them naked
with no dreams remaining but their savage teeth
to devour one another with
as they see fit

they are not worth shit...
in their present condition

they plot and plot the overthrow
of what that is
they do not know

I am the casual shadow behind the sun
resting in the corners of buildings
i am shed by the crowded mind
one tuneful note of iridescent black
peering through the louvers of all time....

coiled in the vale of noplace

they shall not go free again
on that you may depend

I am the Count of Little Footsteps
the scratching of the leaves in the streets behind them
that tireless warrior....

that cold chill at the nape of the neck

death to all tyrants
death to all landlords and banks
to all things that turn the warm heart cold
and terrorize the soul....

Patrick Willis narrates:

You Can’t See Me

STRIVE (for M.L.K.)

For everyone
who has ever stood and said
at any time

that Justice will triumph
that Truth shall prevail
that a fair shake
an even break
is the birthright of every living thing

and got shot down
imprisoned
tortured
and burned at the stake
for revealing to the darkness
that the dawn would soon break

I say
strive...
strive...
strive...

for everyone
spontaneously ignited
by that overwhelming
inexpressible
love from within

and who shined it forth
when the chips were down
and remained strong
while the weapons tore their flesh

I say
strive...
strive...
strive...

for everyone who has reached out to breathe
like some paranoid crustacean
crawling fearful from the sea

for everyone
who has seen the alleys
the knives
the clubs
the dreadful comprehension
of brutal intent

the horrible unrecognizing eye
of brotherhood blinded
and knew
that Love could not die

I say strive...
strive...
strive...

Patrick Willis narrates:

Strive

(For M.L.K.)

More Than Blue Eyes

A man must come to the desperate edge
of the walls he's built around himself
and beat with his hands on the cold hard stone
and cry for the years that he's been alone
and break like a dry dead twig
under the wheel of time
and rise
and live
and understand
the power of love in his masters hand

round and round the coffins edge
the landlords of despair
dance to the mortal earth
and bow to the mortal earth
a strange mistress
a strange mother
tell me,
which of your magics can conquer death?

What is the meaning?
What lies hidden in the cell?
from a dark barred window
I have watched the moon rise
and ghost horses
bear the dead into the moons wide mouth

eater of souls
jailor, tailor
and seamstress to the shadow-land
forever weaving the envelopes
in which to stuff another drunken puppet

this is more true than blue eyes
and all the sculptured tits
that have been since
cannot nurse the dead back to life

who goes there?
who beats the drum?
Where sleeps the heart?

That Mona Lisa smile under glass

No one really laughs
or lives
until the day their darkness dies
and few live then
they only return again
drunken with dreams

I do not think I will take upon myself
the chains of Hell
even for such a thing as your blue eyes
and perfect teeth

the dark wet hollow
of reincarnated sleep

never to wake again?

No...
this cannot be all of it

and I am either drunk or mad
I believe in what I cannot see

I believe more deeply
than I have ever been deceived
and even then

only temporarily deceived
and even then
only out of fear

if a man should confess
or witness with his heart
that will shape the words he speaks
that will shape the life he leads
he will have a witness
he will not go down like a beast to the grave

there is no liberation in movements
there is seldom even change
so...
must I then fear to displease
the revolutions of my time?

let history deny
or philosophy prove the lie
of my words

Liberte...
Egalite...
Fraternite...
these are always the phrases
with which to preface
great murders

in my heart I have killed a thousand times
all the great hypocrites of the age
I have slain in my thoughts

and they are no more dead
than before I killed them
and they are no more alive
by the same token

they have never been alive
they go to the moon without my help

let sleeping dogs lie
lest they...

the knife hangs over every head
until God removes it

I am no executioner anymore

I will sit on this rock and listen
Can you hear the rock
on which he built it
speaking?

Who listens deeply forgets
he forgets his earthborn name
his birth he forgets
and his shame

the world forgets him
he goes
where no one knows
who listens deeply

a new name
no one can speak it

you have been on the road a long time
you have been sleeping with swine
and drunk on bad wine

and blue eyes close
as all eyes close
and every color goes to shades of grey
in the cold vault

that is a kind of equality

and yet
you do not know
that what you are
is brighter than
the brightest star
nothing is so great
as what you are

A man must come to the desperate edge
of the walls he's built around himself
and beat with his hands on the cold hard stone
and cry for the years than he's been alone
and break like a dry dead twig
under the wheel of time
and rise
and live
and understand
the power of Love in his masters hand

Patrick Willis narrates:

More Than Blue Eyes

The Terrible Irony of Beautiful Words

Dog Poet Riffing.......


beautiful words
do not move me...

I am not entranced by this clever art
I’ve seen the heads roll in the Age of Reason
I’ve watched the bloody scroll of history
Unroll
While the band played on
And ugly men made beautiful noise
To introduce the thunder of their guns


There is no greater coward
Than the one who slipped by privilege past the front
To orchestrate from the sidelines
What he could not accomplish himself;
Whose skin was too precious to risk
And wrapped in the cloak of God ranting sanctimony
This shrinking nightshade
This empty suit
with the pomp of the preening jackal
Dines on the awful cries of the dying
That he sups like an intoxicating and wondrous wine
He feeds on the torment of the injured and estranged
Wrapped in the cloak of patriotic hypocrisy


He gestures at the battlefield
From which democracy will be ripped stillborn
From the blasted body of her dead mother
The still greater crime of previous event
The falling towers were no accident
Nor did some strangers from afar
Manufacture this without consent
It should to the objective mind
Prove self evident


Across the centuries
The wind of high blown rhetoric
Have driven the millions to an evil death
And yet it never seems to dawn
How like frightened steers they trample what is before them
into the ground
And yet it never seems to dawn...


Something there is in the ignorant mind
That vibrates to the sympathetic string
Of the conscious and applied evil of the Hyena King
Something resonates
Something capitulates
Something rises
As something descends


And all that is decent and good
All that would bring forth a greater brotherhood
Must run to the cover of the invisible wings
While a murder of crows blackens the sky
And smoking ruins
Like new buildings
are transformed before your eyes
Into a wasteland of fire and death
For the profit of the few
For the comfort of some
The usual business will go on


It seems that this must be
Though we have waited with insufficient hope
Perhaps we shall see the day
That these twisted carrion feeders
These iniquitous deceivers
The butchers and the reavers
And all their demonic crew
Shall march into hell fire
Into Their native homeland created from their own need
And the door will close upon the echo
Of all their beautiful words



End riff.......

Patrick Willis narrates:

The Terrible Irony of Beautiful Words

In Memorium; Chuck Hugh Farley...

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Hare Krishna

Greetings to the one that rules the 18 million internal
and external universes.
Greetings to the one who created everything out of itself
Who permeates and rules it and is the consciousness of and
In it
and who dwells in me



Greetings to the one who is one alone and the many as one
Who is the substance of things unseen
Who is always more than there is
no matter
How much there may be
The rising sun that never hits the zenith



Greetings to the living light behind all appearances
Who composes the appearances and is not what appears
Greetings to the qualities and virtues that make up the personality of
The ineffable in the cloud of unknowing that shrouds the blinding world and
Humbles everything before it and which
Dwells in me.



Greetings to the unassailable unmoving center
From which spirals the galaxies and worlds
Like the spiral of a closed fist
Of perfect concentration
That holds it all in place that
Moves it all that forms and un-forms and does not
Begin or end and which dwells in me.



Greetings to that which endures and prevails
And is the life in everything
That meets and greets itself knowing and unknowing
That scatters itself into uncountable pieces and
Gathers them altogether again and
That dwells in me



Greetings to the dynamic animating principle.
Greetings to the one that does not know time nor size but
Does know sequence and form



Greetings to the one whose idea is complete in the genesis and
Is the intelligence behind evolution and design and not the result of them.
Greetings to what cannot be known but whose presence can be practiced
And enjoyed and who dwells in me.



Greetings in the before and after that both spill into the endless now
Greetings to the one who commands the superiors and inferiors
Whose every effort serves the entire
Who is the one who waits before
In the midst and at the end of every thought, word and deed



Greetings to the mind inside the mind of every architect in every dream
Who waits and watches forever and who
Abides in me.



Greetings from within the sleep that struggles for awakening
That cries out for union with the beloved
That cries in this moment for awakening to the one
Who dwells in me.



Greetings
many greetings and
much gratitude
Greetings and greetings and
much gratitude



Hare Krishna

Patrick Willis narrates:

Hare Krishna

Rapping E=Mc² upside your Head

Yes, I'm sure there's some entertaining and well done Hip Hop and Rap but since I'm not going to spend my time looking for needles in a haystack I thought maybe I be where it's at and here's a song off my Rap Sucks album coming soon.

---

Dog Poet Rapping.......


aight aight aight aight
right right right right
dumbit down, dumbit down
pimps and ho's pimps and ho's
back on a leash for the devil again
acting the fool only it aint pretend



This must be some law of physics
if 3 pimp rollers are moving backward on a train
and your are standing in the station
maybe humming love in vain
will they arrive in grand central before you
will the same thing happen on another day
even though you are not moving and
they are going the wrong way



aight aight aight aight
right right right right
dumbit down dumbit down
down to the bottom



saying stupid fresh, aight aight aight
dis this dis that
word up what's the word
for someone who buys into flash
into the temporary life that is
already gone past



burning and raging
till the fuel is gone
and it's cold and it's lonely
and you got to move on.



Call a man brother if brother he be
or you cop to the fact of the real you and me
are the same as the other
that might just be so
but the rest of it's bullshit
believe me I know



aight aight aight aight
rightright right right
dumb it down dumbit down



when I rap I often think of
Spinoza and Descartes if they were
filtered through a buzzard and then
turned into a fart
they both may have some merit
though aesthetics tend to vary
like the Starship Enterprise
from the Staten Island Ferry.



You got your Battleship Galactica
Michael Jackson faggot
dressed up like a Christmas tree
and you're talking like a parrot
every single rap song can't remember what it said
the [Mc]donalds side of music it's disposable and dead
It leaves plastic cartons rotting on the sidewalks of your mind
you're bitch end up for Wal-Mart they are porking your behind



the shit comes on the radio thumping saying nothing
bitch this and punk that
brain rape jackhammer bad fucking technique
nowhere repetition can't get no relief
sounds like machinery from a factory in Hell
dense as a brick of compressed shit
this garbage really smells.



aight aight aight aight
right right right right
dumbit down dumbit down
gotta wonder where it is this is supposed to go
gotta wonder where this music is headed
what kind of world it means
what kind of flowers grow there
what kind of people go there
what kinda I don't know where
I am where was I going who was
I when I started heading down
into matter, down into denser darker
hotter thicker closer pressing condensing
pushing can't breathe in this hot
smoky Steven Hawkings bent outa shape
so as to make it look straight
like Picasso on crack took a chainsaw
to the world and some retard with a can
of glue pasted it back together one piece
on top of the other pressing and smashing
and no light, no air, no freedom
and I don't fucking care cause I'm
dead now but I thought it was over
shit it ain't over I'm still here pressing
harder pressing into the shit only the music
is like knives cutting me with a bunch of
bitches and ho's and motherfuckas and fuck this
and fuck that, every word a knife and I'm
pressed into the shit



please god give me something
else let me out of this jackhammer thudding
non-stop shit talking nowhere embarrassing
non-art form load of shit that I bought into
with everyone else and all it did was make Wal-Mart rich
and all it did was make the merchants rich
and they sold it like they'll sell anything
their mothers and their children even themselves
if they get a good price saw off the limb
they're standing on,
do a mobius fuck themselves up the ass on TV
for the right money
call Hitler honey, suck Pol Pots dick



aight aight aight aight
hit the clubs with Mick
right right right right
dinner with Stalin- cocktails with Marlon
douche up with Elton dig up red Skelton
my face is melting
cause I took acid with
bitches and ho's and pimps and punks
bitches and ho's and pimps and punks
" " " " " " " "" " " " " " " " " "



nice world dudes
real Michelangelo Beethoven enhanced natural groove
very clean and crystaline
real architecture
real Spanish guitar and pianisimo forte
a la morte...dead..dead and stinking.
stinking bad...bad ...bad...
You got lost and we got had.




End Rap.......

Patrick Willis narrates:

Rapping E=Mc² Upside Your Head

The Frayed Angels

the frayed angels shed their wings
and descend
into earth’s turmoil
burying their sunlight
in a cloth
of sleek
and willing flesh


that...


incomplete forever
wanders the thirsty deserts of unrequited desire


in dreams sometimes we touch
that place of peace
where longing ends


where the long road of countless sleeps
beckons into the cross roads of awakening


the punishment of separation ends


the slaughter of innocence


the ravaged hearts
and faces of those
who lost their love


there is nothing in this life so sweet
as the touch
the embrace
of one who has come
across all the vastness
of lifetimes


to lie tranquil in your arms


it is as close to paradise
as we
are permitted to come
here...


the casual couplings
the lust of power to possess
are only shadows of this love


ceremonies of torment and loss


for the more one desires
the greater the effort to have and discard


the greater the distance from ones own heart


every living thing
struggles
to hold
to that one memory of themselves
in which the candle of love
burned
however briefly...
so brightly


All doubt and hate are merely faith
and love suppressed
And the inability to love worse than any death


Death being only the boat
that sails
us through and into
the fields of eternal peace


not even the worst of us can avoid this forever


it for this mercy alone
that forever exists


there is nothing that you can do
for which he will not forgive you


I wish only that I might linger all of my days in love


Forging that bond that spans
all time
and change
and washes away for all time
The weakness and stupidities of my fear


Fear,
which is all that has ever stood
between me
and the ones I loved


Fear
that has made a lie so many times
Of the living truth
I AM


Like all of you


An embodiment of god


all possibilities
at birth were delivered
into our hands
yet we give ourselves into
subjugation to our servants
for ridicule and confinement


Cast out from the castles from where
we
as kings and queens
ruled all things from within the temple of the heart


cast out into the trackless wastes of our own confusions
amnesia driven
hungry and alone
while those created to serve us
spill our wine
eat our food
and laugh at the ignorance that
has closed our eyes
to the beauty of ourselves


never again will I let myself be
tormented by fear


the love killer


the life killer


Death of a sort comes to us all
no matter who we are
we cannot escape that


we can only accept
and wonder
to whom did it happen?


let go all chains that hold the image
down


Earth does not speak unless the spirit flames


these times in which we live
dance like some drunken jester
on the edge
of the abyss


great things are within our reach
even as we wait we can see...


the first glimmer of that dawn
for which
so long
we have waited
to see


It has nearly broken me...


but nothing is beyond repair


truly let this moment be
your last moment
of regret


let your heart see
that you
have not touched the best times yet


take back your wings no longer
frayed and fallen


let us rise and soar
as if no one
had ever gone before.

Patrick Willis narrates:

The Frayed Angels

The Monkey on your Back

Who sprinkles pepper in my pot?
Upon my wall who laid this crack?
Who deals my cards, who writes my plot?
How comes this monkey on my back?


—The monkey on your back is you.
The lurker on the landing is
Your nemesis. You know it’s true
You made the killer and his kiss.


Agent provocateur of sin,
You built the mad menagerie:
The bars you clang, the cage you’re in
You forged in your mind factory.


Never, never, never again!—
And yet the horror’s back, it’s here!
The maggot festers in the brain,
The monkey gibbers in your ear!


by Lasha Darkmoon

Patrick Willis narrates:

The Monkey on Your Back

---

I'm breaking with tradition here (and I'm not going to do it again so please don't be sending me entries folks). You're already welcome to print your work in the comments section and if you needed to see it in a blog format, all you have to do is take five minutes to create one and then post the address in the comments. Basically I don't have the time to be an editor for other people's work. I'm showcasing this lady because she is the author of this piece and I wanted to bring the reader's attention to it.


It's a fantastic act of writing and exposes a condition I have long known about but never seen treated with this kind of ability. Be sure and email her if you liked the piece.

Two Reflections

Ex Station Head Musing

Mexican beaches

whiter than white

sprawled like a fat Cubano chick

with her eyes on my wallet and her heart ready for anything

I told Negroponte it was a good idea

we'd loot the bitch and turn her belly up for

The Pioneers

big handshakes all around

blood in and blood out

it seems to be going around

looks like everyone you can push around

has to take your dick

man

woman

child

it don't matter

they're going down

Lansky had the right idea

but it was a smaller scene

hot latin asses

cold white minds

endless stretching oasis

of callipygian fantasy

undulate

shimmer

truck farm the world

I'll plow your north forty with every beggar boy and girl;

lazier that Gunga Din

one gigantic reservation of people that can't come in

some kind of issue to occupy the common mind

those fuckers want our freedom

which would mean they think we

have

what?

I love it on the rooftops

pissing and throwing shit

look at the savages scramble for it

It reminds me of something

from a long time ago

something

(worries the corner of his mouth)

something...

I don't know

must have been a long time ago

borders arbitrary and changing like a sidewinder tracks

through the Arizona desert

wind takes care of that

wind rain

come and come again

sooner or later

.... why... I....

uh....

huh?

cold breeze at the nape of the neck

Patrick Willis narrates:

Ex Station Head Musing

---

Mystic Musing

The road to glory
the road to heaven's gate begins
here on the dusty streets of this temporary
world
How few they are who
set forth in this
darkness and are not distracted in
their certitude of light

this miracle of faith this
breaking dawn within that will not
be diminished or
extinguished by
the false light of this world

how grateful am I
for the magnitude of
you across the centuries of time
your story cuts into my central core and
reminds me of the way you walked and the
land into which you came and the steadfast watch
you give at the door where you in timeless awaiting
for my tardy footsteps to arrive

however inconsistent I
may be
however held for a lifetime in the
thrall of false adventure and
the silly passions of whatever
impersonating flower in momentary bloom
one
day
I will come out of this realm and pass
through the wheel of fire
out of the burning worlds and
horned masters of my frail and wounded heart-
the bas relief of hard resisting mask
the
overlay upon overlay upon the eternal
blinding light that shall as an
orphan come home at last

Patrick Willis narrates:

Mystic Musing

A Couple of Poems for the Night's Fading Light

Thanksgiving the Day After

Thank you for liberty as license
in excess to
make us fat and stupid


like turkeys portrayed
as what they are not
but they taste sweet
like the memory of
what we lost


God Bless us for being a nation of assholes
in every country where
they don't celebrate
what we have
lied ourselves into believing
was representative of our gratitude


where
irony is
the cranberry sauce
and the gravy lines the arteries
of our super highways
in the portable mashed potatoes
of wide load bodies
yearning to be free


where our children are pierced with
navel rings
and tongue studs
the one hidden in folds of flesh
and the other hardening Daddy's
fat cock
while mom cruises the aisles of the
open 24 hours Giant supermarket
in a Valium haze


searching


I been searching


I been searching every day


and generating vipers
like The Bible in hiphop
done by Snoop Dog and
dressed by Diddy
and available in Spanish
and Braille for those who
need to touch what they can't feel and


joined at the hip to
the country we fought to achieve
independence from
who never stopped running the show
and who joins us now
in another nation where
death is the technicolor
dream coat


and we like it better from behind
with a reach around than
we do on our backs and looking
into the face of the rapist
who made sure that the only people
walking on the sea of Gallilee are
Palestinians running too fast to sink


Yeah, I got your
gratitude swinging
I got your illuminated text
and the bloated bodies that
Rumi might have mentioned
if he had been Nostradamus instead


or Nosferatu
in the White House where
they don't get mentioned


We hold these truths to be


we hold these dark woods and
serial killer drop zones in the
ice plants along the sides
of California freeways to be
self-evident.


I wish I had a country to love
I wish I hadn't died in the loading zone
I wish I had not
shit in one hand and
wished in the other


I wish


I wish


I wish


we thank you lord for these blessings we
are about to conceive
indivisible
with no kind of fucking justice
in thrall
to the Homeland Security pigs
in the hall.


(there was another Thanksgiving
that wasn't on Thanksgiving where my
Mom made me hotdogs because the chili
the family was having for dinner on the
night I got back from the hospital
was too spicy for my 12 year old stomach ulcer


that I got because
someone was so angry and cruel
that I
burned my insides out


I lost it-


for awhile before
I even knew it was there

my health
my life
my heart broken inside


I cried


I wept


I died


My father called me a
special privileged character
he whipped me
like a dog


that's what I got for Thanksgiving


that's what I got


that's what I got
for Thanksgiving every day
and he was a soldier for life
in the army that protected
the land of
fat blessings
for which Thanksgiving is the
day before shopping is celebrated
and the day after the two day wait to shop)


Suffering
and succotash
cartoons and life
animated characters poping up out of the sidewalk and one of these days


one of these days


"ba ba bada ba bada 'bing' that's all folks."


cartoon spiral sucked back into the real spiral
"buddha budda budda" said the machinegun scream


"Down on your knees!"


"Good grief, it's Daddy!"


For these gifts we are about to receive
from a god that looks like John Wayne Gacy in a clown suit
on a bed of clouds with handcuffs


Thanksgiving
we thank you god for the rain of fire that
we richly deserve
more for the fundies and missionaries than
we do for the porn


What does it take to paint sugar water under the
eyes of starving black children for
photo-ops in a Banana Republic Safari Suit?


the same thing it takes to be in charge of
exploited children
the same kind of photo-op
of men congratulating themselves for
killing half a million people
so that
their buddies in supply and demand can
make enough weapons to defend the bottom line


I am thankful
on Thanksgiving that
I am not you
and grief sticken too that
you are a part of me
Here in the pumpkin pie wilderness of
the land of the free.

Patrick Willis narrates:

Thanksgiving The Day After

---

In Dreams of Appetite

fast asleep
coiled at the base of life
the love of self and its reflection-


the dreams of appetite...


twined one about the other
one and the same
endless longing for expression
there…
to be reabsorbed and born again


like Nicodemus
the mind asks stupid questions
because
the unknown
is just that


unknown...


and the reality of things always
more simple than we can understand
here
amidst the clamoring of-


the dreams of appetite


oh...for what a length of time...
with nothing to measure itself against
except itself
and emptiness
beneath
the grand empyrean arched
and bottomless
from which falls
the fiery rain


there in the cauldron of confused
and ever changing shape
came forth whatever was wrought
by fear and delight


fantastic beasts
and languorous Venusian witch
to dance
amidst the purity and squalor of-


the dreams of appetite


where is the solid ground?
swallowing sands swell the invisible winds
and serpentine funnels race
through the carnival ruins of
the wreckage left
from the battle for survival in-


dreams of appetite


how we mourn the passing of the patterns
in the kaleidoscopes twist
what special meaning has any one-
among all the rest?


when the colors go
only the backing screen remains
that…is the sum of it….
…across the face of which
parade the wizards and fools who
pursue the mist.


a temporary focus
and uneasy sleep
somewhere...


In dreams of appetite


nowhere to stop
to stop is to forget
beyond galaxies and
beyond that...


homeward past bright angels
whose work is to refine
all circumstance and substance...


guardians of the soul
at that fearsome banquet-
the featureless night
the black table upon which are served-


the dreams of appetite


bardot upon bardo
from Paris to Tibet


elusive spirals
the upward swing into illuminated rooms
where imagination serves us best
but cannot prepare us for
the splendorous rites
performed by those abstaining from-


The dreams of appetite...


far in the unremembered past
there is a music like coursing blood
a shine without shadow
a milk of self forgetting
a rising, rushing wind of living song


it is the provocation of all longing
the unknown source of every want
to be achieved in silence
under lustrous love-hewn stars
when-
silence has
prevailed upon the world
with all its might


whatever world there may have been-


in dreams of appetite...

Patrick Willis narrates:

In Dreams of Appetite

There is No Injustice

There is no injustice

There is often the extreme nearsightedness

of selfish intent

for as long as i stand here
and you stand there


the appearance of difference
is the God divided


and worshiped from a bloody altar
that man has built to his own dark needs


everything moves
toward a unity
gone missing


time and time again


until pain has brought forth the blossom
of loves symmetry
but
there is no injustice anywhere
there are no innocent bystanders
there are no accidents
and being sorry doesn't help

maybe...
its not your fault
it may not even be wrong

who knows...?


whose view is vast enough
that passing time does not soon compromise
their line of sight?
who sees well enough


to leave well enough
alone?

beautiful bubbles break inside the oceans foam
the water leaks into the sand
then swims away unseen


the wind stirs the leaves
the grass grows
the bees make honey
the fish laugh beneath the surface
and the horses gallop forever beneath the waves
that will never free them

it is only longing
and there is no injustice anywhere

clouds float by like dreams in a peaceful sleep
and the sky is blue
and the sun is brimming with life
and the moon is pregnant with form


and the coyote howls
and the eagle screams
and longing and hunger will never end


desire is the agent of Gods will


and there is no injustice anywhere


the light changes
and gridlock comes
and the car horns honk in Hells unfinished symphony


where the smoke from hidden fires
rises from the manholes and grates
as Jesus blows on his hands in a broken stairwell


with Bethlehem two thousand years away


its going to be a long night


but there is no injustice anywhere


the heat blisters the streets in these cities of wanting
the mad fire dance
the insane dervish in a suit


it fries the palate
all sense of taste is gone


it burns the bowels


and turns the earth an alkaline white
devoid of life


here in the pushing crowd
where loneliness is king
where no one makes love
but are only ashamed


and cannot speak


eyes do not meet


the money changes hands
but never the heart
nor the mind


a place
is what takes place


if you want something else
then go somewhere else
love will only be a problem for you here


It is incredible
and it is insane
it will not get better
it is supposed to be this way


a million years ahead
or a million years behind
t’was ever thus
the city is the same


the drama does not change
the cataclysm comes
and the fiery rain
vaporizes the stage
so that it might all begin again


and there is no injustice anywhere.

Patrick Willis narrates:

There is No Injustice

The Big One

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

911 Dreaming of a World of Flesh

flesh

in a world of flesh

sees flesh only

the heart and the mind may suspect
but still too often
see
flesh only

back of the flesh in the world of gears
manipulated triggers pull at the limbs
that dance in the world of flesh

orchestration
and the high art of fraud
are an easy task
in the world of flesh

and the tumbling bodies hit
and the dust rolls in clouds from the streets
but another dust comes
from the smoke machines
and the mirror exchange of the press

some say the Arabs were angry that day
some say there's more to the ruse
beneath the veils are a number of things
that
SOMEONE
has put to good use

other intentions have come through the fire
and now they would burn the world

the convenient timing

the fabulous deaths

the great down winding
diminished regrets

in the unseeing world of flesh

now comes
the junk and the tedious songs
on and on
ad nauseum

the Twin Towers Watch
the speeches and banners

"on Comet and Cupid"

and Tiny Dancer

the peacocks are fanning

the demagogues struttin'

the survivors are jostlin'

through cables and grips

very important envelopes of flesh will
inflate their gills
with the shimmering scales of eminence

and gravitas

and their importance as flesh

and

remind
you
of
that

and... remind you... of that


it goes on forever

it lasts for an age

and-
..... THERE'S NO MORE FUCKING ROOM ON THE STAGE!

for the flesh

that encompasses space in a world of flesh

forget Rwanda,
Sierra Leone

the Congo?

where that's at?

I lost my cell phone

where's my goddamn latte?

is this lettuce fresh?

it's so hard for me
in this world of flesh

no one understands what it's like
for ME!

no one understands!

I don't understand

"why can't we all just get along?"

in the world of flesh

in the world of flesh

flesh expands and presses out over the clothing
and all restraint

flesh billows with the fruit of appetite

the soft melting encapsulated lard
of chewy TV goodies

and somebody

somebody...

blew up the church of the flesh

the goalposts of the empire of flesh
came down

the towers of flesh motivating upwards

the upwardly mobile flesh

flesh...

the lightening struck tower

somebody....

somebody....

now walk with me...
take a walk with me...

behind the world of flesh

back into the gears

back behind the tech's

behind the bankers

behind the money

behind the images

behind the ideas

behind the numbers

and behind the initial divide

far from the world of flesh you have

the uninvited guest

the forgotten lover

the fruit of desirous quest

someone forgot

SOMEONE FORGOT!

a lot of fragmented flesh puppets forgot

a whole lot of somebody
seriously forgot

to invite God into the world of flesh

and God showed up anyway

like the sword

as the spirit-
informing matter of it's presence

but it will never do to look for truth in the rubble

it will never do to think in terms
that flesh cannot accept

it will never do to consider
the absolute precision of the act

the fluid grace

that caught everyone flat footed
with a stupid look on their face

things can only be a certain way in the world of flesh

the impermanent flesh demands it

the vanishing melting vulnerable flesh is trumpeting

and cannot hear beyond it's own noise

the flesh is God unto itself

in the land of stuff

where stuff is God

there is never enough
there is NEVER enough...

just the wanting of the flesh
in a landscape of desired things

the temporary paradise on disappearing wings

rage on flesh

RAGE ON!

wrap yourself in the colored images of dream

wrap yourself in the vain exhortation

wrap yourself in the clamoring

clanging detuned symbols
of the empire of flesh

scream
and laugh

and weep
and carry on

it is never a moment too soon
in a world that is too soon gone

one should never disturb the dangerous dreams
of the lords of the kingdoms of flesh

the heart and the mind may suspect

but they can't get there yet

the tiny voice in the silence may speak

but cannot be heard

not in the world of flesh

sometimes a greater noise is needed

from the lover you have forgotten

the lover
who
has not forgotten
you...

I know you're in there....

[BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!!!]

“I KNOW YOU"RE IN THERE!!!!!!”

[BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!!!]

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!!!!!!!”

I know you're in there...

hidden in a world of flesh.

Buried in a world of flesh

Patrick Willis narrates:

9/11 Dreaming of a World of Flesh

His Rachel Corrie Moment (In Memory of Asma al-Mughayr)

the cross-hairs fix
across the rooftops

wind from the south-
....five knots

and leading
across the space where birds
have flown

but now
in the cold Ashka-Nazi eye

the young girls form
moves in laughing dance

arms gathering the laundry
she dreams
and surely she must hope
of a world and a life beyond today

as finger tightens
upon trigger...

when it came
the explosion was

of such a force that...

he came too

like Romeo's ghost upon
the imagination's palanquin of night

the bearers of the darkness
they toiled
underneath the thrust

of bullet and finger touching
the silenced heart

and
blood like a fountain
sprayed upon the sheets...

....some secret code
that she read as
she fell dying to the roof

this...

his Rachel Corrie moment come
round at last.

Patrick Willis narrates:

His Rachel Corrie Moment

(In Memory of Asma al-Mughayr)

Should the Japanese Apologize for Pearl Harbor?

[I wrote this a few days after I saw that Congress was trying to pass a resolution on the fiftieth anniversary to request that Japan apologize for Pearl Harbor.]

---

"Should the Japanese Apologize for Pearl Harbor?"

the Japanese were not the first
to bomb Pearl Harbor
we were

so i think the Japanese should apologize for Pearl Harbor

just as soon as we apologize to the Hawaiians
for bringing the mosquito and yellow fever
killing thousands

for bringing venereal disease

for the horror of sugar cane

and purple mountains travesties
above the looted plains

for sabotaging the beaches with kiawe thorn trees
to force the natives to drape their bodies
from the hot gaze

of their twisted
goddamned
christian missionary eyes


i think Japan should apologize for Pearl Harbor
just as soon as America
apologizes to the Japanese Americans
for interning them in concentration camps

and as soon as Richard Nixon's Quakers apologize
for stealing their properties

(which were left to them in trust to be returned upon their release
which they were not)


I think Japan should apologize for Pearl Harbor
just as soon as we apologize for Hiroshima and Nagasaki

(still simulated every year at a Texas airfield)


i will always remember how the blast fused their shadows
into the building walls

THEY DIDN'T GET ANY WARNING EITHER


i think Japan should apologize for Pearl Harbor
just as soon as we apologize to the Native Americans
for the ruin of their culture

the theft of their lands

the whiskey and infected blankets

the destruction of their hunting grounds

and for stripping them of all humanity and dignity

THEY DIDN'T GET ANY WARNING EITHER


i think the Japanese should apologize for Pearl Harbor
just as soon as America apologizes
to the African Americans

for slavery

beatings

emasculations

rapes

hobblings and brandings

pretended emancipations

segregation

lynchings

and

the slandering
imprisonment
and murder of their heroes


i think Japan should apologize for Pearl Harbor
just as soon as America
apologizes to Cambodia

for 3640 B-52 bombing raids
and 110,000 bombs dropped
during a war that never took place

and for backing Pol Pot
as the legitimate representative of the people

(i remember to this day
the pyramid mountain of skulls outside Pnom Phen)

THEY DIDN'T GET ANY WARNING EITHER


i think Japan should apologize for Pearl Harbor
as soon as Attila apologizes to Rome

Salome apologizes to John the Baptist

on the day that politicians become honest
bankers become generous

no fault applies to love

and the Pope shits in the woods


and should be delivered to the White House

by a woman on ice skates

ten minutes after Hell freezes over



A song:

♫ Frogman ♫

If I were Inside You

I could form a garden from the wind
Make it stay for your enjoyment
Then turn it back again
If I were inside you

If I were inside you
I would not move
It seems so slow
But you would move
I know

Heaven and Earth

You would be the gate
And they would be the same

Flaming letters would write your name
Upon every living thing

If I were inside you

If I were inside you
I would expand
Till you could not contain

Thunder would break the sky
And lightening would flash

There would be rain

If I were inside you

If I were inside you
The door of everything
Would open
And we would rock upon the water
Till the sea gave up the dead

The fire in my heart
Would be the sunlight in my head

If I were inside you

If I were inside you
Every pore upon your skin
Would open into rainbows
That would tremble and dissolve

Over and over again

If I were inside you

If I were inside you
Because you let me in
I would fold my tent forever

Hell would curl up at your feet
And go to sleep

And I would never leave again

If I were inside you

Patrick Willis narrates:

If I Were Inside You

Elsewhere

i have known love
and tasted both delight and sorrow
there on the dark altar of the night


and in the end it did not matter to me
no more than the promise of fortune or revenge
i remained a pauper,


poorer from this multitude of desires
and i am no more wise nor more skilled
by that to which i never gave more than half my heart
because my attention was Elsewhere
always Elsewhere.....


In some Jamaica of the mind,
peering like a dream miniature over a gulls wing
drinking in the sun drenched waters
of another endless ocean


the summer cliffs of Big Sur
wandering in deserts
hitching the nowhere highway
like Quixote in Spain
dreaming of Elsewhere


tracking the Elsewhere
a place i can barely visualize
barely trace the outline
like some blurred face on an old coin


yet it never leaves me for a moment
it penetrates my every thought
until nothing is more important
than to be Elsewhere
to be
where it is


like Marcellus
who won the robe
and was burned to the soul when he put it on
they say the love of God is like a consuming fire
and he could not rest
until it had consumed him


there has been laughter and tears
and visions
and descents into the dark splendor
more than a few times
to educate the serpent in the spine
who is neither good nor bad
but both
alternatively


nothing


i have observed


is consistently anything


nothing but the truth
which cannot be observed



everything in time
turns to its opposite


day to night
hot to cold
the hope of youth into the resignation of age
and the hell of a compromised life



the loyalty of anything
leads ultimately to betrayal
where does one stand...?
on what?
And for what?
we let such little things destroy us
we do not see the Elsewhere
i have never held anything completely


there is a place...
i know it without question
it is the highest note above the keening of the wind
it is beauty and despair
it is the suffering spirit in the house of the rich
it is Lazarus at the palace gates


it is
and i am
and one of us is displaced


nothing is harder than to get there


i write these words because i am in love with it
somehow i am marked by it
too much has happened in this life
too much that can not be explained


of course
it could be only the arrogant mind
that imagines for itself
a high destiny


but my dreams are not of golden plunder
ten thousand horsemen
or a high throned kingdom
though real fame does intrigue me more than the rest
to be anonymous is best
i have seen his name attached to many things


i dream of freedom and
bright sunlit rooms
beautiful faces that speak to me in music
who are they?
i have been here before
but not in this world
this world is only a shadow of it
quite simply shit
brushed with rainbows
that glow in the ghost light of a neon nightmare


can love be accomplished here?
the wind whistles through dead trees
and that is all the answer that this world gives me
and I,
like every other fool
have asked it more than once
out of boredom
to be enchanted and bewildered


lost at birth
abandoned in the great hall of mirrors
slowly borne down the continuum


in these mirrors i have seen my thoughts
the good and the bad
they are the moment
and what the moment says
is like the wind that whistles through dead trees


too many mirrors breed a carnival of despair


after a time
love becomes the supreme effort
it works in every small way
diligent to seal the cracks
through which devotion leaks
into complacency and death


such a love does not sleep
its power is from that Elsewhere place


there is a highway
and it is not separate from life
they are the same
each filled with exits and entrances
lined with attraction
and circumstance
that lead into every possibility of the imagination
none of them lead Elsewhere...


beyond-
the wind that whistles through dead trees
and it is Elsewhere
at last
that brings us everyone to our knees


every stop on the highway
is another death
disguised as justified delay



it is so lonely on the highway
for on every side the only sound one hears
is the wind
as it whistles through dead trees


in the distance are the lights of town
there are warm seductive rooms
crowded with all the postures of approaching death
but in time
taking on the very appearance of life


time blurs the critical eye
and we see what pleases our reasons to stay
and we must stay
out of the fear of the meaning that comes
to one who listens overlong
and understands...


...that voice
like some great and solitary raven
perched atop a gutted skull
that is the face of the wind
as it whistles through dead trees


there is no forgetting after that
no drink nor drug can erase it
i have tried
believe me i have tried


in the end
there is some truth
to the mutterings
of those robed and cowled merchants of word magic


after a fashion there is some truth
to these phrases
"be here now"
"we are all one"
"let it flow"
"do what thou wilt"
along with all the others
do not believe them
they work for the bank


the truth is Elsewhere
has always been
Elsewhere
and their words are the origin of the wind
that whistles through dead trees


so many imposters
they have taken us all
perhaps they believed what they said
perhaps they did not
they spoke of somewhere
but not of Elsewhere


now...


i do not know
what I am about...


Elsewhere waits Elsewhere
and i wait here for Elsewhere
and i believe that Elsewhere will come to me


why else has it filled my every dream?
why else has it caused me-
consistently to fail,
from having given so little of myself
to every effort in this world?
from having found no ambition to be strong enough to fill me
from having loved nothing enough to forget how much
i wanted to be Elsewhere


now...
there remain those small duties of life to attend to
those efforts i have overlooked
in my desire to be Elsewhere


not seeing that Elsewhere
forever retreats before desire


that Elsewhere
is just that place where desire ends
so


there are matters to attend to
and time to attend to them
and that is good
and very much like being Elsewhere
and in all of this


the sweetest of musics


the warning and the witness


and the heart of patience itself


is the whistling of the wind
through dead trees


in memory of Elsewhere

Patrick Willis narrates:

Elsewhere

What is not Under Discussion

somewhere
in your wet
moist
jungle regions

in the undiscovered mystery of your skin
in the beckoning
in the squalor
in the given heart of everything

in your dark parlour

lies the mystery of becoming

a thing activated by and for
the endless expressions of itself.

sinuous and langorous
unique and
infidelitous

incestuously congressing with

the infinite permutations of itself

Saying hello

Waving goodbye

running its hand up your thigh

why?

for the perpetuating image making
congregating pressure to become

and

to expand

to live in temporary splendor or

in the pursuit of one thing after another
as a veil upon the truth..

or...

and generations of imaged beings overlay

and overlay

the white hot starlight at

the sweet silent center that keeps the kitchen warm
and puts the heat into your jeans at alternating locations.

Can you feel it?

Hmmm...

Yes... it's a mystery.

It parts its legs and the world appears.

The dynamics insist that the attractive impulse should be for the thing

magnetized

apart from... and then...
into communion with elements and compounds
cooking up fiery chaos...

but rather does wisdom suggest
you keep your hand close to your chest
and your heart single
when division is death

Massive impetus...

incalculable pushing out and sucking in
that web of sunlight can grow sticky
and dense..

denser yet....

down into carbon oil and diamonds...

Wow! Look!

It comes out the other side again.

How comes the fire to be fiery hot?
What is the sensation of burning?
What makes water wet?
What is the nature of pain?
There are as many kinds of fire and
motivations ...as definitions of gain

Yes it is a mystery

Things fall and things change

Things hurt and heal

Buddhas shimmer where the sun hits the water
Jesus glimmers in the virgin mind
Mohammed makes a tapestry
and all of it divine and moving on

sense and nonsense
thinking and feeling
pleasure and pain

and

Time

It's a lily pad
It's a lotus
It's all hocus pocus
Its a lie that depends on the I
see for yourself.

Sticky... sticky taffy.... sweet incandescent morsels of murk
flypaper... amber...

screams frozen in Time
Laughter, screams, laughter, screams
You pay for what you get
You get what you pay for...

You are the currency
the moment looking at itself
devoid of understanding the thing on which it rests
it seeks security against the inevitable

instead of shelter
beneath
the incomprehensible

Herein is the wicket and the key
and you're on a Busman's Holiday.

All of this
so simple and so intricate
hiding in plain sight
with or without light
does hinge on one thing...

one question...

is it conscious?

Are you?

Well then...

Nothing more need be added or done
Either it is or it is not

If not... then from where comes the capacity to question?

Ah..

uh huh...

precious, precious jewels draped in cobwebs
tracked by ghost spiders

blind groping round the corners of the mind
while the buffeting distractions go on
without end
where? where?

slippery as a fish
elusive
monumentally present
overarching and
groined

penetrating
essence

oily

luminous

There where your treasures be
is each personal conclusion
at that point where the teapot
pours out the paisley and
makes a Persian rug or a dungeon keep.