Saturday, August 18, 2018

If I Will Write A Memoir

If I Will Write A Memoir
© Surazeus
2018 08 18

Someone asked if I will write a memoir.
Events of my life are irrelevant
to the universal experience
I express in the dreams of poems I code.

Descended from Puritan Poet Anne Bradstreet,
I was born far west in lush Oregon,
grew up in Texas inventing languages,
then hiked in misty mountains near Seattle.

Someone asked if I will write a memoir.
Events that occur in the poems I write
are fragments of my memoir rearranged
in puzzling persona of Lucifer.

Descending to snow peak of Mount Takoma,
Athena gave me guitar, pen, and book,
and commissioned me to write poetry,
so I hitchhiked from sea to shining sea.

Someone asked if I will write a memoir.
Events of human experience conjured
by stream of words I arrange in weird spells
record how we survive death till we die.

Ascending Rainbow Mountains in Arapaho,
I improvised endless narrative tales
of how First Mother rose from Lake of Dreams
and taught us to sing visions we perceive.

Someone asked if I will write a memoir.
Events of mammal memory are stones
glowing with atomic light of lost stars
that guide our path into the Lake of Dreams.

Mapping migration of humanity
from temple of Ishtar around the globe,
I compose epic of philosophers
to portray progress of technology.

Someone asked if I will write a memoir.
Events of evolution spiral far
from First Flash that flares forth into White Whole
of conscious spirits that beam from Black Hole.

Encoding human experience and knowledge,
I chant magic spells in cinematic verse
to preserve lives and ideas of scientists
who teach us formulas of chemistry.

Names Of The Living Dead

Names Of The Living Dead
© Surazeus
2018 07 18

The old man lying under the highway bridge
listens to hum of tires on cement road
that sings with rhythm of human desire,
wondering about the people driving cars,
their names, events of their lives, and the dreams
that motivate them to exit their home
and drive their car on the highway somewhere
to perform role important to their hopes.

Taking needle of love that pokes his heart,
he stitches their names in fabric of night
to weave tapestry that shows human souls
interacting with each other in drama
that plays across crowded wall of his heart,
depicting every community of people
that ever thrived on shores of flowing streams
where children play while their parents tend gardens.

Raindrops fall from the vast void of the sky,
splattering on his face under the high bridge,
and in each droplet he can see the face
of every soul he met on road of life
since he began to walk across the land
when he was thirteen, fifty years ago,
leaving some small town in the countryside
that vanished long ago in misty haze.

The name of that small town where he was born
and raised was painted clear on every sign
announcing every town where he passed through
because the name of every country town
from sea to shining sea is the one name,
all blended together on that strange name
that no one can remember when he leaves
along with the names of people he met.

Though he remembers every distinct face,
shape, arrangement, skin, hair, and gazing eyes,
yet all their names blend into one strange name,
so he separates them out like wet pages
of the phone directory soaked in rain
and speaks aloud evey name he can read,
then whispers tale of their life in the wind
which blows past the lone windows of their homes.

How lonely they must be, the old man grins,
all those faceless people who lost their names
because he takes them when he passes by,
stealing their names with his long curling tongue
by speaking twined algorithm of hope
locked away safe in the sound of each name,
and stripping mask of their name from their face,
which leaves them exposed to rays of the void.

The universe of space is mostly void,
with stars scattered like sand on the sea shore
where planets, so small and frail in abyss
of boundless infinity, teem with life
of conscious creatures crawling from wild waves
who swing from trees to eat delicious fruit
then build cars and planes to speed across space,
zooming around our planet to find truth.

He listens to song of the ocean stone
that vibrates with desire to spark with light,
so rain cracks stone, and wind grinds stone to soil,
then seed sprouts roots that transform soil to fruit,
which the human eats so stone becomes human,
awakening with consciousness of hope
in sparkling neurons of their glowing brain,

Dipping raven feather in blood of his wrist,
the old man writes their names on cement pillar
that supports the highway of speeding cars
till every inch is red with blood of names,
and pulses with soul of humanity
who dance together in far distant towns,
singing with First Mother of the Star Sea.

Gazing at the moon that glows gold with warmth,
the old man sings names of the living dead,
and the black van speeding by in dark rain
slows down as someone shoots their gun at gloom,
and a bullet hits the old man in the head,
so he falls dead under the highway bridge,
and raindrops falling from the sparkly void
erase all our names from dream of his eyes.

Bergimus On Pizzo Arera

Bergimus On Pizzo Arera
© Surazeus
2018 08 18

Blinding light of the infinite White Whole,
crippling my soul with ancient energy
of aching passion to replicate love
for fellow travelers on road of life,
envelops my frail consciousness with ring
of deafening vibrations that confine
me bound lame to the turning wheel of fate,
though I struggle to animate my heart.

What strange body of fragile bones, wound tight
with aching muscles, woven by tense nerves,
is this that confines my vast consciousness
within frail skull where I long contemplate
nature of my awareness that I am
alive with hungry desire to devour
everything I perceive with blazing eyes,
and keeps me bound within this crippled shell?

How I want to soar out far beyond bounds
enclosing my consciousness in small sphere,
and perceive entire scope of this strange world
that spreads so wide around my trembling shell
when I crawl groaning for breath on hard soil,
hands clutching at rocks and dust of despair,
to pull myself upward toward blazing light
that gleams on jagged peak piercing rain clouds.

Trembling as I clutch jagged mountain peak,
I look back down and see the whole wide world
of bulging hills where mist swirls over fields
stretching outward toward distant silent sea
that glitters sparkles of light which pierce deep
my heart with anguish, so I sob for joy
at glorious vista of rivers that wind
among breathing trees full of blooming fruit.

Why am I confined to wheel of my head,
stuck inside this fragile shell of bones
that rattle inside thin skin of soft flesh
which tingles stinging from sharp jagged rocks
and harsh wind that blusters against my breast,
so I shiver as I gasp deep for breath
that feeds warm embers glowing in my heart
as I huddle on the steep mountain peak?

Each time I seem to soar out of my skin,
imagining myself gliding on wind
toward distant vales with shady groves of trees,
or along lush shores of swift-flowing streams,
I think I am there, far beyond my body,
but my consciousness snaps back to my head,
and here again I find myself alone,
hugging myself warm on high mountain peak.

Breathing deep wild wind of the mountain height,
I stand upright on the high narrow peak
and reach out both arms to touch the blue sky,
and I almost think I feel its smooth surface,
cold as ice that shivers into my heart,
smooth as the crystal gem inside my bag,
so I pull it out and hold it up high,
and see rays of light flashing from its eye.

High on Pizzo Arera in hot light
of searing summer glow, I shout out loud,
"I am Bergimus, god of mountain height,
for I have climbed to the top of the world,
and I have touched the crystal of the sky,
hard and smooth as thick surface of the river
that freezes in the brilliant snow of winter,"
then I laugh, and leap up and down with joy.

Stretching my fragile body upward high,
I try to float onto the gusting wind,
and, for brief second of light-headed joy,
I levitate above hard mountain peak,
and feel sweet ecstasy flash through my soul,
but heavy Earth pulls me back to her breast
and I crouch down gasping in blasting wind.

Blinding light of the infinite White Whole,
crippling my soul with buzzing energy,
opens my eyes to perceive the whole world
spiraling around me in high bulging sphere
so I become everything that exists
beaming consciousness back into my head,
confined within this frail fragment of matter
that constitutes the body of my soul.

Friday, August 17, 2018

Monuments To Heroes Of Empires

Monuments To Heroes Of Empires
© Surazeus
2018 08 17

Why are there still statues of bronze and stone
of men who fought to defend slavery
still standing in the parks of southern towns?

Men build monuments to their vast empires
on skulls of people they killed in wild war
to honor heroes who protect the homeland
against aggressors invading their gardens.

All we wanted was to work in calm peace
but men invaded and killed our wise fathers
then enslaved our brothers to work their land
and bred new children from our weeping sisters
so we made weapons out of sticks and sharp rocks
then built walls of stone to protect our gardens.

All we wanted was to defend our families
and protect our gardens of fruit and worts
from thieves and rapists sneaking in our land,
so we had to fight when gangs of men came
and kill them all with brute weapons of death,
then we invaded their land and attacked
their stone citadels where they plan attacks,
and killed their king, driven by greed and lust,
to stop them from invading our free land.

All we wanted was to live here in peace
but they kept attacking and killing us
so we fought back and we destroyed them all,
and took their daughters as wives for our sons
to breed new generations of warriors,
and then we marched over the next high hill
and found more people working in their gardens
so we attacked them with weapons of death
before they could grow strong and attack us,
and soon we subdued under out control
every tribe living sea to shining sea.

Now we enforce prosperity of peace
on every nation all across the land,
killing anyone who dares to rebel
against our power to control the whole world
so we continue to defend our homeland
against invaders from far distant lands,
maintaining our vast empire of global peace
with weapons of death that shine in our hands.

People attacked us first when we were weak
so we grew strong and attacked them in turn,
then we attacked everyone else with force
till we built vast empire on their frail skulls
because if we do not rule them with strength
in the stark fist of power for life and death
they will rule us and crush us with greed,
so find courage of faith to kill them all.

With respect we now dedicate this statue
to the noble hero of our great tribe
who fought to defend our good way of life
and attacked everyone else with sharp weapons
to kill them so none can challenge our rule,
great monument to our lost legacy.

Why are there still statues of bronze and stone
of men who fought to defend slavery
still standing in the parks of southern towns?

Birth Of The Blind Sleuth

Birth Of The Blind Sleuth
© Surazeus
2018 08 17

Sunlight on the flower excites my desire
to walk where the windows know my real name
while I play haunting tunes on violin
made from wood of the tree where the last king
of the world buried crown of arrogance
so he could build river boats with his hands.

My face illuminated by the fire
reveals I am adept at playing the game
of making rules for original sin
through search for Heaven on Icarian wing
to restore my faith in her innocence
when she crowns me Guardian of the Waste Lands.

I walk through elaborate labyrinth of wealth,
searching for key to get-rich-quick scheme
how preachers tell lies of the after-life
so people pay to enter Gates of Heaven
where they will live forever eating fruit
while priests live well now on donated cash.

Slipping through shadows with deceptive stealth,
I try to join ancient religious team
so I can seduce each pretty young wife
who comes to me for the doctrinal lesson
when I kiss her while she plays magic flute
and afterward bless her with holy ash.

Stricken with remorse at the pain I caused,
when I learn she committed suicide
because I got her pregnant with my child,
I walk into the desert of despair
then kneel before the last telephone pole
and pray to the crucified clown of truth.

Nameless in bleak wilderness of the lost,
I discover where blind angels abide,
who meditate in cave where wind blows wild,
so I climb forever the winding stair
that leads me to vision of the White Whole,
then return to the city as the sleuth.

Infinity Of Streams

Infinity Of Streams
© Surazeus
2018 08 17

How fast through life I speed on buzzing vibes
to outwit Death before he checkmates me
so we expand success of human tribes
who interact through law of Liberty.

Between two distant poles of sanity
I fluctuate on energy of truth,
exploring nuance of mundanity
that vibrates mentality of the sleuth.

On measurement of science I base faith
in accuracy of tools to reveal facts
that show how love designs the glowing wraith
possessing masks of cultural artifacts.

I ease quick flight through maze of flashing dreams
to savor visions of transforming soul
which spirals with infinity of streams
that weaves our weird world from the great White Whole.

Thursday, August 16, 2018

Faceless Child

Faceless Child
© Surazeus
2018 08 16

While strolling bright shopping mall of America,
past clean shops where expensive dresses glow,
I stop at the elegant coffee shop
to write literary novel on my laptop,
and see strange apparition appear bright,
the faceless child with no name in a cage.

I ask her what her name is when she cries,
so she opens her mouth in vast abyss
that howls with burning flames of bleak despair
which blasts me out of my complacent mind
and envelops me in horror of death,
the faceless child with no name in a cage.

Heart pierced with bleak loneliness of her soul,
I ache with longing for face of my mother
since men with guns tore me out of her arms
after we walked across desert of snakes,
to escape drug gangs in small mountain town,
the faceless child with no name in a cage.

Covering my face with hands trembling in sorrow,
I try to hide from her aching despair
that forms glow cloud of fear over America,
but my thoughts transform into blind bats
that swirl around me, shrieking loud her name,
the faceless child with no name in a cage.

I wander nowhere for a thousand years,
numb with horror through labyrinth of lies
that glitter from glass doors of prosperous malls
till I kneel on skull hill in weeping rain
to stare at the blank tombstone of her grave,
the faceless child with no name in a cage.

Taken from the loving arms of her mother,
who was deported back to Mexico,
the little girl with sand skin and storm eyes,
searching for happiness in America,
died from neglect, weeping alone in gloom,
the faceless child with no name in a cage.

Children In Cages

Children In Cages
© Surazeus
2018 08 16

Children in cages reach out their small hands
and call out the names of their faceless mothers
in voices of birds that beat fragile wings
against hard indifferent bars of despair
in rows of buildings built from bricks and bones
surrounded by barbed wire of writhing snakes
who shriek wordless horror in desert wind
that skips humming around the prison camp.

Children in cages crouch along bare walls
alone in silence of unspoken hope,
stringless puppets waiting for stern command
from faceless authority of strict law
that flaps on vulture wings of hungry horror
and circles buildings of the prison camp
that no one driving by on roads can see,
vanished in harsh sunlight on desert sand.

Children in cages exchange secret names
in clandestine code of quiet defiance
while listening to lectures on self-reliance
though they had gone to Texas every year
to pick crops for large canning factories
producing corn, peas, and cranberry sauce
which Americans eat at Thanksgiving feast
and thank Jesus for this bountiful harvest.

Children in cages hold hands and sing hymns
they heard their parents sing in stone cathedrals,
hoping their voices shatter thick brick walls
like Joshua at the walls of Jericho,
but no angels descend on wings of fire
to free them from the barbed-wire prison camp
so they can play games of chase by the river
where men in jeeps shoot at ghosts in the desert.

Children in cages march down chilly halls,
ignoring Big Brother on bare gray walls
who glares at them with ever-watching eyes
so they hide wild spirits behind bland masks
when they gather in large gymnasium
to chant ennobling patriotic hymns
in imperial language they do not understand
while saluting flag striped with blood of war.

Children in cages, taken from their mothers,
who walked across harsh deserts of false hope,
seeking new opportunities to work,
stare at the blank wall of forgotten dreams
and watch Avengers fighting civil war
to save humanity on Planet Earth
from aliens invading from strange worlds,
when Iron Man protects Democracy.

Children in cages, aching to run free
with swift horses on meadows by the sea,
pray for Captain America to help,
but he is out busy saving the world
with Iron Man and Thor in distant land,
battling terrorists in destructive wars
to enforce security of world peace
by maintaining power of wealthy elite.

Children in cages wait by silent windows,
and recall how they crossed the harsh Waste Land,
following the pillar of fire by night
and the pillar of cloud by day on quest
to find the Promised Land of Milk and Honey,
but Moses sends the police to arrest them
because they try to climb the Wall of Heaven
and locks their children in the cage of fear.

Desert Of Despair

Desert Of Despair
© Surazeus
2018 08 16

Stopped at the locked door of the ancient church,
she listens to angels inside stone hall
sing ethereal hymns of transcendent peace,
then steps inside the church of empty wind.

Running a thousand miles through the stone church,
she chases shimmer of light in the gloom
but stops at the edge of the desolate canyon
where sorrow lurks in shadows of despair.

She whispers to the stone angel with eyes
which bore into the center of the world
that she remembers when her mother left,
and waits to hear her call forgotten name.

Motionless in beam of indifferent light,
she opens her mouth to explain the reason
she left her home to find the promised land,
and walked across the desert of despair.

Sensing someone walking into the church,
she waits a thousand years in drifting dust,
then turns to smile at the shadow of horror
that vanishes at the breath of her hope.

Leaning over the silver bowl of water,
she stares into the emptiness of why
beyond the shimmering veil of her unface
to know the spark of stars in hungry cells.

She explains to Jesus in the stain-glass window
how she walked with her mother to escape
gangs of thieves across desert of despair,
searching for the good life in paradise.

Jesus beams in sunlight as she describes
how they sent her mother back to their land
but kept her in the air-conditioned cage
where she watched television shows and cried.

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Poets In The Streetside Cafe

Poets In The Streetside Cafe
© Surazeus
2018 08 15

In the streetside cafe, where morning light
illuminates bleak faces of calm people,
I float in mute epiphany of truth.
I float in wavy cloud of humming words
that conjure vision of our universe
like spiderweb that shines with galaxies
in waterdrops of infinite compassion.
I whisper name of everyone I knew
to see if they appear in swirling view
till I remember dream of when I fell
wingless from brick tower into the cold bay.
I will never know the right words to say
when people express bitter grief at loss.
Nothing more than understanding their pain
is all they want when they weep in their hands
which erases their footsteps from strange lands
though we stand alone in indifferent rain,
aching for warm kiss of galactic light.
What can I do to occupy my hands
now that I have no special role to play?

Once crowned with laurel for composing verse
that conjures vision of one universe,
they retreat from dream of the public stage
to hide in cave of shadows from the need
people exude with vile thirst of vampires.
Thus we shall gather at streetside cafe
to sip sweet mocha and contemplate truth
how nothing is real as what we perceive.
Thus we shall sip the liquid of the stars
and count dead people driving metal cars
whose faces look like zombies crushed by work
before we disappear in a good book.
Once given prizes for exciting poems,
they lose the hungry spark of bold ambition,
and retreat to park of accomplishment
where they gaze for inspiration at clouds.
Yet here I stand alone in restless rain
as if things are happening some place else.
Why am I still me and nobody else
now that I wear the mask God threw away?

They gather together in dark cafe
to share the secret dreams they threw away
and present discarded hopes as great art
which always cracks the most innocent heart.
We drove everywhere to get here tonight
so we can share what we found in the light
and claim the crown that no one dares to wear.
No matter who begins as king or pawn
we always end our days as the blind clown
who performs for indifferent audience
the song that we wrenched from our broken heart.
Twisting anguish of despair into code,
we recite spells in diabolic hex
to conjure apparition of the fool
who thinks he is the greatest poet on Earth.
He stands on stage before the microphone
and howls fraught anguish of his naked soul
to express voices of the multitude.
How did I get here from the silent moon
to sing electric passion of my soul?

Poets in the streetside cafe exchange dreams
they found forgotten in trashcans of hope,
discarded by the people with no faces
who walk mute in harsh sunlight of despair.
They are everywhere in the world today,
the people with no faces and no names
who like to participate in the games
that reward the best of the best with fame
fleeting as shadows of sunlight in trees.
What is that sorrow we feel in the breeze
that causes fruit on desks in empty homes
to rot from mindless horror of lost hope?
We stand together in streetside cafe
to read magic spells of truth we compose
that earn admiration of our proud peers
who will praise our name on the day we die.
I wear mask of the clown that will reveal
true spirit that animates grasping hands.
How can I explain our strange universe
in simple song that children memorize?

Boy In The Apple Tree

Boy In The Apple Tree
© Surazeus
2018 08 15

The boy in the apple tree on the hill
watches horses gallop along the river
that winds around hills under shining clouds.
"The priest in the small stone church by the sea
tells me God is a man in the bright clouds
and Satan is a man deep underground
who both watch everything I do and say.
God wants to lift me up into bright clouds
where I will live forever young and strong
to eat fruit and play music and sing hymns.
Satan wants to drag me down to dark caves
where I will writhe forever old and weak
to suffer pain while burning in hot flames.
The priest tells me that servants of those two,
angels and devils, whom I cannot see,
follow me each day everywhere I go,
fighting over who wins me to their side."

The boy in the apple tree on the hill
looks around at the trees, rocks, grass, and sheep
that shimmer in rays of light from the sun.
He feels the cool breeze blowing from the sea
ruffle his hair like flowers on the hill.
"I see no angels or devils in light,
and, though he says they are invisible,
I cannot believe those spirits are real.
How often I felt terror squeeze my heart
and sink heavy in my heart like a stone
at this thought that angels and devils haunt
my footsteps everywhere I go each day.
Yet now I think the priest lies to my face,
though he seems to believe they all are real,
so he lies though he thinks he tells the truth.
I cannot believe what I cannot see
for I trust only what my hands can feel,
so I will think about the pretty girl
who brings me loaves of bread to eat each day
instead of ghosts who haunt the frightened priest."

The boy in the apple tree on the hill
strums the lyre he made from hard turtle shell
and sings sweet melodies about his love
for the girl who brings him fresh bread to eat.

Memes Of Cultural Myth

Memes Of Cultural Myth
© Surazeus
2018 08 15

I wake up inside the Book of Lost Tales,
wandering on quest I do not understand,
so I armor my soul in nouns and verbs
to battle concept of despair with love.

I stand on mountain of arrogant hope
to observe vast sea of meaningless fear
which reflects infinite possible worlds
that multiply from each moment I act.

The dragon of tyranny leaps from hate
and soars over social constructs of men
to steal their gold wealth of power and prestige,
ruling all from Platonic Cave of Shadows.

Wielding the Ruler and the Telescope,
I measure geometry of our real world
to chart base structures of society
on which we build dream of reality.

Arranging forms on straight Cartesian Grid,
I calculate strict process of chemistry
composed of atoms pulsing quantum light
which generates consciousness of my brain.

Armed with the truth-honed sword of honesty,
I penetrate the endless maze of shadows
to study model ideas of things
and analyze structures of molecules.

Facing hateful dragon of tyranny,
which threatens empire of diversity,
I strike his eyes with Wand of Tolerance
and blind him with compassion of acceptance.

The dragon vanishes in puff of logic
that drifts over meadows of Hanalee
where lonely people fight for Liberty
while wandering nowhere in bleak city streets.

I wake up in the Book of Silent Words
to find myself converted Pawn to King
so I explain how atoms form all things
that flare forth from First Flash of the White Whole.

The girl with seven eyes in long white dress
emerges from the Temple of Dead Gods
to place bright crown of jewels on my head
which blinds my eyes to true reality.

I follow Red Cross Knight to Cave of Shadows
where millions of people singing in church,
who worship shadow of the Faceless God,
ask me to locate the true Holy Grail.

I explore labyrinth of dramatic masks
to find the perfect character to play
so I perform the long-expected role
when I fight and defeat the tyrant king.

Each door I step through in the hall of dreams
leads me to a different aspect of truth,
so I wander lost through the Multiverse,
searching for the real person I might be.

When people ask me where I go today
I tell them I search for the Holy Grail,
then wander down the busy city street
and improvise songs while I play guitar.

I sing about the Cup of Holy Blood
while people drive cars to tall offices,
then dream about the Princess in the Tower
while girls in jeans chat with friends on cell phones.

While singing by bookstore one afternoon,
gazing at the sun that glows through rain clouds,
I see my vision of the Holy Grail,
which is a Woman, not some drinking cup.

Woman who creates life from seed of Man
is the Holy Grail with power to make souls,
for she reincarnates our immortal soul
again in the flesh of our mortal child.

I wake up inside the Book of Strange Tales,
wandering on quest I now understand well,
so I go swimming in the Lake of Dreams
to waken every Mother in my genes.

I become every soul who ever lived
and write their stories in grand epic poem
to record all memories of mankind
which shimmer in the memes of cultural myth.

Holding crystal eye of the spinning Earth
while I stand on pyramid of Ishtar,
I dream the flaring forth from the First Flash
that spirals conscious souls from the White Whole.

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Old Man Who Once Ruled Earth

Old Man Who Once Ruled Earth
© Surazeus
2018 08 14

The old man who once ruled the entire world
sits in the crumbling ruins of the church,
listening to the wind sing hymns to his power
while he makes models of people from clay
and tries to breathe spirit of life in them,
and though they move a bit with awkward steps
they stiffen and crumble to dust in wind,
so he stares at sunlight through broken windows.

Moving slowly through the shadows of night,
the old man who once ruled our spinning globe,
creeps through shining windows of every home
and leaves the ancient book of leather skin
on the kitchen table by jars of salt
after writing the story of his life
with the bright silvery blood of unicorns
on fragile pages composed of oak leaves.

When people wake at dawn from haunting dreams,
where they are always running through the woods
to find the rainbow that makes their hearts ache
but then stop and stare in the mirror eyes
of the bottomless lake where hunger lurks,
they rub their eyes and walk into the kitchen
and scream in horror at sight of the book
that throbs like an animal with no face.

The book of ancient legends sprouts black wings,
thick and leathery like taut wings of bats,
and flies away to escape human fear
but whacks their eyeless heads against the glass
of the window till the people grab brooms
and beat the book of legends on the back
so it flops around and crawls out the door,
then burrows into the dirt of the world.

The oldest man in the world with three eyes,
still lurking near the houses of the people,
watches Book escape into the dark world
while hiding behind the tree by the road,
and the people look up at the brief glimpse
of some nameless horror lurking in sunlight
but they see only weird unmoving shadow
of the ancient tree staring in their heart.

The old man who once ruled our planet Earth
then mounts up onto the pale horse of Death
and rides slowly down the wide asphalt streets
of the vast city that covers the world
between the beams of light on wings of gloom,
and paints the words of ancient tales with blood
of children murdered in ten thousand wars
to cover the streets where people drive cars.

Writing the names of people killed in wars
with vile blood that oozes from their squashed brains
on asphalt streets where buses and trucks go
about the daily business of food production,
the oldest man in the world with ten mouths
howls songs of angst on wild radio waves
that crackles in strange static of despair
behind cheerful voices of the disc jockeys.

Shuffling down the busy streets of the city
in tattered overcoat and worn-out boots,
the old man who once ruled every world empire
wanders between the shadows of the people
in elegant dresses and pin-stripe suits,
and snatches hopes and dreams from their frail skulls
then stuffs them in his mouth like cotton candy
and chews till sorrow dribbles from his mouth.

Shivering in harsh sunlight of chilly wind,
the old man who was god in human flesh,
the mightiest god who once thundered from clouds
of terrible storms, hurtling lightning bolts
at disobedient farmers in wheat fields,
strums broken guitar and sings ancient hymns
glorious angels once choired in adoration
while passing people drop coins in his hat.

No one ever sees the numinous face
of the god of wrath inside the old man
except the young girl who stands by the tree
and watches him morph through ten thousand shapes
in terrible aspects of desperate horror,
then gives him the apple of arcane wisdom
she found floating by the library door,
so he grins and eats it with dragon teeth.

The oldest woman in the world with eyes
deep as the spiraling seas of pure light,
disguised as the little girl with long curls,
smiles when seeds of the apple sprout and grow
ten thousand towering trees from his huge skull
that bulges into ancient range of mountains
where herds of horses gallop with the wind,
then she whispers his name into rain storms.

The old man who once ruled the entire world,
apple trees sprouting from his giant brain,
walks invisible with the busy crowd
which flows over the bridge of smiling masks,
reciting the alphabet of lost truth
to record secret name of every soul
who ever lived in spinning of our world
woven into fierce agony of life.

Arriving at last in the Oval Office,
the old man who once ruled the spinning Earth
sits lotus on the television tube,
which flashes with the memories of mankind,
and flies crystal starship around the world,
recording dreams that flash in every brain,
so we gather on One-Eyed Pyramid
to hear Ishtar sing Spell of the White Whole.

Laughter Of Wild Children

Laughter Of Wild Children
© Surazeus
2018 08 14

The laughter of wild children by the stream
vibrates in the window of the dead church
where the skeletons of their parents dance
to deep music of the piano that rings
in diamonds floating over my lost grave
to erase me from the dream of our world.

The white horse that gallops slow in blind rain
reveals strict calculation of the wind
which translates all my thoughts into quick water
so the children who remember their names
draw pictures in the mud where saplings sprout
when painting of my soul falls off the wall.

You stand in the cold ruins of the church
where Ideas of Plato as wooden toys
lie scattered in the debris of the past,
and try to remember the one world view
that once shimmered in the dome of the sky
which fragments from the mirror of your eyes.

Child Roland in the dark tower by the sea
tries to reassemble puzzle of truth
scattered by harsh breath of the mountain god
whose wrath disperses with the thunderclouds,
but all he perceives in the diamond eye
are atoms that flash in spiraling waves.

The clown who stole the name I gave away
mocks the haughty king to his plastic face
so they crucify him on the telephone pole
which causes him to hear the screams of stars
encased in small apple seeds in the mud
while explaining how the weird circle curves.

That is why I now sail my river boat
past the ruins of the church where you wait
for the king who will never come again
though you sit alone for two thousand years
till the wind crushes your skull into dust
that blows in my eyes when I cross the street.

Everything in the universe is curved,
spiraling around core of the White Whole
that emanates from the numinous Eye
who wakes up inside the dream of each brain,
aware of how we know vibrating souls
swirl around the spinning globe of our bones.

I climb the rugged mountain of lost souls
who gather close around me in weird mist
so I can hear the whisper of their thoughts
that blow around forever in sad wind
to hide sincere love behind broken masks
when empire of our faith crumbles to doubt.

I wander so lost in my labyrinth
of historical truth, preserved in books,
wherever I roam in the maze of lies
becomes the sacred home where I abide
to establish great monuments to power
depicted by the warrior on the horse.

The old man sitting in the empty house
watches angels of fire dance in the rain
and mold river mud in children of light
so they fly away on strong flowing wings
to drop apple seeds on all river shores,
then he laughs and talks to the lonely wind.

Same Spirit Of The Earth

Same Spirit Of The Earth
© Surazeus
2018 08 14

The black hole is black because its whole bulk
swallows light into its generative core
and radiates darkness visible back out
to provide substance for new glowing stars.

The white whole is white because its vast web
emanates light from its generative core
and radiates photons of aggressive force
to weave galaxies into sparkling minds.

Our pale skin is white because it absorbs
beams of light that cause our cells to vibrate
aggressive energy of fierce desire
to sing electric passion of our brain.

Our pale skin is gold because it absorbs
beams of light that cause our cells to vibrate
aggressive energy of fierce desire
to sing electric passion of our brain.

Our dark skin is red because it reflects
beams of light that cause our cells to vibrate
aggressive energy of fierce desire
to sing electric passion of our brain.

Our dark skin is black because it reflects
beams of light that cause our cells to vibrate
aggressive energy of fierce desire
to sing electric passion of our brain.

We are all the same spirit of the Earth,
evolving into bodies which sustain
throbbing brains of neurons that sparkle dreams
to perceive music of our universe.

At the dawn of our human consciousness
we gathered on the pyramid of Amen
who taught us how to sing hymns of perception,
then scattered far across our spinning world.

We live in the jungles of sparkling rain,
we live in the deserts of howling wind,
we live in the mountains of shining snow,
skin shading white to black from beams of light.

My eyes are blue so I can see dim glow
of sunlight through dark clouds of endless rain,
while I walk along the river of hope,
searching for the apple tree of desire.

Long isolated in strange hostile lands
we transformed with various colored skins
to absorb or reflect harsh rays of light,
so dark made some light, and light made some dark.

We gather on the pyramid of Amen,
people from every nation on this globe,
and share our experiences on strange quest
to become the same spirit of the Earth.

Monday, August 13, 2018

Black Hole Of Despair

Black Hole Of Despair
© Surazeus
2018 08 13

When I begin to spiral down Black Hole
of despair, falling into dark abyss
of aching horror at meaninglessness
of this miserable life, since all my hopes
are constantly crushed by harsh circumstance,
I lie on soft grass under the tall tree
and watch sunlight flicker through flapping leaves,
indifferent to my state of misery.

This vast world cares not whether I exist,
though its chemical processes of time
generated my body from blind lust,
and spit me out from fertile womb of hope,
so I walk forward toward the gleaming light,
seeking to satisfy hungry desire
that urges me to reach out grasping hands
and take fruit from the tree to consume light.

Sitting on still point of our turning world
on windy mountain top where fruit tree blooms,
I contemplate strong urge of my desire
till I comprehend its chemical force
in biological drive to reproduce
replication of myself in my children
who ask me about the meaning of life,
so I say it is to eat and make love.

There is no meaning to this hungry life,
so we design complex civilization
to manage the process of food production
so we can gather in star field to dance
and sing our stories of experience
while our planet spins through abysmal void,
then we lie together under fruit trees
and dream sparkle of stars in the White Whole.

Vicarious Dream Of Literature

Vicarious Dream Of Literature
© Surazeus
2018 08 13

Though in the brief span of my life on Earth,
fifty four years since season of my birth,
as I participate in one small set
from wide range of human experiences,
based on the privilege of my race and sex,
and culture of the land where I was born,
I can empathize with the whole vast range
of events that humans experience
based on common state of humanity
through vicarious mask of dramatic art.

Through process of reading novels and poems,
watching movies and television shows,
and listening to personal lyrics of songs,
I have experienced the far different lives
of millions of people through characters
conjured by the text and dramatic scenes
of stories about human life on Earth
which record interactions of strange people
that constitute progress of history
so I understand how they lived and died.

Whether any of those myth characters
were once living humans like us, or not,
the deeds and actions of their mortal lives
are preserved in texts of our literature,
so they live forever on the grand stage
that forms our whole collective consciousness,
presenting moral values through their dramas
to show what we consider good or evil
through active process of cause and effect,
which guides how we behave in our own lives.

Though the drama of my own simple life
has been normal process of learning growth,
when I set out on my quest for the truth
by traveling across our fertile land,
through dramas of human experience
I still expand my empathy of love
to sympathize with every human being
by living the tales of their quests for truth
through the vicarious dream of literature
so I can understand all points of view.

Human Children Of Amen

Human Children Of Amen
© Surazeus
2018 08 13

Hot glaring sunlight stabs my clear blue eyes
and ultraviolet rays pierce my pale skin
as I walk the dirt trail among pine trees
around the bright lake in the hills of Georgia.

Why is my skin so pale like the soft peach
that hangs heavy from the stout sprawling trees
and blossoms in the harsh yellow sunlight
which gleams timeless heat on the hills of Georgia?

Entering cool library on the college campus
where records of human history are stored,
I research ancient legends to discern
how four races sprout from one human species.

We originate in land of Egyptia
where Mother Amen taught us to sing hymns
while we gathered on flat-top pyramids
to feast safe when the river floods farm fields.

All humans sprout from that first mother clan,
radiating outward around the whole world
to colonize every lush river valley
and feast together in the temple hall.

The tribes of India, Asia, and America
retained red skin and black eyes of Egyptians,
remembering the Ways of First Mother Amen
who taught us how to sing in harmony.

One tribe walked east in the Eurasian steppes,
transforming through hostile environment
into people with gold skin and black eyes
who survive the beat of the blowing wind.

One tribe walked west in the Sahara desert,
transforming through hostile environment
into people with brown skin and black eyes
who survive the light of the glaring sun.

One tribe walked north in the Caucasus Mountains,
transforming through hostile environment
into people with white skin and blue eyes
who survive the gloom of the thunder cloud.

We simplify many tribes of the Earth
into four races based on our skin color,
red, yellow, black, and white, but we are all
Children of Amen, mother of all nations.

The environment where ancestors live
molds their bodies through many generations
to match amount of sunlight gleaming bright
so we can best survive the heat or cold.

Once thing all colored nations of the world
share in common, skin shaded white to black,
is how we survived harsh environments
with ingenuity of our human minds.

Now that all regions of the world connect
through one hundred years of technology,
cars, planes, phones, and computer internet,
we can unite to share our fertile globe.

I know this simple vision of our world,
united through cooperation in peace,
seems over-optimistic and naive,
but I hope we can transcend differences.

Divided by factions of nationalists,
who want to conquer all other world tribes,
we find ourselves driven to fight world wars
till one culture assimilates all others.

Over the past two hundred years of change
we have fought slave-traders and nationalists,
defeating the confederacy and the nazis
to support freedom of Democracy.

Nationalists who believe their race is superior,
and fundamentalists of fascist religions,
are always trying to conquer and subdue
the free and honest peoples of the world.

Our liberal principles of liberty
through equality of justice for all
are under assault by the fascist nazis,
but freedom prevails against tyranny.

No matter the color of skin and eyes
we are all human Children of Amen,
so we gather in her Temple of Truth
to feast and sing for global unity.

Hot glaring sunlight stabs my clear blue eyes
and ultraviolet rays pierce my pale skin
as I walk the dirt trail among pine trees
around the bright lake in the hills of Earth.

Sunday, August 12, 2018

House Of the Faceless Woman

House Of the Faceless Woman
© Surazeus
2018 08 12

The house that dreams secret thoughts about truth
reveals the old faceless woman who holds
the key carved from my bones that opens doors
no one knows exist down the empty hall.

I walk backward through every open door
to pretend they were locked before the dawn
since every child in the rooms with no windows
is me as I was each day of my life.

Though I know I am some real human being
with this body and this specific face
people see tall angel of blazing darkness
with eyes that make them taste apples and cream.

Since you will never know that I exist
till you see my blank face in the cracked mirror
we will pretend I am the normal man
who wears the same clothes everyone else wears.

The house explains what I should think today
so I think everything else she forbids
because the ancient spirit of the world
shimmers in the glass of water I drink.

No matter how far away down the road
that winds through the forest of watching trees
I go to escape the house I designed
the same house appears on the road ahead.

I go in the house where I never lived
and find everything exactly the same
the last time I left to go somewhere else
so I stay since I am no longer there.

Inside the house where I did not grow up
I find the desk and the chair where I sat
writing tales of the planet I made up
in language with alphabet I designed.

The house explains to me my secret name
that I never heard before I was born
since I remember the day I was born
so I give myself new name every day.

The old faceless woman by the warm hearth
tells me about my childhood I forgot
though she has no mouth and she looks at me
with ten thousand eyes brighter than black holes.

I run out the front door of the strange house
and run through the woods for ten thousand years,
leaping along rivers, mountains to seas,
and stop before the back door of the house.

I run around the world ten thousand times
and end up at the same house somewhere else
so I wear the new face I mold from clay
and talk to the faceless woman of love.

She tells me love is the warm loaf of bread
that I give to everyone else to eat
with milk and honey, though I am so hungry
I faint and become the house where they live.

As the house I think the thoughts they should think
so they think what I tell them they should think
though they never know why they think those things
since my eyes blaze brighter than the black hole.

Now that I am the house where strangers live
I show them the true light of the fool moon
that no one can see with the eyes of hope
since only people who despair can see.

They try to escape, the people I love,
walking ten thousand miles around the world
and building great empires that rise and fall,
but always they find themselves at my door.

I stand at the door of the unseen house
and welcome wanderers to stay the night
so they eat and sleep and become the light,
and vanish in the wind that kisses windows.

After I eat the brains of my lost selves
I talk to the faceless woman of truth
so she teaches me how to play the sleuth
who discovers the names of all lost souls.

I put their faces on walls of the house
so everyone who visits can relate
the story of each person they once loved
who smiles while they wander the house forever.

The house of the faceless woman reveals
the architecture of the ghost I am
that structures neurons of my brain in webs
which sparkle clear in the realm of ideas.

Ghosts On Floating Bridge Of Light

Ghosts On Floating Bridge Of Light
© Surazeus
2018 08 12

No matter where I go in the real world,
solidified by endless streams of sunlight,
which beam substance of my succulent brain
into meadows of mud where trees stretch tall,
I am followed by ghosts of my ancestors
who illuminate the time of each place.

Each time I step through shadow of some ghost
I shimmer between being and nothingness,
which stretches my spirit across all time
so I thread infinity into now,
and remember each moment of their lives
when they dreamed alive time on timeless plain.

The ghost of each ancestor I respect
dissolves the border between being alive
with intricate puzzles of clicking atoms
at this generic place I am this hour
which jolts electric knowledge of my power
that my molecules will transform to flowers.

Emerging from gaunt tree on plain of wind,
my great-grandmother touches my forehead
and explains how the ghost of her lost soul
explicates architecture of the storm
that crackles lightning from her turning eyes
to reveal chemical structure of brains.

The house where she lived on the river shore
deep in Desolation Canyon in Utah,
still whispering with her voice inside my head,
replicates architecture of my brain
so she lives forever inside my bones
to animate how my fingers spell dreams.

The whistler of the light who chases rain
slips between the white space of truth I know
so my question about meaning of life
reveals nothing when the raven of sorrow
hatches from the fragile egg of the world
since frost whorling my eyes reveals her face.

The open door opens when I breathe light
since strange glow in the mirror of my heart
swirls shadows of memory from open eyes
of all my ancestors who become feathers
on wings I employ to dance in moonlight
and become the ghosts of their mute desires.

Each ghost appears when synapses spark white
to flash my hair into moonlight that streams
in every river winding from high peak
of singing mountains who know my real name
when light from my face refracts to reveal
faces of all my ancestors no one sees.

I reach out my hand of ice to touch face
of myself so I know I might be real
when father of my father of my father
sings hymns of the Great Father in the Sky
who watches me perform role of my life,
all their ghosts congealed in omniscient God.

When the mirror of the universe breaks
I gasp awake from weird dream of creation
and feel him everywhere in shining air
projected from consciousness of my brain
which beams radio signals into blue sky
that reflects my own face back down at me.

I dwell in this lonely ghost house I built
from the bones of every ancestral soul
who glow with the architecture of storm
which structures how rooms of memories flow
through contours of history where they walked slow
to discover source of light on wild field.

How many disused and forgotten roads
where houses of ghosts once waited in wind
now shimmer paved with asphalt of dark hope
where living people drive cars to the house
but stand surprised to see the open door
open into lost memories of their hearts?

We gather in the field behind the house,
inviting our ghosts to join us in song,
so under our small shimmering summer star
we give voice to the mute folk of our hearts
that moss-covered stones where their names are carved
beat alive with strange memories they forgot.

The ghost of the one I loved long ago
is the emptiness of their being I ache for,
so everywhere I go their emptiness
follows me on the kite string of my love,
swallowing despair and beaming back joy
that their energy sparkles in my atoms.

I see only the ghosts of my ancestors
with the clear eyes of memory and love,
yet I see in halo of glowing light
ghosts of every nameless person I meet
shining from the flash of their dreaming eyes
to guide them in expression of their souls.

Our ghosts swirl around us in vital breath
of ethereal air that animates sense
of our brains to perceive weird atmosphere
long visible, though early morning mist
reflects the unseen star of their desires
when we meet on the floating bridge of light.