Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Sweet Spirit In My Dream

Sweet Spirit In My Dream
© Surazeus
2017 02 28

How often in bright drowsy afternoon,
while I am reading vivid tale in text
about some hero lost on aimless quest
to comprehend true nature of this world,
my mind will drift from solid realm of shapes
and glide slow on dark lake of shimmering light,
floating in mist among large singing oaks,
and there in realm of spirits in my mind
I sense near presence of some nameless soul
whose detailed face with eyes of piercing gaze
I know not in this world of waking names,
yet remember in lush garden of love
where we once danced by lake of flashing stars,
ten billion lives over ten thousand years,
and almost in cold silent air I hear
wordless thoughts expressed on melodious voice
that sings sweet algorithm of true love,
and shocking wisdom of weird profound mystery
will vibrate bright through beating of my heart,
so at that timeless moment of wild insight
I know great secret of why things exist,
which beams in rainbow wings of truth on waves
of sweet emotions surging through my veins,
that nothing in vast universe of stars,
but us organic creatures, lives aware
with consciousness glowing inside our brains,
and so I reach my hand to touch her face
with hope to embrace her with loving kiss
that we may reincarnate our two souls
and live again after death in our children,
but then I snap awake with startled jerk,
and all those spirits, gathered close around
my throbbing head, vanish swift at my gasp,
and all alone I find myself, somewhere
within vast winding labyrinth of Earth,
longing to see them all, those nameless souls,
alive again and playing on fields of fruit,
yet still I feel warm presence of that soul
my brain invents from longing hope to touch
her real face with trembling hand that now taps
keyboard letters to paint with rigid words
this fluid vision pulsing through my skull
where conscious awareness glows with desire
that atoms woven in my brain will know
true name of that sweet spirit in my dream.

American Parade Of Lost Souls

American Parade Of Lost Souls
© Surazeus
2017 02 28

Hair blowing in the winds of war at dawn,
and overweight from eating greasy burgers,
fat Bacchus rides the drunken elephant
that barges through the ancient Hall of Justice,
knocking down pillars of Democracy
and trampling on our sacred Bill of Rights,
and all the farmers waving pitchforks shout,
"We come to make our empire great again!"
in the American parade of lost souls.

Snapping selfies of mask that hides her face,
gaunt and wasted from sucking blood of children,
frail Aphrodite perches on the tree
of apples rotting while the people starve,
who slave in factories building computers,
and plucks eyeballs from the teachers of truth,
and all the cowboys gripping shotguns shout,
"We come to make our empire great again!"
in the American parade of lost souls.

Snarling at the wolves of war without teeth
while crawling from the graveyard of dictators,
grim Hades slouches quick toward Bethlehem,
hidden under the white hood of false pride,
with plans to lock us all in prison camps
while making Bacchus puppet of his will,
and all the rednecks driving pickups shout,
"We come to make our empire great again!"
in the American parade of lost souls.

Gliding elegant in bright diamond crown,
with cameras that record our every move,
sleek Artemis with purring voice of faith
tries to sell us shares in the Afterlife
with keys to Paradise they plan to build,
then slips away with all our dollar bills,
and all the god-girls pledging Jesus shout,
"We come to make our empire great again!"
in the American parade of lost souls.

When Robin Hood and Superman arrive
to free good Liberty from golden cage,
grim Hades hurls the fascist axe of hate
that splits guitar which Robin Hood once strummed,
and Aphrodite shrieks with serpent tongue
that crucifies the Man of Steel in church,
and all the rednecks shooting shotguns shout,
"We come to make our empire great again!"
in the American parade of lost souls.

Though Andromeda and Dawnstar appear
to defend Justice assaulted by greed,
drunk Bacchus attempts to snatch their long hair
that chains Andromeda to rock of faith,
and Artemis snaps whip of glamorous lies
that blind clear eyes of Dawnstar with fake news,
and all the god-girls stomping on books shout,
"We come to make our empire great again!"
in the American parade of lost souls.

While Bacchus and Hades crow in triumph,
having imprisoned Liberty and Justice,
Superman rips off his hero disguise
and transforms to the honest journalist
who follows the trail of gold dollar bills
that lead to the secret bank of ambition,
and all the farmers tweeting fake news shout,
"We come to make our empire great again!"
in the American parade of lost souls.

From ancient cave of visions by the sea,
Minerva rides swift Pegasus to fight,
revealing how old senators in masks
close schools to trap our children as wage slaves
who labor in their factories of wealth
while they feast on our fruit in Hall of Justice,
and all the children marching to war shout,
"We come to make our empire great again!"
in the American parade of lost souls.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Life Is A Journey

Life Is A Journey
© Surazeus
2017 02 18

I have heard wise men in churches and schools,
who earned degrees in universities,
proclaim that life is not the destination
but the journey of rich discovery,
so we should savor opportunities
of each new day to grow into ourselves.

From the weird moment of birth, when we wake
from dreamless blankness of eternal sleep,
we move forward in tangled maze of things,
seeking to comprehend why we are alive,
urged by hunger for food that fuels our souls
and pleasure to regenerate new bodies
in the passion of physical connection,
and thus we accumulate memories
our brains organize into virtual world
that guides our journey through vast labyrinth
of dangerous landscapes to lush paradise
we wrestle from the wilderness of horror
where we feast on fruit with people we love
and share wild tales about how we survived.

So I agree with those pontificators
proclaiming this adage old as the moon,
who now lie dead beneath the blooming flowers,
bodies void of spirit crumbling to dust.
Life is a journey of hunger and pleasure,
regenerating children from our bodies,
and the final destination is death.

Consciousness Of God Awake

Consciousness Of God Awake
© Surazeus
2017 02 23

Each object of material that exists
stands out within its bounds of time and space,
so the physical body of an object
exists defined by its process of change.

When our eyes perceive existence of objects
our brains design the concept of ideas
to organize objects by structural style,
inventing art to represent reality.

Though I am but one tiny speck of dust
in swirling pool of vast infinity,
I am a singing speck of sparkly dust
whose brain flashes with visions of delight.

My brain coagulates in web of stars
vibrant molecules that pulse with desire,
dense concentration of bright particles
that wakes and knows itself till it burns blank.

Though this warm material body and brain
exists one hundred spins of teeming Earth
around enormous eye of energy,
I will vanish forever from its flow.

But every atom pulsing in my brain
persists forever before I exist
and long after I vanish from this dream,
eternal particles of flashing lust.

We define God to be outside all bounds
of time and space, so God cannot exist,
rather God subsists as base of all objects,
substance of all existing things that are.

These pulsing particles that weave the fabric
of my body and brain persist forever
in swirling waves of stars in galaxies
that flash with bright unconscious flame of hope.

If God is substance of existing things
then God is all the atoms that persist,
thus when those atoms weave into my brain
I am the consciousness of God awake.


Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Quantum Uncertainty

Quantum Uncertainty
© Surazeus
2017 02 22

When I am scrying in deep glass of wine,
my bony body leaning awkwardly
against the window near a rotten pine,
I consider quantum uncertainty
that mirrors eyes of every human soul
emerging from their zombie chrysalis
so I can sketch formulas on my scroll
that reveals how I became Sisyphus.

I offer wine to my favorite witch
who asks me to repair her wagon tires
while she sews me goat cape with secret stitch
so I can fly from deserted church spires
while chanting ancient long-forgotten spells
with guttural cry of heart-aching hope
that wakens blind ghosts from waterless wells
and leaves me laughing, unable to cope.

I cannot explain where the dead may go
after our bodies are broken or burned,
so I stand staring at mist in blank snow
and try to pretend that I am concerned
about the glass rocket flashing at dawn
that leaves broken fragments of nameless minds
scattered across the castle chessboard lawn
who play chase while the angry queen unwinds.

Whenever I hear myself talk, I see
horrible demon of hate writhing lost,
so I walk circles, hoping to break free
from the mask of my heart crackled by frost,
but when new pair of wings bursts through my eyes
I return to the palace where God shouts
and fight him for dominion of the skies,
then lie on grass where new apple tree sprouts.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Beach Of My Aching Heart

Beach Of My Aching Heart
© Surazeus
2017 02 21

The old bearded man with wild uncombed hair
slowly sips iced lemonade through cracked lips,
then sets tall glass on windowsill with care,
and watches children in the city park
chase shadows in the greenish twilight glow.

"When I was a boy in small Texas town
I ran around the streets for hours at dusk,
shooting at my friends with a silver pistol.
My step-father killed my mother one night,
when I was a wild sophomore in high school,
and the police dragged him kicking to prison,
so I lived alone in our house two years
before some balding man in a gray suit
knocked on the door one winter afternoon
and explained that they foreclosed the mortgage,
and I had to move away, so I drove
my truck to california where I lived
on the beach, beating drums and chanting poems
I improvised after smoking sweet weed.
One night I dropped a hit of lightning acid
and walked along the beach ten billion years,
dreaming the entire flow of evolution,
each generation of our mortal bodies
transforming like waves rolling on the sand,
and I forgot my name my mother gave me
because I became every single ancestor
who lived on this world for millions of years
since we were the first one-eyed Egg of God.
I realized every god that humans worshipped
was based on the life of some human being
who lead their people through the wilderness,
and taught them how to organize their lives
so they raise children and cultivate food.
Therefore every human who ever lived
is god, conscious in the dream of our brains,
so I am god, and you are god, and we
are all god, and we should love everyone.
For thirty years I lived free off the land,
ignoring the progress of civilization
while keeping to myself in quiet tent.
I cultivated a garden of herbs
in a small valley between two high hills
where people worked in factories all day,
but the owners closed their factories down
then opened factories in Mexico,
and the police burned my small garden of herbs.
Now I hang out at the library all day,
reading novels that I hated in school.
After all these years of my search for truth,
the only reason for life I could find
is to have children by making new life,
so our only real reason to exist
is to make more life in cycle of lust.
I failed in that basic purpose of life
because I never found the right soul mate,
the woman I should marry to have children.
I read a story today in the news
about a bunch of refugees from war
who drowned and washed up on the dusty shore
near a small town in Libya called Zawiya.
I saw a photograph that showed the face
of one young woman with curling black hair
whose angular face and elegant nose
struck my heart with anguish of aching love,
and now I know that she was my soul mate,
the one woman I was destined to marry.
I lost her before we could ever meet,
and I will never even know her name,
but her divine face is burned in my heart
forever, at least till the day I die.
My true love and soul mate I longed to find
lies dead on the beach of my aching heart.
I should have learned how to program computers
since that is how everyone works today,
then I could have married her in a mosque,
and I could have bought a house and two cars,
and we could have raised children with our love
who would be a physicist and an artist.
Instead I wander the streets of this town
without a job or home, and sit all day
in the library, reading fantasy,
so now the soul that beams from my coiled genes
will vanish forever like fire in rain."

The old bearded man with wild uncombed hair
finishes drinking his iced lemonade,
then picks up the novel Animal Farm
and sits by the window, staring at words
that swirl like June bugs on warm summer nights.

Missiles On Cuba Island

Missiles On Cuba Island
© Surazeus
2011 04 18

Midnight gloom of black rainless clouds
crouches, glaring over Washington Columbia,
capital city over United States of America,
as lightning flashes silent above White House
where President Kennedy in gloomy Oval Office
glares out clear window over our vast globe,
like crystal eye peering through future mist
to navigate ship of state past perilous rocks.

I grope blind through prickly political maze,
without benefit from thread of Ariadne,
to stand firm against violent brutal threats
with Sword of Justice, forged from star-stone
by King Arthur, shining light of great Camelot,
whose noble deeds, defending his homeland,
form template to guide my courageous acts
when Russian bear behind Iron Wall of fear
growls, baring nuclear missiles in sharp teeth.

When I first saw satellite photos of missiles,
planted in soil of Cuba by Russian Cossacks,
like safari hunters setting traps of sharp spikes
to impale lion of capital competition with spite
of jealous hatred for our complex way of life,
which values liberty and equal justice for all,
I saw clear evidence, printed in black and white,
exposing vile tricks to threaten our homeland,
in shock of rage at wicked outrageous gall
that Russian bear sneaks into our backyard.

What narrow path through hidden missiles,
like jagged rocks menacing our safe passage,
blanketed by innocent waves of sparkling light,
I must navigate to steer America to paradise
on white-sand shores of Cuba, once paradise
for vacationers and gangsters from cold north,
but now menacing paradise where sly snake
of greed hides, slithering in sweet Tree of Life,
poised ready to strike at our exposed throat.

O America, nation of people from every land,
sweet land of Liberty from sea to shining sea,
home of brave and free men with noble hearts,
and beautiful bold women with visions of love,
and children with innocent eyes full of hope,
land of democracy and equal justice for all,
constructed with grand cities of steel and brick,
fortress America whose borders are secure
yet open, welcoming poor and hungry and tired,
where persecuted people may come to build
new lives in American dream with opportunity
to earn wealth by honest labor of strong hands,
you are exposed to annihilation of hot death.

Nuclear missiles on Cuba Island, standing tall
as silver gleaming bullets of atomic annihilation,
aimed steaming to roar on heartless flames
this horrible hour at brink of shocked abyss,
could rain in one hour flames of apocalypse
from fierce wrath of blind heaven, and destroy
this paradise of freedom to pursue happiness
we love, in white obliterating flash of searing heat
blasting vast metropolitan mazes of mankind
to shuddering swirls of wailing bodiless ghosts.

How firm can I stand against nuclear missiles
shivering our hearts in October Caribbean Crisis
by waving Sword of Justice, but thin metal blade,
and zap a dozen titanic blades of atomic death
to prevent them from blasting cities of people
to dust while I huff and puff like a weary wolf,
threatening to blow down Iron Wall of defiance,
when little bald bear Khrushchev growls in rage,
pointing to nuclear missiles that we installed
in Galatian hills, where Jesus first established
seven churches against brutal swords of Rome
populated by slaves he freed from gold mines.

Freedom rings from my heart in cool defiance,
echoing hymns from purple mountain majesties,
to grip tight and confirm my soul in self-control,
true liberty in law of respect and balanced force,
by acknowledging error of judgment to hide
nuclear missiles in Turkey too close to Iron Wall,
reflected in their retaliation to hide sharp blades
of fear in missiles on Cuba Island for protection
against clear threat in strategic game of power.

How can I stake lives of innocent civilians,
one hundred eighty six million in United States
who live with hope like peasants toiling in fields,
two hundred eighteen million in Soviet Union
who live with fear like pawns on vast chessboards,
where premier and president play with pawns,
like cards we gamble for prize of moral authority,
exposing four hundred million people to fires
of scorching hell released at crack of doom?

Shall I wear gold mask of righteous liberty
to fight against tyranny of monolithic state,
which oppresses its people to control thought
by forcing all to mouth platitudes of ideology
rather than seek truth in democratic debate,
Eagle of America up against Bear of Russia
face to face, implacable enemies of steel resolve
throwing punches in boxing match of strength
to prove who is stronger with moral rectitude,
yet give no foot lest other stake a wasted mile,
and plant more nuclear missiles on Cuba Island?

Or, while standing strong with bold courage
in firm resolve, attempt to negotiate for peace
by offering to remove missiles from Galatia
in return for them removing missiles from Cuba,
by fair exchange of give and take on equal foot
to prevent atomic annihilation of all we love,
for would I sacrifice millions of human lives
to prove superiority of democratic justice,
yet recognize their act of aggression is fear
disguised behind growls of nuclear missiles?

I miscalculated move in our chess game
of global domination for power of truth
when I continued plans of political fight,
organized by our previous administration,
to support invasion of Cuba by secret gangs,
funded by criminal gangsters of Chicago,
whose tricks helped me win close election,
as I returned favors, giving them free rein
to retake lush island of gambling paradise
by allowing them to land at Bay of Pigs
where exiles and spies got bogged in muck
and captured by loyal followers of Fidel
who fears I plan to invade that island again.

What divine angel of history was sent
from providence to protect Fidel Castro
who strides across that little island, bold
to preach on crowded plaza of revolution
as doves land on his shoulder in sunrays,
like Hercules swinging strong club of justice
to chase mafia gangsters of Chicago out,
whose greedy crimes against innocent folk
aroused wrath of justice against their heads,
and provided bearded Zeus right of truth
to establish communism in our back yard,
hissing as a wiley serpent in tree of paradise?

Standing, like Churchill firm against Hitler,
to prevent fascist oppression of our state,
I sent iron ships bristling powerful bombs
to blockade access to little island of rebels,
preventing Russian ships on glittering waves
from delivering more missiles of cruel threat,
yet I will call Khrushchev on our red telephone
with offer that we remove missiles from Galatia
in return for him evacuating missiles from Cuba
to ensure peace preserves vitality of Earth,
though we may shiver still in mutual cold war.

I stand tall, staring down into abyss of death,
and envision our world wasted by atomic fire,
great cities of steel and glass shattered by fear,
frail bones of millions of people bleached
and cracked in shimmering wasteland heat,
when all hopes and dreams of aching hearts
are blasted to nothing, and from nothing songs
of wordless wind howl over our democracy,
for what good is Liberty if every soul is dead?

We must back away from this bleak abyss
of bottomless terror that gapes flames of hell,
and shake hands in agreement to maintain
security through mutual assured destruction,
for if we go to war, hurling missiles in rage,
both sides will suffer catastrophic destruction,
and two great civilizations, that have grown
from strength of Caesar and love of Christ,
will blast our heavens into a bitter wasteland,
when we could share this globe in paradise.

Midnight gloom of black rainless clouds
dissipates over sprawling Washington Columbia,
and morning sunlight of illuminating dawn
beams down in gold rays above White House
where President Kennedy, in bright Oval Office,
gazes out clear window over our vast globe,
and sees shining path through future mist,
illuminated clear by liberty and justice for all,
to navigate ship of state past perilous rocks,
then dials red telephone to negotiate peace.

Monday, February 20, 2017

Soul Of Apples

Soul Of Apples
© Surazeus
2017 02 20

Richard lounges on wet grass under tree
heavy with pungent green apples that shimmer
in rays of sunlight beaming through scattered clouds
that splashed the running hills with silver laughter.

Twisting gold curls of hair around her finger,
Evelyn caresses his cheek with sad smile,
then fills his wood cup with more apple cider,
and kisses his throat while he drinks it down.

Wiping his mouth he laughs, then kisses fast
her sun-red lips, which makes her blue eyes sparkle
so she drapes her plump arms around his neck,
and sighs while licking his soul on her lips.

"You drink so much apple cider, my love,
I believe you now have sweet soul of apples,
so their dreams sparkle in words of your heart
since your eyes shimmer green as fruit of life."

Richard gazes down into her blue eyes
and sees vision of a rainbow-winged serpent
slithering through branches of apple tree,
then imagines that he would snatch it quick.

"When I look at the round blue sky above
I think the world is contained in your eyes,
so I want to dive in lake of your soul
and drink soul cider from cup of your heart."

Evelyn whispers hot breath in his ear.
"Fill my heart with holy spirit of love
so I may reincarnate your gentle soul
and teach our son how to brew apple cider."

Richard breathes deep apple scent of her breast.
"I will always protect your soul from danger
and teach our daughter how to sing sweet spells
that enchant minds of people with pure wisdom."

I examine my eyes in the clear mirror
which shows a green ring surrounded by blue,
like a lush island in the sparkling ocean,
and perceive their love story in its glow.

I pour apple cider in glass of ice
then watch sunlight shimmer on the small lake
which preserves name of every conscious soul
who ever lived in the dream of our world.


Sunnydale Retirement Home

Sunnydale Retirement Home
© Surazeus
2012 08 10

Soak wood in water, heat it over flame,
and bend beams in elegant curves to build
boat that glides smooth on rippling river waves.

Waves slap wood hull while she holds fishing line
and watches white clouds glow in silver sky,
and glitter sunlight that dazzles my eyes.

Disconnect my mind from anchoring tree
and lost I float on waves of dreaming hope
from truth that drops ripe apple of temptation
in grasping hand, before sunset dissolves
timeless landscape of meadow and calm lake.

What is more secure and real, tree or truth
with roots of words soaking dreams from my mind?

I spit apple seeds in river-bank grass.
Hopping robins eat seeds, then flutter wings,
and carry my discarded words to nests
where baby birds keep memories I lost.

Solid Earth feels strange when I step from boat
to anchor rope on trunk of ancient oak.
We snuggle in boat rocked by gentle waves
and watch stars weave our minds in one dream.

Who knows what he is thinking, that old man
in wheelchair staring at highway of cars.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Return With Book Of Truth

Return With Book Of Truth
© Surazeus
2017 02 19

I follow the road to the river shore
to escape the city of greed and noise
and watch the water that flows without care
down the mountains to the shimmering sea.

I hear the voices of people cry out
but the wind carries their words of desires
to hide among dead trees in the waste land
but I carve their dreams on the mountain cliff.

I pluck ripe fruit preserving the sunlight
that grows on the tree of wisdom and love
then walk alone on the trail with no signs
while people riot in the city square.

I see the face of the man who plays king
beaming on the cracked television screen
after he broke a thousand angel wings
and stamps new coins in the money machine.

I feel the whirling hurricane of war
building to a frenzy for twenty years
descend from the mountain of singing stones
to destroy the palace where kings play god.

I feel hard rain falling to soak my eyes
when the voice of truth blowing in the wind
proclaims new name for the nation of fools
which enslaves all minds with new set of rules.

The woman in white, whom only I can see,
commissions I return with book of truth
to preach her vision in the city square
but I tend my garden by the bright stream.



Forty-Two Roads

Forty-Two Roads
© Surazeus
2017 02 18

When I climb the mountain of singing snow
the blind woman gives me blank dreamless book
so I walk the streets where laughing doors fly
and take masks from strangers who have no names
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

Through whispering play of origami dance
she teaches me how to find memories
that vanish at dawn on butterfly wings
and sketch their true secrets on melting snow
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

Though life is a journey on changing road
the final destination that all find
is death that folds our souls like stateless flags
transformed to wings of ravens who love words
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

I scatter blocks of letters on the floor
but watch my mother talk about the light
that gleams through windows frosted with blue snow,
and rearrange them all in epic songs
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

Faster than wind in long white cotton gown
she runs along the river of my eyes
and weaves telephone lines across the hills
to connect our thoughtless tongues with gold rays
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

The letters I carve on trunks of young oaks
transform from Runes to children with three eyes
who snatch jewel of my heart and run away
so I pretend I own the sparkling skies
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

While stumbling alone in dark maze of doors
that lock me out of the garden of fruit
I see her standing on the pyramid
glowing white with love of ten thousand stars
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

I give her the book now filled with new tales,
eager for reward from her generous hands,
but she burns it to ash in flames of time
causing my characters to spring to life
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

Each person I dream from the skull of lies
appears before me on mountain of dreams
and places sweet apple inside my mouth
that blossoms new tree from soil of my brain
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

My arms transform into feathered wings
and words I carved as Runes on mountain cliff
shoot arrows of light into eyes of readers
and tears of sorrow nourish our sad souls
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

I place signs with names on forty-two roads
till mother with ten thousand eyes proclaims
at last I mature into noble man
and transforms my soul into wordless child
then walk forty-two roads on quest for truth.

Friday, February 17, 2017

Victoria In Stonehenge

Victoria In Stonehenge
© Surazeus
2017 02 17

Through ancient oak forest, where silver mist
sparkles from moonlight that beams through clouds,
young Victoria in white cotton gown glides
along the lush shore of the silver stream.

Through branches where ravens flutter long wings
young Victoria hears eerie melody
of silver voice shimmering on midnight breeze
which draws her among asphodels.

Through tangled vines that part at her soft touch,
young Victoria steps into ring of stones
where ancient woman with long silver hair
sings heart-aching melody on large stone.

"My Albrecht rode forth on prancing white horse
to protect our home from invading hordes
but he never returned to my warm arms
so he must lie dead in cold field of mud."

Through cobwebs that flutter in midnight breeze,
young Victoria climbs steps up ancient stone
and kneels before old woman on oak throne
whose silver eyes shimmer with clear moonlight.

Old woman looks up from book on her lap
and turns thick pages that flutter in wind,
sliding her finger along Runes that glow
more silver than moonlight on flowing stream.

"White asphodels blossom from broken skull
of noble Albrecht who reigned by my side
and guarded my life in Alfheim our home,
yet still I hear his bold voice on the wind."

Sitting on Wolf Throne beside the old crone,
Victoria lifts crown that lies among nuts
and wipes its gems clean of cobwebs and dust,
that places it shining on her bowed head.

"I reigned as Fairy Queen in ring of stones
that once shone bright with revels of our feast,
foundation for hall of oak walls and cone roof,
but Stonehenge now lurks empty on vast plain."

Her eyes shimmer bright as moonlight on lake
as ancient crone, once Fairy Queen of Light,
gazes at ghosts of her friends who once danced,
singing weird tales at round tables of fruit.

Through silver mist drifting among tall stones,
young Victoria almost sees dancing ghosts,
and almost hears tone of their voices ring
on the wind that swirls hair around her face.

Alone in Stonehenge at dawn she awakes,
young Victoria wearing white cotton gown,
and long black hair flows like raven wings,
as she dances and sings in gold sunlight.



Thursday, February 16, 2017

House With No Doors

House With No Doors
© Surazeus
2017 02 16



While sitting alone in house with no doors,
the girl with no eyes weaves wings for my feet,
but I pause at the thought of more world wars
and listen to the song of freezing sleet.

Behind me in gloom of my humming home
I hear the whisper of the girl in white
who opened the door when I ceased to roam
and taught me the secret of drinking light.

I open the book of pages I made
and trace on the blankness of resigned hope
the shape of faces I dream in the shade
while counting stars that teach me how to cope.

More people are shot on the street each day
before they can carve the mask of their soul
so I try to map the forgotten way
while setting myself new transcendent goal.

I turn around at the sense of her thought
but cannot see her eyes in evening mist
so I return to where the battle was fought
and wonder why they no longer exist.

We sat around the fire in ring of stones,
sharing tales about our journeys to find
the fountain where we leave their ancient bones
but now I wander in maze of my mind.

I know I remember her secret name
and why she turned away without a smile
but I thought we were just playing a game
and now I stand on the wave-battered isle.

Beyond the wall of paradise I built
she calls my name to give her the door key
so I crown her with gold from aching guilt
and proclaim that she is now Liberty.

I stand by the wall for ten thousand years,
watching my mothers and fathers explore
lush river valleys where apple trees bloom
and feel clear sunrise flash through open door.

I laugh till my face is wet with sweet tears
while reading my life in ancient bookstore
then shift my car through seven higher gears
and fly among clouds where the eagles soar.

Before the moon explodes in butterflies
I light the flame of truth in the brass grail
and tell my children why everyone dies
then we stroll and sing down the signless trail.

The caged bird in the abandoned church sings
which teaches me to always question why
we clumsy humans are not born with wings
and sit on hills while we stare at the sky.

The woman in white with long golden hair
teaches me to write spells in Book of Tales
so I write your name with blood of my eyes
then wander west where the sun never dies.

While writing alone in house with no doors,
I bind angel wings she wove to my feet,
then sing about heroes who stopped world wars
in tune with prophecy of freezing sleet.


Time Dilation

Time Dilation
© Surazeus
2016 04 21

Trees sway in wind on shore of flowing stream
where Andrew and Peter stand beside road,
watching motor cars chug past horse-drawn carts.

Gazing at gold watch ticking on his wrist,
Andrew adjusts purple top hat and grins.
"In new theory of relativity,
proffered by young brilliant genius, Einstein,
time dilation refers to difference
in process from motion of elapsed time
between two events of functioning objects
as measured by individual observers
who are moving relative to each other
or are situated at far locations
either on one gravitational mass
or on different gravitational masses."

Peter runs down the road, then stops and turns,
and silly-walks straight toward him in slow motion,
till face they face they stand on country road.
"We dilated time in motion of will,
since everything in our vast universe
is masses of matter moving in motion,
causing time to dilate as we move fast
or slow toward each other in shining space.
Let us test time dilation in your car."

Racing fast they leap into motor car,
and Andrew turns wheel as they fly down road,
laughing wild as the world around them blurs
into swirling streaks of green, brown, and blue.
After driving forty miles through the woods,
down country lanes and along gushing streams,
they stop in little village at cafe
where people gather to admire their car.

Peter laughs while looking at his gold watch.
"Another aspect I think we can agree
about time dilation is how we raced
swifter through time over many long miles.
We traveled forty miles in just one hour,
whereas when walking on our tromping feet
we cover that same distance over land
in over four hours, exhausting our strength.
We dilated time when we traveled faster
from point to point on our huge spinning world."

Andrew winks at crowd of children and grins.
"This is our time machine because we zoomed
ten thousand miles around the entire world
in just one hour that the world spins in space."
All the children cheer and beg for a ride.

Master Of Lizards

Master Of Lizards
© Surazeus
2016 04 21

Two teachers call children to come inside
and laugh when teeming crowd of little faces,
that glow gold from the late winter sunlight,
swirl in chaotic joy of carefree life.

June Martin shakes her head with loving smile.
"When I was studying Latin literature
in college, I remember reading satire
number three by Juvenal that depicts
the master of lizards who tries to herd
wild creatures who have a will of their own."

June extends her arm toward sky of white clouds.
"Live loving sheep and tending a trim garden
to host a feast for a hundred Pythagoreans.
It is something, in whatever place or haven,
to be a master of even one lizard."

Daniel pauses and looks up at her face.
"My lizard tried to eat my cat last week."

Contours Of Your Soul

Contours Of Your Soul
© Surazeus
2016 04 06

I want to explore contours of your soul.
I want to kiss you and make you feel whole.
Your hands heal with your loving caress.
Each day I will love you more not less.
No matter what you say or do to me
I love you because your love sets me free.
I love you means I want the best for you
so I expect nothing back as my due.
The more I give the more my heart is full.
I set you free the more I feel your pull.
I want to see the dreams that glow your eyes.
When we discuss our hopes we grow more wise.
I want to comprehend truth of your soul
because together we compose new whole.

Why Did You Shoot

Why Did You Shoot
© Surazeus
2016 04 02

Why did you shoot my best friend in cold blood?
He was like a brother to me, who helped
guide me on confusing ways of this world,
keeping me honest with his words of truth.

We were just hanging out on Friday night
at the city park, meeting up with friends,
and listening to good music to relax.
Why did you shoot my best friend in cold blood?

This city park belongs to every one
so we can play our music like we want
so we ignored you when you called us names.
Why did you shoot my best friend in cold blood?

When I was twelve, two gangstas selling drugs
tried to convince that I would get rich,
but my best friend kept me safe from their lies.
Why did you shoot my best friend in cold blood?

We called the police who are coming soon
so you can run fast but you cannot hide
because we got your face on video.
Why did you shoot my best friend in cold blood?

Though he is bleeding from his staring eyes
I know the doctors will keep him alive
because I need him on the road of life.
Why did you shoot my best friend in cold blood?

We Choose Our Own

We Choose Our Own
© Surazeus
2016 02 14

The candidate running for president
who has the most genetic relatives
living among the general population
of the nation from sea to shining sea
always wins election as president.
Though they scatter across the boundless land
to interbreed with countless other tribes,
that weaves them all together with their genes,
their descendants will recognize each other
when they meet, and feel an instant rapport.
Blood is thicker than ideology,
connecting minds of people who all sprang
from one common ancestor in one tribe,
so we choose our own to play president.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Run For Treasure

Run For Treasure
© Surazeus
2016 06 26

Pool of water shimmers in granite hole,
reflecting gold sunlight in piercing rays.
"Rays of light weave eagle wings for my soul
so I may fly forward through morning haze."

Young woman wearing horse-hide cloak stands still
by river that splashes over smooth stones.
"So many ways that I could walk spread out
from this center point where I stand alone.
Now all I must do is assert my will
and cause myself to step toward distant goal.
My goal is to find on some distant hill
curling vines that bear sweet delicious grapes
for I can taste them now on thirsty tongue,
calling me to travel from ring of stones
were I hide from monsters in misty woods."

Her heart beats fast at sudden howl in woods
so she breathes deep and crouches among trees,
shrinking into shadows of quiet cool,
and watches for pack of wolves running wild.
"I cannot cower in shadows of fear,
forever tormented by anguish of hope.
Sweet taste juicy grapes on my thirsty tongue,
sparking my soul bright with warm light of love."

Gripping oak branch with trembling hands, she leaps
from copse of tangled trees, and lopes toward hill
where grape vines curl thick trunks of oaks,
but gasps when large gray wolf snaps at her heels.
Breathing deep bright air to cool burning lungs,
she runs toward small cavern hidden by veil
of willow leaves that rustle in soft breeze,
but jumps on rock and glares down at red eyes.

Wolf snarls, arching its back that bristles fur,
then leaps and snaps sharp teeth to rip her throat,
but leather-cloaked girl twirls oak branch and howls,
whacking its head with swift terrified blows,
till hungry beast lies limp, dead at her feet.
Weeping and gasping for breath, young girl
carves dead wolf and roasts its meat over flames,
then scrapes hide clean, smoking it for three days,
and wraps herself warm when moon glitters gold.

When she wakes at dawn, she finds small wolf pup
curled beside her heart, sniffing at soft fur
of her mother, and gazes in her eyes
with silver eyes that gleam with tender love.
Walking together along gushing stream,
young girl and baby wolf leap and play chase,
then arrive on high hill where grape vines grow,
so they sit together and eat plump grapes,
and snuggle as they watch the sun set red.

Young woman wearing wolf-fur cloak sits still,
caressing young wolf who licks her warm hand.
"I ran for treasure and fought for my life,
and then found you, greatest treasure of all."

Guarding Our Garden

Guarding Our Garden
© Surazeus
2017 02 15

No matter how long it takes, Liberty
will always triumph over cruel dictators
through assertion of justice for all people.
We herd large flocks of horses, cows, and sheep
to plow fields, squirt milk, and weave wool for cloth,
then gather in markets to sell our goods.
We work and we feast in our own paradise,
guarding our garden where our children play.

We claw the soil of the Earth with our hands
and plant fresh seeds of vegetables and fruit
to cultivate food for our feast of friends.
We carve the hard wood of trees with our hands
to construct wagons and homes for our lives
where we gather to share songs about heroes.
We work and we feast in our own paradise,
guarding our garden where our children play.

We give and take produce in fair commerce,
exchanging metal coins to buy and sell,
tokens of value that symbolize work.
We choose one man to preside in law hall
who settles disputes with justice for all,
treating every person with equal rights.
We work and we feast in our own paradise,
guarding our garden where our children play.

But always the man with the sword and gun,
ruling in the castle and driving cars,
declares grand laws to govern how we work.
He stands on the pyramid and plays god,
promising protection for taxes we pay,
then feasts on our labor while we work more.
We work and we feast in our own paradise,
guarding our garden where our children play.

Come gather, workers, wherever you roam,
and elect honest man as president
who leads us to overthrow greedy kings.
No matter how long it takes, Liberty
will always triumph over greedy kings
through assertion of justice for all people.
We work and we feast in our own paradise,
guarding our garden where our children play.

Lament Of Faithful Mars

Lament Of Faithful Mars
© Surazeus
2013 02 14

Alone I wander, searching for my love,
meanwhile I catch and roast a turtledove
I eat by flickering firelight under stars,
and wait for sweet Venus while I play Mars.

I saw her last beneath old apple tree,
crushing fruit to juice she gave away free
I drink by flickering firelight under stars,
then strut about, pretending to be Mars.

I carve idol of her face from white stone,
and watch sunset on the sea, still alone,
then weep by flickering firelight under stars,
hoping Venus will return to her Mars.

My flesh melts away into mindless dirt
long after my heart becomes jagged chert,
and rot by flickering firelight under stars,
wondering why Venus forgot faithful Mars.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Atoms Evolving Into God

Atoms Evolving Into God
© Surazeus
2017 02 14

I become everything when I realize
I am nothing, a collection of atoms
who sing together in web of my brain.

Alone they are nothing but sparks of light,
these hot atoms that formulate my brain,
pulsing with passion to construct my soul,
yet together in wave-shimmering web
these atoms generate weird virtual world
that bulges in bubble of consciousness.

I partake in the essence of all things
as part and parcel of the swirling mass
of mindless molecules, flashing with lust, 
that coagulate into dreaming brains.

We are atoms evolving into God,
concept of conscious creator of life
that we invented based on tribal kings
who organize our labor to maintain
stable social order so all may eat.

Will our entire universe of stars
evolve into vast crystal web of souls
so we may soar on wings of flashing light,
spirits huge as planets with thousand eyes
of dreaming brains, along rivers of flame
to dance around enormous Black Hole Eye
and sing ecstatic hymns of laughing love?

When I look in the mirror at my face
I see every ancestor who once lived
and woke from dream to comprehend this world
in vivid hour of insight when they fought
aggressive hunters to devour their souls,
and survived death to live another day,
for all their life-memories are programmed
in mythic code that designs virtual world
which glows bright in galaxy of my brain.

I feel essence of everything I see
sizzling bright with the flashing sparks of atoms
that flow from the sun in shimmering waves.

Pausing on the sidewalk in college town,
small and fragile in golden Palouse hills,
I stare at the sun gleaming rays of light,
and see enormous Spider weaving life
of all organic creatures on this world.

O Giant Sun Spider Goddess, I cry,
mindless creator who weaves dreaming brain
of my soul from swirls of hot molecules,
I am your eye perceiving you with love
as you wind my body tight with sweet lust
to procreate more worshippers of truth.

I become every creature who exists
when I vanish to nothing but eye-brain
sparkling in vast web of atomic light
and we all sing together when we wake.

I become One God when I realize
there is no omniscient God who made life,
at least not yet, for we organic brains
are all atoms evolving into God.

Circus Of This Life

Circus Of This Life
© Surazeus
2016 01 21

When John joins his best friend Bill at the bar
he slaps his back and asks how well he fares,
and with bitter resignation Bill smirks,
then shakes his head as he quaffs pint of beer.

"I am a clown in the circus of this life.
I drive to work on the highway of lost souls
and work all day in the office of despair
then drive home to silence with my bitter wife."

John leans forward, gazing into his eyes,
and tries to kiss him, but Bill jumps away,
knocking over his beer, then strides outside
to walk nowhere under stars sharp as ice.

"My wife hates me and my best friend is gay
and my boss gives me too much work to do
and my father was flat broke when he died
and my son ignores me with snarky sneers."

Pushing through grimy door into dark bar,
Bill slouches on a stool and orders beer,
then turns to watch the comedian on stage
who cracks lewd jokes about women and gays.

"This crazy world is so full of vile hate,
sizzling with electric buzz of despair,
that searing pain rams needles in my brain,
so I feel my rotting soul will explode."

Slamming shut door of his red pickup truck,
Bill cranks rock and roll on the radio,
then loads his rifle and cruises the streets,
gliding slow with streams of bright metal cars.

"This great nation where I was born and raised
now teems with criminals and atheists
who hate Jesus and deny God exists,
so I should kill them all to cleanse our land."

Spotting crowd of teenagers at the park,
Bill aims rifle and pulls the trigger tight,
delighting in the vicious snapping pops
as bullets splatter bodies with his pride.

"The good Lord God in heaven appoints me
as righteous angel of merciful death,
and commissions me to cleanse our great nation
of filthy scum like you, so burn in hell!"

Bill laughs as he fires bullets at their heads
then races down the street, honking horn loud,
as they vanish into shadows of fear,
then hunts again for atheists to kill.

Sirens wail as nine police cars appear,
aiming beams of light and guns at his face,
but when they demand that he drop his gun
Bill guns engine and races down the road.

Wailing loud like demons escaped from hell,
police chase him down the crowded highway,
and he screams that he is angel of death
as his truck skids sideways into the wall.

Screaming in agony as hot flames burn
his writhing body, Bill tries to escape
and aims rifle at shadows in gold light,
so they shoot blaze of bullets at his heart.

Stumbling in horror, Bill falls on his back,
and twirls around and around in vast sky
of black nothing, and stares into deep void
of blinding pain at the white light of truth.

"My pain dissolves and melts away like snow
in spring sunlight that gleams through apple trees
when Tammy first lured me to her backyard
and we kissed in the twilight of sweet love."

Police secure the scene while medics bear
his burned corpse away in the ambulance
and flames of his car are doused to black smoke
while journalists record his tragic fate.

Sitting alone in quaint suburban home,
John watches story on the evening news,
and wipes tears from his cheeks as he drinks beer,
then turns the television off and stares.

"You are a clown in the circus of this life.
We are all clowns as we seek to fulfill
desires of our hearts for friendship and love,
but some of us wander lost in the dark."


Seed Of His Eyes

Seed Of His Eyes
© Surazeus
2017 02 14

I am not dead yet so I have to write
poetry with ink of blood from my eyes
that paints memories on scroll of the sky
how every ancestor ten thousand years
hunted and roasted animals to eat
then copulated under raining stars
to generate children springing from dirt
who spread across the land in roving gangs
then organized their hands to bake hard bricks
and build high pyramid where he can sit
to reign as fire god while worshipping priests
capture travelers and roast them on flames
to feast on hearts and brains while singers dance
and chant the glory of his victories
till lithe young warrior escapes from chains
and twirls gold scepter forged from falling star
to battle guards and crack their fragile skulls
then leaps up pyramid stairs with loud howl
to plunge sharp spear into the heart of god
then drags him out before huge screaming crowd
to smash his divine skull and snatch his crown
then proclaims himself god who rules the world
so he impregnates one thousand young girls
and crowns five hundred sons as noble kings
on pyramids from sea to shining sea
and thus his fierce lust glows in all our hearts
to multiply and colonize the world
for we all spring from the seed of his eyes.

Monday, February 13, 2017

Alice In Office Hell

Alice In Office Hell
© Surazeus
2015 12 18

Pausing at the glass door of the clean bank,
Alice shudders sick at the memory
of her new boss, Paul, caressing her back,
and smiling as he says, with leering eye,
"How pretty you are, my sweet honey pie."

Walking to the small park across the street,
where young children play while their mothers watch,
Alice sits on the bench by an oak tree
in her elegant business suit and cries.
"I need to earn money to pay the bills,
buy food to eat, and pay for my new car,
and it will take me thirty years to pay
the student loan for my business degree.
I am trapped in this clean and shiny hell
where I earn less than men for the same work.
I wish I could escape to live in peace
but I will not jump from a tower roof
like Evelyn McHale to escape hell,
for I love my life and want to enjoy
all the pleasures available to those
who work hard to earn a fair living wage.
I will ignore him and do my job well."

Alice stands and smooths her elegant skirt
then walks bold across the busy street,
determined to grow beyond his abuse,
and a red shiny car crushes her life.

Mesanoia

Mesanoia
© Surazeus
2015 08 15

Paranoia is the belief
that the universe is conspiring against us.

Pronoia is the belief
that the universe is conspiring for us.

Neither are true, for the universe
is merely indifferent to our existence.

The universe is not conscious.
Since only we organic creatures
are conscious inside the mind,
I will use the word Mesa for inside,
and Noia for dreaming Mind.

Mesanoia is the belief
that the universe is indifferent to us,
that only organic creatures with brains
are conscious and see ourselves
reflected back in the vast universe.

Psychotic Beasts

Psychotic Beasts
© Surazeus
2015 06 03

We float through the open door of our eyes
and soar on the broken wings of lost faith
to play hide and seek in the field of lies
and listen amused to the singing wraith,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

We open the book of old shepherd tales
and hide our real faces with ancient masks
to replay the roles of dead gods and kings
in social games with no reason or rhyme,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

We stand in the temple of freezing stone
and drink sweet blood of our savior as wine
then walk windy heath in horror alone
to talk with crows on the telephone line,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

I step outside glass door of the clean church
and stare at gold hills of the rugged coast
where ocean waves weep with angelic tunes
and blind prophet carves his own secret runes,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

My ancestors walked in mountains of snow,
your ancestors walked in deserts of sand,
together we dance in American hills,
teaching our children to sing new-made songs,
now that we are ruled by psychotic beasts
disguising themselves as pastors and priests.

Chess City Of Computers

Chess City Of Computers
© Surazeus
2015 05 12

Alone in backseat of the bouncing car,
Tammy gazes at billowing wind-fluffed trees
that shimmer green and yellow in bright rays
that beam through glass in flashing ghost of eyes.

I wish I could fly over city maze
that stretches around me in gliding car
like chess board filled with square castles of brick
and see entire set of buildings and people.

Where is the king now, the slick politician
in a pinstripe suit with flashing cell phone,
smiling at television cameras
as he preaches rich empty promises?

Where is the queen now, the glamorous model
in a shimmering gown and diamond tiara,
gazing from her billboard that advertizes
evening talk show that everybody watches?

Where is the knight now, the real estate agent
driving around town in a shiny car
to help families find the perfect home,
and files paperwork to prove ownership?

Where is the priest now, the popular preacher
strutting on stage in the large crowded church
as he waves the bible of ancient tales
and deceives us that we will rise from death?

Where is the rook now, the tall steel-glass tower
filled with rows of computers blinking bright
that link billions of minds alive on Earth
in world wide web of universal soul.

Turning on her glowing tablet computer,
Tammy posts photos and writes messages
to her friends who live all over the globe,
sharing fun tales and jokes about their lives.

Another Bloody World War

Another Bloody World War
© Surazeus
2015 03 07

So what if another bloody world war
is about to explode around our globe
and destroy millions of innocent people
in wild howling flames of greed and despair.
This weird ball of dirt and water that spins
alone in vast infinite void of stars
shivers sick, crowded with foul infestation
of too many mouths, and needs to be cleansed
of our greed as we transform natural world
from lush vibrant hills of flowers and trees
into hard sterile waste land of cement
and steel glass towers full of mindless robots.
I hope we survive the bloody world war,
transforming into one united tribe.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

Empress Orange Of Stonehenge

Empress Orange Of Stonehenge
© Surazeus
2016 04 29

When I landed my starship on lush isle
and transformed to a wolf in moonlight,
I saw the ancient druid inside Stonehenge
chanting spells and protecting a fresh orange.

When beautiful girl with flowing red hair
gazed down at me with sky-blue shining eyes
I vowed to overcome each daunting challenge
to acquire and treasure the sweet young orange.

I crept up the spiral stairs of his tower
to taste the flower of his precious daughter
but the druid woke at creak of the door hinge,
and chanted spells that obscured the fresh orange.

I felt the blow of lightning flashing bright
zap my mind with illusions of despair
but I breathed and stood tall, refusing to cringe,
and ran through labyrinth to find sweet orange.

When I married his cute daughter Miranda
and kissed her on the flower-decked veranda,
the druid came after me for fierce revenge,
chanting spells to repossess his lost orange.

I defeated him in battle of wits,
maneuvering knights till I acquired his key,
then I controlled the whole fertile island range
and reign as guard beside my pretty orange.

Before I crushed his head with wand of power,
sweet Miranda stayed my hand, so I sent
her homeless druid father out to scavenge
for seeds so he can cultivate new orange.

Now I wear gold crown shining diamond eyes
and she reigns well as empress by my side,
sitting together inside ring of Stonehenge,
surrounded by trees that blossom fresh orange.

Development of Human Character

Development of Human Character
© Surazeus
2017 02 12

The development of human character
in the composition of cinematic poetry
is an iterative process of generation
from a real human to a virtual avatar.

All famous characters of poems and tales
are nothing more than virtual avatars
who live nowhere but inside our brains,
because they spring to life from sentences
that someone composed in lines of text
to replicate a real human they knew in life.

First, a real living human of flesh and blood
struggles to survive in a hostile waste land,
then gains new wisdom from experience
which they develop in a vibrant world view
that guides them well with principles of truth,
and all the drama of their actions and speeches
perceived by people who observe their role
will generate inside world view of their brains
a virtual avatar that represents that person
which will persist long after they have died.

Second, that virtual avatar in their memories
will replicate itself from brain to brain in tales
that people tell while traveling across the land,
springing from the words of stories that they sing
so spirit of that person will attain eternal life
through apotheosis of worshipping minds
when stories are written in words on paper
and read by many generations of new-born souls.

Third, the human character of that persona
will enter eternal hall of our memories
and become a God we all love with reverence
so when their name is spoken by our mouths
the virtual avatar of their eternal spirit
will spring to life and play before our eyes,
and thus we worship mortal human characters
as gods who represent the stories of our souls.

Now when you want to photograph your life
and capture fluid visions swirling in your eyes,
focus vibrant energy of human characters
in clear persona based on people you know,
then paint the contours of their immortal soul
expressing itself in their actions and speeches
by arranging words in elegant lines of verse
that mirror their spirit in virtual avatar
who will live clear in minds of dreaming readers
long after our bodies and minds vanish in wind.

All virtual avatars in our stories and poems
spring to life from hungry lust of desire
that motivates some awkward human soul,
and teach us through the drama of their lives
how we may succeed in struggle to survive
and thrive to create paradise of family love
by planting seeds of truth in waste land of fear
so eager children feast on fruit of our best tales.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

My Empty Soul

My Empty Soul
© Surazeus
2017 02

The girl under the tree with giggling leaves
reads a very large book with one blank page
which turns into a turtle without eyes
that gaze in the depths of my empty soul.

The girl grows long curls of red hair which glows
with the light of the moon in misty trees
so she opens my heart like an oak box
and stores seeds she finds in my empty soul.

The girl threads electric wires in my head
that connect my brain to bright machines
which flash in every house around the globe
to invent memories for my empty soul.

The girl without shoes, wearing a white gown,
replaces her eyes with diamonds from stars
which are cameras that beam dreams of our brains
to flash virtual world in my empty soul.

The girl carries my head in leather purse
along with the scepter she stole from Hera
and hero mask she made for me to wear
so I play role that hides my empty soul.

The girl opens her hands to show me gem
that reveals evolution of our world
from molecules that sparkle in our brains
so God emerges from my empty soul.

The girl whispers in my ear at midnight,
explaining how our souls reincarnate,
then she consumes milk flowing from my eyes
to weave new shell that bears my empty soul.

The girl stands naked on flat pyramid
like singing tree that blossoms juicy fruit
and beams bright sunlight through her flashing eyes
when her ripe womb creates my empty soul.


Stop Shooting My Friends

Stop Shooting My Friends
© Surazeus
2015 09 01

The nightly news is an endless addendum
to murder in the Metamorphoses.
I sing fill-in-the-blank ballads of death.
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?

What bright flower, who glowed in fields of life,
lies crushed by hate and leaves our world now dark?
Yet scent of your love still sweetens our hearts.
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?

Onathah, sacred land where I was born
I dance with you today in golden corn.
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?

My right to secure life with my family
overrules your right to carry a gun.
Tend your garden instead of killing people.
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?

When they finish building the wall of fear
towering between Texas and Mexico,
we will all come together on both sides
to smoke weed, eat burgers, and play volleyball.
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?

Socialism without Capitalism is Communism.
Capitalism without Socialism is Fascism.
Capitalism regulated by Socialism is Americanism.
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?

There is nothing more relaxing than sitting
in warm glowing sun beams after lunch
and listening to the pock pock of weapons fire.
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?

The old still-green tree spreading branches wide
among the white clouds of a clear blue sky
preserves the spirit of every small town.
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?

Though today Kiev is a battlefield
between the peoples of Europe and Russia,
someday I hope she will unite as one
our nations in Caucasian brotherhood
for we were first born in her river vales.
Anglonesia springs from heart of Kiev.
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?

Laughing alligators of hunger rise
from swamp of television news to play
game of thrones across the chessboard of money.
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?

"Why do you call me a Christian terrorist?
I killed all those evil abortion doctors
because Jesus said that killing is wrong."
When are you going to stop shooting my friends?


Rain Is God Weeping

Rain Is God Weeping
© Surazeus
2015 04 05

Whenever someone attempts to play humble
they conceal arrogant entitlement,
suppressing passion of selfish desire
to honor rights of people they respect.

Jesus is dead. He did not resurrect
from the dead. Jesus will never return
nor raise anyone from the dead. So live.

Who invokes polemical stiffness, crown
of empires flashing with bright neon lights,
till wars mutate bodies in garden compost?

Millions believe they will be raised from death.
Then they die, we bury them in the ground,
and so we never hear from them again.

I do not need you. I am fine alone.
I want you in my life because I value
who you are in all your rich character.

The preacher waves his bible at the crowd.
"Rain is God weeping in wretched despair
if you do not love him with all your heart."

Hiding inside glass door of pride, he laughs.
"I eat my wings so none can steal my wings."
His tower of gold windows crumbles to dust.

There is no god except my consciousness,
and I am prophet of my own clear will,
so I design my true paradise we share.

Nothing whispers in mute wind of gray fire
but souls scorched to ash by religious wrath
of men who fight for their invented god.

Science presents proof without certainty.
Religion claims certainty without proof.
Science better guides to truth I can trust.

Waste Land Of Modernism

Waste Land Of Modernism
© Surazeus
2015 02 08

Pausing at oak table in shadowed hall
of abandoned palace with broken pillars,
Michael grabs ancient leather Book of Myths
with pale trembling hand of exhausted hope,
but turns startled when locked window slams open
and large owl with gold eyes and long sharp claws
descends on gusting wind to stab his eyes.

Most American poets are still stuck
in the swampy waste land of Modernism,
clinging to the headless statue of Eliot.

Who is that standing now on Parnassos slope,
holding high light of liberty and truth,
and calls poets to climb mountain of tales?

Be honest about nature of your body
so who you are matches what you are well,
and reflects spirit of self you create.

If your art of music and poetry
depends on your puffed personality
and flashy performance on bright-lit stage,
then your art will fade away as you age
and disappear to nothing when you die.
Live the truth instead of living a lie.

If you do not think about me, do I
exist outside flashing dreams of your eyes?
All stars that exist weave one dreaming mind.

I may be gray-haired, half-deaf, gruff, and old,
but I do not wear my clean trousers rolled,
and I did dare disturb the universe
and sing about its state in epic verse.

For the humanist like me who loves reason
and methods of science for finding truth,
Athens is the holy city of wisdom.

He who walks thorn-sharpened trails without shoes
discovers the safest road to paradise,
and will return to show us the true way.

The gray stapler by the succulent orange
remembers every poem thrown in the trash
though the window is cracked from forty winters.

The oracular song of Orpheus glows
with luminous visions of profound hope
that fills my dark heart with urgent desire
to fly swift on wings of breathtaking faith
and dance with exhilarating compassion
on the legendary stage of illusion.

While I drive on long highway of desire
I see infinite tale of human life
written in ever-shifting shapes of clouds.

Writing an epic poem on scientists
is like running a long-distance marathon
one hundred times around the entire world.

Does Simon know he springs from teeming womb
of Anne Bradstreet, that sweet Puritan witch?

I sit under willow tree and paint words
of my dream on fragile butterfly wings.
Kitsune snarls that I wear yellow mask.

I love composing my long epic poem
in the coiled dynamic flow of blank verse.
In college I wanted to be a filmmaker
but I was poor so I took pen and paper
and now write epic poems of philosophers.

I love elegance of well-crafted verse
that undulates like singing tongues of waves
and calls me to swim in infinite light.

I heap up bits of information gleaned
from centuries of scientific research,
history, geography, and anthropology,
to forge epic poem about human life.

True meaning of life is that we invent
our own good reason to love and create
beauty in a meaningless universe.

Half my life was a movie dream I watched.
Then I went out and starred in my own movie.
No one is watching so I can play free.

The Hermead is a vast mountain of action
on which the million little modern lyrics
lie strewn and clack to echo its great song.

I strum my bone harp on Mountain of Hermes
and chant fragments of our lost memories
torn from encyclopedia of dreams.

Turning off the television, he stares
at the bottomless black screen of despair,
then laughs as he stands, and stares out the window
where no children play in the sparkling snow.

Song Of Ourself

Song Of Ourself
© Surazeus
2015 01 01

This frail little rock of water and dirt
infested with wild intelligent creatures
managed to make it intact one more time
spinning around the ball of burning gas.

A poetic story well told about a human life
preserves the fleeting soul of a human,
and thus preserves the soul of a nation.

My head is cluttered with discarded dreams,
ten thousand lost poems I will never write,
your stories you live uncaptured by verse.

Another year the weird world spins around,
sprouting children and flowers from the ground,
so we sing by the river of lost dreams.

So small in vast infinity of space
our ball of dirt and water spins alone,
yet whole vast universe glows in each brain.

I hear the voices of a million people
and we weave our dreams in Song of Ourself
that becomes memories of our global brain.

I found a poem sprouting from squishy muck
of my brain, petals forming from despair,
then song spread wings and my soul flew away.

All my ancestors pulse inside my body,
so imagine the countless teeming millions
of mothers and fathers within my eyes,
and dream the endless journeys of their lives
written in the map of my smiling face.

My skin is red and my eyes are star-black
because my ancestors lived in rain forests
ten thousand years, searching for the lost wind.

My skin is white and my eyes are sky-blue
because my ancestors lived in snow mountains
ten thousand years, searching for the lost sun.

My skin is pink and my eyes are sea-green
because my ancestors lived in jagged hills
ten thousand years, searching for the lost flowers.

My skin is brown and my eyes are night-black
because my ancestors lived in sand deserts
ten thousand years, searching for the lost rain.

I wear masks of every gender and race
and find we share one universal mind
designed by one first mother we all share.

There is only one universe of matter.
Parallel universes are in our heads,
visions springing from our despair and hope,
speculations of how things might have been
if but one word or act was different.

We will all be dead in one hundred years.
My white skin paled in sunless vales of snow.
My blue eyes see more clear on cloudy days.

We are flashing eddies of energy,
swirling into conscious organic minds
who dream as we swim in calm sea of light. 

Our mind is a powerful dream machine
so we must sort through perceptions of hope
and analyze illusions to see truth
that reflects the real world we must perceive.

Desire for the beloved opposite other
sparks desire to perpetuate the self
when two bodies reincarnate the third self.

She weaves the whole world with her dreaming hands,
molding our planet from clay of lost souls
to shape the mask that laughs and cries in turn.

Helium spirals outward in gyrating coils
of expanding cones through triangle loops
that spin in hurricane of constrained sphere.
My brain is dreaming Eye of Helius.

I am weird figment of your imagination
assembled from atoms of humming words
that dance as raindrops blooming into flowers.

The birthday of the body and the mind
initiates the dance of life through hope
to sing and laugh until we all drop dead.

From thundering storm the eye of death stares down
into bottomless abyss of my soul
where choir of angels sing enchanting hymns.

To cut or not to cut, that is the measure
of expansive space composed of small atoms
that spiral infinitesimal galaxies
to weave thin tendrils of our dreaming brains.
We are sparks of one Infinitesimal Soul.


Friday, February 10, 2017

Mask Of First Mother

Mask Of First Mother
© Surazeus
2017 02 10

I open blank door and walk the long hall
toward gold sunlight on the transparent floor,
then stop before the painting on the wall
that shows blonde woman in flowing white gown
who holds book of destiny while she leads
her people far across the wind-swept plain
toward high jagged mountains sparkling with snow,
and wish I walk beside her holding hands.

How often on the journey down long road
from ancient city of our mothers, burned
by angry gangs of men who wield sharp swords,
she hesitated on small hill and stared
at gleaming sunlight to discern true way
of safe passage through waste land of despair,
and sighed wishing she could sing among flowers,
but she persisted, inspired by our faith.

Her gleaming eyes seemed to pierce future mist
and lead us singing to lush river shore
where we constructed temple of white stone
to shelter her from danger of wild storm,
and in its shining hall of wind and light
she sat on throne of stones and proclaimed laws
that teach us principles of honest love
to guide our actions through drama of life.

We trusted words of wisdom from her heart
so much that, when she died while golden moon
gleamed red as blood through mist-shrouded oak trees,
we carved her image from white stone of light
and set inanimate form on her throne,
so when we gather at her feet to pray
and meditate on how she would have ruled
we find her voice singing from all our hearts.

Now when young worshippers arrive in court
and bow before huge statue of our queen
I stand forward and listen to their questions,
then, speaking with voice of our divine leader,
I proclaim words of wisdom from her soul,
but then I linger by statue of gold
to caress her hands and kiss her cold mouth,
and weep with longing to embrace her warmth.

With principles of her wisdom, I guide
our nation to expand beyond old bounds
and lead them forth to conquer many tribes
so we assimilate through intermarriage
all separate tribes into one global clan
by building system to produce more food,
yet strange winds blow when full moon glitters red
and fruit trees blossom from corpse in our graves.

Now slipping from the painting on the wall,
I fall back down into this present world,
and wonder amazed that this splotch of paint
activates ancient memories in my brain,
so I dance around fire at sunset gleam
which pierces hearts of honest men with love
and activate inside my heart her soul
so First Mother gazes out from my eyes.

Alone I stand on hill in sunset gleam
where full moon rises from soft silver mist
and gleams through black branches of apple trees
that will illuminate inside my brain
complex history of human strife for truth
so I will dream each interaction played
by characters on broad stage of my faith
and wear this mask of First Mother I am.

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Laugh At Death

Laugh At Death
© Surazeus
2014 01 12

White glow on black x-ray sheet calculates
searing pain of wisdom that splits my skull.

When I was a young man, decades ago,
people told me I resembled two men
famous about one hundred years ago,
Leon Trotsky and Ezra Pound, two men
no more opposite, mirrors of my ego.

One day we all woke up just before dawn,
our moon blooming as apples in our hands,
and found we are all living in Macondo.

Our right to live in liberty and peace
supersedes your right to carry a gun.

If the funniest man who ever lived,
full of laughter, mocking everything serious,
because he loves everything with deep passion,
decides to exit the comic stage of life,
then I must stay here in this world and laugh
in the face of death till death takes me too.

Every eighty years we erupt in war,
clashing over ideology and land,
and destroy institutions that controlled
process of life in our society,
then build new institutions to maintain
peaceful production of willing wage slaves.

Where do you slouch to now, cruel beast of hate,
nourished by terror through worship of gods?
Spark of outrage burns in frustrated hearts,
fueled by oppression of rich against poor.

I am a reconstructionist philosopher,
reconstructing cathedral of wisdom
in epic poem about history of science.

If I was walking with my friends downtown
would I get shot because my skin is brown?

We must ensure equality for all
who share benefits of democracy,
then we will win against religious hate.

Sweet Onatah, your ancient soul of light
I feel in song of wind that moves my heart
to love this land where you forever shine.

Haunting flute tune in birch wood echoes lost,
and wraps slow beating heart in muffled mist.
Empty raft floats away toward waterfall.

I read so many stories in the news
about people whose careless actions cause
sad death of some other person they loved.
Will they ever feel simple joy again
or will their mind be so forever wracked
with crippling guilt and horror in despair
that they will never regain innocence?

I do not drink sweet coffee to start my day,
therefore I am not a grim growling monster
who needs a cup to mask my eyes with sparks.

I live in the lush land of Onatah,
Corn Maiden who scatters corn in the soil,
and her loving song brings me back to life.

I stand on top an ancient cement wall
that long divided soul of Germany
and dance to celebrate its tyrant fall.

I am pleased that insular America
is maturing and transforming its nature
into a rich multiracial society.

We may have all arrived on different ships,
but everyone is in the same boat now.
We must work together or we will drown.

Memory Of Ocean Waves

Memory Of Ocean Waves
© Surazeus
2014 04 21

He wanders slow in ancient nameless towns,
lingering in shadow of doorways and alleys,
and strums guitar vibrating from starlight
that enchants our hearts with visions of life.

Long live Ishtar, Mother Goddess of Easter,
Mother of Life who generates our bodies
that beam bright with our conscious dreaming souls.

We are reincarnations of our mothers,
eternal soul of First Mother in flesh,
reborn again since dawn of our dream time.

The seed that dies in the soil of desire
will sprout reborn from the flames of true love,
swelling substantial from the tears of hope
to wake from dream as red apples of wisdom.

At this point in time I have been awake
twenty two hours straight toward that last red star
that shimmers still over mount of lost souls
though that star burned out billions of years ago.
The star I see shining so bright in heaven
no longer exists as sphere of hot flames.

We float light in memory of ocean waves
and dream when we were born from Mother Sea,
and crawled river of hope to cave of eyes,
then emerged on shore sand at dawn of time
to dance like flames and sing with ocean waves.

The love in your heart is always your guide
as the light of truth through the darkest night,
for leaders like you blaze the noblest path
through the most difficult jungle of hate,
since those who respect your struggle for justice
outnumber those who fear change you design.

Steel is alloy of iron and copper,
while bronze is alloy of copper and tin.
My soul is alloy of mother and father.

Rich words of Lucretius and Cicero
are seeds that sprouted in the Tree of Knowledge
which nourished rebirth of the Renaissance.

I swim deep sea of dreams on aching quest
to find and savor true flower of your face,
and thus we dance like bees to brew sweet honey.

Red-eyed Crow, why do you bring me pure light
from bleeding moon who told me every secret
hidden inside lost egg of motherhood?

Black holes are dense packs of matter that emit
radiation in fountains of dark matter,
spewing refreshed quarks that become baryons.

Volubilis rota temporis equitemus
quoniam mater stella creat animos.
We ride spinning wheel of time throughout life
because star mother creates all our souls.

Vast Empty Void

Vast Empty Void
© Surazeus
2014 12 31

Warm soft wind brushes against my skin and purrs
when I stroll in languid pleasure from home
after long winter of bone-slicing cold,
to savor sweet scent of blossoming trees
just starting to stir awake in sunrays.

When we look through telescopes at the stars
we are looking into the distant past,
so the bright stars may be crowded with planets
teeming thick with conscious creatures like us,
but we cannot yet see them since star light
speeds through the vast cosmos millions of years
and has not yet beamed in our dreaming eyes.

I love to time-travel in an airplane,
to zoom thousands of miles in a few hours,
far faster than years it would take to walk
across continents and around the world.

I carve map of dreams in dry river mud
to escape tangled limbs of clinging fear,
then follow light beams streaming through rain clouds
that form your face when you smile down at me.

Piercing cry of wordless hope from cold mist
flashes my mind awake from sunless dream.
My footsteps write my tale in wave-washed sand.

I must confess, I have Nyctophilia,
love for quiet darkness of soothing night,
when everyone dances in land of dreams.

I ate pasta for lunch with sweet port wine
and now I am feeling smooth, suave, and fine,
so I stroll slow in warm Georgia sunshine,
thinking about people dying in wars.

Friends will come and go like swift ocean waves,
but faithful friends will stay with you forever,
like an octopus clinging to your face.

Now I understand grief of yellow leaves
plastered by rain all over new white car,
faces of ones I loved in photographs.

Backwards from deep abyss of broken time,
who will try to fly on wings of desire
and soar blind over vast ocean of dreams?

Nothing unusual tonight will occur,
this last dark night of the calendar year.
Just another night in history of time,
our planet spinning in vast empty void.

God In Dreaming Flesh

God In Dreaming Flesh
© Surazeus
2014 02 27

The fool says in his heart with confidence
there is no greedy power-hungry man
who crowned himself king over all our land
and claims to speak for an invisible god.

Novels written two thousand years ago
became the foundation on which religions
were constructed to enslave minds of men.

Politics and Religion operate
on the basis that mortal men who gain
high positions of political power
will claim to be gods, powerful men
with armies of killers who claim right
to rule the rest of us for their benefit.

Jesus is dead, and will never return
to transform Earth to perfect paradise, 
nor raise anyone from death back to life.

Religions are fan clubs that celebrate
the lives of famous humans, and present
their lives as a guide for how to live well.

I found one new world church that will include
every person who ever lived and dreamed
as faces of one conscious god we are.

I grew up a theist, but when I observed
natural world composed of swirling atoms,
I realized I am god awake in dreaming flesh.

Since we humans first came down from fruit trees
and began talking about what we see,
we eat, we make love, we fight, we explore,
and we tell each other tales about life
to memorialize people who defied
death with passionate love before they died.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

Tribal Church

Tribal Church
© Surazeus
2014 05 12

I sit quiet on velvet-cushioned pew
in round church, carpeted and painted white,
in purple evening when soft breezes blow,
and peach-gold sun casts piercing rays of light.

I sense no cosmic presence in white hall
except soul I generate from my head
for Jesus is but painting on blank wall
whose corpse lies rotting two thousand years dead.

Prime Mover who activated Big Bang,
that splashes galaxies across vast void,
knows nothing about my small conscious mind
while atoms congregate in dreaming Beings.

Pastor who prances with Bible on stage,
preaching resurrection of souls from death,
deceives desperate believers with cruel lie
that God will create perfect paradise.

Our souls dissolve to nothing when we die
and ever-evolving globe of our home
where creatures live and die in waves of hope
will never freeze in perfect paradise.

When Man and Woman copulate in love
children reincarnate genetic soul
reborn each generation in new flesh,
eternal life in species beyond death.

We gather around Fruit Tree on Song Hill
and share our experience surviving death,
then follow Tribe Leader on Road of Life,
exploring Earth to understand its scheme.

We rise from Lake of Dreams at Dawn of Light
and breathe in wind of soul-refreshing hope
then label everything with words of sense
and sing new vision of our universe.

We walk beside Tribe Leader on wide plain
while he explains secret nature of things,
and when I encounter trouble in life
I ask him for advice on how to act.

While sitting in round church on Sabbath morn,
I dream entire history of human life
since we gathered in circles on lake shore
and share tales of our ancestors long dead.

Blank Book Of Lost Dreams

Blank Book Of Lost Dreams
© Surazeus
2014 01 22

What do we write about, we wandering souls,
who explore weird world with our eyes and hands?
I transform perceptions of my clear eyes
every new day in blank book of lost dreams.

Most literature and poetry is about sex,
how men and women interact to procreate,
and how societies clash in war and peace.

I am writing my epic poem about scientists
who observe the world and develop laws
about creation and the process of life.

Flowers and vines and pines together thrive
in the same rich soil of our rain-soaked dreams,
so write what poems illuminate your mind.

The poet is an alchemist who gathers
raw materials of subject and concept,
gleaned from experiences of human life
when people interact based on desires,
and casts them into flowing lines of words
that reveal mystery of human nature.

I am assembling invented personalities
by painting masks of Greek philosophers
and exploring their lives and ideas
in coherent narrative tales of events
from childhood exploration through hunger
and joy of discovering nature of life,
then end every tale with their mute death.

All these incantations of verse you post
seem like fragments of a vast epic tale
about a blind pilgrim in a labyrinth
of dreams who leads us to lost paradise.

So far beyond the horizon of death,
I climb the high mountain to reach the stars
and see the whole world spread out far below,
the little village inside ring of stones
where I was born and lived my entire life.

Who would fear sinister conspiracy
of devious poets organizing texts
to rewrite history of victory?

Who straps loners to the chair of despair
and pries their eyes open so they must watch
endless movies of violence and rage,
like the cruel criminal in Clockwork Orange?

How many angry young men were constrained
and brainwashed by lies in movies and books,
then grasped silver guns with their trembling hands
and hunted noble leaders of the mind
to assassinate our kings and messiahs?

You invent conspiracies of intent
where lone people tried to assert their will.
You should write poems because poets contrive
connections between unrelated things
and weave grand collage from random events.

I never guessed when I began to dream
that these poems, which I write to express visions
of struggle to live flashing in my brain,
are autumn leaves that crumble in our hands.

I wear masks of people dead long ago
and dream their agonizing quest for truth
through fake theater of cause and effect.

This message has been a metamodernist test
of the world-wide poetic broadcast system.
Had there been a real existential crisis
you would have been asked to improvise a poem.

Poetry is when human mind transforms
concepts and images with flames of feeling
into new arrangement that reflects vision of life.

Poet dreaming scribbles of flashing words
oscillates between their eyeball and thing
to zap phone wires with message between poles
of mockery and respect for our song.
Perhaps God is the Oscillating Eyeball
which sparks virtual world to glow in our brains.

Arriving at the Writers Conference
under orange drizzle of Seattle dawn,
crowd of writers flow in convention center,
each poet fixing their eyes on a smart phone.

A thousand years ago a man in France
wrote the greatest epic in world literature,
writing for thirty years on stacks of parchment,
but the bitter winter he died from pneumonia
his wife burned the entire epic for warmth.

I prefer facts researched and proved by science
over glamorous fantasy of desire
because truth is the most beautiful poetry.

Once your fingers dance, visions of life flow
and leave dark footprints in words of your poems.

I sit alone with you by apple tree
and read epic poem that Keats never wrote,
written in starlight blossoming as flowers.

Because there is no self, or eye of I,
nor narrative of cause and effect progress,
poetry is the mask we invent from hope
to represent our darkest fears of death.

Though millions are uninterested or confused
by visions of life that sprout from his verse,
we happy few are inspired by Shakespeare
and wear the masks he carved from hard emotions
to play our truer selves on stage of life.

While form of poetry is musical verse,
elegant dance of undulating sound,
content of poetry is vision of life,
represented by characters in masks,
the complete ontology of existence
that explores physical nature of souls.

Since fame and prizes seem to kill the Muse
and leave poets muttering dull nonsense,
I hope to die unlaureled and obscure.

The soft voice of the individual soul
is a clear wave in the ocean of song,
splashing memories on the shore of silence.

Homer and Shakespeare, wise wizards of words,
are the two greatest poets of all time,
so why would I follow anyone less?

I decided to design a theme park
that reconstructs Miletus and Athens
where worshippers will read the Hermead,
my epic tale about philosophers.

We are the poets of the dreaming world,
gathered on the shore of Memory Lake.
Our songs form the epic of human life.

We have evolved up to a higher state
of consciousness as man who narrates tales,
so now we are species Homo Narrata.

Now that I have become Narrating Man,
if I had a thousand years of life to write
I would compose an epic narrative tale
on the life of every person who ever lived.

When I open the blank book of lost dreams
I find the lost epic of Keats inscribed
with fairy blood in Moon Letters that gleam
only on the seventh blue moon in spring.