Thursday, September 21, 2017

Rubble Of Civilization

Rubble Of Civilization
© Surazeus
2017 09 21

Trapped in the rubble of civilization,
Frida Sofia reaches out small hand
through the door of death to grasp all our hands.

We all lament at the sad, shocking tale
of the sweet, innocent twelve-year-old girl
trapped in her school south of Mexico City.

We join global chorus of earnest prayers
that she would be freed from prison of fear
where she huddles under table of truth.

Although we learn that Frida is not real,
that no young girl huddles trapped under rubble
of collapsed school, we still hope for survival.

Though no young Frida Sofia exists
yet millions of women live trapped by lies,
enslaved by men for their pleasure or profit.

Though we cannot see the rubble of fear
that buries women under domination
of patriarchy, yet they reach their hands.

They reach their hands out to us for our help,
reaching out through the twisted door of hope,
but we walk by, blind to their weight of sorrow.

Trapped in the rubble of the patriarchy,
Frida Sofia reaches out her small hand
and paints wisdom on the cracked wall of law.


Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Whisper Of Infinity

Whisper Of Infinity
© Surazeus
2017 09 20

Alone in the dark of midnight and fear
I hear the wordless melody of love
blast from the big bang louder than sea waves
and bloom galaxies of neurons in brains,
then talk the whisper of infinity.

I feel massive suns explode nuclear flairs
when each synapse of my brain flashes clear
to conjure hologram of our whole world
so I time travel in my dreams nowhere
to know the whisper of infinity.

Spreading wings woven from verses of words,
I leap off the cliff and soar on cold wind
spirals over surging ocean of light
that reflects all faces except my face,
and chase the whisper of infinity.

What is this land we call America
where people from every nation on Earth
hold hands in circle around giant tree
that spreads branches to protect us from death,
and chant the whisper of infinity?

I build my cozy home from fallen leaves
and cast warm flames in hearth of river stones,
then hum elegant tunes of broken heart
to translate anguish into aching love
and dream the whisper of infinity.

I teach my children how to speak new tongues
so all the weird languages of one world
weave together in tapestry of songs
relating deeds of gods we imitate,
then taste the whisper of infinity.

I cross the arching bridge with trembling strings
that ring like harp of Phoebus at my breath
so all the possible songs ever dreamed
burst from my head on rainbow flash of laughter,
then sing the whisper of infinity.

This paper coffin that wraps my frail body
in tangled words shrivels to concentrate
the whole vast universe inside gray stone
where I see the face of myself reborn
and write the whisper of infinity.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Why We Use Names

Why We Use Names
© Surazeus
2017 09 19

Aiming the video camera at the grove
of rustling oak trees, Amy walks forward
and hums melody of old nursery rhyme
about the clown that stole pears from the church
where the wolf lounges in the long black cloak.

Wind swirls seven leaves in spiral of hope
so Amy films their dance while white balloon
floats over the sparkling lake where three boats
bob on rhythmic waves, but no old blind queen
emerges from green water with the Sword.

I cannot contain the whole universe
of spinning planets ripe with conscious life
in one two-hour film so I must reduce
weird complexity of fierce social games
to mythic tale of simple archetypes.

I could film random events I perceive
here and now, at this hour of endless time,
and sew them together in strange collage
of action to portray rich character
of the newest messiah to arrive.

I gather white stones from the river shore
and write with black marker on each smooth face
magic Rune designed by Odin to cast
random arrangement of letters that spell
fantastic tale of our heroic quest.

Kneeling by the stone fence of paradise,
Amy films flowers of ten thousand colors
that blossom around the old rotten tree
which sprouted fruit of eternal life once
that gave wisdom to those who drank its juice.

Samuel steps from behind the willow tree,
while Amy films his actions, to stretch straight
his right arm toward the golden sky of truth,
then slowly twirls around on tippy toes
while repeating the word Eye thirteen times.

Sudden boom echoes across the lush vale
so Amy turns her camera toward the town
where red ball of fire billows upward,
and Samuel shouts, the factory where my dad
builds cars exploded, then runs into trees.

Amy stands alone by the lake of eyes,
filming the breeze that knows her secret name
while the white hawk glides across empty skies
and descends to explain the social game
we invent for reason to play till death.

Driving home, Amy sits at her glass desk
and edits scenes of strange random events
into film that explains why we use names
to package fluid reality in words
of frozen thought packed into the seed shell.

Monday, September 18, 2017

Russian Poets

Russian Poets
© Surazeus
2017 09 18

The dreams of life one hundred years ago
when Russians walked the steppes of windy stars
still haunt our eyes in words they carved on stones
that weep in river beds after snow melts.

Ten million faces that I wore as masks
fall clattering in the dust of signless roads
when nameless people driven from their homes
drink sorrow and snow while they pray for death.

I built small house with stone on river shore
and tended apple trees with time-gnarled hands
which I plunge into silent soil like roots
that latch me to the land where I was born.

Long before the morning star bleeds at dawn
I rip potatoes from the heart of Earth
and drink the fire of their liquid to taste
sweet water of death that thickens my blood.

While I haul bones of giants on my back
to build enormous palace for blind kings
bright Helius descends from the turning sun
and teaches me how to fashion his wheel.

We load our memories on wagons at dusk
and journey ten thousand miles beyond fear,
following the sun to the land of death
in vain search for fertile paradise lost.

We sit in circles around glowing flames
and listen to Russian poets describe
ache of love that fuels journey of blind hope
though angelic planes bomb gold walls of Heaven.

I clutch white stone carved with my secret name,
while soldiers shoot obedience in our heads,
and weave barbed wire into Icarian wings
so I may fly from vast labyrinth of lies.

With these nails that pierce my hands I construct
rocket I soar among stars to the moon
where Selene crowns me King of Nowhere
then dances ballet before our blind ghosts.

Guiding wood ship on sparkling river flow,
I sail past statues of poets and kings
who stare forlorn from dark Plutonian shore
and whisper secrets in the blasting wind.


Sunday, September 17, 2017

Pixie Land

Pixie Land
© Surazeus
2017 09 17

I wish I was home in the land of apples,
brewing ginger cider in granite chapels.
We danced all night in the silver moon light,
chanting magic spells till our souls took flight.
Fly back home on soaring wings to Pixie Land.

At dawn in Pixie Land where I was born
in a mountain cave on a misty morn
I reached out my hand to grasp the white star
and plucked a ripe apple that shimmered far.
Fly back home on soaring wings to Pixie Land.

From the sparkling mist on her moon-white horse
Queen Scotia came riding on mountain course,
calling us to rise and defend our land
against the greedy king with grasping hand.
Fly back home on soaring wings to Pixie Land.

We marched down from the golden highland hills,
twirling oak wands, along our sparkling rills,
and stood along the Wall of Hadrian
to fight for Scotland and sweet Maryanne.
Fly back home on soaring wings to Pixie Land.

We fought for our homes to the bagpipe song
and spilled our blood to defend right from wrong.
Purple thistles bloom from our beating hearts
where we sleep forever under white stars.
Fly back home on soaring wings to Pixie Land.

Far away west across the swirling sea
we build new homes in the land of the free.
We gather at dawn in the land of apples
to brew ginger cider in red-brick chapels.
Fly back home on soaring wings to Pixie Land.



Foundation Of Great Empires

Foundation Of Great Empires
© Surazeus
2017 09 17

Now that I own my house of brick and wood
I spend several cool hours just after dawn
working in the yard with my legs and hands,
rearranging the wild chaos of nature
to organize neat garden of my haven
where trees drop fruit and nuts into my hands
so we brew juice that flashes brains awake.

By lining trees along the river shore
I define reality that we dream
and sing the flourish of flowers from soil,
turning fact into truth with groping hands
that thrust seeds into the dark bed of death
so they will resurrect through beaming sunrays,
thus we are reborn from passion of pain.

Poets are name-givers whose words define
solid objects that emerge from weird swirls
of color our eyes perceive when we wake
from dreams of tumbling in fast river gush,
so when they sing electric flash of bodies
our eyes conceive from billows of wet wind
concepts contained in dictionary words.

I thrust metal disk, I wrenched from cold mud,
to slice slabs of dirt from the flesh of Earth,
and dig long ditch to channel river flow
that soaks sun-baked soil where my seeds sprout wheat,
so from the dark heart of the spinning world
we resurrect the humming soul of life
where bees pollinate lush herbs from my breast.

I stack stones into thick walls that protect
my family from cold storms and hungry wolves
but men on horses, swinging long sharp swords,
tell me God who sits on the high pyramid
sees all that happens on the world below,
and since he wants the produce of my fields
I must yield goods to his hunger, or die.

They may kill thousands of us with sharp spears
pinning our bodies to the dusty soil,
but our beating hearts will soak the dry Earth,
and resurrect from hidden caves of hope
new generations of boys who fight back
to overthrow the wizards in tall towers
so our daughters may sing spells from high windows.

I want to sit on the porch of my home
at dawn that shimmers through whispering trees,
and drink lemonade squeezed from broken hearts
while plucking strings on lyre Apollo gave me,
for truckers haul the food grown on my farm
to stores in towns from sea to shining sea
so you may feast on the fruit of my hands.

Wearing jeans, white tee-shirt, and leather boots,
I carry shovel on my shoulder blade
when gold sun streams through black clouds after rain,
like the Soviet worker on the red poster,
or the farmer in the Georgics of Virgil,
that depicts the man who cultivates crops
as the hero who builds every great empire.

The farming family and the crops they grow
form the solid foundation of good work
on which every great empire is constructed,
so seeds of fruit trees, vegetables, and herbs
that you plant in the wet soil of your yard
sprout roots that stabilize commercial life
when you sell your work in the market place.

Though the prophet Jonah sits in the shade
of my apple tree and whispers weird spells
of prophecies woven by light of stars,
I climb the ziggurat of social power
and stand before Ishtar who gives me coin
stamped with the face of the latest world king
who plays God for this new season of life.

Friday, September 15, 2017

Cracked Ice Of Your Eyes

Cracked Ice Of Your Eyes
© Surazeus
2017 09 15

I fell in love with the grace of your ways
and followed you close through the swirling haze,
eager to obey your every command
and sit with you at night, holding your hand,
in the apple tree that shelters our skies
when I fell through the cracked ice of your eyes.

I held our babies that sprang from your heart
and loaded apples in your wooden cart
that I haul to market on winding roads,
happy to carry all your heavy loads,
and give everyone your hot apple pies
when I fell through the cracked ice of your eyes.

Though the man who came from the castle hall
tried to keep you inside his high stone wall
I defied his greed with sturdy oak wand
and freed your spirit from his selfish bond
to fight for your freedom against his lies
when I fell through the cracked ice of your eyes.

Though I bled to free you from iron chains
I wander without you in driving rains
while you drink wine in his tall shining tower
and I weep by the stream, clutching your flower,
as I struggle against mute death to rise
when I fell through the cracked ice of your eyes.

Each night our children ask me where you are
while I stare forlorn at your guiding star,
remembering your laugh when I chased the horse,
but wonder if he still keeps you by force
while parading you in court as his prize
when I fell through the cracked ice of your eyes.

I may find another bride for my hearth
somewhere in the dark forests of this Earth,
but I will always remember your smile
flashing in the sunlight with your noble style,
though since I lost you I became more wise
when I fell through the cracked ice of your eyes.

Thursday, September 14, 2017

In Halls Of Bethlehem

In Halls Of Bethlehem
© Surazeus
2017 09 14

The Queen of the Dead takes me by the hand
and leads me from the grave where I was born.
She crowns me king of the burning land
and gives me broken sword to plow the corn.

I stride crowded streets at the break of dawn
to lead lost people in safe garden walls.
Nobody wants to play the mindless pawn
so I sing alone by cold waterfalls.

Though I sold my soul to the devil clown
I walk nowhere lost on the signless road.
The witch by apple tree in the torn gown
teaches me to sing her prophetic code.

I stand on the flat-top pyramid square
and face the devil with the red right hand.
We battle over who can breathe the air
and who speaks the law in whispered command.

Though I hurl the devil from the blank sky
I wander alone with my broken wing.
She gives me ripe apple that bleeds my eye
and ministers my heart till I can sing.

The Queen of the Dead with galactic eyes
regenerates my soul from broken gem.
I return to church wearing weird disguise
and sing new hymn in halls of Bethlehem.


Wednesday, September 13, 2017

First Sun

First Sun
© Surazeus
2017 09 13

I stand on the roof of the empty church
and drink down the tears of the flashing rain
that falls from the eyes of every lost soul
who once walked alive on this spinning world
whose bodies are the soil where fruit trees grow.

The dreams from the eyes of ten billion mothers
sparkle bright in the neurons of my brain
and generate clear hologram that beams
vision of this world in vast universe
that spirals in maelstrom of pulsing stars.

I stare at the stars of the Milky Way
and ask, why am I me and no one else,
then flap my arms, wishing I were an owl,
but transform into raven in the rain
who hears your voices on telephone lines.

The little girl with hair gold as sun rays
and eyes blue as the clear river of ice
smiles and gives me the red apple she found
that sprouts laughing trees from my rotten brain,
then weaves angel wings from my broken arms.

Berossus son of Marduk grips my hand
and explains how his grandfather Oannes
rose from Erythraean Sea before dawn
and taught him how to picture dreams in words,
then teaches me how to sing light of stars.

I open my mouth and drink down the void
to fill my belly with oceans of life
then dance on the roof of the empty church
to chant weird spells forgotten witches carved
on the bones of dragons in the sea cave.

Stepping back in my car I drive dark road
that winds among trees dancing in gold wind
to chase the sun that flames far across time
and beams on the nameless mountain where Death
sings by the waterfall where I was born.

Can teeming chaos of meaningless why
be measured by rhythmic steps of our dance
and packaged in rows of boxes on shelves
in old dusty store on Londinium street
where the last wizard still makes wooden toys?

When the mute angel stumbles through the wall
from ideal heaven where nothing will change
and beams his soul into body of flesh
will atoms vibrate in chemical flash
to bloom awake my consciousness of self.

I drop my eye on the white Singing Stone
and feel the crack of infinite despair
reveal the blazing light of the Black Hole
that pulses at core of our galaxy
and beams spirit of God through my brain bulb.

My brain scatters into ten billion souls
who remember that hour I crawled hot mud
toward rainbow flashing on the cool fresh pond,
urged by passionate ache of hope to live,
and sang into the timeless silent night.

Ten million years later I feel my heart
still beating the rhythm of spinning Earth
for all the atoms of this seething globe
transform into creatures with dreaming brains
who remember when the first sun was born.

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

World Inside My Eye

World Inside My Eye
© Surazeus
2017 09 11

When the blind king mistakes me for Prometheus
and asks me why I named myself Surazeus
I explain I was reborn from Meroveus
but he laughs and shoots bullets at my soul
that scatters into raindrops from the sea
which swirls as the hurricane of ambition
to shroud lush Zarathi with words of wind
because I dream the world inside my eye.

When wily Icarus latches wood frame
of hawk wings on his shoulders to escape
the labyrinth of warriors herding cows,
he howls the name of my last hurricane
and soars into the ether of our dreams
around the world of teeming continents
three thousand years of transforming machines
to fall at last on Carolina sand
where Orville Wright can heal his broken wings
while I still dream the world inside my eye.

I leap far out beyond the walls of Heaven
to soar from golden pyramid of Sophis
and fly into the twin glass towers of Babel
where the blind king of money reigns with rod
of chastisement over huge factories
where robots build the chariot of Ezekiel,
watched over by angels with flaming swords
although I dream the world inside my eye.

God falls screaming from huge tower of gold
nine days and nine nights into flames of Hell
when I knock him off invincible throne
and seat myself where ten thousand old gods,
like El, Aten, Enlil, Ashur, Jehovah,
Mazda, Brahma, Zeus, Jupiter, and Odin,
once wielded diamond scepter of insight
to present myself as Emperor of Earth
who guards the garden where children play free
picking apples from ancient Tree of Life
since now I dream the world inside my eye.

Every god who glimmers in minds of humans
beams from the memory of some great man
whose actions of divine authority
live after his death as glamorous idol
that exists nowhere but inside our brains
through drama of epic tale we replay
in temples dedicated to preserve
story of his life to guide our behavior,
but while I venerate their noble myths
I overthrow them all, those long dead gods,
and stand before you all as living God
to ever dream the world inside my eye.

Yet I am no more real than all those gods,
glamorous illusion projected bright
from words that conjure visions in your minds
so you seem to see idol of my soul
shimmer before your eyes as wavering ghost,
but when you blink I vanish in sunlight,
and you breathe deep the aetherial spirit
of your own consciousness, alive this hour
our shuddering world spins around the sun,
for I am illusion while you are real,
therefore I dream the world inside my eye.

Since Martin Luther stood in shadowed woods
and trembled in terror at lightning strike
to realize we are saved by Grace alone,
then defied king and pope with honest word
that every man and woman on this globe
is equal in the spirit of our love,
and should do good because we are alive,
we common people rise in revolution
to overthrow all normal human beings
who dare to crown themselves as gods on Earth,
rejecting claims of kings that they should rule
as representatives of divine God,
and choose to dream the world inside my eye.

No conscious god who created all things
exists except as glamorous idol in our minds,
conjured by arguments of greedy priests
who con the people suffering in life
with lie that we will resurrect from death
and live forever in pure paradise,
for we are aggregates of pulsing atoms
whose brains model the swirling universe
which always dream the world inside my eye.

Ten thousand years our forefathers believed
that thundering hurricanes of blasting wind
are conscious gods who hurl hot thunderbolts
and punish us for acting on our will
because the priest, who came from ziggurat
of some little weak mortal man, proclaimed
that he was all-powerful god who knows
everything we do since he can see all,
but now we know that blasting hurricanes
are mindless swirls of air and flashing rain
and kings are nothing more than mortal men
who further dream the world inside my eye.

I am Surazeus, frail bag of meat
that sustains fragile brain sparkling with dreams,
one lone nobody in his nowhere land
among billions of people on this world,
all breathing air and drinking rain with hope
to live at least one hundred fertile years
before our bodies crumble to dry dust
that settles on lush fields where apple trees
convert the cells that once composed our bodies
into apples children eat when they play
and likewise dream the world inside my eye.

I see two towers of steel and glass explode
when believers in fantasy of God
crash planes into symbols of divine power
instead of building new things to create
better cities where everyone can thrive
together in cooperation of work,
dancing together in temple of stories,
and share we dream the world inside my eye.

Flee the burning towers of fallen churches
where preachers con you for your dollar bills
with promises of paradise in Heaven
they cannot keep until after you die,
and find true eternal spirit of God
flashing in the neurons of your own brains,
for every one of us mortals in flesh
are atoms awake with rich consciousness
who wants to dream the world inside my eye.

We are the dead reborn to walk this world
in children their bodies create from atoms
thus we replay ancient dramas of power
in games deciding who will eat or die,
so I sit alone and stare at the sky
until I dream the world inside my eye.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

New Glass Masks

New Glass Masks
© Surazeus
2017 09 10

I spent over fifty years of my life
deleting from the program of my brain
conspiracy theories and fantasies
of religion and politics to clear
my dreaming mind of superstitious lies.

When I shot the steel bullet of defiance
straight into the winds of Hurricane Irma
the laughing god Nerthus snatched it from death
and hurled it back into my dreaming brain
that penetrates the television screen.

When I was still a curious boy in Texas
I learned to ride the tall eight-legged horse
from one-eyed Wild Bill Pecos and his wife
so I can ride the hurricane to Heaven,
but when I first saw red-haired Skathi ski
Parnassus Mountain in the swirling snow
I rose from darkness at the break of dawn
and chanted scathing curses at the giant.

The gaunt woman with electric-wire hair
who lies on the high cliff of crumbling hope
grasps the lightning bolt, and binds writhing power
in naked beating of my aching heart
so her daughter can teach me arcane art
of carving runes to capture dreams of eyes.

Though all the puzzle pieces carved by time
that represent archetypes of society
were scattered far by the hurricane winds
I will explore remote lands of this Earth
till I find all twelve fragments of Osiris
so Doctor Frankenstein in tower of glass
can reassemble my body from dreams.

I look into your eyes in search for truth
but all I find are glimmers of my soul
reflected back by mirror of despair,
so I breathe deep the ocean-scented air.

Looking like my mother when she was young,
Sappho strums gold lyre gleaming on her lap
and sings sweet haunting melodies of hope
she heard whispered in the hurricane winds
that swirl through the open door of my eyes
and shatter illusions of human power.

I follow Orville Wright to the white beach
and watch him fly like Icarus to Heaven
and soar above the swirling hurricane
who teaches us the secrets of the void
so when I walk the Grand Canyon at dusk
the oldest woman in the world will rise
from the grave and teach me how to chant spells.

When the hurricane blows over my town
I will sit on the lawn of broken skulls
and listen to the eerie silence wail
voices of women in psychiatric wards
who cry out for escape from mundane lives
so I give them all new glass masks to wear.

Thursday, September 7, 2017

Hole Of Death

Hole Of Death
© Surazeus
2017 09 06

When I tune my brain, like a radio
or a television, to receive signals
from brains of people which beam mental waves,
I dream the dramas that their brains design
and thus perceive mythical archetypes
that calculate social process of change.

I surf through the channels of human dreams
and scope the progress of development
as we advance from hunters roaming far
through farmers cultivating crops of food
to craftsmen selling goods in market towns
till vast empires connect large nation-states
in networks of commercial enterprise.

In every social play one person plays
the role of God as king or president
to organize the actions of each person
to produce food so everyone may eat
who contributes to the mission of growth,
rewarded for the labor of their hands.

The captain leads his men into dark woods
where they meet and fight other groups of men,
killing each other in wars over rights
to breed new generation of strong children
who fight again over who reigns as God,
and thus rivers of hot blood from their souls
nourish the thirsty Earth with their desires
so flowers blossom from their shattered brains.

The children who survive will redesign
the paradigm they use to reconstruct
new society on ruins of war.

The little boy who walks high windy hill
picks up the oak branch that lies in tall grass
and stands on the ridge where the sun gleams gold
to gaze at clouds over the glittering sea.

I must cultivate the ability
to perceive the real essence of each object
that radiates from inner core of its being,
and comprehend how its vibrating atoms
urge its motion through labyrinth of space
so I can predict the path it will blaze.

The prophet climbs the steep ziggurat stairs
and stands before the goddess of the world
to present model of our spinning globe
and explains how her people wander lost
as homeless refugees in distant lands
and learn their strange new languages to speak
while forgetting the legends she once told.

We lost our way in the shadowy woods
and emerged into weird fantasy world
where gods we worship are condemned as devils,
but we preserve their sacred memories
in folktales that recall their comic foibles
when they danced on the edge of the abyss.

I took off the crown that weighed down my head
and ran away from the dominant tower
to hide in the cave of prophetic power
while armies of angry men with sharp swords
slaughtered each other over apple trees.

I sit on the sea shore and sing with waves
how God sleeps in minerals, wakes in plants,
walks in animals, and thinks in humans
who gather at hearths and sing tales of love
while gazing at visions among the stars.

The dead may still haunt our bright city streets,
swirling around us in our memories,
nothing more than whispered names in the wind,
who understand the reasons we still strive
to break out of the hard shell of tradition
that they forged in their struggles to survive,
yet we ignore the proverbs of their failures
and walk nowhere down long halls of locked doors.

I gaze in each new mirror on the wall
and see a different person looking back
who dreamed they are the center of the drama
that swirls in restless traffic of ambition
through the corridors of hunger and hope
but nothing of them all now here remains
in the Nowhere land where I rule as king
by measuring the landscape of our dreams.

If you stop here along your busy trek
to wealth and power in the maze of desire,
and listen to the riddles that I sing,
you will miss your ride on the golden horse
who runs swiftly on the merry-go-round
of your capital conquest of the Earth
because you never found the puzzle piece
I slipped into the picket of your shirt.

So forget you saw me singing old spells
on the street before First National Bank
where kings store their hearts in the secret vault,
and go swimming in the posh hotel pool
while the hurricane bears down on the coast,
and watch the sun glowing red in smoke haze
where refugees from holy wars of God
wander the waste land of lost signless roads,
searching for the promised land with no name
where people already farm wheat and cows.

When I descend Parnassus to the castle
where the jesters and clowns gather to feast,
they bar the door against my weathered face
and refuse me entrance to paradise
though I bear the oak book of prophecies
that Saturn carved into our stubborn hearts,
since it is the treasure they claim to seek.

I laugh surprised just when I realize
the jesters and clowns who sing riddling spells
think they are divine wizards and bards
who recite sacred scriptures angels bring,
since no one attends the hushed breathless halls
where they recite their narcissistic spells.

I stand on the mountain in blasting rain
and sing the lightning flash that strikes my heart,
then weave from spooling threads of ringing words
grand tapestries depicting noble deeds
of curious scientists who search for truth
in this real world of whole atomic forms
where no deities manipulate things.

The little boy, alone on the green hill,
laughs when three ravens land in the oak tree,
gathers red mushrooms after purple rain
for the old woman with one eye to cook,
then eats mushroom cider while she explains
the fertile secret of eternal life
when he blasts his soul in the hole of death.


Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Spirit Of America

Spirit Of America
© Surazeus
2017 09 06

I love the spirit of America
that shimmers in the actions we perform
constrained by rule of liberty in law
when we strive to create and not destroy
by doing what we will, if we harm none.

I love the people of America
who come from every nation on the Earth
and live together as one family
inspired by principle of liberty
by doing what we will, if we harm none.

I love the progress of America
when we conserve the values of our hearts
that shine like beacons in storms of war
guiding us through waste land to paradise
by doing what we will, if we harm none.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Incarnate Our Souls

Incarnate Our Souls
© Surazeus
2017 09 05

I frequently sit and stare into space
and dream the history of the universe
since it all transformed from hot ball of matter
which evolved into galaxies of stars
that nourish planets flourishing with life.

We are atoms attempting to evolve
into omniscient, omnipotent God,
ideal organic creature with great power,
vast polymorphous entity who floats
shifting shapes in chaotic swirl of matter.

I crawl from deep sea along river flow
and float in the pure lake of flashing eyes,
regenerating shell of consciousness
through ten million models of dreaming brains
before I emerge from the Sea of Souls.

I sit alone in quiet hall of books,
watching sunlight beam on composite words,
and feel ache to perform important role
because my ancestors were once crowned kings,
but I compose maps to model the world.

I dream the process of cause and effect
when individual people perceive the world
and devise more complex ontologies
that replicate as cultural artifacts
in tools that assist our fight against death.

Death always destroys all organic souls
but we cooperate to survive well
and live each moment with intense compassion
so we can replicate bodies in children
who incarnate our souls before we die.

Whispers Out Of Time

Whispers Out Of Time
© Surazeus
2017 09 05

Whispers out of time echo in my mind
and call me back across the universe
where I was floating blissful between stars
to walk this solid spinning world of forms.

We gaze into the convex mirror eye
that seems to mimic how the sky folds space
and hope the camera records everything
that happens in the course of human life.

Fast forward through the labyrinth of dreams
I weave the taut shimmering thread of my soul
into the fabric of our teeming globe
till my golden path vanishes at death.

The person you see when you look at me
is nothing more than the idol of light
cast outward by expression of my voice
that hardens into coral reef of words.

Listen close for the whispers out of time
that vibrate from the flow of mountain streams
which bring the atoms of sunlight to you
so you can drink the spirit of all stars.

Think not the I I sing is me alone
for we all share the cosmic soul of life
that shimmers in the atoms we exchange
so I am you multiplied from one eye.

Gaze deep into the convex of my eye
and see the globe of dreams where we survive
on green island surrounded by blue sea
then swerve on the surf of aggressive hope.

We spring from the soil and water of Earth
assembled into conscious brains who dream
exhausting beauty of fertile desire
to replicate ourselves before we die.



Monday, September 4, 2017

Apples Of Heaven

Apples Of Heaven
© Surazeus
2017 09 04

The years race past me like an avalanche
so I try to live like a Roman stoic
and surf the endless waves of social change
when billions of innocent people died
in one hundred years of aggressive wars.

While staring at art in museum hall,
where young women Muses once chanted tales
about strong Heroes who saved them from rape,
I see ancient statues of Greece and Rome
spring alive at my Pygmalion kiss.

Instead of castles of stone where kings rule
we now construct steel towers shrouded in glass
where chief executive officers rule
corporate empires while bourgeoisie clones slave
to build the American Dream from rainbows.

The government of the Soviet Union
was never communist, of equal work
where we cooperate instead of compete,
rather it was big-state capitalist
where rulers were more equal than the slaves.

I try to wear the masks of ancient gods
because I am the secret king of bards
but my personal voice always shines through,
projecting my eternal soul of Godin
because you applaud my antics on stage.

Before I read the novel Clockwork Orange
I read the book he wrote about linguistics,
how juxtaposed words are pregnant with meaning,
like black and cat, two separate concepts,
become the Black Cat of mysterious wisdom.

While watching the old movie, Time Machine,
I laughed to realize the motor car
is that machine which zooms us fast through time,
always forward faster and never backward,
for we can drive faster than we can walk.

Ten thousand years we rode on wooden wagons
pulled by strong horses, our most loyal friends,
but when we first drove cars down dusty roads
the solid world seemed to blur into spirals,
so spinning spiral represents time travel.

Soon everyone will write in poetry,
for those who stumble over angry words
will kill each other off in civil wars
and leave the world cleansed by their flowing blood
for those who sing in groves of apple trees.

The king of words who sang weird spells is dead,
long live the king of words who sings weird spells,
for we will always gather round the fire
and chant the legends of our favorite gods
while we burn statues of our favorite gods.

The Burning Man who stands on desert plain
raises two arms toward the infinite void
with aching hope to fly beyond this globe
so then the visionary who chants spells
runs into the flames and becomes loose atoms.

I ask Virginia Woolf why in her novel
someone must die, and she whispers surprised
that the visionary must always die
as sacrifice in the wild flames of wisdom
so the people of his nation may know.

I pause while singing epic about heroes
and try to hide in quaint suburban life
in desperate hope that no one hears my song
so they will not crucify me at dawn
on the last telephone pole in Montana.

The jester without mouth on Bleecker Street
scatters photos of people without names
till Gabriel descends on burning wings
and takes me back to Bohemia where Idunn
gives me the last real apple in the world.

From those ancient woods where springs bubble clear
Pan and Loki lead me through labyrinth
of mirrors where I see faces of poets
who sang before me on the stage of lies
that glitters gold inside the walls of Asgard.

Now John and Frank are playing chess in Heaven
to determine the fate of every poet
who competes for the rose petal of fame
but Apollo and Phoebus steal the crown
of laurel leaves and hide it in the cave.

The singing fool who strums his cracked guitar
walks the hot sidewalk of a thousand cities,
while cars blast pop songs on loud radios,
and chants secret prophecies as weird riddles
that only deaf birds in dead trees can hear.

The grand illusion of our national greatness
shimmers overhead like a frail soap bubble
as shield to protect our American Way
from nuclear missiles of hostile fear
that scream as thunderbolts in hands of Zeus.

The more I try to imitate the poets
who sang with the fire of insane desire
the more my own voice howls wild hurricane
of suspicious wisdom dug from the cave
of illusions where Plato found the diamond.

When we climb the great pyramid of fame
who will we find reigning like the blind god
but the dark-hatted charlatan who smiles
through the gold-plated mask Apollo wore,
so he appoints me Phoebus Lucifer.

I throw the mask of Apollo far off
the pyramid of ambition to sprout
my own face in the apple on the bough
that hangs heavy over the wall of Heaven
so children can feast while the serpent sleeps.

Once we drain the Earth of oil like vampires
and our cars rust in rain on empty highways
will we return to our most loyal friends,
the horses who ran with us on lush hills
to gather apples on the Tian Shan Mountains.

Sunday, September 3, 2017

Clown Of Cosmic Chess

Clown Of Cosmic Chess
© Surazeus
2017 09 03

While buying flowers for his half-dead mother,
on Avenue of Lost Souls where blinking lights
never turn green to allow traffic flow,
he thinks he sees in shadow on the glass
the eminent poet dressed like a clown,
so he drops his keys at door of the church,
and follows the trail of torn tickets past
the garden gate and into the wild woods.
"Are you Adam?" he calls out to the clown,
but the glass elevator closes doors
and the sulking clown wearing plastic crown
of long-dead emperors ascends to stars
where changeless spirits walk the crystal halls
of the vast ever-shifting labyrinth.
"This Heaven, where Ideas of Plato beam
as perfect templates from which all real things
are molded thick by swirls of clashing atoms,
is nothing more than illusion of thought
invented by that first psychologist
who defines how our brains categorize
perceived objects according to their forms."
The sulking clown takes him for a long walk
on swirling clouds that billow like sea waves,
and shows him the sprawling cities of men
that glitter with billions of human souls
shining from each brain like fragile lightbulbs,
so he weeps and his tears become the rain
that drizzle endlessly on cement streets.
"Our souls are like transient light of lightbulbs
emanating from this frail shell of flesh.
When the glass shell, filament wire, and gas
are structured well by design, the frail bulb
will glow at spark of electricity,
but when the shell breaks the light dissipates
and vanishes in the infinite void.
Just so our frail bodies of flesh and blood
operate when all systems are intact,
but when our body and brain are damaged
the soul vanishes to nothing at death."
People trudge over the bridge in gold fog
on the conveyor belt of hopeful dreams
while searching the rain-gray clouds of the sky
for auspices that might reveal the truth,
but he leaves the bridge and walks to the shore
of the brook that sidles past his first home
on its way to a rendezvous at dawn
with the river that no one can cross twice,
and stands on the broken rock of salvation.
"I understand the reason why we die
because we leave shimmer of our true faces
in every mirror where we look for love
although the book that was written by God
before the universe explodes from light
in the Big Bang of orgasmic creation
now reveals the destiny we write
since we compose our death through our life,
each choice transforming the whole universe."
Then he looks back at the mountain of fire
and walks toward the apple tree red with flames
of immortal souls woven from bright rain
and eats the ripe fruit his father forbade
to feel sweet sparkles of passionate hope
surging through the veins of his tingling body,
and he shouts from the windy mountain top.
"This mountain gave birth to me before dawn
for I eat the dirt of its bulging strength
in each apple that shimmers with pure sunlight,
so now I can walk cement city streets
flooded from the hurricane of ambition
and understand the story of survival
written on the face of each human being
who escaped the destruction of wild winds,
but who would listen to these songs I chant
where ancient truths are disguised as folk riddles."
He places three flowers on her grave stone,
but watches her body crumble to dust
and her bones become the mountains and trees
where apple trees bloom and wild horses graze.
He calls her secret name to the vast sky
where he imagines the face of his father
emerges from the billowing white clouds
but the vision dissipates into rain
that falls through the hole in the sheet of time,
and hunger of the world gnawing his heart
urges him to dance on the changing world,
so he dances on the grave of all souls
for every creature who has ever lived
is now the dirt of the Earth where we dance.
"Dance with me in this bright moment in time
for all our memories with disappear
like tears in the rain that washes all clean."
He calls out into the darkness that shrouds
ten thousand cities now empty of people
and dances alone with his memories,
the clown of cosmic chess, the king of lies,
the last man to survive nuclear war,
while wind covers all our cities and roads
with mountains of dust from our fire-burned cells.

Saturday, September 2, 2017

Relentless Tide Of Death

Relentless Tide Of Death
© Surazeus
2017 09 02

Though all the world is mad with arguments
over whose ideology best describes
how humans should interact to produce
superior civilization through great art,
they gather to discuss in parliament
how best to protect all sovereign tribes
under the legal aegis of wise Zeus
who maps human history on one chart,
while I build castles in the firmament
and listen to the weird harmonious vibe,
sipping a tall glass of sweet apple juice
that weaves galaxies in maze of my heart.
This grand illusion of our national pride
crumbles as Death swirls its relentless tide.

Friday, September 1, 2017

Our National Illusion

Our National Illusion
© Surazeus
2017 09 01

When I look in the swirling waves of light
I see the eyes of every soul who lived.
I open my third eye of second sight
and gaze amazed into the cosmic rift.

"We vanish to nothing after we die,"
she explains to me with a smiling kiss.
I float on wings of love inside her eye,
gliding over the infinite abyss.

I want to hold her in my loving arms
but she dissolves into blank memory.
She lures me to her garden with sweet charms
and then demands I fight for liberty.

While we all will die in passing of time
I hope we pass our time in peaceful play.
Blind greed drives angry men to commit crimes
through endless war between hunter and prey.

Tribes of hunters unite into vast empires
as haughty men play god on pyramids.
The girl with broken angel wings conspires
to weave me new body from aramids.

I play chess with Death to save the whole world
with nuclear missiles on vast continents.
On jagged mountain where the angel skirled
our heroes freeze into glass monuments.

I am not Nostradamus in glass tower,
scribbling new prophecies in secret code.
I kneel before my goddess with white flower
after playing guitar on the open road.

Our national illusion falls apart
into puzzle pieces that will not fit.
I trace games of history on a flow chart
to plot cause and effect in holy writ.

I carve persona from the wood of trees
I wear as mask when I chant magic spells.
My name is whispered in the morning breeze
when girls gather to sing at water wells.

From wandering tribes we become nation-states,
but can we merge into one global tribe?
We maneuver through game defined by Fates
while our lives are recorded by blind Scribe.

Thursday, August 31, 2017

Puppets Of Truth

Puppets Of Truth
© Surazeus
2017 08 31

I never thought that I would see the day
when our president is a Russian puppet
and Germany condemns us for our Nazis.

When the hidden dragon through storm of war
rises from the crowd to become the king
who embodies the virtues of the age,
and leads his nation from the bleak abyss
through the waste land of horror and despair
to build the citadel of heaven strong
around the bubbling pool of paradise,
he freezes into the statue of stone
after his body and mind crumble to dust.

When the Soviet Union broke apart
the tall steel statues of Lenin and Stalin
were torn down from their lofty pedestals
and melted down as parts for motor cars,
then, when the knights of the cross stormed Iraq
and hung the dictator they put in power,
statues of Sadam Hussein were dragged down
and farmers stomped on his head with their shoes.

Now the statues of Christopher Columbus
and Robert E. Lee, long standing supreme
over our fertile land of liberty,
are being torn down in the United States
for the empire where we lived eighty years
vanishes in the wind of turning time,
and we gather by the river at dawn
to construct a new and better Zarathi
where everyone is equal under law.

What noble people who performed great deeds
out of billions who once lived on this world
shall we present on pedestal of truth
as gods who embody our noblest virtues,
or shall we let those pedestals stand empty
to represent our disdain for all kings,
except for feet of Ozymandias,
to show we now respect the game of Death
who hurls down every king from throne to grave?

We slaughter each other in bloody wars
over who will drink from river of life,
then our children intermarry and breed
new generations who prefer to build
and sing together in temple of peace,
then erect statues of us where we stand
staring mute and blind at progress of man
as he transforms technology of wit
from wagon to car to rocket of stars,
and all our children sing hymns to our names.

God appears before my eyes in white light,
tall bearded man with face and beaming eyes
of my father, and reaches out his hand
to place scepter of wisdom in my hand,
so I mold scepter into a sharp sword
and chop off the heads of arrogant kings,
then I mold the sword into a long tube
that fires bullets molded as silver spheres
and shoot the heads of slave-traders and thieves,
then I mold the gun into a small camera
to film the history of prophets and kings
in epic of power since God ruled the world
in mortal flesh ten thousand years ago.

While standing on the mountain in gray mist,
gazing east to discover the lost path
my ancestors journeyed ten thousand years
since we all first spread from high pyramid
where First Mother gave everyone new name,
I realize with a soul-shivering laugh
that I am God because I dream the stars
evolving from sea of transcendent light
which congregates in warm body of flesh.

We are all singing fragments of the sun
who wake from dream of the swirling sea,
and chant harmonic vibration of hope
as we make love to generate new life,
though first we defeat the puppet of lies
and dance in circles around the cool spring,
for we are the stringless puppets of truth.