BEAR (Augustus Owsley Stanley III, January 19, 1935 – March 13, 2011)

Bear

this is the elixir in the forbidden chalice

made in the kitchen with love and intent

letters written on papers with pictures

numbers remembered would one day

be forgotten like formulas for open

open would cause forward

forward began furthur

it went so far for so long

it went where none had gone before

it was shared by many more as it traveled

furthur and furthur

on hoffman's bicycle you rode

dancing on the pedals as they spun

dancing on the petals of the rose crystal of a potent love

dancing like the bear of all colors that knew all

about all things there was to know

even the unknown

that knew and knew and knew and knew me better

than I knew myself in the mirrored orb of truth ever present

the wheels came off because they were never necessary

magic carpets were never known to need them

celebrations were your anonymous namesake

you bejeweled the world with opportunity

you blazed a golden bolt across the sky

I flew your flag well above the rest

your were my post office Fagan

sent me to scurry among the throngs

the walls seethed and bellowed

the sky curled at the edges

like postcards drenched in inquisition blood

cartoons came to life inside foil wrapping

goonie birds flew aloft again

flapping mother of pearl wings against agate skies

droppings of sugar cubed dollops descending from

their Mandelbrot orifices opened like third eyes as spigots

dropping dropping dropping dropping

magic upon tongues painted across dismembered eyeballs

staircase crystals captured in vials of hopeful release

let go let go let go let go hold on closely

I worked into meticulous nights until glorious sunrise

the sunshine is liquid brightness awash in love today

I traveled with the unpacked suitcases as per your instructions

like a wizard's apprentice with quicksilver messenger veins

that flowed with your love and a mindful of stories you told

of laboratories in hiding and swiss bank accounts lost forever

as you beckoned the world to leave itself one last time

so it might have one last chance to make a commune with you

and the magic you spun out of your blessed fingertips

as I sat in cross legged amazement trying to learn something new

that you told me I was born with inside of me

farewell to you, craftsman of the freedom to be

all the freedom that I have known

all the freedom I would ever

really want or need

naked and free for all to see

this is the gift you left us

like you never left at all

like you were never going

anywhere but here now

anywhere

but, furthur

Oshima Island

Oshima Island

there is a beach under the pressure

of overwhelming lifelessness

humanity spawned frail

like unfortunate jellyfish

like too much happened

this world is like that

pressure coming down

nuclear poison seeping out

hearts broken in grief and loss

some drifting away like cherry blossoms

blown askance by errant breeze like it was

almost spring on the shore where the land

and the sea took out the time for a world

that was built on the edges so fragile as

this while all that was known to some

was lost in heaps of debris lost in

the smallest tears of a child in the

shouts of emotion left out in the open

on the beach under pressure on the island

under pressure on the minds of the world

under pressure this is our modern time

of relinquished sorrows for those that fall

against the interchanging narratives of loss

weeping out their broken hearts burst with

pain overflowing as we see a world that is

so temporary where we saw it as permanent

so lasting is the stampede of shocking sorrows

this shall be a springtime with a faint whimper

of grateful joy for life as it all dangles on this precipice

as we all dangle on this precipice above this beach together

searching for survivors and pieces of lost lives for memorial

If You Make It To The Sally Port

If You Make It To The Sally Port

notches made in haste not waste not fashion

a weapon fashioned out of odds and ends

keep the angle close to the chest

keep the arc close to the neck

flurry after flurry

fight for your life

all eyes upon everyone here

scratches on the walls mark the days

segregated by the administration of healing

some say it will heal you if you live through it

most do live, but what dies? when and where does it give in?

what flies away in well lit moments of hopelessness among the lost?

what comes home to roost in the darkened corners of every turn here?

its not what you think, its not that it wasn't made to sound like a form

of redemption you might have missed along the way to the forum as

chariots sidetracked down blind alleyways paved with broken bones

penance required for time sentenced, served, paroled out and away

as long as it was meant to be endured like a burning pain under raw skin

that fits too tight in every dark corner where someone is always watching

even when you look in the mirror there is someone checking up on you

better make sure you have the proper front in place like your own

personal sociopathic loin cloth that makes you king shit of no man's land

just cells of life joined to dying cells that meant no harm as children

as they once laughed and played in inner recesses of broken brain daydreams

skipping away over sunlit hilltops for two into the echoing distance

as the reality of these echoing walls filled with conversations that mask

murderous fears forming into gangs of swarming violence at the ready

one false move is all it takes as you think of love with the sounds of toilets

flushing you think of welcome home days with screaming fits of delusion

bouncing around your head like crowns of thorns you think of lovers you

know in truth you will never hold again as the ancient sounds of misguided

lust intruding as power given or power taken away drift through the stinging

air of the sharpened night as terror places its wreath at your feet as people who

feel the most righteous of any in the land (as most seem to do) tell their children

about the healing place they sent all the men that deserved it to to make up for what

they did so long ago to make this place a safer place to get them out of they way that

seems to not care enough to join the ranks of what was given as order as they break inside

only to share the break with you or you or you when we meet outside the moment that

all was lost in the losing of the human feeling of the connection of the bargain as it all went

south and the chips feel where they may as ten days straight in leg irons will make you

abide by the rifles held over head and all the walls point in the same direction here

and all the iron sings like wild banshees loosed from hells grasp singing with metallic

throats that deride all the moments that tear the thoughts of what peace used to mean

in the twisting of time in the bending of mind that folds in on the heart and has so little

to do with the soul on ice as it is said about this life in the cooler in the warehouse of

humanity lost for all the things they did now that they wonder little about all they

have done that they were never caught for never cared for never loved for

it’s a never never land if you never make it out of here you have to move on it

like it’s the only chance you will ever get if you do make it out of here, somehow

For William Lee, Rest In Peace

As The Grip Finally Loosens A Bit (Goodbye)

you are never toothless, even if you are missing all your teeth

you can still bite back, bite the wrong thing, bite the right thing

you can never use your mouth for anything better than to just

give the simplest words of support, loud as they may be

digging in like tempered spades of heavy excavation

unearthing the hidden truth as they cower a bit, shaking

trembling at the raspy harsh love loud with spittle

and curse and intention to erode the coverage of false fearful pasts

you are always present in the bellowing throat laughter that will

never stop echoing around the rooms of the heart or

the card tables where death is cheated by your toothless grin

holding cards so perfect like fake teeth that bring every round home

every round you make all night pacing the floors of uncertain outcomes

no time for bullshit or gallantry among the broken down souls that require

focus now words now action now meaning now clear cut convictions now

it all spills out onto worn down heels that kick back and watch as it all

unfolds like bills on the table as you ante up for the call and death, well,

death just smiles back at you with your own teeth and you know for sure

he is really getting tired of being cheated by you now

your last hand was not so spectacular at all

but the bluff was always amazing until the end

as the bony hands of your nemesis scraped all the winnings to his side of the table

you smile back at him, the last laugh is yours

blowing smoke in his face, your mouth smiles defiant

because you knew along

you never needed teeth to bite back, anyway

because

even without teeth,

that mouth made noise that will never be forgotten

Haunted On The B Train

Haunted On The B Train

somewhere on the train underneath chinatown

a smile travels too fast away from here

uptown bound until downtown frowns

come back, with the eyes that lighten up

come back, with the soft sound of the wind

inside every breath before and every word after

the tracks rattle rhythm to the circulatory pulse pounding away

what good are arms that forget what embrace felt like?

what good are legs that never tangle and weave like tapestry?

what good are soft memories of when we were near to being?

the train keeps its destinations intact never ever running out of track

somewhere on the train underneath chinatown

a ticket is missing a ride as a station never misses one less rider

feet bustling around all day below traffic hustling all night above

time stands still for the longest of all loves as they pass each other like

planets in distant solar systems never seeing each other in orbit

but feeling the pull of life's gravity in the middle axis of love

falling into the darkest part of your eyes as the tunnels go black

somewhere on the train underneath chinatown

"There would not be counterfeiters if there were not real gold" - Sufi aphorism

http://highdrasyndicate.weebly.com/no-quarter-given.html

SOUL

Soul

ignorance walks alone at night in the jungle like a tiger

anger is no place to hide from the timing of right now

sections of self get peeled away against the resistance

like jaggedness to the blind on illuminated pathways

in the classification of souls there are many kinds of holy

holiness is hardly understood by the wholly mind of holy people

all souls rooted in the sojourn rule eternal as if immortal

those that are held by time are nine fold into nothingness

those that have stood at rest upon repentance are six fold

as such with no window into redemption but not forsaken

those souls that have self-originated possess an utterance

of the ineffable truth

(an utterance) existing only in relation to the power of eternal

life and light

there are four types of these souls

the first are as angels on high

supporting light from below

backs arching against the

weight of life as it is

lived among us

the second are those that love truth

they seek it no matter what

the balance or consequence

the third are those that love hope

until all ends, bitter or sweet

in the face of all dangers

against all odds

the lastly, not least

are those that simply believe in this

illuminations originating from within

are incapable of not being connected

to those that are illuminated throughout

the expanding universal explosion

with the ultimate faith of life never ending

that in every explosion there is creation

in every death there is life

regardless

of the death of every life

or the birth of every light

for it has a radiance

in all its agreements

that can never be hidden

never be captured

never even be taken

for granted

or overtaken by fear

it is peaceful forever

inside you with wisdom

even tigers change direction

as it approaches them

through the jungle at night

it cannot be trapped for its brightness

from darkness it will always break free

Late Night With Uncle Bill's Last Word

Late Night With Uncle Bill's Last Word

there are no causes left to fight

that are not being fought

somewhere by someone

that you never met

but yet, you know them better

than you know your self

so you keep fighting

there will be more of it

after you die

even if you are already dead

and don't know it yet

fighting through the bardo

against the beast of your mind

against the creatures of your soul

against the monsters of your will

you will never have to surrender

it will eat you alive as much

as it will eat you dead

like old filthy mcnasty

wrenching on the eternal crankcase

of sisyphus old chopped hog

while old fast eddie keeps slipping out of sight

certainly he must be circling back around, always

dino died in mexico, just past san felipe

the shallow grave was really just a hiding place

berto takes too many magic bullets

shuffles off stage left to the coast

no applause from the underinformed audience

candy is a girl dressed like a woman

she turns blue in a dark blue motel room

cold and stiff as your love laying there

next to her in the morning

the last take in the scene before they yell cut

too many times down little starla's wrist

as she makes jello molds of her last moment

leaving you with one last cigarette

that the paramedic takes as the cops

take you away again as usual

big paulie saw it coming so many times

you got to give it to him in the face

just so he knows what time it is

it can ruin the funeral

but nobody goes to those anymore, anyway

there are stories about how mona died

in your arms as they were swollen tired

and shot out for days

there are carloads and truckloads

of bad accidents on the road

none as sad as your little baby girl

crying down the shiny concrete halls

as you huddle with thorazine slippers

and lithium pajamas on the vacaville tier

plotting out the revenge of sharpened

tooth brushes shoved into eye sockets

before the guards can fire the first fatal

warning shots into the head of your worst friend

getting left alone to fight into the night

wake up with no sleep fighting, always

fighting still into the sun or the stormy outcome

walking with swagger staggering with false pride

you always want the first taste of anything

people tell you you might have killed too many

you never kept count, can't pin nothing on em

except bad math in hard circumstances

as train tracks truck by into the long distance haul

bags and balloons and bottles and balls

all getting their kicks with you as tears run away

with the moon with the stars with the sun with it all

even into the wild blue yonder into hells built for two

until it is a lonely ticket, reserved for one

watch what's on the menu

the surgeon general said eating pussy causes

throat cancer more so than cigarettes

you quit smoking, among other things, but

don't be an afterlife pussy, don't stop living this one

even if they tell you that you are dead, keep going

use up all the oil, eat up all the corn, free all the slaves

like it was you all along, come to save something

only it was you all along, that had something saved

something they couldn't take from you

something you held onto forever like a supernova

even after nicki hepatitis told you to never leave

which was fitting, so much so, that your last word was LOVE

without ever saying good bye

Street Corner With No Calvary In Sight

Street Corner With No Calvary In Sight

the sound catches wind as it blows down the barren street

it rises and falls like an unplanned symphony of sighs

punctuated by freeway traffic in the distance

drifting in and out of its volume as eyes

try to focus through blurring cold

not too cold, not as cold as it

can get in other parts of

the world, where

steel is hidden

under snow

a white

blanket

that covers

everything with

a shimmering mirage

that seems so mystic as it

glistens in the moonlight of

distant daydreams that take me

away from here for a moment that

I need to know its not so bad right now

feeling the missing and the heartaches of

years gone by while I lose my eyesight on this

lonely street corner as people all over the world

suffer a little more than me in increments that can be

measured by world news and body counts piling high in

adverse reaction to the hope some keep close in their hearts

that it will get better, maybe not today, maybe some day, maybe

Swirled Among Clouds Above

Swirled Among Clouds Above

the words that fall short of ears not quite formed in

to what is told to children to warn them of perilous

times ahead

it does no good in the atoms of desire that have begun

to churn into the melodic echoes of screaming synaptic

vacuums of hope

what was done when god was not looking over us was not

the thing that mattered most if you lost yourself inside of it

trapped forever

in the shadow of signs high above us that gave simple direction

inside our hearts intuition with explicit instruction for resulting

outcomes just out of reach

the anatomical mathematics of language never adds up to much

if the reason doesn't come up in the form a new direction at this

turning point we have taken alone

lungs will spill out all the words we ever learned under vacant moons

glistening a spattering of reflections off of percolating waters below

as the heart is coughed onto the rain slicked

pavement into lucid pools of light that arc into

fingertips of doubt that cast a glow on the foxholes

that hide the angry voices inside the mind whose last resort

is to hurl slanderous grenades of destitute arguments against

one last shot at the title, one last turn at the wheel, one last look at

what love did to the grown up fantasy of happy ever after if you only

buy a ticket so you can ride, so you can ride for miles and miles til the

everloving wheels fall off into the cyberkinetic space between what was

once lollipops and unicorns mixed with things you believed in no matter what

until the day you felt it didn't matter anymore, you were all growed up

don't need this moon, don't need this town, don't need this hope

it all holds me back, holds me down, swings me all around

where did you go? what did you do? what can you feel?

this moon this moon this moon this moon

it is never enough what I do, it is never enough for it

I missed something they tried to tell me when I was young

for the life of me, I have tried so hard, I can still never remember

that simple thing, that beautiful thing I was told

I can never remember what exactly it was

those words that fell just short

it never seemed quite right

to not know what they were

When The Water Pump Goes

When the water pump goes, the timing belt will not be far behind…

trip on this a minute

a mind full of torturous worry pushes in through the door
sitting in the Denny's on the 5 near Coalinga
across the interstate from Harris Ranch
searching all the mindful possibilities of this fragile balance

rocking too far into the painful tone of failures past
not wanted by the law, employed, on the verge of

gaining housing and repaying debts so as to

hopefully, finally stand upright again to maybe join

the race of humans busy in the eternal dust clouds

of industrious survival far up ahead

they left us behind long ago
the obstacles seem so insignificant to them

as if they brush away vulnerable moments like this

the way a wild bison tail will scatter

so many flies in its constant undulation

even though many flies circle back

to bite the bison anyway

and that is what it feels like right now

as if one more fly bite would send the whole life and legend

to hell in a torrent of manure and flies

and the desolation of Stienbeck as the chilling wind

covers the last traces of existence on a cold and lonely

San Joaquin Sunday night of fear set in motion

as time drips by like the corn syrup on flaccid

grand slam pancakes and piss weakened coffee

that all pours away while the mind sets itself into shock

so far away from faith that even hope is two rest stops gone

heading north in the heart but waiting in the moment

to get in touch with what is left behind

before you think this is the moment prayers may have been made for

only prayers have already been said and maybe the sound of the voice

saying them has finally fell past redemption as all it would take

would be one more fly bite or broken part or bill amounting to

a lifetime of work against the fear that it will never be enough

to counter the great darkness forming always against us

on the fading border of the distant horizon

Burning Saints

Burning Saints

my grand father did this, I know

my father did this too, I was told

they burned saints, cards with saints

in effigy and prayers like poems

printed on the back

it was a ritual that came from their

homeland that was meant to show

no allegiance or moral would

interfere with the work

at hand

with the expectation

of loyalty above all

to the principle

of this thing

that was

supposedly

theirs

and theirs alone

the truth came out

eventually

it was not enough

of a gesture

to hold the rest of the world

at bay

they met their deaths

the same way they

had caused the deaths

of others

violent and fast

the ashes of burnt sainthood

have been dissolved in my blood

since before I was born

into the bastard sin of this life

I have eaten all the small fires

of card stock prayers and saints

inside my imprisoned dreams

they have made me stronger

when I was at my weakest

but, god seemed to tire

of all the empty gestures

the tally of human sin does not seem

to be of interest to god

in any cause and effect determination

that I have ever witnessed

I have traveled near and far

meeting many people

in many other places

with many other ideas

about who god is

for themselves

I put them all together

in my mind's eye

and I see the god

I see god for who

god really is

god is tired

god's eyelids droop

as god waves a

tired hand

absolving sin from the wretched demons

that have made god weary with playfulness

while we wept on river banks

wringing our hands

shaking our heads

begging for tearful forgiveness

when all we had to do

was scream loud enough

for god to hear

thy will be done

then get about

the doing

of it

right away

PRETTY

Pretty

she sends pictures from her phone

to show what it looks like there with her

waking up in warmth and softness

with her naked embrace all around

she sends words of encouragement

to those who stumble along, alone

she wants to give hopeful moments away

like they are an innocent dreams shared

maybe she is like a light lick of love

right behind the ear, soft breath on the

moist skin right after

a kind word, in a hushed tone of sexy

there are harder edges than the playful ones

that she pushes all thoughts toward

but, she does not care about them now

she means well, but may be too young to know

she seems to want to share so much, so freely

she may not mean well at all, but she may be

too damaged to care

(maybe she doesn't realize, I have seen it all before)

she might be all that is needed or wanted

in pictures sent from phones

too pretty to hold close right now

too distant to stir much more

than a smile

but, still

I can't help but think

in another place and time

that I might lover her, too