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I just wanted to let all the readers here know that if you'd like to post some of your own work here in the comments section go right ahead. I'd love to hear from my contemporaries.

This is the end

Let God lead you to the end.
Let him hold you through death,
Change your appointed station
With your chances to repent.
Live and die with honors,
Worhip, question life
It seems too real
To be this fully true.
Sweep everything over
With withered hands
Until age itself
Repents its cold disdain
And unrepentant years.
Lie on feathery pillow.
This is the bed of death
Where all uncertainties
Are lifted,
And every measure of reality
Gives way to inner truth.

Time to tile a tinge.

I lived 2 whole years in the pit of my stomach,
3 months in a pond
And a week in the nest of a eagle
Eating throaty worms and insects half-digested.
I once spent a day in the hospital
On the sheets of a sterile bed
With tubes and catheters
Needles and drugs of rainbowed colors.
I liked the nest the best
It was warmer than the rest.
But I’ve lived everywhere a man can live,
In the hive of a bee, just we
The two of us alone for about a week
And a half while I fled from the children I spew.
In a boat off the coast
Of some Tahitian dream
In the middle of the water
But with land just out of sight,
I like the pond much better.
It was warmer and I was used to the comforts.
I lived in a tin can as I threw it
And I lived in the crush on the side when it bent.
I’ve been to the pyramids, lived a day there,
But I got too much sand in my perineum band
So I went to spend time with the eagles.
I lived 2 months alone on the top of a mountain
With a sheep hide beside me
And yaks on my back.
I spent years in the streets of Canadian cities
And lost many a morning to the coldness of dope
But I loved it so much because my bald headed mother
Taught me how to free base after feeding me worms.
I spent an hour and 3 minutes is the desert of Saud
And found me a home in the dunes after one
But by one and a half I was sweating profusely
So loosely I strolled to the tower of thought.
In Babel my mother of Mesopotamia found me
And fed me the worms of the immaculate cities
And I found myself nestled by the breast of my nest.
In France I cajoled a small girl to be vampant
And let my big dong run her abdomen rampant
And came on her belly but she didn’t mind.
I lived for four and 16th days in Minsk
Went ice skating for a while but I found the rink
To be fetid and dry, in need of strong drink.
I like the u.s., they have beautiful women
But how much poonany can one man attain
When in Philly an hour I could only remain.
I lived in a soap box once for 3 years
In a town on the edge of the Faldstad Fjord
Overlooking a torrent of petulant waves
And I got so sick of the scent of Irish spring.
I haven’t sat still but for 2 minutes deftly appearing ahaze
As I travel at speeds that cause seminal haze.

Is it death yet?

Hey man I think we’re dead.
I think we puked our guts onto the floor
And forgot to clean it up,
Shit that’s gonna be smelly tomorrow.
I can’t feel my legs man,
Its kinda trippy but give me some grapefruit.
Man I think I’m dead.
I’ve died before,
I’m pretty sure,
It sure was close if I didn’t,
But hey you saw it,
Was it beautiful?
Did I shine like blissful chrome,
Expire in flames, or did I wait
Sleep awhile and die at the hospital?
I can’t remember either
Its getting harder to tell the difference man
And I can’t find a reason to.
Shit I’ve lived a good one,
I’m fine if I’m dead,
My life was hard
But I had fun.
I fucked women
But I had fun.
It’s fun to be in the mud of the ocean
Misty lunged with a universe coming from my throat.
I’m glad I’m dead
Life was hard but I had fun.
Shit man I can’t see you anymore,
Are you still beside me?
In the bathroom?
Have you left me?
My life is worth it
Isn’t it?
Jesus lord, I’ve done too much
It feels like my brain is on fire,
Come back and sit next to me
I need to feel the air on my skin
But my corpse is too still,
It just lies there all glassy.
Man I love myself
I thought I wouldn’t
But after that last close call
I think I’m gonna be just fine.

The garden I built for you.

I've made a little garden for you,
Its in my back and growing all over my body.
I can feel it on my skin and hear it when I breath.
It looks like purple when I close my eyes
and green when they're open.
I see thousands of little pearls all over
Growing from the ground
sprouting from the mother of the dirt,
Of all the tiny spaces of the earth
and nourished in the snall woumbs of flowers
like jasmine and lily
and a lotus on the water,
Hyacinth in my bed to the east
and Roses on the trails by my feet.
There's a great gate before me
Its locked in all the goodness when you hide there
But I have a key in my front pocket.
I see you crouched on the grasses there
about a length from me,
Flirting with the petals of a daisy
and letting it brush your gossamere gown,
so white and corruscating,
salacious and innocent.
It becomes you in my garden
and it makes me fondle the key.
But this garden is for you,
a place of yours
that I made for you.
A place to sit and admire the roses
Be safe of the world and stare at the clouds.
If I come in I'll disturb your mussings
and you might drop the flower to your lap
or rend it in startled jerks.
I couldn't bear to see it.
I couldn't sit beside you and twirl your hair
If by coming to sit I saw corpses of petals.
So I can wait, or you can expect me
and the clang of the gate will keep you relaxed.
So look for me in the entrance lady
and see me softly stepping forward
easing open the great iron gate
and dropping the key behind me.
For I have come to sit beside you
on the grasses near the stems of Hyssop
and rest a while in your lap
with my face in cerulean currents
and the garden that I built for you
growing around our bodies.

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What is Art?

It is the creation of a perfect image
Of reality for the creator,
That others might find truth in it.
It is the healing of the unexpressed
Portion of the human mind,
And becomes the vehicle of medicine.
It is the representation,
In space and time,
Of what one has
Received in that very moment.
It is the voice of god,
The ambulations of Christ in the desert,
The increase of love in the world around us
By increasing love in its measurable stance.
Is it difficult or beautiful,
Does it stretch the mind or sentiments?
Only for the artist or the reader who makes art
Of that which art is speaking.

A Paisley Colored Patern.

On a dark paisley carpet
In a corner, like a cockroach
Sitting still and hardly breathing
Is a tick the size of me.
With its feelers and its feet
On paisley colored flooring
Marches onward through the patterns.
Small and hidden in the grain
Navigating all the contours
That resemble to him red.
Marching carelessly but fast
Never sitting more than moments
Shifting sights but only by the
Paisley colored pattern.

If I held worlds at whims.

Had I a thousand years to spend with you
In loving
I would burden you near a thousand kisses
Rained softly of face
Each hour of every day.
Had I inspiration to furnish you
With love songs,
I would sing them in the moments lacking kisses.
For you, If i held worlds at whims
Would they be yours to satisfy your wishes,
Full oceans, endless skies to torrent and calm
At your calling, Earths enormous holding greens
And beasts of beauty, sensuous lilies,
Hyacinth groves,
Great hearths of wild white roses,
All marked with Scarleted Emblems.
Every welkin high upon the peaks of vision
Would hold for you a zodiac held by your design.
If Only these were mine to give,
And yours to cherish
Would i present them,
Smile softly as you unwrap them,
Hold within me your loving face
When they reveal themselves as yours.

Know Thyself.

Darkness comes from lack of light,
from lying to yourself.
the self is born within the whims
within instinctive guiles,
in the depths of wish and fancy,
likes and hates and anxious thoughts,
emotive curses, loving glances
and the trappings of your art.
to notice these is seeing you,
is watching you in play,
neglecting these can cause you pain
and cause the pain to stay.

I've made sacrifices.

What be the end of this,
This that is lusterless
Lacking grace and revelry
Smacking of cheese and foolery
Smack right in the middle of
This god of a loch nettled
Greed of a Cohosh laden burden of man

But I left all that behind so that
I could love you better.
I wanted us to be the same that
was last time that we had fun,
but last not an hour less than
Fifty years

A Lake.

What is a lake?
A mass of bodies,
Hydrogen bundles
Breathing themselves into
A hurdling horde?
What is this coruscating pool?
This wraithe’d body,
Perched upon the edge of sentience,
Partially fooling our senses,
Liminally coming forth
Touching our hands
But leaving nothing further
Breaking the light in our eyes
But holding nothing closely.
What is this water?
What lives us thusly?
This wetness in itself?

The Emotive Spirit.

What else but this could
Prove to be of use?

What reason cannot define
The sensible emotive spirit can.
What usefulness does use entail?
It defines reason, brings about the
Discernment of approbation in ourselves.
It satisfies ends and makes for great
Happiness in the world.
It is the founder of the Social Virtues.

A Breathly Sigh.

Bathed in a sweet-smelling perfume of sweat
I looked up and saw my star
It was bright and blue and shimmering
It was calling out my matchless existence
And telling me to leave myself behind.
“this star” I said
“is telling me my destiny, hearkening my fate,
telling that I must become,
Completely free of limitations.”
Then I closed my eyes, rocked back
Fell softly to the ground in a breathly sigh,
And embraced my firmly goddess.
She closed calmly to the world as I
Became myself again.
“A soft and brief sojourn” I thought,
but found myself an old
Man when I awoke.
With grayness on my head and face
I walked with staff and dagger,
Held lamp about my forehead
And kissed the goddess all the time.

My Sensitive givings.

These sensitive givings leave me dry,
Uncherished, bold but unboldened,
Stronger but unaccepted.

Seeing the rage that sensitive givings
Lends to the man on the street
I abhor him in life of the little misgivings
That poetry gives me to meet.
This man of the street
All benighted and meek
Has divested himself of all learning.
Oh Goddess on high,
So still and so nigh
Lend men with their worries stars burning.
But I in my sensitive givings
Live in my moral entrails
I live and I love and liberty lust
In the knowledge of sensitive givings.