Poetry_Warrior

WARRIOR

The Calling

There are those who see
Rhymes sometimes
In these beguiling minefields,
And hear sweet palm trees breathe
In slowbreeze moonlit nights,
But not those teeth gnashing
In teeming shadowed soil below.
They may see pink roses blush
In noontime's startled light,
But miss the root-blood
Fiercely pulsing thorn-veins.
The calling:
Die to known;
Banish expectations;
Slash all nets;
Leap wild in unforgiving air,
Spiralwhirly-dizzy-down
To hungry lions
Stretched on psyche's
Blood-drenched earth,
Waiting, watching,
Devouring feathery word-birds
Snagged in sightful
Starlight nightflight.
If a poem dares to die
To fashion's moods and modes,
And live informed anew,
Life's sweet singing sighs
Sound, as well, like
Primal thigh-bone horns
Braying hot down
Stony canyons
To the sea.

It's all a matter of break-it-out, heave-it-up, crack-whack,
Take another tick-tack, cracklesack-backpack
And let the MUSIC jack-smack me right back up there where
Time's a lightning storm, life's a madcap windblown bonfire,
Raw, lean, tough, rough, mean and wild as cometflames on a hot night,
Blowing fierce and fire, never tire, energy jump-thumping,
Heave-leaping high as mind over matter, billowing air,
Wailing thunderdrums, blazing guitars, squealing saxophones,
The Banshee voice, piano pounding-sounding-hounding
My quietude into seek-seeing madman's looney-bin delight-sight
In this sweet night turned bombshell blue, and
You really don't know the rolling-eyeballs table-dancing half of it!

Sick, tired, sick-and-tired-tired sick-sick-and-tired of comin' up lame,
Tame, ashamed, the same game bored day after day — O don't blame me,
Blame the blamers, the flame-tamers who try to kill me dead, you, too,
Every day, every nite, willy-wild pounded down, trampled in the sand —
Man, they want the damp rag weeping, not the stand-up, full-out, big-time
Heaving splash-dash lash your ass in a song that SINGS in spite of
Rules, suppression-tools, fences, boundaries, laws and facts that
Rip out throats of those who dare to complain the same mean-scene
Main-frame things that saints they killed and mystics they shunned
Have been wailing ballyhoo and howly-yowling a hundred years,
A thousand/two-thousand years, for rocks and green trees millennia —
The same crazy bright-light dudes — Jesus, Socrates, Buddha —
Still laughing in the fire, flames roaring all around, dancing, prancing —
Lao Tzu, Martin Luther King, Osho crying, "Stop snoring! You're snoring,
Boring, whoring, wasting your life away — Wake up and give a hoot,
Give a holler, give a damn, sing your song, stop sleepwalking, buying
Cars, houses, furs, champagne, diamonds, suits, coats, boats, planes —
Get a life, wake up, get a heart, get high, get hot, get laid
With your girlfriend, wife, the maid, your husband, the guy down the hall —
Live in love, not sleep, joy not politics, heat not frost,
Up not down, cheer not fear, LIFE not dummy-dum-dum death!"

And here I stand and see you, say to you, Yes, join me, Yes,
Let me do the same, no shame, no blame — loud as can be, OR
Whisper-quiet, bad-ass fierce, kitten gentle, lemon bitter, pin-up sweet,
Hank Jr. rowdy, linebacker tough, rock star crazy, TV lazy,
Any way, all ways, my way, your way — Think I'll hip-hop up the mountain,
Lay my head on a cloud, listen to stream water turn into a flood that
Clears and cleans the whole earth green and gives birth and rebirth to
New dawn sunrise-splashed orange-and-red-rose heavensongs
That wake us up, shake us up, break us up. Rebuild castle towers
That stretch up straight as lightbeams all the way to Heaven's Gate
And clack-jack, whack-crack, right-on-track back to be-here-now —
Here, where we belong, not there — Now, where we are, not then —
You got a better way? Gotta better song? Gotta song at all?
Then sing it, fling it, heave it up and out into the glory-air —
You are the one, full of fun, blissed out, blessed and supercool,
One of a kind, unique in all the world, in all the universe, for all time —
Sing it, baby, Sing it, beauty, Sing it whoever, wherever, whenever,
However, whatever and whyever you are — celebrate yourself right now!

Choo-choo-choo-choo —
Ooooooooo —
Take it on, take it up, take it out — WHA-BAM!

Critical Critic Critique

His mouth stuffed with criticisms,
His heart a bloodless stone,
His eyes shielded by the blinders
Of his forefathers and his fears,
He dared call himself a Teacher.

He scanned Art's canvas through
His preconceptions; invented flaws;
Then hacked, chopped and slashed
His self-created nits and motes,
Missing Vision every time.

In place of love, he chose safety;
In place of connection, control;
In place of Yes, he decorated No
With garlands of platitudes,
Spat them out with smiles,

Then turned his empty face
Toward Heaven, wondering why,
In all his years, the words of poets —
Ecstasy, compassion, affirmation, joy —
Blurred on dictionaries' barren pages.

Approaching Zero-Absolute

When I snarflee wu-wee low
And blow-blow-blow clearlight zot-gone
Snuggle-bundling under rumply covers
Grasp-clasping desolate misery to my aching breast O yes
And the darkly gloomy-dooms wing me swee-sway close to deathrush
When quivery-shivery skin-sleek treeble-trembles
Shake me rattled rolling eyeballs
Circle-round skullnight's rollicky rocketing brainflash,
Your seraphic presence sometimes bursts through fireblood curtains
Serenely haloed whiterobed gleamclean healthy-holy-whole
Whispering clarity and sanity and what could be if only we
Lived the right-light creative bright-light truly.
And yes as I shimmy-shake with brainflame's
Quiverquaking thundermusic spineshocks
Pursuing delirium o-blearium giggly-searing semi-conscious
Dreamweaving hypnotrantic intoxications
Wanting-yearning-needing no-thing zero-absolute,
And then think on thee,
Thy angelically compassionate glorylight,
Thy holy visiongrace pristine,
Thy spirit-wings and savior-hands,
It makes me want to
Get up out of bed stagger outside and piss all over the bushes.

Yes I know oblivion is not transcendence
But let me alone Go 'way Begone —
At least my misery's mine and holds me close
And gently bears me
Diver-deep down oceanslopes & dusk-dim beams
Into the heave-rolling undercool
Where sighing ghostfriends, swaying spectral fronds
And undulating shadowshades blessedly
Soothe my madness
Into merciful dreamdark silent sleep.

I ain't saying the fire is cold or the fury is vanished, wimped out,
     Chilly-willy lost, hung up, beat down, smashed, gnashed,
     Dried and sighed, knocked, crocked, locked underground
     OR buried in some lost and wailing ghost-hole graveyard
     Stuck on the edge of a God-forsaken desert town like
     Bad manners, bad vibes, old boyfriends, or dead dogs.

If I said that, I'd be lyin' — and I don't lie, cry, or fly up and out of
     Conflagrations just to save my silly ass or paint and lace my face
     With nice-guy, pretty-boy, kiss your butt, out of luck, help me, then
     Steal your money, laugh, split, gang-bang, slam-bam bullshit rip-off —

Ain't no hypocrite, hypo-crot, rotten-tot, shoot 'em up, strip 'em down
     Lyin' sonofabitch in a blue suit, white shirt, red tie —
     Ain't no ice-cold dead-soul blue-eyed killer boy singin'
     Peace, brotherhood and compassion on middleclass dinnertable TV
     While ripping off the country, bombing uppity rebels, bashing poets,
     And murdering the earth and all our furry/feathered friends just for
     Power, profit, fame, sex, glory and a lot of sickening cynical laughs —

Ain't no way I've sold my soul, my pride, my balls or my fountain pen
     To the goon-squad cops, political gangsters and high-priest slicksters,
     Those respectable white-collar parasites and corporate vampires
     Robbin' us blind, stickin' both fists full of money drippin' blood,
     Rage, poverty, lost souls, busted dreams and crippled pride
     Into coffers deep as gouged eyes and our aging mothers' hopeless tears.

Won't let those workaday, grind away, king 'o' the hill toady teachers,
     Racist cops, sharks-&-jackal politicians, & right-wing sewer-brained
     Double-faced Christian preacher-boys tell me I'm a low-life
     Muthafucker who doesn't deserve to eat, breathe, live, shit or die.

Hey, I'm grey, okay — been whacked, jacked, sacked and backed against
     More than one brick wall, hit, slit, kicked, bashed and trashed
     A time or two or three along the way — But they didn't smash-crash
     My brains or leave me broken, gnarled, tamed down, runnin' on empty.

No lie, my friend, ain't no lie — I've got a song to sing, a life to live,
     A joy to offer to any and all who HAVE A BALL, whether the sun shines
     And the sky is clear, OR it's dark as hell and the beer's warm,
     The jukebox is dead and there's nothing left but dirty needles
     And a static radio playing only lame-brained hip-hop, rap-rip rock 'n' roll.

Ain't no lie — say once, twice — you know I'm right, you know I'm right —
     Keep-keep-keepin' on, keepin' on, keep-keepin' on —
     And NEVER let the bastards grind you down — Ho!