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.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Battle For Heaven

Battle For Heaven
© Surazeus
2017 08 30

Athelwulf stands before the silent crowd,
gripping long sharp sword as he stares in eyes
that shimmer with fear behind haven walls.

"I would make myself king of all the world
by chopping off the heads of haughty fools
who refuse to obey my stern command,
but I prefer to inspire loyal love
so you obey me with a willing heart
as we unite together in one mind
to maintain peace and insure honest justice.
Instead of many disunited clans
who contend over rights to fertile lands,
one kingdom of all nations bound by love
should flourish on our island in the mist.
Accept me as more than just martial king
who leads you to defend our families
in battle for heaven where we live free,
and trust the honest judgment of my law
to deal with equal justice toward all men,
so look up to me as father of all
who organizes actions of each person
in crafty cooperation of work
as we build better garden in stone walls
where our children play free among fruit trees.
To achieve this goal of united lands
we must grip sword and shield with steady hands
and fight together against enemies,
willing to die to insure that our nation
survives many generations to come.
Now follow me with bold hearts to offend
thieves and slavers who attack our safe haven."

Athelwulf raises his sword to the sky
and the warriors roar as they charge forward
and fight till every man lies on the Earth,
blood of their hearts soaking the thirsty soil.
Young children play chase among blooming flowers
where their skulls crumble to dust in the wind.

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

City Of Glass

City Of Glass
© Surazeus
2017 08 29

The dead who walk on the water at dawn
when hurricanes flood the city of glass
bring you dead ravens in their trembling hands
and stand mute at the locked doors of the church.

The shades of their lost souls on red brick wall
flicker for a moment when dancing trees
sway in gusts of wind from the aching sea
and call to you from hidden cave of death.

They follow you everywhere you may go
but when you turn to see grief-stricken faces
they vanish nameless from your memory
and pictures of their spirits rot in mud.

You pray for them in your homes far away
and proclaim in church after you have prayed
that they are now up in Heaven with God
but the sky is empty where your prayers float.

Their bodies float in the waters that drown
the city of towers where bankers count
profits streaming into secret accounts,
and butterflies feast on the fallen clown.

The apparitions of the dead return
each evening when the hurricane blows wild
so you can hear their songs keening in wind
that strips illusions from temples of lies.

Flood waters submerge the highways of Houston
where rich overlords ride gold limousines
to feast in bright church of prosperity
while the dead rescue each other with boats.

The statue of the singer who stands tall
on the twelve foot pedestal now appears
to walk on water that shimmers in light
and reflects the faces of nameless souls.

Monday, August 28, 2017

Silver Wings Of Liberty

Silver Wings Of Liberty
© Surazeus
2017 08 28

Luke Skywalker stands on the shimmering plain
as desert wind swirls around family dome,
and gazes at twin suns of Tatooine
that gleam with ache of opportunity
through the lonely haze of the timeless sky
till they vanish beyond the blank horizon,
then sighs as he stares up at twinkling stars.

"How I long to escape this ball of dust,
soaring on silver wings of liberty,
and shoot into the boundless void of hope
to glide among the shining stars of life.
All my life I have helped my Uncle Owen
tend his farm to produce nutritious crops,
coaxing seeds to sprout from this barren soil,
while strange eager flame of restless desire
stirs me to race across the galaxy
and visit every planet rich with life.
Other than face of my kind Aunt Beru,
whose tender lullabies glow in my heart,
and gentle hand calms my restless ambition,
I have no memory of my sweet mother,
and yet I seem to see in gleaming stars
contours of her face, and her shining eyes
that ever watch me with wordless concern
from the empty sky where I search for love.
What fierce ache of longing for great adventure
simmers deep in the cavern of my heart
like flames burning bright in the cooking pit,
and drives me to leap in flying machine
and soar swifter than lightning through the sky
as if the spirit of my father roars
in suppressed passion from my beating heart?
Whenever I look with propitious eyes
in the mirror of desire and hope,
I think I see the mask my father wore
when he first gazed up at the boundless sky
with longing to fly swift between the stars.
This dreary globe of waterless dust sucks
my soul down into its featureless sands,
trapping my heavy soul in sterile clumps,
yet that grating friction of hissing sand,
which compresses my mind in stifling rage,
instead of crushing me senseless and numb
fuels the raging flames of my fierce desire
to extract trembling wings from broken shell
of my heart, shattered by dreary despair,
and spread them wide to catch the howling wind
so I may leap light into the broad sky.
How can this little fragile ball of dust
trap my enthusiastic spirit tight
against its withered breast of milkless dugs
when my imagination well projects
visions of my swift flight from world to world?
Though I can conceive my quick liberty
yet I cannot see what chain of events
might propel my escape from this dull world
to seek grand adventure among the stars.
Whenever opportunities arise
that leave clear threads of clues through labyrinth
of desperate hope to perform noble deeds
I will leap to follow that clear guiding star
beyond the imprisoning walls of duty
to play my part on stage of history,
urged by my desire for justice and truth.
Perhaps if I follow my best friend Biggs
and join the Imperial Academy
I may learn to pilot a fighter starship,
then I can leave to join the rebel alliance 
to battle tyrants and rescue the weak
that frees the galaxy from blind oppression.
I hear my Aunt Beru now calling me.
Once I tend the new droids we bought today,
perhaps I can slip away to Mos Eisley
and join the Imperial Academy,
yet duty to the good uncle who raised me
constrains me to remain another season,
at his desperate request for my strong help,
promising me I can sign up next year,
and then I can escape this dusty rock
and soar on beams of light among the stars."

Luke turns away from gazing at the stars
and trudges to sleep under the dome
while lights of a large imperial cruiser
blink with alarm above the spinning world.

Saturday, August 26, 2017

Ring Of Hyacinth

Ring Of Hyacinth
© Surazeus
2017 08 26

Though all the world is trembling with war
and public squares echo with arguments
about who can claim rights to benefit
from privileged access to power and wealth
I walk alone the wordless river shore
and converse with the wind about the truth.

Though revolutions are started by youth
who assemble gangs to break down the door
to temples where treasure chests preserve health
the chess game cannot flow commensurate
with history invented in documents
that conceal in code the most ancient lore.

The mirror of your eyes reveals the dream
where we hold hands while following the thread
of secret facts through our dark labyrinth
to find our way back home to paradise
while escaping the world war that destroyed
our experiment in democracy.

I am the king of your theocracy
whose idol rises from the swirling void
because I invented the best devise
that conveys my love to dear Hyacinth
although she wears my ring since we were wed
that I found gleaming in the eyeless stream.

When the greedy tyrant steals the gold key
that leads to the tower room of thought control
take arms against wild sea of troubled plays
and rewrite their script with new prophecy
so everyone must play your new weird game
to win the prize that crumbles from their hand.

Though conflict rages across our free land
I must discover my new divine name
then lead lost souls to found this colony
where sunlight glimmers gold through evening haze
so I assume new angelical role
chanting hymns that worship our mother sea.

Since I now wear the ring of Hyacinth
that bestows on me supernatural powers
of enchanting brains with visions of truth
I find myself swimming against the tide
and always at odds with society
so I stand on the street and sing weird spells.

No wedding will happen with ringing bells
nor will children revel in gaiety
till Gaia returns as my honest bride
who will teach me to rule the world with ruth
since bees that pollinate fruit trees and flowers
support our whole empire with fertile plinth.

Thursday, August 24, 2017

Heaven On Earth

Heaven On Earth
© Surazeus
2017 08 24

When rainbow strikes my heart with love for life
I stand against the gang of marching thugs
who cry for liberty and sovereign rights
for themselves alone to control all things.

We must arm our hearts and prepare for strife
against angry men who wave bleeding flags,
then toil to ascend the glorious heights
of victory against tyrants and kings.

To defend well the apple and the loaf
we must free our hands and loosen our tongues
then fight when love for liberty unites
our hearts in noble cause where justice springs.

Each age in spinning of the world we find
that people twisted by blind hate of fear
will threaten to destroy our peaceful work
and yet good souls will fight for liberty.

When gangs of cowards clutching guns attack
to chain our hands so we would slave to live
we must unite our dreams in noble goal
to free all souls from slavery of greed.

When rainbow strikes my heart with love for truth
I stand bold for justice for every soul
then plant secret fruit seeds in blood-soaked soil
and thus restore sacred heaven on earth.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Broken Radio Of Lucifer

Broken Radio Of Lucifer
© Surazeus
2017 08

Though we walk through numberless doors of hope,
clutching books that bubble dreams in our eyes,
we have to count keys and learn how to cope
while everyone we love suffers and dies.

I leave cracked flower pot on the window pane
and watch bees weave light through the morning mist
to laugh about memories lost in the rain,
having forgotten the last time we kissed.

The world shudders at stomp of angry feet
when people gather in parks to protest
arrogant man who proclaims himself king
even though he lost the ancient contest.

I leave my father and mother behind
in the ruins of old world view that crashed,
then build new castle of truth in my mind
but search in vain for the jewels they stashed.

I look in mirror at my aging face
and see kings who once ruled in castle towers,
but I build new world view on solid base
of science and reason hidden in flowers.

While stumbling through the labyrinth of my lust
I hurt both strangers and friends whom I love,
but no one yet died from misguided trust,
and every new day I seem to improve.

We spin dizzy on the merry-go-round
of social change, clutching at old world view,
but who can escape the cosmic fairground
where the weeping clown hides the treasure clue?

On the beach of visions, before sunrise,
I play chess with Death who gives me new name,
although each time I lose I grow more wise
and gain new mastery to play the power game.

Look deep in my eyes and you will perceive
gold snake on misty island in blue sea
who makes light and teaches me to believe
what my hands can touch and my eyes can see.

When I descend with gold Tablet of Truth
from Takoma, mountain where muses sing,
I reveal new world view forged by the sleuth
who explains the universe is One Ring.

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Our Journey Forward

Our Journey Forward
© Surazeus
2017 08 17

I feel the history of our human race
flowing through me in a river of song
since we first transformed from the dreamless eye,
and from the deep ocean of swirling waves
we crawled up the river of shining hope
to crouch on the shore of shivering fear.

How clearly I remember looking up
to see the round fruit on the tree of life
illuminated by the golden sun
piercing my heart with hungry ache of love,
and how I plucked it with my grasping hand,
and how its sweet juice simmered in my mouth.

I felt the spinning world inside my breast
explode in gusts of wind that swelled my soul,
and ocean waves throbbed in my fragile skull,
and hot rivers pulsed through my tingling limbs,
and I remember standing on the rock
and stretching my arms to embrace the sky.

But then I shrank down in my fragile shell,
and trembled at the spinning of the world,
and shivered in the long dark formless night,
and dreamed the big bang of the blasting sun
that shaped the mountains and seas from the void
and clumped my mind in this body of flesh.

No name yet did I breathe from gasping grunt
to separate my self from teeming world,
and yet I climbed the highest tree of rage,
longing to fly among light clouds with birds,
and howled into the blustering storm of fear
to capture lightning in my grasping hand.

Alone I gazed at twinkling stars of light,
feasting on fruit at the dawn of dream time,
so when I look around our world today
I see my single soul of dreaming hope
fragmented in seven billion souls
who remember the hour I first woke.

I turn to you and gesture with my hand,
express the sound I assigned as your name,
and lead you forth from our safe cave of dreams
to explore the weird mysteries of our world
and gather food in baskets on our arms
that we consume while sitting by the sea.

Today I stand in bright library hall
and study a large world map on the wall,
then wonder where we first crawled from the sea
to follow the fresh river to the cave,
and where we first climbed into the tree of fruit
to sing in choirs with love to the stars.

How far we swung on vines from tree to tree
in chattering crowds through lofty canopy
from towering peaks of China by the sea,
along the snow-gleaming mountains of India,
and to the lush jungles of Africa
where we came down and walked on upright legs.

We follow the sun that burst from our eyes
and weave the thin golden thread of our souls
into the fabric of this spinning world
as we become its dream of molecules
so all the history of our fight with death
lights our journey forward around the sun.

Friday, August 18, 2017

Statue Of God

Statue Of God
© Surazeus
2017 08 18

When the sun shoots arrows of Cupid straight
through the hearts of nameless people who seek
the secret of love in the leaves of trees,
we gather at midnight in city square
and invent new hymn to praise Liberty.

All my dead ancestors follow my steps
like black smoke from a burning car that hurls
heedless of signs on the highway to Hell
where Hecate holds mirror to my face
that reveals how my ancestors survived
ten thousand years of empires and wars.

We are engaged in a new civil war
in endless cycle of battle for truth
where we must fight to defend Liberty
against selfish tyrants of slavery
for every whole human being to live free
by treating other people with respect
in daily course of our lives to create
statue of God on pyramid of eyes.

I walk cold city streets without a job
to stand before stores in long ragged coat
and sing riddles disguised as prophecies
that reveal how warriors of Liberty
will always defeat the nationalists
who attempt to exploit people for profit
so everyone enjoys fruits of their labor.

They whisper in my mind what they would do,
my ancestors who hover by my head,
and weave visions of faces on white clouds
who play strange roles in dramas my mind conjures
so when I watch living people perform
actions that hide their most secret desires
I see ancient myths of dead gods reborn.

Can I rewrite the script of lusting hope
my ancestors programmed into my brain
and change my fate that their actions defined
to revise assembling farmers and builders
into armies of screaming men with swords
then storm the castles of rapists and thieves
who crowned themselves kings appointed by god?

Every religion in history of mankind
elevates their founder as noble god
who united their dreams in single purpose
to kill or be killed in war for survival,
then builds their temples on skulls of the vanquished
whose blood nourishes the flowers of peace.

Build a statue of sand to honor me
because I am a nobody who failed
to brand my name on the hearts of my people
who wander scattered far across the globe
so when they gather on the river shore
at sunset to share in the feast of sorrows
they will sing hymns to the crucified fool.

I stand in the soft grass of my lush lawn,
frozen at the moment of my long life
when I was blinded by epiphany
that revealed the tale of humanity
fighting for the purpose of liberty
against the vile practice of slavery
embodied in the statue of one person
whose name replicates our bodies of flesh
that tingles with lust to regenerate
eternal soul in children of our hearts.

I stand before the statue of my father,
wearing the gold mask molded from his fame,
and feel the flame of hope burning my heart
to transcend the legend of his great deeds,
so I may journey beyond the stone walls
he erected from skulls of fallen tyrants
and build my own secret garden of fruit
where my children rebel against my rule.

Embodied within this statue of God
I see the faces of all my ancestors
who killed people so people may live free
and carved basic rules on tablets of stone
to control the script of our social play,
so I film the actions of ancient kings
and present their lives in movies we watch
that flicker forever on temple walls
till new generations smash all our idols
and erect new statues of their own heroes.

I am no statue of marble or brass
who stands blind and mute in the public park
to symbolize drama of history
but I will fight to defend Liberty
of every good human being to live free.

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Streets Of Charlottesville

Streets Of Charlottesville
© Surazeus
2017 08 13

We gather in the streets of Charlottesville
to protest fascist Nazi goons
who claim that white people should rule the world,
and sing, all people should live free.

Above the peaceful streets of Charlottesville
the statue of Robert E. Lee
still stands in sunlight to commemorate
his vile defense of slavery.

We march the narrow streets of Charlottesville
to defend truth and liberty
and tear down from lofty height of glory
the statue of Robert E. Lee.

Nazis invade the streets of Charlottesville
to praise General Robert E. Lee,
but we defend rule of equality
and sing, all people should live free.

Young Heather, marching streets of Charlottesville,
raises flag of freedom in wind,
and declares, we should not discriminate,
for all are equal in this world.

Prowling the crowded streets of Charlottesville,
James guns car engine and zooms fast
then plows into huge crowd of protesters,
crushing Heather to death in rage.

We scream in the red streets of Charlottesville
as James races fast to escape,
while our warrior of justice lies dead,
killed in the war for liberty.

Lay flowers on the streets of Charlottesville
and dedicate your loyal heart
to fight for freedom and justice for all
where Heather died for liberty.

When fascists march the streets of Charlottesville
and threaten liberty for all,
light your heart with spirit of love
and march strong for justice and truth.

We gather in the streets of Charlottesville
to fight for true equality,
and raise new statue of wise Liberty
in memory of our patriot.

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Statue Of Aethelbertus

Statue Of Aethelbertus
© Surazeus
2017 08 10

Staring at the statue of Aethelbertus,
first Christian King of Kent, carved from white stone,
who stands tall in Canterbury Cathedral
on my misty island of Avalon,
I see my own face reflected in his,
like millions of souls in America
descended from both gods, Jesus and Woden.

What are gods but ancestors of us all
who show us how to grow beyond ourselves
and dream reborn in our genetic coils
that spiral sparkles in our dreaming brains?

Having stripped all ideologies away,
to free my mind from delusions of faith
in religion and nationalist pride,
I stand naked in the cold rain of time
only myself, creature of flesh and blood.

Named Albert at birth in lush Oregon,
far from the misty island where he ruled,
I drop the mask all my ancestors wore
and walk faceless in the vast city streets
where people from every nation on Earth
swirl together in silver Seattle rain.

I see the children of all ancient gods
alive in new bodies of flesh and blood
inventing new dramas of love and war
we write through daily routines of our lives
preserved in tales of personalities
playing roles that express spirit of our times.

I may be King Albert alive again
but I tear away the cocoon of his mask
so my soul emerges with unique wings,
and give myself new name, Surazeus,
to dream the ancient world with reborn eyes.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

My Dead Heart

My Dead Heart
© Surazeus
2017 07 30

She throws a thousand darts into my heart
because she fears I may escape her eyes
so when I would embrace her in my arms
her anger drives me far into the night.

She builds high wall to keep me close to her
but locks the gate and shuts me in the dark
so though she wants to bind me in her heart
she pushes me into the hopeless land.

She dreams inside her mind the part I play
but glares at me in silent wordless rage
because I fail to read her beaming mind
then yells because I sulk inside my cave.

She tries to place gold crown upon my head
and gives me sword that falls from trembling hand
but hidden in cold castle I must hide
from greedy swords that thrust to pierce my heart.

She stands alone in tower on high hill
and weeps while I now wander in cold rain
then kneel beside the gushing stream of love
to wash the wounds that never heal again.

She calls my name in blustering wind of hope
but fallen by the river without name
I watch bright flowers bloom from bitter rain
when apples sprout reborn from my dead heart.

Friday, July 21, 2017

We Choose Love

We Choose Love
© Surazeus
2017 07 21

When each person stands at edge of abyss
of eternal death after this short life
that weaves pleasure and pain into our hearts,
and comes to realize with ache of despair
that we are born by accident of lust
instead of being created for some purpose,
struggle against horror with hunger to live
in meaningless universe of wild atoms,
then vanish to nothing after we die
though we may leave our children still alive,
and decides with inspiring flash of love
to care for everyone with gentle acts
that create rather than destroy, they rise
above numbing horror of crushing death
and express love till death crushes our souls.
For two thousand years Christian priests proclaimed
that God created us from boundless love,
Jesus died to save us from selfish sins,
and we should accept him as selfless savior
so he can resurrect our souls from death
to live with him in paradise of bliss,
or we will burn in hell of agony,
but this lie of the resurrection blinds
eyes of desperate people to see this world
with sober view that everyone will die
and that Jesus will never resurrect
our bodies after death disperses souls.
People broken by agony of pain
and twisted by horror of suffering
cling tight to this false deceptive belief
that some super-powerful God of love
loves them and will restore their souls to life,
so every week they gather in their church
and conjure visions of this powerful god,
they pretend loves them and designed some plan
to guide their way in vast uncaring world,
to soothe the horror of eternal death
that clouds their eyes blind with deceptive hopes.
How sad that people need this specious promise
of the afterlife in blissful paradise
or the threat of eternal suffering
in order to convince them to act good,
when true goodness within the mortal soul
arises when each one who faces death
and eternal nothingness of our souls
in vast uncaring universe of change
decides to be good and love other people
in spite of the undeniable fact
that life is full of suffering and pain
and that we vanish to nothing at death.
When each person who stands at edge of death,
staring numb into bottomless abyss,
decides to light their heart with glow of love
and exude warmth to comfort fellow souls,
they gain true enlightenment of good love
and choose to live through creative expression,
that though we suffer and die in cold horror
we journey together on road of life
and cooperate in creative teams
to survive in communities of friends
and celebrate life with feast, dance, and song
that stays the darkness of death for this hour
while we savor the sweetness of our love.
When we realize that priests invented god
and the blinding lie of the resurrection
to transform the horror of death to hope
we choose to dispel the cold darkness of hate
with the warm light of love from our own hearts
so we become the light that shines this hour
to lead lost souls to hearth of fellowship
where we feast and sing till death crushes all.
We choose love though we will all die forever.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Flash Of Consciousness

Flash Of Consciousness
© Surazeus
2017 07 05

Each blade of grass that sprouts from spinning Earth
reflects pure rays of light from pulsing sun
that throbs inside the anguish of my heart
when I dream clear the original Flash
that wove vast threads of light in spinning coils
which twang through triangles of molecules.

I remember when the sun was first born
for all the atoms flashing in the cells
of my dreaming brain were forged by its Flash,
then woven into planet of our eyes
so every combination of bright atoms
beams bright with transcendental mind of hope.

The universe of flashing coils of light
is no more conscious than hard chunk of rock
until rain breaks minerals into soil
sucked by roots of trees to blossom ripe fruit
so when I eat the sun and rain combined
I wake and know I am the Universe.

I lie on lawn outside my red-brick home
and feel the round blue sky inside my eye
so when we all together gaze at stars
we see our single universal face
reflected back in mirror of black nothing
where Flash of consciousness hums tune of love.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

My Broken Quill

My Broken Quill
© Surazeus
2017 07 04

The dwarf who dances on your unmarked grave
sold your spirit to the man with no eyes
but you run forever lost in his cave,
hoping to buy back our infinite skies.

Though you claw at the jagged rocks of hope,
seeking the bread of light, baked from live brains,
you tremble shivering on the hill slope
that leads to paradise flooded by rains.

The girl who understands your secret soul
refuses to give you the name you earned
so you hide laughing in the sunless hole
you dug from where the apple trees were burned.

The key that opens the exploding box,
you found in the glass jar in the dark room,
vanished while you were chasing the white fox
who tried to lead you from the house of doom.

The old man who sold you nine coffee beans
now sits on the throne your grandfather built
but while he buries thirteen noble queens
you hide in his oak tree, gnawing on guilt.

The dwarf who built walls around paradise
charges you for apples from your own trees
but since you cannot pay the perfect price
he demands you bottle the perfumed breeze.

The night you tried to rescue from death cave
Rapunzel who whispers your secret name
three owls waited for you in the church nave
but you got lost in the world-power game.

The peak which glows gold in the dawning rays
watches you without commands or advice
therefore after twenty-three hundred days
you dream the perpetual motion device.

The world is one giant eyeball of dreams
that pulses with constant contests of will
but you sit alone by the singing streams,
composing epics with my broken quill.

The map I carved on the cave wall of Hell
might lead you to the great treasure you seek
but since you still hide in the songless well
no one will hear the magic spells you speak.

I cannot help but feel soul-swelling pride
because I molded from broken tree runes
weird song of philosophers who all died
so children learn secrets from blinking tunes.

The tower where Rapunzel raises our child
endures beyond the spinning of the world
until the world chronicle is compiled
that explains how the real universe whirled.

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Boston And Skye

Boston And Skye
© Surazeus
2017 07 02

The young woman with long red tangled hair
and eyes green as the rolling hills of Sgith
crouches low against the jagged gray stone
that juts at the black sky bleeding red rain,
and howls her wild song in the flashing mist
as the baby squirms from her flushing womb.
Cradling the new-born child to her full breast,
she hums weird melodies of wind and rain
and smiles, "I name you for your father Sgith,
for I am Sgatha, Queen of the Misty Isle."

Seven centuries later the young man
with brown hair like the wings of an oak raven
and eyes green as the rolling hills of Skith
slouches against the brick wall of a bar
and drinks beer while watching cars glide in rain.
"I am the wizard of Boston and I
write magic spells in rain that no one reads,
for their eyes are blinded by coins of money
that vanish from their hands though they grasp tight
to steal the rainbow of power over minds.
We are the great nation of Rocket Boys
for in one hundred years we rose from dirt
of farms we tended with our horse and wagon
to build cars, telephones, airplanes, and guns,
and now we dominate the spinning globe,
we who sprang from the Misty Isle of Sgith,
for we are the sons of God, son of Sgodin,
who rules the world with thunderbolt of Odin."

Three friends hanging out with him in the night
laugh and clap his shoulders with jaunty grins,
and Sean offers him a bottle of beer.
"Michael MacLeod, you crazy son of fools,
most of the time your talking makes no sense,
but you are my friend so I never care."

Then they all laugh and drink beer in the mist
while the moon gleams on both Boston and Skye
where Sgatha sings haunting tunes on wild hills.

Sunday, June 25, 2017

My Self-Driving Truck

My Self-Driving Truck
© Surazeus
2017 06 25

For my birthday when I turned twenty-one
my daddy bought me a self-driving truck
so I hopped inside and stretched out my legs
and drank cold beer while my truck drove itself.

My self-driving truck knew just where to go,
so it took me all over the country side,
to the hill-top where we could see the world,
and to the river where I fished all day.

Come on back to me, my self-driving truck,
you are the secret of love and good luck.

Her hair was shining gold in the sunlight
and her eyes were blue as the fishing lake
when I first saw her in white blouse and jeans
walking alone on the hot country road.

My truck stopped short at the flash of her smile
and opened its door, so she slid inside,
then told me her name and tale of her life
while my truck drove us to the grove of trees.

Come on back to me, my self-driving truck,
you are the secret of love and good luck.

I plucked an apple from the tree of life
and as she ate I asked her to be my wife,
but as I leaned close to kiss her sweet lips
my self-driving truck knocked me out the door.

I leaped to my feet and dusted my pants
but found myself alone among the trees
because my new self-driving truck left me
and took off with the sweet girl of my dreams.

Come on back to me, my self-driving truck,
you are the secret of love and good luck.

My self-driving truck left me in the woods
so I wandered to the river to fish
but my truck took my girl and fishing rod
so I wander alone with the blind breeze.

My self-driving truck and my girl left me
and as I wander alone in the woods
I see the dust of its fast-spinning tires
glitter bright in the sunlight that mocks me.

Come on back to me, my self-driving truck,
you are the secret of love and good luck.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Mirror Of Infinite Rays

Mirror Of Infinite Rays
© Surazeus
2017 06 22

Stepping through Mirror of Infinite Rays,
Barbie in a mink fur coat returns home
from palace where the Rainbow Jester plays
mad prophet, and demands the Key to Rome.

While I play guitar on Miami street
she appears before me in flash of light,
then leads me to the Titanic to meet
Wizard of Words who commands her Star Fleet.

Touching my forehead with finger of flame,
Goddess of Death washes lies from my brain,
then restores me to life with her new name
which I search for twenty years in green rain.

Soaring her space ship, we follow Dog Star
to meet my teachers at Paris cafe,
Juvenal, Villon, Blake, Ginsberg, and Sar,
who taught me how to compose magic spells.

Sitting in the ruined Museum hall,
inspired by love, I write Grand Testament
describing the Big Bang on jewel wall,
how light coils into every element.

Spinning on the merry-go-round of time,
we evolve from fish to monkey to god,
and though wisdom is saved in obscure rhyme
our leaders still rule with law-flashing rod.

The molecules that constitute our souls
were coiled in the spiral of the Big Bang
and hologram of change from hot black holes
weaves our bodies where the Horse Fountain sprang.

I pluck ripe apple from the Tree of Truth
and offer it to the horse as my friend,
then sell gold horse toys in the market booth
while our laughing children race with the wind.

I feel infinity beam through your eye
so I attend the Museum at noon
to feast and pretend I am not a spy,
hoping to achieve the power of the moon.

I stand on the mountain and gaze at light
to question Heaven and discover why
I am conscious as me with Second Sight,
dreaming Ideas from vast empty sky.

My sense of self is woven in my brain
by the dreams that all my ancestors lived
which generates my soul from sparkling rain
since my life is but accidental gift.

The automatic actions of my hands
were programmed well by survival techniques
when my ancestors explored fertile lands,
swimming deep lakes and climbing sun-gold peaks.

Leaping from the Cave of Shadows at dawn,
Sirius twirls long scepter with Diamond Eye,
then explains I am nothing but the pawn
of giant gods who watch me from the sky.

While reading Runes on bare branches of trees,
as I was singing in Michigan snow,
I heard my secret name whispered in breeze
that sparks soul of Sky Father in brain glow.

I discard every name that I once bore
to hide the secret name of my new birth,
then hang on the wall every mask I wore
while pretending to reign over the Earth.

Now I am King of Nothing with no name
and play guitar while singing by the sea,
then laugh while watching fools contest for fame
since fruit is fertilized by honey bee.

Ascending mountain of peach trees in mist,
I sit before Kwan Yin ten thousand years
who plays her zither at our secret tryst,
so we make love before Earth disappears.

Since Sun Spider sparked life with the Big Bang
she generates worlds in the Flaring Forth,
so we walk by river where peaches hang
and share lost legends by the glowing hearth.

Eight billion people sing inside my head
so I swirl all their dreams in spell of love,
but, after the world spins and I am dead,
sing together among Golden Foxglove.

You will find the ancient book of your life
on dusty shelf in Library of Souls,
so sing your dreams while Bacchus plays the fife
and we will play our own new-written roles.

After you read these words of magic spells
the sparkling letters that beam visions clear
vanish like stone rings in enchanted wells
which reveals our universe is eye sphere.

Stepping through Mirror of Infinite Rays,
Athena leads me to Temple of Words
where we evolve past the next human phase
so we join the choir of twittering birds.

Barbie In A Mink Fur

Barbie In A Mink Fur
© Surazeus
20 June 1996
Miami Beach, Florida

Draped in a mink fur coat Barbie
strolls down side-walks of gold
past long dark alleys of Manhattan
where gaunt starving children fight
over Twinkies in plastic wrappers.

Wiping her tears she straightens
her tight skirt and breathes deep
to regain her bearing after five
army soldiers tried to rape her
at a hotel and she takes all cash
from their wallets which get tossed
on oil-muddy gutters as bombs fall.

Wandering lost in the parking lots
full of shimmering station wagon cars
a middle-aged housewife rips open
cans of tomatoes with her fingers
to drink the blood of factory machines.

Her little boy clutching red toy Volkswagen
runs laughing toward a flock of birds
that swirls away into the yellow sky.

Frowning Alfred Hitchcock stands knee-deep
in the shallow river of radioactive waste
skin pale as marshmallows in the plastic bag
eyes peering undaunted at the eye
of the camera while the plane screams
overhead toward Scotland that fades
to black and white on the torn-out page
of an encyclopedia full of broken statues.

The middle-aged housewife wanders
among the crowd of housewives who bow
before the television screen praying desperate
to the trinity of broadcasting companies.

Barbie wearing a mink fur coat strolls
through the factory of sweating young girls
chained to their desks in dark cold room
while red sun glitters bright on paradise
of towering mountains that loom in mist
of GuiLin where Kwan Yin weeps
among cherry trees over her dead lion.

Hands bleed as she struggles to make
tennis shoes faster as her pockets are empty
and her heart aches when her boyfriend
is murdered by rampaging Red Guards.

Buddha sits on red television screen
smiling down at three Angels of Charlie
who chase Shining Path guerillas
through the jungles of shopping malls
to hide among twisting cables that shimmer
with the Earth Dream of lost souls.

Gunshots shatter cathedral rose windows
to shards glittering on rain-wet streets
at midnight when Al Chicago King
conquers Illinois and flies south to relax
in Florida hills under blooming oranges.

Johnny Right plays baseball in Brooklyn
dodging swift to run home-run circles
raking in thousands of dollars in cash
from grateful gangsters who buy him
cars and homes in Texas hills
where oil bubbles black as dragon blood.

Leading his gang of bat boys Lord Johnny
battles Sheriff Chavez over abandoned
ranches and opens military schools
where Michael Jackson plays guitar
with Jimi Hendrix on stage in Heaven.

Carmen Miranda is found murdered
at dawn her fruit baskets stolen by thieves
and her unborn baby has small hands
that clasp for life at her wet skeleton
so they weep touching her shattered skull.

Barbie in a mink fur coat walks Paris streets
sniffing coke supplied by pimps who buy
cubist paintings from starving artists
sleeping under Seine bridges of marble.

Santa Clause rides his silver limousine
snoring blind to crowds of starving souls
huddled in alleyways using fridge boxes
as homes but drunk frat boys arrive
swinging baseball bats at vampire bats.

Princess Diana drives her silver sleigh
ringing bells through snow-cold streets
bringing hot apple pies to children
in bare garages who wire computers
for rich information barons in crystal halls
who attend cocktails with fat wives.

Marilyn Monroe looks out her window
at Desolation Row wondering how can I
help ease suffering children but when she dies
murdered by gangsters who shoot her veins
full of poisonous drugs her spirit finds
her mother in a nuthouse riding a tricycle
circles around a television of hissing snow.

I laugh because I weep Rainbow Jester
explains to crowds of dark children
in Central Park who beat him up
and steal his old battered guitar
but the Prophet of Pain runs
with wolves naked in concrete jungle.

Goddess of lost Angels peers intense
through sunglasses at shaggy-haired man
planning how to transform his raw strength
to construct a palace of mirrors
where children gather in shining gowns
to wash their faces and dance at noon
pawns on chessboard Amerika
toys for clowns in pinstripe suits
sitting on skull thrones of blind greed
in glass bank-computer towers
who manipulate market numbers
shutting factories so we the people
drive vans full of kids to Miami
to escape vampires in snow frosted streets
of Yankers where Barbi struts
before movie cameras in mink fur.

Prophet of Pain dances on blinking machines
when glass door opens to reveal Goddess
of Wolves wearing robe of bristling fur
to clasp his howling throat teaching him
how to speak prophecies of doom
then rides her silver chariot while he crouches
on top holding silver bars then leaps
onto Paris Fountain to howl her senseless words
waking windows on high marble wall tower
where eight hundred children repeat
his words with ringing laughter
praising Moon Priestess in mink fur.

Barbi growing old wrinkled yellow skin
rattles plastic pearls and leans close
over Prophet of Pain typing her words
on clacking machine filling blank white scrolls
with photos of women sipping tea
by Jerusalem walls discussing French fashion
when latest messiah to open eyes
beaming light flares of wisdom sits silent
among fluttering pigeons at noon
on empty plaza of Saint Peters Basilica
where Papa Bear huddles in white robes
shivering when chill winds stir restless
on desolate wastelands of Caspian mudflats
where Barbi hitchhikes in mink fur.

Draped in a mink fur robe Queen Barbi
secretary for elected government official
driven from office by television scandal mongers
eager to photograph her face appears
in Paris mist walking over bridge of sorrow
where lovers kiss in sweet afternoon wind
pungent with perfumes from truckload
of expensive bottles shattered to shards
on Rue de Mystere by lawns crowded
with children licking strawberry ice-cream.

Agent Dias grandson of Zeus and Godiva
wearing black overcoat and gray fedora sits
beside her on park bench setting slow
his briefcase then reads newspaper
for five minutes before taking her suitcase
but just as he steps aboard moving train
three agents pump him full of bullets
and jump in white Volvo taking black case
full of diamonds that flicker dreams
of dragons and gods and Angels and queens
so Barbi walks with ten thousand dollars
nowhere hours when she discovers
five men waiting to greet her at her door
so she buys a plane ticket to Miami Florida
wearing mink fur in sultry winter heat.

Goddess of Lost Angels kisses Prophet of Pain
teaching him how to worship her power
to create eternal life in new flesh
as Sun-Spider weaves conscious soul-flares
from molecules beaming web of sunlight
that billows from Heart of Crystal Cathedral
where she sits on Throne of Diamonds
surfing World Wide Web of Illusions
writing laws to preserve social patterns
helping girls and boys discover soul mates
who cuddle under fruit trees by rivers
till two boys argue over one girl and kill
each other staining paradise with blood.

Flowers bloom red from pungent buds
preserving fairies through winter chills
sleeping when snowflakes fall
from Heaven where orange-faced girl
in fur robe walks alone in blue twilight zone
belly swelling ripe with wiggling child
who consumes her blood and organs
to rise from her skeleton husk at spring
reborn fire-master crawling from cave
of eternal life to stand on snow-frosted hills
wearing long wolf fur robe to collect stones
in a ring casting bright red flames where crowds
of shivering Angels appear dancing wild
to keep close to warm diamond throne
worshipping PhoeNikes Flame Victor Girl
who beams distant sunlight through crystal Eye
to spark flames on Altar of Sacrifice.

PhoeNicia wearing royal fur robe
of King Fire-Master holds high
Diamond Eye staff when she finds
crowds of shivering cave-men who gather
to watch tall Witch beam sunlight
to spark flame on twigs so they gather
chanting her name a thousand years
after she disappears down endless road
leading to strange lands over distant hills
where dark men climbing high mountains
fly silver ships floating in Heaven
using her Diamond Eye to capture vision
of today on film preserving flicker
of her soul-flame beyond death
when her flesh crumbles to dust
and her wolf fur robe hangs
in a Manhattan dressing room
of a theater for her star shimmers
on Osorian hills of the golden bear.

Elizabeth wears crown of CleoPatra
riding silver barge flying through mid-Heaven
where Ginsberg scribbles verses
in Book of Laughter and death prophecies
kissing Walt Whitman who blushes delighted
to meet Star Queen who appears
at their table to welcome Santa Claws
to Manhattan for big party inviting Kofi Annan
Emperor of United Nations to share a bottle
of grape wine from Napa Valley
on gold Kalorn hills while Newt and Reno
neck on plastic couch where Ted Kennedy
holds severed head of secretary who drowned
in his wrecked car when he tried to kill her
when he plunged off Chapakwidik bridge
so Buddha meditates on red river shore.

PhoeNicia Flame Priestess arrives noon
at Athens where Princess Athena stands
by sparkling fountain counting fairies
who drowned in midnight raindrops
but her teacher says no those are insects
who suck blood from human vessels
so gaze bold in faces of strangers
to read their souls understanding their reasons
for wanting your twenty billion dollars
so Princess Athena says I want to build
hospitals to house homeless refugees
who flee with gangs of lost children
from distant lands when pirates patrol bays
to raid beaches where fishermen wrestle dragons
for gems that twinkle molecule visions
to record entire history of Earth evolution
when human eyes peer into Pool of Love.

Who is queen of Chessboard Amerika
for I see your face reflected in mirrors
when I turn around seven times at dawn
but my queen disappears into mist
and though I run through maze of palaces
and banks all day I never find her eyes.

Where are you great queen of Amerika
why are you hiding behind soft smile
of young girls who blush sweet and shy.

Where are you secret in your white dress
bored and alone with sad wallflowers
twiddling your fingers for you hide
your blazing eyes behind sunglasses
and your small hand slips in my hand
and you whisper in my ear take me away
so we walk bodies close and warm
as chill winds blow from a restless sea.