Madman

Tell me, who speaks for the madman?

I try, but it comes out as white noise.

The whole of the world is aloof to

the ways of my crazy brethren,

mesmerized by the wars and the circuses.

They dance in time to the songs

that pass like thunder clouds over our heads.

We try and explain our perspectives,

but to them, it’s just plain lunacy.

To us, it makes perfect sense.

There is a general mistrust between us.

You try and cure us, but all the while

it is you who are ill. I’m mad.

Mad at the world. But I will not try

to burn it down. Instead, I will keep on

trying to find spaces between us

where we can love, and learn

and build a world that is fair to all.

I am a madman. If this all sounds like lunacy,

it’s only because we both of us

are mad.

The Infinite Moment

Evening falls and our shadows lengthen,

then fade and merge with the overriding shade.

Our hearts, too, stretch then seem to fade

and merge with the overriding longing

which seems to bring with it such errant temptation.

But if we hold true to our hearts and sing our sorrows,

as crickets sing, at close of day,

the world becomes our shelter, and our tears

purify our longing and give us clarity.

And time is a long line we cannot measure

except by silence and pure acceptance—

a moment without pain or pleasure

or thought of any kind. Here, in the infinite,

one discovers the roots of time.

You open your eyes and see, whether in darkness

or in light, everything in its place became itself

not by fate or accident, but by delight of some

unknowable force. A truth harbored

in every thing that is, deeper than any

fractal penetrated, within, unknowable,

yet known, entrusted to the senses,

understood only as far as the mind can

hold the greater truth. I look upon the world—

ancient, manifold—and my mind cannot hold.

The world exists as a higher truth than I can know.

And so, the mind exiles itself from the world,

just as the world is in constant exile from our minds.

The truth divides itself between the world and our mind

such that when we learn about the world, we lose a piece

of our mind, and the world loses a piece of itself.

This exchange, which we call adaptation, or change,

does not preclude the infinite. It is the infinite’s way

of remaining infinite. Should the exchange suddenly halt,

the universe would suddenly become finite, and matter itself

would cease to cohere. Time, then, is a series of exchanges.

Space is the marketplace. Uniformly, space and time are

the silence beneath the bargaining. One wants more,

always more, for one is like God—a creator. A creator

in need of materials. As poet, I wait in the silence for words.

I bargain with the noise for music. When the music comes to an end,

and all that is left is silence, why should I not weep,

knowing that weeping is all that’s left when words have been exhausted?

Change occurs when something is relinquished, and something new obtained.

I have given away these words, but what have I gained?

Silence, prescient silence, and a moment of infinite understanding.

A place in time that will always exist, even long after it has passed.

The Diamond

One day, a poor man was walking by the river near his hut, when he spotted in the water something pink and shimmering. He waded into the river and pulled up the object. It was a large, very clear, very vibrant diamond the size of his fist. Amazed, he took the diamond back to his hut, where he placed it in a little alcove where the sunlight shone upon it. He sat before the diamond until the sun set, then went to sleep. 

The next day, he went to visit a friend to show him the diamond. His friend was astonished. “Well!” he cried. “This will make you a fortune! Let’s take it to town.”

But the man shook his head.

“What?” his friend asked. “But you are poor! This could make you rich!”

“The diamond,” said the man, “is enough. I am not starving, after all. I will hold onto this diamond, and worship it as if it were a god. And should I ever have a child, I will pass it onto him, so that he might worship it as a god as well.”

The man’s friend looked at him hard and long. “Are you insane?” he said.

“Perhaps so,” said the man. “But I would rather worship a diamond than money. For a diamond will never lose its value. It is permanent, like love.”

The man’s friend shook his head, smiling. “You certainly are a strange man,” he said. “But who am I to say what you should and should not worship? If it makes you whole, then it must be holy.”

On the way back to his hut, as he approached the river, he heard the sound of singing. He came out of the woods and saw, bathing in the river, a beautiful young woman. She looked up and saw him. Embarrassed, the man retreated, but the woman called out to him.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “Come here.”

The man walked smiling toward her. She was naked and wading in the water. 

“Why don’t you come in here?” she said. “The water is very warm.”

The man smiled. He set his diamond down on the river bank, took off his clothes and went into the water. The woman playfully splashed him and giggled. She then began to sing again. She smiled at the man. He golden hair shimmered in the sunlight. “Why don’t you come to me?” she said.

The man waded up to her.

“Kiss me,” she said. Her eyes were narrow and lustful.

The man then remembered the diamond, and his vow to love it with singular devotion for the rest of his days. The man saw the woman’s face. She no longer seemed beautiful. He turned and walked out of the river, leaving the woman behind as tears filled her eyes.

When he got back onto the bank, he found that his diamond was gone. In a panic, he looked all about for it, but it was not to be found.

He looked back at the woman, but she too had disappeared. He heard the sound of evil laughter, as if out of the air. Where the woman had been, the man saw something shimmering in the water. He waded in, reached down, and pulled out a diamond the size of his head. Amazed, he carried it ashore. It was so heavy he had to roll it back to his hut. The man sat before the diamond all the rest of the day, then went to sleep at night. 

The next day, he went back to his friend and told him what had happened. His friend thought he was crazy, until the man brought him back to his hut and showed him the second diamond. “You see?” said the man. “I’m not crazy at all! It really happened!”

His friend could do nothing but shake his head in amazement.

That night, the man lay in his bed, trying to sleep, but he couldn’t forget all the strange happenings of the day. It was pitch black, but he could sense the diamond’s presence, as if it were alive and breathing. He got up and went over to it. Feeling his way, he put his hand on the surface of the stone. He felt his breath being taken from him. He removed his hand and his breath returned. As if drawn by some ineluctable force, he placed his hand on the stone once more. His soul, slowly and without fear, moved out of his body and into the diamond, which laughed a sinister laugh as the man’s body fell lifeless to the floor.

The next day, his friend found him there. He took the diamond in his arms, left, and went to town, where he sold it for millions of dollars. 

Many years later, a young boy looked upon the diamond from behind glass at a museum, and he thought he could see the faces of many men within its shimmering facets. He also heard a faint sound—the sound of a woman’s wicked laughter.

The Wayfarer's Road

I've searched the eyes of wayfarers

for truth and beauty,

but always chaos diverted me

and I had to look away before their eyes

made me dizzy with a wayfarer's hopes and dreams.

The sun cannot illuminate the moon's private half

nor the inner workings of the mind.

The eye that looks out is not the same

as the eye that one sees.

The wayfarer is only deemed lost

because he seeks. Who's to say what he has found?

More or less, we seek that which will complete

what we each possess. The stones on the ground

are a worthy find 

to those who possess an ethereal mind.

I seek nothing but substantial truths

for mine is a mind of many questions.

I find the answers I seek on this wayfarer's road

far from those who know, far from

the sea, where so many questions are born.

Sing

 For Taylor Swift

The world belongs not to the gifted

(We are all of us gifted),

But to the ones who discover their gift

And then, without hesitation, give it away

Over and over again.

Like a wildfire, the legend of these people spreads.

A child with a mind to sing

Will sing, whether those around her like it or not.
If she truly has a mind to sing,

She'll make it so that one day everyone

Will want to hear.
Some may continue to scoff

But only because they never discovered their gift.

What good is life

If we can't share the best of it

With others?

Hermits will scoff.

But I'll say:

Come out of your cave.
Look at the the sun.
Sing.

Exile

A tortured breath wrangled me here,

a calling toward death. I lifted many

a stone in my past life, my back is ancient

as the pillars of Hercules. It was the dust

in the wind that blinded me to my path,

but I walked compelled by the growing

silence, the loss of reason announced

itself in the form of a song. The mountain

challenged me with its boulders and crags,

but I conquered the air’s thinness and the

deepening snow. I descended into the valley,

my shame a shadow cast toward the West

as the sun rose upon the plain. I dared

to breathe unencumbered breaths

as I stood, naked, without shame.

The wind was clear, and so were the skies,

the grass bowed at my feet, the animals

came. I lay down beside the placid lake,

cupped my hands and drank. I waited

all day for the moon to arise, and once 

risen, it shook the devil from my bones.

I wept, as one weeps when the weeping

is all to be heard. I slept, and dreamt of

a fire that did not burn, but revealed all

the inebriated souls I had left behind.

That’s when I heard it, the bells chimed.

I looked at the crystal city to the North,

and went there, expecting nothing,

as one can only expect when one

is undergoing rebirth. A child of servants,

I found my liberation among the

heliotropes and the violets that lined

the city’s thoroughfare. The lost souls

of this burgeoning city greeted me.

Their faces were of ice and ash.

By way of death, I had found my home at last.

Song Past Midnight

I sing to myself and suddenly there are birds shooting through the vacancies of my mind, well-learned stars are holding onto my breath as I fly northward bound to basking in the moonlight. These strange sentences are full-proof and denigrating to the senses, where they come from I don’t know. I should ask the seeker of these thoughts, do you hold a compass or do you walk naked beneath the stars? I cannot allocate my dividends properly to those who most deserve them. They are all stymied in their reason, and I do not trust them to use my profits logically. I will be remiss if I didn’t add that some stranger came as of late to my breath where I declined him the seed of my worship. The lone traveler basks in the glory of the starlight but does not leave any impression upon the earth. Therefore, I will have to remunerate him with everything I have, gold, turquoise, moonstone, diamonds, emeralds, ships and tatters laid waste to breath. I seek nothing but the profound. And there is godspeak in these tragedies. Walk strangely out of the tenement into the night, where diamond wishes and ocean shadows cannot speak but for the breath they die for. I sing nothing awake, until the sky loses its treasure. Float with me if you will, unto the depths of sorrow, where there is no paralysis but the wind, and night shakes the echo awake, where time speeds silence into oblivion. I look at these hands and dive with my breath backward, making music until the night collapses in on itself. Shake patterns out of webs and filigree tarantulas, gold patterned hirsute whimsies. I could be a dead man speaking from the other side, but that is hard to worship. FUCK the worshipping clans, they hold no counteractions with dusk, I live at the seed made of shadow. Night comes. I sit naked by the drier, waiting on the exile to be perfected. Silence. That ham-handed rescuer known as oblivion will come when the night parades are finished. I seek to eschew the night, with its patterns of vagrant shadows and cerebral stars, the stones are finishing their tea, and I have the gods’ orders here, ready to decree all systems unlawful, ready to freeze time and collapse space, like a shadow knocking on my door without any reason or concern for propriety. Drifting as a stone or a mechanical process through the infinite where lines dissect the borders of the infinite, I sift through these pages alert to some penumbral tick-tock shadow and then I will break through the surface. God holds the key to ineptitude—when a nation sinks it sinks into the muck of inebriation, or in our case stupefaction. Learning the code of conduct still and here I am, less verbose than a tongue tangling itself into contrition, I am melodiously hooked. Locked in on a web. I drank a Teutonic’s tumbler of schnapps till I decoded my own devolution. Now I must say goodbye to the thankless worry warts. Goodbye! May you all find what it is you are dying for. There is a deep sadness in these bones, and I cannot excise it nor can I free myself from my dissembling nature.