You thought the lion was hidden

(that the dragon was an illusion)

now you see that your truths

are fantasies and

your fears are the truths,

you are too afraid to be

There are certain elixirs, golden keys,

rare delicacies that a man

might travel a lifetime just to taste, touch,

see, possess.

(Quest for the goddess

such a long journey

one grows weary,

grey, tired, old and worn,

yet travels on...)

Such is the magnetic force

of that invisible loadstone

first noticed by the cave-shaman

clutching his talisman

imbibing the moon

KATSU!

...the sound of the word is irrefutable... one cannot take it back Hosshin, sometime in the 13th century shouted KATSU! it was his last word. Signifying he had attained. He tapped his staff and was gone Like a witch, or a shaman or Merlin from Excalibur lifting his arms before blinking into another dimension

the new philosopher
amidst all his technology
still wonders
the same things as
Plato and Socrates

(we are here to be noble
and to understand the mysteries
fathom the heights of love)

DON'T LET THEM RUN YOU THROUGH

candle powered optical renditions
(memories of the opera house
burned so many times)

& the roman campaigns that paved Europe
set a gauge we still follow
except for those who wander off the tracks
into blood-mist
visions

(unorthodox miasma,
appears fatal)

They say the only sword
that can run you through
is your own

We do the poison dance
Crazy alchemists
fueled with infinite sources of light

Doubt of Ulysses

Perhaps I shouldn't have battled so hard
for so long to return
home

Enemies are slaughtered
kingdom returned
queen at my side

Yet I am ashamed that
I sometimes dream of
that wicked Calypso

Who held me captive those
seven years (despite the knashing of my
teeth and wailing in despair)

(Perhaps I'll sneak off in the night
push my boat back into the sea
and hope that the gods will
wash me once more,
onto that lonesome shore)

Voyager
star-gazer
warrior

VAN GOGH'S REPRIEVE

For just a moment
the stars stop spinning in the sky
Beatific silence

rain
outside my window
melts the snow

GUEST POET FROM 1883 (Sir Richard "Gettalong" Holsom)

Don't talk about the gun
Don't talk about the bullets

Don't ask why
(look for a pattern
on the barn if you want
read meaning into the target)

But don't assume
you know what I'm shooting at
or why

Don't ask about the gun
Don't ask about the bullets


You can't shoot it
you can't absorb the shot

You will misunderstand
What are you looking for anyway
in the broken bottles
and cans full of holes

Don't ask to touch the gun
Don't ask touch the bullets

(you know you can't hear the bullet flying
you know you can't see the bullet rushing)

Fuckin metaphors
Never really work

It's just a mechanism where
someplace in the reptilian/caveman-shaman mind
a magic trick is performed

a million impulses jump a
million synapses,

and...

When nobody understands who they
are
in the world they are in
yet everyone looks around them to
figure themselves out

(I don't wanna doubt
flounder,
follow.

No need for parentheses or
shouting

You know you need to come ride
with me

What's all the ambiguity and
vacillation about

(death is coming,
while you're shaking in fear
inside a closet
that hides your true beauty)