Friday, February 16, 2018

Beach Girl

Beach Girl
© Surazeus
2018 02 16

Awake in the gloom of the windy cave,
the beach girl reaches out her shadow hand
till she touches wet stone, slimy with moss.
Curling around beat of her heart, she stands
and gropes along cave wall to shining light.
Stepping forth into the featureless glare,
the beach girl pauses in the gleaming air
till the vastness of the gold shining sand
resolves from the rays of the rising sun
that floats scarlet on the calm silver sea.

Stepping forward in cold blustering wind
that roars from the sparkling swirl of blue waves,
the beach girl lopes toward the large round gray stone
that stands alone on the broad beach of sand.
Gripping the solid stone with both her hands,
the beach girl crouches against warm sand,
then crawls into the swirl of ocean waves
to submerge under its shimmering blue light,
till she stands upright in the surging tide,
buoyed by the air she breathes in her heart.
Breathing deep the wind blowing in her face,
the beach girl swirls her arms and legs in circles,
and leaps sideways to follow the beach edge,
pulling herself forward with stroking arms.

Gazing downward into the clear blue water,
where waves of sunlight flicker back and forth
in long flashing curves of thick wriggling lines,
the beach girl watches fish swim near her legs,
then, when she sees the largest silver fish,
she dives down and snatches it with boh hands.
Clutching the fish, that wriggles to escape,
the beach girl leaps through waves back to the sand,
and stays upright as she walks to her stone.

Smacking the fish against the large gray stone,
she crouches in the shadow of its bulk
and tears at succulent flesh with her teeth,
chewing and swallowing juicy white globs,
then licks her hands as she devours it all.
Tossing fish bones aside on sparkling sand,
the beach girl climbs up on the large gray stone
and stands tall in the cool blustering wind,
then spreads arms outward to balance her stance.

When strange ache of joy surges from her heart
the beach girl hoots and hums sweet melody
to harmonize the fierce buzz in her breast
with the wild tune of the blustering wind.
Dancing up and down while flapping her arms,
the beach girl, balanced on large gray safe stone,
shrieks as she cries out the joy of her heart
in concert with the flock of swift-flying birds
that swoop on flapping wings along the beach.

Exhausted from expressing song of joy,
the beach girl crouches on her large safe stone,
and watches creatures moving on the sand,
turtles crawling slowly, crabs lurching sideways,
sandpipers skittering past in small flocks,
and starfish glistening orange like the sun.
Rounding her mouth and clacking tongue on teeth,
she gives each creature she sees action name,
and motions her fingers in various shapes
to mimic how each creature moves on sand.

The beach girl crouches on the large round stone
that stands alone on bright sand at low tide,
and watches sunlight gleam on grains of sand.
Wind swirls her long black hair around her face,
so she twists loose strands tight in bundled braid,
then wraps ivy vine to keep her hair bound.
She gazes at white clouds that swell in the sky
and feels the whole world of mountain and sea
shimmer within the flicker of her eye.

The beach girl gazes at shape of her hand,
flexing four fingers and thumb in loose fist,
then opens them out, splayed like gold starfish,
and caresses the soft curves of her palm.
Leaping from the stone, she lopes along beach,
fists and feet in rhythm splattering gold sand,
then crouches by the pile of yellow driftwood,
and slowly reaches out her hand to grasp
the long curving stick, opening her fingers
to curl them tightly around its smooth shaft.

Grasping the stick tight, she raises it high
toward the sky, and swings down to hit the sand,
watching how its sharp point carves curving lines,
then swings it upward, trying to hit the cloud,
but wonders that it floats beyond her reach.
Skipping along the beach back toward safe stone,
she smacks the sand with the stick to carve lines
at equal intervals while loudly yawping,
then leaps on the gray stone and crouches down.

Ocean waves roar as they slide over sand,
white foam flashing in the yellow sunlight,
like they do every day when the sun glows.
Things move but they always move the same way,
and the waves always roll over the sand,
and the wind always blows around her face,
and the sun always rises in the sky,
and the fish always swim in the waves,
so she smiles and stretches her arms out wide
like she does every day on her safe stone.

At the sound of rocks crashing to the beach,
she looks behind her at the high steep cliff,
and pictures wild waves grinding rocks to sand,
but when she imagines the entire cliff
crashing down in great roar of broken rocks
she shrieks and covers her eyes in surprise.
Trembling, she waits to feel rocks crush her head,
but nothing strikes as steady wind blows,
so she opens her eyes, moving her hands,
and sees the cliff still stands against the sky.

Sliding off safe stone, she crawls toward the cliff,
and pushes her hand, five fingers splayed wide,
against its enormous solidity.
Looking to her left along the flat cliff,
she notes the narrow ledge sloping upward
to its top ridge, solid in empty sky,
so she slides slow along sloping ledge,
face and breast pressed against the solid cliff.
When her foot knocks a small rock off the ledge
she watches it tumble down to the beach,
and for long moment feels the whole world spin
upside down till she hangs over the sun,
so she closes her eyes and grips the cliff
while ocean waves crash with her beating heart.

Breathing deep the wind to fill her with hope,
the beach girl hugging the crumbling cliff tight
opens her eyes to peer at the bright light,
and notes the top edge of the solid cliff
looms just beyond the reach of her small hand,
so she slides farther up along the ledge
and pulls herself up onto the flat ground.
Lying on her back, she stares at the vast sky
that opens wide around entire horizon
so the huge cliff and the vast flowing sea
all vanish into the emptiness of blue.

Rolling over on her belly, face close
to the solid ground that supports her body,
she sucks in air to fill herself with light,
then pushes herself up onto her knees,
and gasps when she sees the wide plain of grass
which stretches farther than the longest beach
and bulges upward into giant hills,
many times larger than her safe beach stone.
Slowly standing upright on trembling legs,
the beach girl spreads both arms out to the sky,
and opens both hands to grasp the warm light
and glory in the feeling of vast space.

She breathes the eerie quiet of soft grass,
startled that no wind blusters at her face.
Twirling around three times on trembling feet,
the beach girl surveys the broad plain of grass
that stretches outward on the upper world.
Now that she has reached the world of the sky,
she wonders what the lower world looks like.

Turning around backward on careful steps,
the beach girl peers over the steep cliff edge,
and stares shocked to see that her wide gold beach
now appears so small, narrow strip of land
between the endless stretch of shining sea
and the broad expanse of high rolling hills,
divided by the steep abrupt cliff edge
that winds both directions into gold haze.

Searching the shining beach with desperate eyes
to see her large gray safe stone in the sand,
she gasps surprised when she finds it at last,
so small and barely visible in mist
that rises from the stillness of the sea.
Picking up the small pebble at her feet,
she holds it up between finger and thumb
so it covers the shape of her safe stone.
High on the upper world of grassy hills
she gazes at the whole world she has known
since she first remembers crawling gold sand,
and feels sad that her lower world is small,
but then gazes at the high mountain peak
and feels joy that the upper world is huge.

Stretching both arms to the glowing blue sky
where the yellow sun glides toward mountain peaks,
which normally disappears behind high cliff,
the beach girl breathes the fresh flower-scented air
and follows the sun toward the strange new world.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Secret In Puzzles Of Truth

Secret In Puzzles Of Truth
© Surazeus
2018 02 15

What is the key that would open the door
and allow me to enter paradise
where blind angels record the cosmic score
which calculates the harmony of eyes?

What is the code that would reveal the lies
we see in the mirror of dreaming brains,
revealed by galactic coils in disguise
so we comprehend what the Book contains?

I stand before gates of Heaven at dawn
and listen to angels sing holy hymns
while I wait with the cart of wheat on the lawn
and watch children play where the blind king swims.

I long to enter grand cathedral hall
where unseen god rules on the golden throne
and view paintings of saints on the stone wall
but the priest calls me a wicked old crone.

With magic letters in the Book of Dreams
I write the secret of rebirth from death
but the priest drowned my children in cold streams
before I would reveal the shibboleth.

The Tree of Life with swirling wheels of flame
I see on the mountain where gods dance free
before they play the deadly power game
so I give birth to Queen of Liberty.

I hide the secret in puzzles of truth,
mirrored in the Kabbalah Tree of Spells,
so you must continue as the word sleuth
on quest for the tune lost in water wells.

Beyond perimeter of world you know,
measured by the proverbs your parents spoke,
you can hear the tune in the water flow
so explore despair till you become woke.

On the street of your town my idol sings
magic spells that design mask for your face
so when you hear the rhyme of angel wings
you will feel one with the whole human race.

What is the tune that will harmonize views
of opposing factions who fight for power
to narrate the truth in the daily news
which defines the spirit of America?

What is the song spell that will best express
the strangest dreams that dramatize our lives
so in the temple where devils confess
we may portray love of husbands and wives?

Wherever I roam, sea to shining sea,
west around the globe, to follow the sun,
my heart is my home in land of liberty
as we fight the tyrant who wields the gun.

We stand on the mountain top with our friends
and sign weird spells for the victory of trust,
for the arc of history toward justice bends,
and after death we all return to dust.

Though the fantasy of our noble nation
crumbles with every bomb our war planes fire
we can redeem our souls through wit salvation
if we overthrow the clown of desire.

Who sees the old man in empty white room
who scribbles prophecies on the blank wall
to calculate safest way beyond doom
after kissing the plastic princess doll?

He writes your name in the big Book of Souls
to record your deeds in the War for Truth
so mail to him the list of your true goals
before he dares question your sincere faith.

I encode your dreams in puzzles of verse,
woven in the Kabbalah Tree of Tropes,
so become one with the whole universe
to understand the scheme of psychic hopes.

I sit blind in the Cave of Liberty
and chant weird visions of life and death
while writing spells with Voice of Prophecy
that sparks true spirit with each spiral breath.

Singing Statue With Three Eyes

Singing Statue With Three Eyes
© Surazeus
2018 02 15

I am the broken puppet without eyes
dancing frantically on loose tangled strings
in the hands of our non-existent God
who hides my name in magic crossword puzzles.

Whatever remains solid to my touch,
though it shimmers in the light of my eyes,
after I stop believing in illusions,
I trust is real and not glamor of hope.

After sailing river of broken skulls,
I drift in gray mist on the swirling sea
till I tumble off the edge of the world
and float through infinite nothing of death.

I wake on the beach of indifference,
washed up in the bright cove of empty caves
where wind sings in the hollow of my heart
and waves play at my feet with laughing eyes.

After eating lizards, I climb the cliff
and walk into the waste land of my dreams,
glass cities vaporized by nuclear blasts,
to find the oldest woman in the world.

Brewing juice under the last apple tree,
that blooms amid the ruins of great cities,
she tells me, when humans were still small mice
we hid from the dragons who flew star ships.

Sixty five million years ago, she sings,
before the meteor destroyed their world empire,
they flew star ships to the nearest green world,
and now they return, angels without wings.

When the meteor hit Gulf of Mexico,
killing most dinosaurs around the globe,
long-armed mice climbing mountains of Guilin
spread across the world, swinging among trees,
and evolved to monkeys in Africa.

Monkeys lacking tails came down from the trees,
learning to walk in surging ocean waves
then strode across the plains as talking humans
to build pyramids on Khem river shores.

Amen taught us how to sing hymns of love,
and Tahuti taught us how to draw marks
with sticks in mud to paint ideograms
which tell the stories of heroic gods.

When Nabu designed alphabet of letters
to convey sounds of words instead of pictures
civil war erupted among the scribes
between the ideogramites and the phonites.

Sin lead the ideogramites in ships east,
sailing around the globe to rugged land
where sons of Chin drew ideograms on bones
to sign the balance of mountain and sea.

I stand in Museum hall and gaze
silently at paintings of Mother Mary
who holds baby Jesus at her warm breast,
each one a reincarnation of the bloodline.

I turn and see her face in the cracked mirror,
the Mermaid Mary Magdalene, my mother,
who woke up on the beach in southern France
and sang sad hymns in the Cave of Saint Baume.

How far I wandered in the wilderness
reborn as young women ten thousand years
who stand weeping in the sun-flashing rain
and remember our original name.

When I was cooking bread in castle kitchen
the rusty knight tried to hack off my head,
but I ducked quick and stabbed him in the heart,
then ran to my mother who screamed in fear.

I knew then she sent her lover to kill me
because she wanted her son to be king,
but I have no right to wear the gold ring,
I stare confused at the old man on the throne.

My sister was your mother, she explains,
impregnated by our crazy old king,
but all his legitimate sons are dead,
so now the right is yours to reign instead.

From kitchen boy to king I climb the tower
and gaze back to the cave where I was born
and crowned the Fisher King who rules the sea,
so I drink her blood from the Holy Grail.

Now the restless son of that king grown old,
I leap castle walls and run into mist
to climb the gold windy mountains of Scotia
where the cute blond shepherdess claims my soul.

Though I wander lost in labyrinth of masks,
carved from the faces my ancestors wore,
I follow their eyes back home to myself,
alive again on beach of Oregon.

These are the voyages around the world
of the Starship Aquitaine I navigate,
for we are fragile flames in the vast void,
singing to shine with the beauty of love.

I sailed from Egyptia across the red sea
and landed on the beach of Sumeria
where I sang visions in cave of lost souls
till I was born again from seed of truth.

I sailed from Sumeria across the blue sea
and landed on the beach of Galatia
where I sang visions in the hall of lost souls
till I was born again from seed of hope.

I sailed from Galatia across the green sea
and landed on the beach of Attica
where I sang visions in the temple of lost souls
till I was born again from seed of wisdom.

I sailed from Attica across the purple sea
and landed on the beach of Italia
where I sang visions in the forum of lost souls
till I was born again from seed of faith.

I sailed from Italia across the golden sea
and landed on the beach of Aquitania
where I sang visions in the palace of lost souls
till I was born again from seed of knowledge.

I sailed from Aquitania across the silver sea
and landed on the beach of Avalon
where I sang visions in the castle of lost souls
till I was born again from seed of mystery.

I sailed from Avalon across the gray sea
and landed on the beach of Massachusetts
where I sang visions in the church of lost souls
till I was born again from seed of poetry.

I walked across the land of America,
exploring new vales sea to shining sea
till I stand now on beach of Oregon
where I sing visions in cave of lost souls.

The long voyages of my restless soul
lead me far beyond the safe haven walls
where apple trees bloom by fountain of tears
so I build New Haven before I die.

I am the oracle and the navigator
on world-exploring Starship Aquitaine,
dream shaman costumed as an alligator
searching for the Holy Grail of Prytain.

From Mermaid on the gold beach of Marseilles
I transform into Eleanor of Castile
who walks on the beach of Caernarfon Castle,
singing ancient melodies of sea waves.

From Zaida on the gold beach of Sevilla
I transform into Anne Dudley Bradstreet
who walks on the beach of Massachusetts,
singing ancient melodies of sea waves.

From Eleanor on the gold beach of Aquitaine
I transform into Sophronia Loofbourrow Kelly
who walks on the beach of the Ohio River,
singing ancient melodies of sea waves.

Shall I sail onward from Oregon west
across the vast pacific sea of dreams
and land on the sparkling beach of Guangdong,
then walk back to the mountains of Guilin?

I climb high mountain soaring among clouds
where Kwan Yin sings among the shining stars,
and play melodies on fragile bone flute
that captures the spirit of the wild wind.

I wander east to Appalachian hills
where Muse Kalliope wakes me from dream
to recite epic of philosophers
which I carve on tablets of melting ice.

Ten thousand years from Egypt I progress
through endless maze of courts, churches, and farms
to stand again nameless on ocean beach
hidden behind the mask of my true soul.

I am the singing statue with three eyes,
reciting Chronicle of Human Life
to express how we struggle to survive,
fragile flames of love in the void of death.

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

I Am Soul Of America

I Am Soul Of America
© Surazeus
2018 02 14

For I am the soul of America
and the soul of America is me,
therefore I contain multitudes of souls
who sprout as flowers sea to shining sea.

The I in this ode to America
is every person who is ever born
and lives on the land of America,
nourishing my soul with her wind and rain.

America was here on this wide land
long before I was born into its space,
sprouting from its dirt like a dandelion
that cracks the cement of its industry.

America will be remain land of the free
long after I vanish into the wind,
leaving the seeds of my soul in its soil
as the children and the poems I create.

The noble principle of equal justice
and liberty to pursue happiness
for every person who shares this vast land
shall always rule soul of America.

I eat the dirt of this vast continent
because I consume its apples and wheat,
and consume the cows that consume its grass,
which all spring from material of its soil.

My body is composed of its wet soil,
and my brain sparkles from its warm sunlight,
so I am body of America
and my brain is the soul of its wild wind.

America is far bigger than me,
for America is mountains and plains,
and America is rivers and lakes,
and I am one worm devouring its soil.

America is bright spark of desire
that burns in the throbbing hearth of my heart,
and America is the blood that flows
swirling hot through the labyrinth of my veins.

America is the noble Idea
that every person who breathes her wild wind
has the right to transform its mineral soil
into food and machines that we can buy.

Money is the symbol of energy
that proves that I employed labor of my hands
to transform dirt into food and machines
which I sell so I can buy things I need.

America is Death driving the carriage
who stops for me while I walk road of life,
and gives me a ride to eternity
where my body becomes dirt of its land.

I am but the dirt of America
transformed into a conscious human being
and when I die on the long road of life
I return to the dirt of America.

This ode I express from wind of my mouth
is one spell in song of America,
for the vision of these words that I sing
is the vision that America dreams.

When I look at my one face in the mirror
I see one whole face of America
for the face of America is formed
from billions of faces forming one face.

America pulses inside my cells
for America is a virtual world
that flickers fragile flame inside my brain
so I am the soul of America.

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Wizard In Red Rain

Wizard In Red Rain
© Surazeus
2018 02 13

The old man wandering down the busy street,
after the rain soaked his old tattered cloak,
mutters softly to himself as he glares
past the faces of people strolling by.

"Remember, a wizard is never late,
for he arrives precisely when he means to.
If you are referring to the incident
with the dragon, I was barely involved."

Pausing at the intersection where cars
zoom past on rubber tires spinning like wings,
the old man, with long gray hair to his hips,
peers at faces of people walking by.

"Weird how hobbits, elves, dwarves, and men now seem
all blended into one new human race,
and engines of Saruman, fueled by fire
of dragons, power wagons with souls of horses."

Stepping into the middle of the road,
the old man raises his cane in both hands
and shouts at garbage truck, "You shall not pass!"
so the startled driver slams his breaks hard.

Flash of sunlight in falling red rain
blinds our eyes when the truck hits the old man,
then we gather around his bloodied body
and feel his spirit strike our hearts with sorrow.

Nameless Stranger

Nameless Stranger
© Surazeus
2018 02 13

Cars glide shining on the asphalt highway.
I am fragile flame in the blowing rain.
The nameless stranger in each shining car
searches in vain for hope against mute death.

Cars flow like blood cells in the city body.
I am the flower who defies the bulldozer.
The nameless stranger walking down the street
struggles against finality of death.

Cars swarm like ants in the vast cityscape.
I am the bee dancing in hurricanes.
The nameless stranger I see every day
feels they are most important soul alive.

Cars burn gasoline brewed in ancient swamps.
I am one raindrop in vast surging sea.
The nameless stranger that I am to you
sings weird melodies of harmonious atoms.

What Mental Illness

What Mental Illness
© Surazeus
2018 02 13

Though our world seems to be falling apart
and everyone wanders lost in a daze
I tend flame of love glowing in my heart
that guides my way through strange confusing maze.

Each mirror that falls from the wall of tales
I piece together from puzzle of clues
so when the world view we relied on fails
we gather in tree grove to sing the blues.

The Nowhere Man with seven eyes appears,
breaking through door of illusions we built,
to paint surreal visions from ignored fears
and weave new angel wings from crippling guilt.

The bright illusion of our noble nation
crumbles from empty sky where no God dwells
so bankers try to sell us fake salvation
till Ishtar comes at the ringing of the bells.

She places ancient spell book in my hands
and commissions me to solve secret codes
that tune harmony of atomic bands
when rainbows transform into nameless roads.

Far out beyond the crowded city streets
I climb rugged hill to stand in weird wind
before nine wise women in shining seats
who weave galaxies from strands of my brain.

Each shining drop I catch from falling rain
contains great spirit of our universe
which calculates true faith so I can mend
one mask of god from fractured multiverse.

I rebuild the world view that fell apart
on principles of love, clear in the haze,
which programs moral code in springing heart
that guides my way through ever-changing maze.

What mental illness tweaks my clocking mind
to generate illusions of strong faith
so when I must consume juicy fruit rind
my soul evolves from the transcendent wraith?

Our fantasy world is falling apart
in most recent evolutionary phase
so express secret code of your heart
that leads us onward through our endless maze.

I plant seeds of fruit trees in the moist soil
and build pyramids from baked bricks of mud,
then design piston engine slurping oil
to lubricate factories with Terran blood.

I stuff black powder in the iron tube
then pack it tight with silver sphere of breath
so when I spark it with the flaming loop
I rule the world with magic wand of death.

We build new weapons of fear to control
billions of people with the threat of death
so while I live I play the divine role
of charging people taxes for each breath.

The emperor of the world in tall glass tower
issues decrees to control sun and rain
but salvation blooms in the secret flower
that grows in my stoic rebellious brain.

I break ten thousand mirrors to explore
beyond the walls of paradise we pile
till I discover real eternal door
where I dance with death in elegant style.

I build new world view that will fall apart
after I lead everyone through the maze
to show evolution of mind and heart
which solves paradox of the learning gaze.

Each glowing sphere I catch from falling rain
reflects weird world view of the White Whole
which reveals time maze in our Cosmic Brain
that helps me design my own special role.

What mental illness swirls my dreaming brain
to dramatize the game of human life
so when I run home in the pouring rain
I give the pot of honey to my wife.


Name Of Our Faceless God

Name Of Our Faceless God
© Surazeus
2018 02 13

The door to my heart on the wind-swept hill
leads to the weird labyrinth of broken mirrors
where every face I see is not my own
since I wear the masks that dead people lost.

I stop before the door of every home
in every town from sea to shining sea
and take the faces of the lonely dead
to record their names in the Book of Souls.

When from the shadows of the hungry church
the blind priest tries to steal name book from me,
I hide it behind the numberless door
that leads nobody back to paradise.

Millions of people starving for potatoes
sail leaking ships forth to the Promised Land
where they carve their faces on old dead trees
before they vanish in the winds of time.

The ghosts of my ancestors crowd my head,
all clamoring to speak through my broken mask,
but people see in mirror of my face
the characters they fashion for themselves.

I play the noble character who acts
according to the principle of justice
the last emperor of the world designed
before he fell dead on the temple floor.

So that is why I step through mirror door
and fly along the labyrinth of lost tales
then take my face from ancient gallery
to play god before I drop dead in turn.

I want to marry the hyacinth girl
but on my knees in bombed cathedral hall
I sort fragments of our shattered world view
to forge new god-mask I can wear on stage.

The apparitions of prophets and kings
like petals on the web black bough appear
as porcelain masks on the Tree of Life
who reveal the name of our faceless god.

Though I float in my tin can lost in space
above blue planet that cannot be transformed
by Jesus into perfect paradise,
I watch history play in the diamond eye.

When I float lost, one hundred thousand miles
from home, I become the angel of the light
who knows the secret of eternal life,
which I keep hidden in the egg of code.

Though there is nothing helpful I can do
about our planet blooming with green ghosts,
in mask of Orpheus I sing disguised
as the man who fell to Earth without wings.

I cannot lead you from the Underworld
because you must wear your own broken mask
but I can sing the spell of rippling water
while we dance on sharp edge of the abyss.

Together through the labyrinth of dark lies
we can follow the mirrors of past selves
to evolve into the true self we make
from shattered fragments of the window eye.

Beyond the walls of putrid paradise
we explore the perimeter of truth
to experience the process of rebirth
when mankind first rose from sea of dreams.

While sitting mute under the apple tree
I hear angels of light singing through water
so I translate the visions they reveal
in prophecies I carve on melting ice.

Four directions spread out from temple hall
where Ishtar taught me the secret of life,
so I float in the White Whole of creation
and mold one new mask from ten trillion faces.

The apparitions of mothers and fathers
like petals on the wet black bough reveal
eternal spirit of God that I Am
so I invent name of our faceless god.

Monday, February 12, 2018

God Is Loving Leader

God Is Loving Leader
© Surazeus
2018 02 12

When I was young, men of authority
convinced me that one supernatural God,
modeled after the father of our tribe,
had created the entire universe,
then established strict hierarchy of power
where I should obey the laws of those men
because that God appointed them to rule.

But when I saw them fight in game of thrones,
gathering armies and waging brutal wars
that kill millions of people they should rule
over which of those god-appointed men
has most divine right from our God to rule
vast empires of commercial enterprise
and gain wealth from the labor of our hands,
then I realized those men invented God
as weapon to control obedient minds.

Now I understand God is metaphor
that symbolizes power of rulership
which possesses each individual man
who obtains position of authority
through the means of inheritance, election,
or military seizure, so their words
establish laws that govern interactions
to ensure rich survival of the group
which gives life to the social institution
beyond the lives of all individuals involved.

God is the spirit of group leadership
which persists beyond individual leaders,
passing through their bodies as they appear
through the process of the selective game,
ascending through rite of apotheosis
to transition from mortal to immortal
who embodies the spirit of the group,
then discards them when tides of history shift,
and chooses another to rule in turn.

When I combine all history chronicles
that record the names and the deeds of leaders
of every social group, religion, nation,
empire, and corporation that appeared
the past ten thousand years of human life
I glimpse the basic principles of change
that govern constant flow of public actions
to calculate the causes and effects
which ripple in the waves of new events
in rise and fall of political groups
through the functions of material production.

The most successful groups protect all members
and provide each individual with role
to perform in daily ritual of action
in process of the production of food
so every person many employ their skills
to enhance the greater good of the group,
and benefit each one who does their part
and gets rewarded for their faithful work
with honor and respect in social rituals.

The worst god is the blind greedy tyrant
who tries to control the labor of each member
for their personal gain above all others
at the expense of those who work the most,
while the best god is the generous savior
who manages the roles of each skilled person
as good chief executive officer
to organize the labor of their hands
so every individual person thrives
and gains wealth from the vision of their minds
which benefits everyone in the group.

Religion displays myth of social action
through standard characters of God and Satan,
presenting them as models of behavior
to avoid or emulate in their actions
for tribal leaders who wish to reign long
when the group chooses them to play the leader.

We established good system of election
that allows every person to choose who
plays God with the power of life and death,
so men who want to play our empire God
must campaign by traveling to every town
where they stand before gathered congregation
to express with speeches their honest vision
that presents the principles of their program
showing how they will develop work roles
that will best utilize skills of each person,
then we elect the more qualified person
to manage productive functions of labor.

We choose the person with the better vision
to impersonate the spirit of God
and play the leader who loves every person
by judging our actions as right or wrong
to encourage behavior that creates
and discourage behavior that destroys
for we live and die together as one.

Now I am old, man of authority
who teaches that God is eternal spirit
of the Loving Leader who cares for all
as character in myth of world religion
who models best behavior of good men.

Sunday, February 11, 2018

White Whole Of Love

White Whole Of Love
© Surazeus
2018 02 11

After soaking in the tub of hot water
I float in blinding buzz of dizziness
when I try to stand on our spinning world,
and gaze in bottomless abyss of death.

I perceive in the black abyss of nothing
white lidless eye shimmering with pure light
which gazes into mirror of my soul
and flushes my frail brain with flame of truth.

White Whole at the heart of the universe
swells spirals out in waves of galaxies
that blossom planets in vast Tree of Life
teeming with organic creatures who dream.

The white sphere of flames envelops my mind
in shimmering bubble of ecstatic lust
to empathize with sparkling brains of souls
whose conscious minds form web of dreaming worlds.

At the same moment that I feel so small
and frail in the vast void of boundless space,
where giant galaxies are fragile flames,
I feel connected to rich web of life.

I feel as one with every conscious soul
who dreams perceptions in virtual world view
on every planet in our universe,
for we all vibrate with atoms of light.

Since White Whole knows the secret of my name
she dreams the drama of this life I play
composing my own fate on stage of fame,
till at death I return to sea of light.

I feel pulsing sparkle of molecules
throbbing with every atom of my soul
which spiral into neurons of my brain
dreaming whole history of our universe.

White Whole at the heart of the universe
which generates all matter that exists
shines so brightly with pure spirit of love
that we see nothing in the void of death.

Whether Prime Mover is conscious or not
atoms connect in glowing forge of stars
to form the molecules of spinning sparks
which link together in organic beings.

Beaming outward from this body of flesh
my conscious mind seems to travel the stars,
transcending this world in awareness glow
to feel the universe pulse in my brain.

Though confined to this fragile shell of atoms,
sitting on soft couch in my little home
on one frail world in our vast universe,
I feel that whole universe in my brain.

White Whole is still point of the universe
that beams vast hologram of galaxies
which pulses at center of every brain
to mirror the conscious dream of the self.

When Ishtar stood on ziggurat of dreams
she sang the first creation hymn of life,
mother of all religions of the world
who told us about the White Whole of Love.

I sing again the vision that she dreamed,
how we are children of atomic stars
born at the shining burst of perfect light
that flares forth into galaxies of worlds.

White Whole beats through energy of my heart,
pumping humorous spirits through my brain,
so I wake with consciousness of the Earth
to sing flame of life in dark void of death.

Exponentiality Of Light

Exponentiality Of Light
© Surazeus
2018 02 11

The exponentiality of light
radiates mirrored multiverse of one Earth
which multiplies conscious spirit of love
from First Mother in seven billion souls.

How can I explore through my linear logic
vast oval universe of galaxies
that pulse with vibrant lust to replicate
models of itself on small spinning worlds?

The world is round, spinning in the mute void,
but we express our vision of its wholeness
in lines of words that spiral around dreams
through the web of blinking atomic eyes.

One beam of light from core of the Black Whole
radiates outward in spirals of eyes
when blinking atoms dream our universe
and multiply fractals through galaxies.

Awake on the shore where water flows swift,
I dream the process of eternity
floating in the stasis of constant change
when I watch sun rays beam through silver clouds.

The golden light of the sun flickers bright
on tinkling water of the flowing stream
that winds around the hills where flowers bloom,
so I fill my hands with water and drink.

The exponentiality of light
increases sparkles of atomic vibes
that pulse with conscious desire to taste truth
in throbbing pleasure of my lustful flesh.

One ray of conscious hope from void of death
beams spirals weaving spirits of our brains
in flocking web of people who compose
aggressive tribe that devours trees of fruit.

I always start from the beginning point
at the still center of the universe
to calculate potential paths of life
which generates billions of galaxies.

Centillion planets in our universe
each nourish carbon life in sparkling rings
that generate cells of communal lust
which evolve organic souls into God.

Each individual conscious soul, who wakes
on eternal river shore to watch light
radiate from bright sphere of burning Helium,
replicates all light of the universe.

The exponentiality of light
multiplies potential power of my brain
which replicates shape of the universe
in neural network of galactic gods.

One beam of light splits apart into two,
and two beams of light split into four beams,
doubling beams till the whole void becomes light,
so we spiral into organic beings.

I contain multitudes of human souls
and they all contain one me in their souls,
so I am you, and you are me, and we
copulate to generate teeming empires.

The white sun still radiates piercing beams
above silver clouds to light blooming hills,
and I still meditate on river shore,
watching sunlight flicker on flowing water.

I carve runes on oval water-smoothed pebbles,
then scatter them in the circle of twigs
to search for meaning in their random spell,
and sing about the supple yew tree bough.

The faces of the people without names,
who sit silently on the river shore
in large circle around circle of stones,
glow from the flames of the fire that I sparked.

How can I explain to souls who eat apples
the exponentiality of light
that replicates their spirits in their children
so each new generation finds old truth?

The Black Whole generates our galaxy,
which generates our sun, which generates
our planet, which generates human beings,
who sing the beauty of the universe.

The Earth created mankind from the sea
so she can dream the flash of glowing light
through weird perceptive functions of our brains,
and taste sweet honey that gleams with sunlight.

Are humans byproducts of evolution,
accessories of life that nature produced
through accidental expressions of lust
to replicate ourselves against all odds?

Our function, like all woke organic beings,
is to replicate ourselves in offspring
so singing flame of conscious life endures
in the boundless void of the universe.

We are basic products of evolution,
potential of god attempting to wake
through the consciousness of our dreaming brains
so God perceives itself through all our eyes.

The exponentiality of light
sparkles in every neuron of my brain
on every planet in the universe
in multiverse modeled inside my mind.

Saturday, February 10, 2018

Flower Of Life

Flower Of Life
© Surazeus
2018 02 10

Like the delicate flower that still blooms bright
through the narrow crack in asphalt sidewalk,
your love for me breaks through my haughty heart
to flourish in the desert of my soul.

Though I paved over fields of paradise
with hard cement of factories belching smoke,
in vain attempt to control wealth of love,
seeds of truth burst through cold shell of despair.

I lost your love because I worked too hard,
earning wealth to provide shelter and food
for my family, preserving their lives,
which betrayed your trust in my stewardship.

Sweet Earth, planet that has given me life,
I struggled against monsters of your jungles,
and subdued mindless nature with designs
to build lush paradise that became hell.

I remember the sweet songs of your rivers
that flow down from the mountains of your hope,
and many times hummed with rich melodies
that vibrate in the spirit of your wind.

But factories of my lust to produce goods,
enough to feed billions of human souls,
sludge your rivers with waste of our hard work
and foul your wild winds with poisonous fear.

I leave the loud labyrinth of industry
and search in vain for pristine paradise
where we once feasted on apples of light,
but wander in the waste land I contrived.

This giant sphere of dirt and water spins
on spiral wings through void of hungry death,
yet thrives to nourish plants and animals,
such as flowers that bloom through cracks in our greed.

Somehow I will redesign my industry
to integrate process producing food
with natural chemistry of sweet desire
so we live in harmony with your love.

Your flower of life blooms through cracks in cement
so we will transform waste land of our works
to paradise that supports conscious life,
evolving into angels of respect.

Speed Skater Of Koryo

Speed Skater Of Koryo
© Surazeus
2018 02 10

Snow sparkles sting her cheeks with rainbow beams
as Suk-Hee glides swiftly on silver ice,
fast as white strike of lightning through the wind,
and leaning forward she propels her soul
to glow for one brief flash of victory
as flame of joy in black infinity.

She stretches out thin vibrant wire of light
that coils her core with taut intensity
to pulse each atom beating in her heart
which springs her torso on tight track of time
and shoots her soaring beyond bounds of death
to shine with love in cold infinity.

Broad angel wings of joyful speed expand
with every breath of spirit she inhales
that fuels emotional spark of urgent hope
inspiring dreams of glory through success
and so accelerates race against death
she beams with truth in mute infinity.

For one brief fleeting flash of flowing flight
young Suk-Hee transforms into energy
and beams beyond the bounds of ticking time
to fly on angel wings of glorious joy,
escaping fragile shell of flesh and bone
to flash with life in dark infinity.

Rise Of Hyperion

Rise Of Hyperion
© Surazeus
2011 06 08

I dream fantastic curves of marble halls
and weave paradise with stone and grape vine
muring around fresh bubbling fountain pond
to tight enclose within hard granite walls
lush garden of herbs and silk-bloom fruit trees
that binds our hearts in heaven of our songs
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

I blow ram horn to call home river nymphs
who dance through high arching gate of gold bars
to heap wood round table with basket bowls
of fruit and nuts and eggs and berries, ripe
from kissing sun and sparkling eyes of rain,
then Gaia plays flute carved from dragon bone
and Kronus flaps cape of black raven wings
while bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

We feast in timeless sunset on moss mound
beneath shaded arbour with dropping roof
of trellis vines and bells and apple blooms
that swing light in breeze dispensing sweet scent
to taste juice of sunlight and rain in gifts
Earth provides from her rich generous heart
since bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

Stumbling from forest mist on signless path
pale Adonais, dressed in black suit and hat,
invades secret bower where gods drink nectar,
blind to joyous dance of flower nymphs,
to grasp and devour melons and grapes
as if he had not eaten since time began
while wandering lost on friendless quest,
then falls fainting in sleep of dreamless groans
while Silenus mimics his agony on grass,
till bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

Urania plays haunting melody on bone flute
of glittering sea waves woven on wind threads
that shoot rays through his weak enchanted heart,
sparking soul of slumbering poet aware
to start up as if with wings on wild hope
and wander aimless into ancient stone hall
where Moneta tends eternal flame of truth,
while Mares stamps gold into shining coins,
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

Climbing thirteen high steps of ziggurat,
Adonais struggles to ascend pyramid peak
where Astaria observes motions of stars,
peering eager through polished crystal eye,
but grim Moneta robed in vestal shroud
declares, "If you cannot ascend sacred steps,
die on that marble where you crawl in pain,
for your flesh would crumble to bitter dust
if you never feast on fruit or drink Earth juice,
though bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

Moneta grasps tight his pale trembling hand
when Adonais achieves highest pinnacle,
and takes him through towering silent hall
to shadowed grove of ancient tangled oaks
where Saturnus lies forlorn on cracked rocks,
long gray hair curling into sinews of our world,
and moans wordless despair a thousand years,
deposed from throne of power by jaunty youth,
so bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

Forlorn divinity grasps shoulders of fair youth
and groans, "I see her eyes gleaming in your eyes,
sweet bride who crowned my mighty humble head
with laurel wreath, appointing me her house guard,
for her sweet eyes I see reborn in our only son,
brave but reckless Hyperion, who cast me down,
and grasped scepter with diamond of hard truth,
then claimed right to rule over my measured realms,
so now bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

Stepping slow and regal on jagged stones,
ancient woman with hair silver as moonlight
resolves from swirling mist in torn black gown,
and kneels at feet of Saturnus, weeping in sorrow
as grumbling king caresses her bowed head,
"My gentle Thea, our son, who tamed wild horse,
locks gate to heaven, preventing our return,
though you birthed him and I trained him well
to defend our people and decide each hard case,
yet bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

Two soul-weary wanderers, without warm home,
hold hands and walk together toward stone wall,
followed by Moneta clutching bag of gold coins,
and heart-broken Adonais, ghost of humanity,
through whispering woods with grasping claws,
leaving behind ancient temple of moldering stone
to climb thousand stairs toward temple of light
that gleams gold on high rock mountain of hope
where bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

His grand new palace shimmers cold and bright,
bastioned with pyramids of flashing gold,
though shadowed by shape of towering obelisks,
and glares red as blood through ten thousand courts
of arches supporting domes over galleries
while Seraphim tend flames on altar stones
behind soft linen curtains of Aurorian clouds
where bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

Holding scepter key that opens treasure halls
where coins are stored, that buy loyalty of men,
Hyperion laughs delighted as his parents come,
and spreads arms wide in kind generosity
of victorious power to offer food and drink,
inviting aged parents who long had ruled well
to rest in safe retirement and restore health
since bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

Ancient bearded Saturnus growls annoyed,
"I forged from stone this heaven of cooperation,
organizing labor of men to benefit every citizen,
and long achieved smooth operation of life
guiding social games of equal work and play,
but you grasp wealth and give nothing back
though you should guard welfare of our souls
while bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

Hyperion leaps high and proclaims bold,
"I am loyal to ideal principles you invented
of respect for men, and honor to defend truth,
and justice to punish men who steal and kill,
represented by political union that I contracted,
for rules guide actions to create not destroy
when citizens cooperate for benefit of everyone,
yet you used principles as reins to control
believers in ideals who dream lost fantasy,
for bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

"I separate institutions of government
from human who gains position of power
by killing opponents and silencing speech
of men who dare oppose his program of greed,
for tyrants are insecure on thrones of bones
so they use fear and torture to maintain grip
on wealth that slips away from hungry grasp,
though bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

"We create our government of honest people,
by creative people, and for loyal people,
each new dawn of game with actions and words,
by treating each man as though he were a king,
for power is built on hearts of men not stones,
if bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

Young man, wearing sandals and leather kilt,
leaps from stone and faces bright sun king,
gripping long sharp sword, then crouches low
to shout, "At last I find you, pompous Hyperion,
who think you stand so far above mortal men
by claiming divine knowledge hidden in code,
but you are nothing more than bones and blood,
and you will crumble to dust after your soul
deserts ship of your flesh and lets you sink
in womb of black sea under dreamless silence,
yet bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

Grasping broad shoulders of handsome lithe boy,
Hyperion wrestles him on jagged mountain range,
like black clouds clashing to generate white flash
of lightning, and crack egg shell of our universe,
then cries out in deep voice booming thunder claps,
"My son Helius, born from secret love forbid,
when my heart was enchanted by sweet Kalliope,
your noble soul ripens richer in loving wisdom
with each spinning turn of our blooming globe
where bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

Bright father and brighter son tumble down,
and roll laughing in delight, then leap on feet
and clasp hands to chant, "We rise from death,
for we are children of ten thousand mothers,"
but faded grandfather with tangled gray hair
sits with sweet wan Thea by gleaming stream,
and whispers to her, "I never played with my son,
yet bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

"Sweet-voiced Kalliope calls for you, my son,
so skip free on will of your beating heart,
and breathe deep mysterious spirit of life,
then listen to her firm instructing words
to learn magic art of strumming harp strings
that vibrate unseen spirit of our vast universe,
so you chant spells of words to articulate
shape and process of our complex world
that rings alive taut inner souls of our minds
so we all sing in harmony of goal for love
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

Forlorn poet Adonais, standing beside old muse,
whispers to Moneta, "Teach me his mystery
so vital spirit of joy for life to satisfy hope
ever glows bright to animate this feeble flesh
when I meet merry folk on endless road,
and share gifts of my wealth with everyone,
for death will shroud us all in silent cloak
and transport shells of bones to dreary cave,
so now, today, share ripe feast and sing free,
since bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne."

Kalliope, wearing red gown of flaming words,
places book of blank pages and swan quill
in hands of pale poet who gasps wordless awe
at translucent beauty shining from her eyes
that spiral with vast galaxies of eternal truth,
then sweet immortal light of reviving faith
beams from heart of Proserpine to shroud
his mortal frame in fearful awesome blast,
so Adonais faints and stares at her bright star
while bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

Adonais falls from heaven for three days,
and lies wounded in garden of white blooms
where Fama, stitching shirts with silver needle,
cradles head of fallen Titan on her bosom,
caressing his hair and gazing down in his eyes
to read secrets of his soul written in his book,
then comforts his mind by whispering love spells
while his eternal spirit dissolves in rays of light
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

Dance in my heaven of stone and grape vine,
and drink from waters of my bubbling pond,
then gather in temple where Moneta tends flame
to celebrate rise of Hyperion over Chaos
by grasping reins to guide chariot of state
when noble father who created social game
grows weak from devouring winds of time,
great thundering god reduced to a sad mime,
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne.

Friday, February 9, 2018

Soul Of Pittsburgh Jazz

Soul Of Pittsburgh Jazz
© Surazeus
2018 02

After working all day blowing red glass,
I am going down to the Crawford Grill
to eat fried burger and listen to Jazz
because Rose Star-Eyes is playing on the bill.

When Billy Eckstine steps out on the stage
and Stanley Turrentine plays saxophone
they wail sweet sorrow from the silver page
and ring harmony through water and stone.

The fingers of Earl Hines dance on white keys,
racing through the labyrinth of harmony
to weave moonlight into sweet melodies
that reveal old secrets of Liberty.

Standing in the light from one blazing star,
Roy Eldridge makes the universe vibrate
while playing trumpet at the Hurricane Bar
that leads us back to love from blinding hate.

While misery and sorrow stalk the dark streets
we gather in smoky bar where Rose sings,
swinging with rhymes of heart-enchanting beats
which gives every lost soul new angel wings.

Our song of love wails at the aching night,
sparking love to endure against bleak death
so our frail bodies glitter with pure light
as we dance forever with cosmic breath.

What resurrects me from the silent grave
but endless music of elegant class
that writhes from our spirits we want to save
and vanishes with soul of Pittsburgh Jazz.

The bankers with glasses in tall glass towers
send bulldozers to tear down our Jazz bars,
driving us into waste land without flowers
so we sing heartache under naked stars.


Snow Flower

Snow Flower
© Surazeus
2018 02 09

I hear Snow Flower singing in the wind
though she died twenty thousand years ago.
Though all the trees are dead and wind blows cold
she blossoms bright red in the falling snow.

Soft petals of apple trees blow in wind,
falling white as snow to cover the ground.
She dances toward me in the meadow grass,
long hair billowing around her round face.

Her black eyes gleam with ten thousand gold stars
and her smile shines bright as the morning sun.
She plays bone flute by the blue flowing stream
that flashes melodies to pierce my heart.

I lean close to kiss her apple-red lips
as her warm hands embrace my beating heart.
Wide as the clear sky where clouds shimmer white
her eyes enclose me with words of her love.

I see Snow Flower on the mountain top
so I climb jagged cliff to touch her sky.
No trees blossom by the cave of her eyes
where she waits for me in shadows of light.

Though she died twenty thousand years ago
her face still shines in the dreams of my eyes.
I long to wind backward the spinning world
so I can hear the old song of her heart.

I see the contours of her ancient face
in the face of every human on Earth.
I hear the gentle laughter of her voice
in the voice of every human alive.

Though all the trees are dead in falling snow
Snow Flower holds the bright sun in her hand.
She hands me the last apple in the world
so I bury it with her in cold mud.

My sweet Snow Flower froze in winter wind,
turning hard and white as the silent stone.
When the snow melts in the tears of my eyes
new apple trees sprout from her buried heart.

I hear the daughter of Snow Flower sing
when she runs laughing in green wind of Spring.
Smiling with the ancient face of the sun,
she gives me ripe apple from her new tree.

Thursday, February 8, 2018

Apple Of Your Bleeding Heart

Apple Of Your Bleeding Heart
© Surazeus
2018 02 08

Of all the human beings who ever lived,
moving through this world of atomic forms,
I wonder why I am me and no one else,
conscious of myself alone in this body.

I eat the apple of your bleeding heart
and feel the rebirth of our dancing star
that renders obsolete the psychic chart
we use to navigate the maze of lies
which leads us back home from the Underworld
so when we gaze in mirror of the skies
we do not see the false god of our hope
and know instead the truth of life and death.

Each door we open to our world of dreams
must lead us to the real valley of streams.

Since I feel so alive this hour of time
in all the spinning of worlds around stars
I wonder if this conscious soul of mine
existed long before I woke as me.

I eat the apple of your bleeding heart
and taste the gushing waterfalls of time
that swirl atomic particles of light
in zapping rhythm of the pulsing star
that weaves my brain from cosmic sparks of life
so when we gaze in mirror of our eyes
we dream the vision of evolving Earth
to conjure virtual world of idol gods.

Each day we wake inside the world of dreams
we explore the real world of hills and streams.

Since we know nothing before we are born
and we blank out when we drift into sleep,
I know my soul is conjured by my brain
as conscious function of perceptive hope.

I eat the apple of your bleeding heart
and bury seeds of sorrow we design
to cultivate large grove of apple trees
in Desolation Canyon of the mind
where children chase the shadows of the sun
like we explore the nature of the world
so when we gaze in mirror of the sun
we hear the vibrant tunes of molecules.

Each truth we comprehend in Book of Life
we learn real facts of harmony and strife.

My brain perceives real bodies made of atoms
that aggregate from clinking carbon rings
then designates ideas to spell their forms,
explaining forces of cause and effect.

I eat the apple of your bleeding heart
and lead lost souls singing in temple hall
where prophet of the broken world designs
new ontology to explain all things
that leads us to discover angel wings
so when we gaze in mirror of the night
we fly swift airplanes high among the clouds
to photograph our world for global map.

Each child we teach the ancient song of truth
learns to explore the real world like a sleuth.

Loneliest Town On Earth

Loneliest Town On Earth
© Surazeus
2018 02 08

Holding a ripe orange I bought for a quarter
at the roadside stand by the laundromat,
I amble past gas stations and motels
where yellow bushes slouch under phone lines.

Following the broad black asphalt highway,
where electric lines hang in desert heat,
I walk into the pale blue emptiness
that opens my heart to vast nothingness.

One hundred and forty five years ago
my great-great-grandfather Elof Sjoberg
sailed with his wife and children on wood ship
from Sweden to the loneliest town on Earth.

Now my Odyssean ghost with aching heart
walks the streets of Green River in Utah
to follow their trail along gushing stream
through Desolation Canyon of the mind.

I hear the creaking of wood wagon wheels
that grind white rocks among the treeless buttes
ten thousand years in the waste land of hope,
following Moroni to the Promised Land.

Banished by Jesus from lush paradise
the serpent of temptation slithers slick
among the sagebrush by green gushing stream,
leading us to where the Tree of Life blooms.

We build log cabin by green roiling river
and cultivate alfalfa in the sun,
but never find the secret tree of apples
though we sing hymns under the bright Milky Way.

We followed the prophet of America
west over stormy seas and desolate hills
to find the promised land of paradise
but found hungry fear in handfuls of dust.

Young Edwin traveled north to Idaho
where he met sweet Clara with sparkling eyes,
so he built their own paradise on Earth
and raised three children in the vale of songs.

Sitting in college library at sunset,
Clara, descended from Puritan Poet
Anne Bradstreet, dreams progress of history
embodied in tales of heroes and fools.

Now I play guitar sea to shining sea,
atheist prophet for Paradise of Now,
composing scripture for my own religion
that celebrates the spinning of our world.

I come home to the loneliest town on Earth
and spell electric body of our souls
to dance with death across abyss of love
as we all sing in the choir of lost souls.

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

Television Of My Brain

Television Of My Brain
© Surazeus
2018 02 07

I watch the television without eyes
to comprehend the idols of our tales
so plots of interactions people play
reveal anxiety of power control.

I wear the television on my head
like the mask of ten billion human souls
that armors naked spirit of my brain
to play the puppet of God I invent.

I throw the television at the sky
and fly it far beyond the crystal shell
that Aristotle said surrounds our globe
like spaceship to explore strange distant worlds.

I drive the television of my car
as flying saucer while I meditate
like Buddha searching galaxies for life
then beam illusions in your dreaming brains.

I wire the television of my brain
to play every drama of human life
since Earth evolved from swirling gas of flames
till we transform to supernatural god.

I dream the television is our world
where every person lives reborn as ghost
who plays out fate prewritten by some god
till we attempt to swerve and become real.


Charm Of Water

Charm Of Water
© Surazeus
2018 02 07

Though eyes can never see the charm of water
melodious tunes of sorrow ring the rain
so I hallucinate the voice of ghosts
who seem to whisper in the empty air.

While typing letters on computer screen,
at my desk in the shining tower of glass,
I feel some familiar stranger approach
who speaks weird concepts from beyond this realm.

I hear her voice with soft buzz in my head,
and tense emotion surges through my nerves,
so I turn quickly to gaze in her eyes
but no one stands there by the empty wall.

My brain conjures up her ghost from strange hope
which startles me from dreamy reverie,
and I laugh to realize with a wry grin
how people can imagine ghosts are real.

Our brains hallucinate the ghosts we sense,
but they are flashes in our neuron cells
and not real ectoplasmic flares of souls,
which seem to embody thoughts we suppress.

The logic of our fathers long ago
when they sensed ghosts of dead people they loved
was to consider that all things they dream
are real forces of motion through the light.

But now we know the neurons of our brains,
reflecting in the shape of sparkling clouds
our compete universe of galaxies,
conjure apparitions from desperate hope.

How real her spirit seemed in reverie
when I was floating half awake from dream,
walking sunlit road in small town on Rhodes,
that rugged island in the sparkling sea.

Cool spray from water fountain by the road
that sparkles under boundless clear blue sky
leaves drops of water on my flushing cheeks
when I wake at computer in glass tower.

Though sense of destiny aches in my heart,
imbuing me with urge I need to go
participate in dramatic events,
I sit still on our slow-revolving world.

No God directs the show of human life,
other than men who think they control things,
so I have no destiny to fulfill,
other than to sing this meaningless spell.

Yet minds can always dream the charm of water,
harmonious spells we calculate with words
our mothers devised in deafening rain
to beam visions of their hearts in our eyes.