When Mother Ishtar Walks

When Mother Ishtar Walks
© Surazeus
2018 03 31

White flowers bloom from bare branches of trees
when sweet electric sap flows up their limbs,
urged by the warm glow of the gleaming sun
whose flashing rays spark everything to life
after seeming death from cold winter winds,
stirring from sleep to flourish in the rain
when Mother Ishtar walks the Earth again.

Zombies crawl from their graves reborn as Angels
who gather in mountain groves to sing hymns
praising vigor of life that flushes fresh, 
and vampires drink fruit juice instead of blood
after defeating the serpents with wings
to tend their orchards where cold rivers flow
when Mother Astra walks the Earth again.

Emerging from cabins covered by snow,
we open doors and windows to the wind
that blows through flowers of tall forest trees
and tend the roots of vines and vegetables
so shoots will sprout to provide fresh produce
and grapes plump with rain that refresh our hearts
when Mother Ostre walks the Earth again.

Gathering in spacious cathedral of stone
with family and friends we love to see,
we share bountiful feast of eggs and milk,
then sing sweet hymns of praise for Mother Earth
who nourishes our bodies with her love
under full moon after Spring equinox
when Mother Easter walks the Earth again.

Broken Lyre

Broken Lyre
© Surazeus
2018 03 31

The house I build on the dusty plain
will keep out the heat, the wind, and the rain.
I hear her voice beside me in the night
and feel her eyes watch me in the sunlight.

I dip my hands in the cold river flow
and taste the gladness of the mountain snow.
I dig up fruit trees from the wilderness
and plant them in my grove of happiness.

I dig holes from the moist soil of the Earth
and marvel at how seeds sprout in rebirth.
Though plants all die in the season of gloom
they sprout reborn from her terrestrial womb.

My children play games on the river shore
while I watch, laughing, by the cottage door.
The men who burn what I build in hot fire
laugh when I sing lament on broken lyre.

Help Build Paradise

Help Build Paradise
© Surazeus
2018 03 30

With fearful thoughts clattering around my head
that everything we build will fall apart,
shattered by the chaos of angry greed,
I leave city maze of deceptive games
and sit by the flowing river in woods
where indifferent sunlight flickers on water.

I throw my troubles in the flowing water
and watch them sink into the silent flash
of blissful calm till burden of my fear
vanishes in wind that brushes my hair.

I wish that I could be like the fruit tree
that stands with calm indifference on the shore,
soaking in sunlight and rain till white blossoms
sprout from its fingers with natural expression
of mute acceptance for the fertile process
that transforms dirt into fruit full of juice,
but I am human, so my brain contemplates.

My brain observes actions people perform
to analyze how best I can behave
through social process of cause and effect
so actions of my hands create good things
rather than destroy with blind lust for power
which rebounds evil punishment of pain
on perpetrators of corrupt aggression.

I sit under the fruit tree and watch water
flowing through the bright channel of my eyes
that lie like stones under cool sparkling flow
and feel all my sorrows vanish in wind
as I release aggression of desire.

Tense with sorrow of unachieved program,
I breathe deep the wild spirit of the world
and release desire to build paradise,
imagining the things I can achieve
of feasting with the people I love most.

Now that I am calm as the blooming tree,
and all the clattering fears that fog my brain
dissipate in indifferent wind of love,
analyzed with solutions I can perform,
I walk back into the maze of my life
and face the shadows of my darkest fears
to help build paradise we all must share.

I bring the light of love and words of water
to nourish the fruit tree of family.

Masks Of Strangers

Masks Of Strangers
© Surazeus
2018 03 30

Every poem I write is a snake attempt
to break out of the cocoon of my head
and butterfly into another soul
so I experience the world through their mind.

We are all fragments of the mind of God
who was the first Egg in the Sea of Dreams
for all plants and animals on this world
sprout from original seed of her Soul.

The Great Eye of the Original Mother
dreams at the core of all organic cells
that constitute neural net of our brains
which vibrate in harmony with her love.

Because God is first cell of vibrant life
from which all organic creatures descend
we live in tune with vibe of every brain
so we all dream the same vision of truth.

Because our brains are limited in size
and glow so long as bodies function well
the virtual models of the universe
our brains design are limited in scope.

If I rely on what I can observe
to comprehend true nature of this world
I never would understand everything,
stumbling half-blind in the maze of illusions.

We sing the visions of our brains in words
to describe how we perceive world of things
so descendants can build on knowledge base
complex cathedral of complete world view.

Science provides strict tools of measurement
so we can express truth that we observe
in laws that describe causes and effects
which accurately model the whole universe.

Each person presents their piece of the puzzle
at round table of academic study
to sing their mathematic poem of life
that formulates whole ontology of truth.

I wear the masks of strangers when I sing
so I can dream the universe of things
through the worldview vision their minds design
thus I contain all your souls in my heart.

Bicycle Wheel In Texas

Bicycle Wheel In Texas
© Surazeus
2018 03 29

Sparkle of the bicycle tire that spins
like the eager sun on the road of time
reminds me of the sunlight in her eyes
when Brenda smiles across the chain-link fence.

I hold out the apple in my right hand,
so she steps forward to accept my gift,
and bites into its moon-white juicy rind
as she peers up at me through wind-blown hair.

I lean forward to kiss her cheek when crow
caws from the oak tree, so she turns and runs,
skipping through yellow flowers of the sun
that weave their petals into her long skirt.

Fearing the yellow snake, I saw glide fast
into cold shadow of surprise, will strike
to bite her ankle, I chase her sweet voice
and cry alarmed for her to watch her step.

Brenda vanishes into waves of grass
and I pause to listen to the wind sing
about raindrops that fall as bitter tears
to flow as rivers down the mountain slope.

I sit alone all night in apple tree,
singing wordless anguish of my torn heart
to indifferent stars that twinkle unchanged,
ignoring me till I fall into light.

With swirling flock of butterflies she comes
skipping along the river to my tree
where she stops and waves to me with a smile,
so I leap from the sky and kiss her mouth.

"I feared the yellow snake would bite your foot
and I would never see your eyes again,
so my heart blows like wind with aching joy
to see you still alive outside my dreams."

Giggling behind her hand, Brenda accepts
apple from my hand, then sits on the stone
of laughter by the river and devours
anguish of my heart, then licks her lips clean.

Skipping home along the sun-dusty trail,
Brenda disappears into swirling cloud
and smiles at me from the infinite sky
while I think about the light in her eye.

I see her face in the white shining moon,
as if she watches me in apple tree,
and bend twigs into Runes I bind with vines
that connect my heart to her sunlit eye.

Finding the perfect apple, red as fire,
I drop from the tree to follow my road,
and the yellow snake of love bites my leg,
so I lie on my back and dream of why.

Gazing down at me from white glowing cloud,
Brenda speaks words of wind from the lost sun
that spins like my bicycle wheel in Texas
flashing light in her eye big as the sky.

Our Quest For Real Truth

Our Quest For Real Truth
© Surazeus
2018 03 29

Though some things seem fragile as river bubbles,
like our brains that dream universal truth,
the water of the river that still flows
beneath thin veneer of cherished illusions
never ceases to flush all lies away.

My parents took me to church every week
for twenty years since the day I was born,
and while I sat inside the building shell
the words of the preacher conjured bright spell
that generated illusion of truth
in virtual model of the universe
that depicted flat Earth covered by dome
of transparent expanse in firmament
that tracked the sun and moon across the sky.

But when I read books by Copernicus,
who proved our global Earth circles the sun,
that virtual model shattered in my mind,
and faith fell in fragments on the cold ground,
exposing my fragile mind flickering dreams
to the emptiness of the boundless void.

Now I investigate nature of things,
exploring facts my eyes and hands can sense,
and measure physical shapes of all forms
while cataloguing basic qualities
that compose structures of material objects
which exist in limits of time and space.

Together as we measure all the world
we will construct complete ontology
depicting true nature of our universe
formed from atoms that swirl in boundless void
and link in spirals of whole carbon rings
through deoxyribonucleic acid
in tight threading chain of nucleotides
with genetic code that creates our bodies
which self-replicates material of atoms
to evolve organic creatures with brains.

All matter of the universe we see
spreads outward from big bang of the First Flash
and flares forth into galaxies of suns
weaving molecules into spinning globes
which nourish organic life from carbon rings
evolving into creatures with four legs
whose brains of neurons shaped like galaxies
generate virtual model of our world.

Though the world view of my ancestors crashed
into fragments of illusions from faith,
we build new world view on facts we can prove
that will adjust and transform as we learn
new facts based on accurate measurements,
so we continue our quest for real truth.

Spark Of True Poetry

Spark Of True Poetry
© Surazeus
2018 03 29

True poetry lies not in fancy gimmicks
employed to make the poet appear cool,
like weird ungrammatically enjambed lines,
random word salad, short indented lines
that spatially scatter words on the page,
nor in strict identity politics
that claim authority through suffering
to prove one group superior to all others.

Spark of true poetry glows in the vision
conjured by expression of singing words
that dance in fluid agglutinated lines
to present new complete ontology
which describes drama of humanity
exploring true nature of the universe.

Promise Of Eternal Life

Promise Of Eternal Life
© Surazeus
2018 03 29

Our world is spinning through infinite void
so we fight each other over wet dirt
but if you wire my brain in the android
I may never die and never get hurt.
I would live ten thousand years beyond death,
replacing body parts as they wear out,
so we reincarnate bodies with breath
or nourish our brain in strong robot shell.
With sperm and egg we generate new brains
which conjure souls that vanish when we die,
but androids never suffer disease pains
and could even fly swift in windy skies.
Forget resurrection that Jesus taught,
for we gain eternal life as a robot.

Angel Of Revenge

Angel Of Revenge
© Surazeus
2018 03 28

The shadow of the house that eats my soul
remembers how we used to play the tune
of bleeding moon in game of hide and seek
through door of words, so in the story book
I wander through the labyrinth of dead gods
who pretend they remember my real name.

The girl in the forest of talking trees
gives eyes to every child who wanders by
so at the round table of broken masks
they assemble all our lost memories
in painting smeared with blood of suicides
therefore she carves letters on stone church wall.

The book I found on river shore at dawn
conceals the true stories that people live
because they cannot find the shining key
which mirrors ghosts of people who have died
to save the ocean from demon of oil
who slithers sneering to preach word of God.

I pack red mud in large lattice of wood
then slide it in the oven of hot flames
to watch the flames dance with indifferent lust
while the priest in the large white marble church
preaches we will burn all eternity
if we accept not Jesus as World King.

Eight thousand years after we bury God
in unmarked grave where ravens chat of truth
his descendants pave asphalt parking lot
where people park cars by huge grocery store
so I walk nowhere in the dream-bright woods,
searching for clocks in the trunks of the oaks.

Helianthe was my mother who designed
body of atoms that generates soul
of my dreaming brain, so I found great cult
that worships her as Mother of Mankind
though I saw highways collapse from earthquake
when she descended on rainbow to Earth.

She holds the knife pressed against her wild heart
and hopes she will sprout a new pair of wings
so she can fly to heaven above clouds
and enter shining gate of paradise
but song of two birds distracts her mind
to listen for the music of the rain.

She disappears when she walks into rain
and shifts through flashing door between two worlds
united to fight tyrant in the tower,
then breaks every mask from people he killed,
releasing their atoms back to the void,
so she sits in the park and eats ice cream.

Field Of Blue Forget-Me-Nots

Field Of Blue Forget-Me-Nots
© Surazeus
2018 03 28

Sun gleams on field of blue Forget-Me-Nots
that hang over edge of the babbling brook
where I kneel to gaze in water of life,
and think about the people we have lost.

Each flower with yellow face gazing at me
whispers the name of someone who was killed
through lamentation of susurrant tone
that lulls me into dreamy contemplation
about our struggle to live well with joy.

My face disappears in the flowing brook,
as the clear face of every person killed
blends in with my face, so we all become
one eternal soul who wakes in sunlight.

Forget me not, they all cry out to me,
so I write their names on the flowing water.

We do not exist before we are born
and we cease to exist after we die,
but like flowers bloom again every spring
our children bloom from the pleasure of love
and fill the fields of stories with their faces,
so our eternal soul of human genes
lives forever in the children we dream.

The intense agony of being alive
flushes tingling ache of sorrowing joy
through my limbs with atomic sparks of love
that motivate my heart to empathize
with your own private hopes to savor life.

We must kill plants and animals to eat,
consuming material of vibrant cells
to fuel our own cells with taut energy
of passion to dance in silver moonlight
while drinking sweet wine that bleeds from the Earth.

Swirling up from the blue flowers of remembrance,
countless spirits swirl around me in wind,
and in the sunlight gleaming through the trees
I see my family walking through the flowers.

I stand in field of blue Forget-Me-Nots
as gusting wind blows long hair around my face
and sunbeams pierce the pulsings of my heart
so I become every soul who ever lived
while I call out their names in the soft wind
that preserve the stories of their rich lives.

Eden Of My Dreaming Brain

Eden Of My Dreaming Brain
© Surazeus
2018 03 28

I am random compositions of atoms
who dream the First Flash of the universe
and sing electric vibrations of love
that bloom as the fruit of my dreaming brain.

Emerging from blank nothing before life,
I open my eyes at the flash of dawn
and see the world of land nourishing plants
appear in the glow of my dreaming brain.

I stretch my limbs and breathe refreshing air,
then drink cool water from the sparkling spring,
and feel my head buzz when my heart beats fast,
pumping blood in the sponge of my dreaming brain.

I claw twigs and leaves to clear the spring flow,
arrange large stones to build paradise wall,
and tend fruit trees and herbs so they grow well,
managing garden of my dreaming brain.

I sit on the hill under sprawling tree,
eating apples and walnuts while I watch
horses gallop in play on valley floor,
savoring beauty with my dreaming brain.

We all want to return to Elysium,
lush valley where trees bloom along bright rivers,
to play with horses and eat wholesome fruit,
carefree in garden of my dreaming brain.

For ten thousand years hungry men form armies
who organize empires with killing weapons
to make us work all day growing more food,
while I plot revenge in my dreaming brain.

We build global empire of money games
producing food so everyone can eat
but men controlling gangs kill opposition
and try to chain thoughts of my dreaming brain.

We cannot now return to paradise
where everyone lives free by sparkling streams,
but we can transform cities into gardens
that match the Eden of my dreaming brain.

Sinking into blank nothing after life,
I close my eyes in my own private sunset
while new generations wake into life
and continue hymn of my dreaming brain.

Roses Of Enlightenment

Roses Of Enlightenment
© Surazeus
2018 03 28

Today we stop outside the small craft store
to smell the roses of enlightenment
and see the universe in spiral petals
flashing galaxies in each glowing cell.

The reflection of my face in blue glass,
mirrored by roses of enlightenment,
reveals spirits of ten thousand ancestors
swirling around me in halo of ghosts.

The rainbow aura of genetic soul,
glowing from roses of enlightenment,
spirals around my body in bright coils
like invisible wings of laughing angels.

I see ancestral spirits manifest
through swirl from roses of enlightenment
in the reincarnation of my genes
who maps her own way in the maze of life.

Since the first egg of mental consciousness,
woven from roses of enlightenment,
woke in the hot electric sea of love
she has evolved into all living creatures.

I see her in each plant and animal,
alive from roses of enlightenment,
that bubbles alive on our spinning globe,
shimmering all together in web of souls.

The sparkling atoms that constitute brains,
sparkling from roses of enlightenment,
assemble neuron galaxies of thought
which conjure virtual world we dream is real.

We buy canvas for painting images
to depict roses of enlightenment,
so now my daughter paints forest of trees
where roses bloom from the cells of our brains.

Witch Of Hunsbury Hill

Witch Of Hunsbury Hill
© Surazeus
2018 03 27

The cold indifferent rain follows me home
where I play bones with shadow of my fear
that lurks beyond the wall of paradise.
I sit on the stone wall of the hill fort
and watch for moonlight with harp fangs of death
that stalks the beautiful girl without eyes.

I hide in the oak tree till the rain stops,
chatting with white ravens who explain why
the moonlight fills my aching heart with hope.
The rainbow slashing sorrow from my heart
reveals the face I lost in gleaming pool
contained by sticks that rune my secret name.

When he stabs the carpenter through his heart
and roasts him on flames after pouring rain,
I close my eyes and become flashing stars.
No one can see me hidden behind leaves,
so I dip black feather of the moon raven
in blood to write runes I invent on skin.

I wind hundreds of feathers in my hair,
and smear red mud across my chest and face
to recite our old independence spell.
The indifferent rain washes me clean
of deceptions so I rise from white mud
and tremble in the flashing light of dawn.

The hill-fort earl in the hall of skulls twirls
sharp stick dripping with blood of my lost friends
so I smear streaks of mud across my chest.
He races forward to stab out my heart
so I roll back and lift him with my feet
to hurl him howling in the muddy grave.

I drift half asleep, hiding by the wall,
and sing with the splatter of rain on mud
where I search for seeds of dead apple trees.
My brain empuzzles memory of that hour
when I encountered her in apple grove,
her face suffused in glowing light of love.

The phantom woman in the dark of fear
touches my face with gentle hand of truth
to fill my trembling soul with flame of hope.
The cold indifferent rain explains to me
the path I walk must wind around the hill
so I may enter gates of paradise.

I place the skulls of my family in rows
on the sturdy stone wall of paradise
then scatter apple seeds in rain-soaked mud.
I eat the apple that combines in one
the wind and the rain, congealed by the light
flashing in my eyes, so I know my name.

Mountain Of Snow

Mountain Of Snow
© Surazeus
2018 03 27

He walks forever toward mountain of snow.
Step by step he walks over plain of grass.
He sees all the events of his life
replay in the grass where the wind blows soft.
He looks up and sees he wandered sideways,
so he stops and looks for mountain of snow
that shimmers in the infinite blue sky.

He walks straight again toward mountain of snow,
glancing at his feet, then up at white peak,
to maintain his course to the distant goal.
A thousand crows in a great shifting cloud
swirl overhead in wide spiraling swoops,
because the other children of his village
called him crow when he flapped his arms and cawed.

The old man with the long white flowing beard
pointed to the mountain of snow and said,
"The Crow Woman who created the world
lives in a cave on the mountain of snow."

He walks breathing deep toward mountain of snow.
He feels the sunlight gleam on his skin.
He feels the wind of mountains blow his hair.
He feels the crows caw from his beating heart.
He feels the river pulsing in his chest.
He feels the vast sky shimmer in his eyes.
He feels the stars in tears wet on his cheeks
when he wakes in moonlight flat on the grass.

He steps befuddled toward mountain of snow.
He huddles in the grass where wind blows soft
and stares at the mountain peak shining white,
floating alone in the black cloudy night.
He stares at the moon glowing the world white
when it emerges from the wind-blown clouds.

"What happened between the light of the day
when I was walking toward mountain of snow
and this hour I wake under shining moon?
I fell into blank void outside time flow.
I remember walking toward mountain peak
to find the Crow Woman in Cave of Dreams."

Crawling to the river, he cups his hands
and drinks the white moonlight to cool his thirst.
The sun flashes bright in infinite sky,
so he walks again through the wind-blown grass,
eating raspberries he plucks by the river,
forever on toward the mountain of snow.

Hero On His Horse

Hero On His Horse
© Surazeus
2018 03 27

The statue of the long-dead noble warrior,
the hero on his horse with upraised sword,
rides among stars over the city park
every night while everyone lies asleep.
The woman working as a clerk in the bank,
who passes by the statue every noon
and pauses to gaze at his changeless face,
is his great-granddaughter, unknown to her.
Large gramophone in window of a store
plays Mamie Smith singing her Crazy Blues,
and her voice echoes among whispering trees
as engines of Model T Fords putter past.
The woman sings along, "There is a change
in the deep blue sea, but there aint no change
in me, for my love for that man will always be,
but now I got the crazy blues of love."
She thinks about one hundred years before
when he first arrived in this fertile valley
and built his mansion on the river shore
from which sprouted metropolitan sprawl.
He had helped General George Washington win
the Revolutionary War for Liberty,
and married the beautiful gold-haired daughter
of a French count who had helped fund the war.
They raised seven daughters with long gold hair
who wore frilly gowns when they danced at balls,
and all married judges, doctors, and bankers,
except the youngest who married a farmer.
She loved to ride horses along the river
to harvest apples and honey for hot pies,
and raised five daughters who loved to bake cakes
who all married farmers and carpenters.
Though the youngest daughter loved to explore
along the river where she studied trees,
and met the young boy who built river boats,
and they fished together under white clouds.
The woman gazing at the tall bronze statue
smiles to herself at childhood memories.
"My Ma and Pa still go fishing each week,
drifting slow with tides in the boat he built."
The statue of the hero on his horse
gazes solemnly at the deep blue sky
while she returns to the bank after lunch
to process money with a cheerful smile.

New Garden Of Freedom

New Garden Of Freedom
© Surazeus
2018 03 26

We are not so crazy as we might think
though our whole world seems to be on the brink
of world war between psychopathic kings
while I pretend I have angelic wings.

I busk on the busy street at high noon
to reveal the light of the magic moon
that shimmers in the verses of my song,
pretending I am noble and belong.

When I feel rage of rejection with fear
I grip my rifle so my goal is clear
to twang guitar strings and sing country tune
how my love left me under weeping moon.

Now why would I want to shoot people dead
when I feel their sorrows inside my head,
so I chant jaunty tune to make them dance
and lead them through Hell in a psychic trance.

I lead them to the Underworld of dreams
past barking dogs, over lethargic streams,
and to the cavern of mute nameless souls
where devils put us in our self-dug holes.

The Psychiatrist takes us all apart
and reveals the labyrinth inside our heart,
then scatters puzzle pieces of our brains
jumbled with illusions on windy plains.

The Egg Man with a thousand eyes appears,
each eye one mirror reflecting our fears,
and tells us how we fell off the Great Wall,
so we wear our face in the gallery hall.

Putting ourselves back together again,
assembling new souls from forgotten pain,
we follow the Pied Piper to the Light,
reborn to emerge from death like the kite.

Sewn ragged dolls by Doctor Frankenstein,
who plays violin by the sparkling Rhine,
we all emerge from funhouse mirror church
to sing atheist hymns by the silver birch.

They blast apart our illusions of truth
so we follow our reborn savior sleuth
to construct from ruins of America
new Garden of Freedom named Onatah.

Presence Of Air And Light

Presence Of Air And Light
© Surazeus
2018 03 26

He is the kind of person who always
like to say he is completely insane,
though he knows he is perfectly mundane,
so he tries to act weird. Lost in the maze
we play hide and seek with Almighty God
who is only presence of air and light
that shimmers all around us in the night,
so we conclude that He is but a fraud.

He likes to stand on street corners and throw
pennies on the ground before passing people,
then sneers and calls them stupid greedy sheeple
when they pass them by. Life is all a show,
he declares while swinging arms like an ape,
then distorts his face like the howling clowns
in horror movies who haunt Christian towns.

He likes to wear the red Superman cape
over his expensive grey business suit,
then follows businessmen while playing a flute,
but when they give him money for his song
he tears bills in shreds and shouts the word wrong
while they bump in glass doors to get away.

Then he will kneel down and pretend to pray
in the middle of the pedestrian crosswalk
just as the light turns green, so the cars honk
and try to drive around him, but he leaps
up and down, waving his arms as he beeps
like a robot in front of the stone bank,
inviting drivers to get out and talk
about our Lord and Savior Dionysus.

Laughing when they all call him obscene names,
he weaves through tables where old men play games
and tells everyone he is returned Jesus.
He sits alone behind library wall,
staring at sun and shadow on dry grass,
and whispers, I am not insane at last,
then goes to eat a burger at the mall.

One Schizophrenic Supersoul

One Schizophrenic Supersoul
© Surazeus
2018 03 26

I drink a carton of orange juice. The wind
that is not blowing hides from me in trees.
I walk around the university campus,
past veterans attending some event
dealing with the trauma of endless war,
and look for the open branch of my bank
because I need to cash a ten dollar check
so I can get back home. Sunlight on glass
knows the secret that no one can explain.
The young woman sitting at the round table
explains that I can sign the check to her,
and gives me the ten dollar bill that glows
fragile as the wings of the butterfly
resting on her eye, so I carve her name
on the silver sheriff badge she will wear,
Susan Rita Gonzalez, in the shape
of the silver pistol inside her heart.
She gives me the face I wear every day.

I open the door from my inner sanctum
and walk off the edge of the world. The mirror
she holds before the world reflects the face
I wear that everyone else sees but me,
so I smile for the phony author photo
expressing smug superiority of talent
on every copy of the book I wrote
in which I invent worlds for where I walk.
I am not the robot you think I am
but I trudge the same hallway for thirty years
to drone the same speech in class every day,
then put my face up on the shelf with books
I never read. I drink a glass of juice
squeezed from the fruit of the tree of the knowledge
of truth and illusion, so my eyes bleed
visions of people I have never seen
doing and saying things in flashing snippets
of dramatic action as if my brain
flips through channels of broadcast frequencies
beamed out by brains on the same channel vibe.

So I invent myself new alphabet
that helps me decode my meaningless dreams
where I am wandering lost in Somewhere City,
attempting to control the narrative
that I can organize random events
that occur around me on spinning sphere
which rolls like a bowling ball in the void
of my galactic brain. I am nobody.
Who are you? Are you nobody too?
I recite this very popular poem,
written by recluse Emily Dickinson,
while looking past my non-face in the mirror,
and laugh. I contain multitudes, I shout,
reciting transcendent song by Walt Whitman,
while running down the busy city street.
So I contradict myself because I
am everyone who lives on sprawling land,
combining all races and genders whole
into one schizophrenic Supersoul.

Thus I understand all opposing sides
and see every issue like shining diamond
with many aspects full of blinking eyes
who all together see whole three dimensions
that weave the universe from flashing atoms.
My radio brain receives flashing vibes
your brains transmit through social media posts,
so I see glimpses of dramatic action
in emotional visions while I float
half asleep right after I eat my lunch,
but they vanish. I cannot read your names
and I cannot hear what you want to say,
so when I put hearing aids in my ears
I hear the God who does not exist talk.

That is how I know they are all illusions,
those visions of strangers I see in dreams
all day while my brain analyzes facts
to conjure virtual world ontology
designed by my brain to endow my life
with historical importance. But I
sit alone in my room in some small town,
one brain in web of seven billion brains
dreaming illusions in harsh hungry life
on frail ball of dirt hurtling through the void.
So I drink a glass of orange juice and laugh.

When She Waits

When She Waits
© Surazeus
2018 03 25

The door that opens at the whispered word
releases wings of sorrow to the night,
though where the wind goes down the nameless road
no blind fool could map with the broken hand.

Guitar strings vibrate with the evening light
but mirrors crack when flowers bloom from skulls,
so she writes random letters in the dust
to bury sorrow rooting through her heart.

Each page she turns with flashing new moon
reveals nothing from the blankness of hope
so silence wraps her eyes in frozen tears
that cannot crack to release the white snake.

The flower curling from ache of her heart
opens soft mouth to drink rain from nowhere
and weaves tendrils of bitter memories
through throbbing veins that bind mask to her face.

The crack in the window reveals moonlight
that seeps into blue of her open eyes
which dream how the globe spirals into void
like snowflakes seeking around wordless house.

Flowers blossom from the broken door
who breathes restless wind into hollow heart
and teaches her how to fly over fear
when she waits though he will never return.

Revolution Of Human Gods

Revolution Of Human Gods
© Surazeus
2018 03 25

I hear the voices of ten million people
across the land from sea to shining sea
cry out with defiance from shocking fear
about the angry white male terrorists
who shoot innocent people from blind rage
because someone challenged their privilege.

Who has the right to wield authority
except the boldest male who beats his chest
and howls with rage like the thundering storm,
and bullies all to obey his commands
by threatening to kill everyone who dares
challenge the rightness of his divine will.

Like every thunder god in ancient myths,
the angry male who kills challenging males
crowns himself the ruler who makes the laws
and organizes work of every hand
by sitting on the regal judgment throne
in shining court to judge who lives or dies.

The judging king who rules on throne of power
would crown his son to rule after his death
for someone always challenges his right
then fights to throw him in the dust of death
and crown himself the new king of the world
in endless revolution of human gods.

We overthrew their royal dynasties
and now elect one man to play our God
based on the vision he presents in speech
expressing how he plans to rule our nation,
but if one man tries to stay in control
we throw that tyrant off the throne of power.

We rein in the forces of violent rage
by holding elections every four years
to control revolution through our votes,
and balance forces of authority
with constant challenge of rebellious hope
to conserve progress of well-managed growth.

We manage our desires with dreams of hope
through opportunities to work for pay
and build strong homes on land we call our own
where our children can play safe in the garden,
exercising their creative free will
to design meaning for lifestyle they choose.

When huge corporations control resources
that force individuals to work or die,
young angry men will clutch guns in their hands
and shoot fellow citizens in blind rage
because they cannot find the criminals
who steal their power to live with self-control.

Lay all your killing guns down on the ground
and join hands with your fellow citizens
who work each day to pay the rent and eat,
then vote for honest, humble politicians
to write laws that favor the working person
so everyone can earn a decent wage.

Though thousands of years ago angry men
could go on killing sprees in brutal wars
to crown themselves god-kings in palace halls,
today the man who shoots good citizens
will fail to overthrow vast tyranny
while hidden rulers laugh at our protests.

Magic Wand Of Power

Magic Wand Of Power
© Surazeus
2018 03 24

The laughing bullets zing into my flesh
and weave the sorrow of the universe
into the fabric of theology
how we worship the magic wand of power.

The wizard stands alone on windy plain
to face the warrior with the shining sword,
who conquers the world by slashing off heads,
and raises high the magic wand of power.

The warrior with the shining sword of power
laughs at the wizard on the windy plain
who holds small metal tube aimed at his head
and lights the fuse on magic wand of power.

"I defeated thousands with slashing blades,"
declares the warrior with the shining sword,
"and your little metal tube scares me not,"
then fire flashes from magic wand of power.

The silver ball propelled by blasting powder
zings whistling through the clear astonished air
and splatters the brains of the conquering king
who falls, killed by the magic wand of power.

Ten thousand warriors with sharp shining swords
who danced elegant grace of martial arts
are shot down by bullets from metal tubes,
blasted swift from the magic wand of power.

So wizards with the tube of blasting fire
destroyed arrogant kings with shining swords,
defeating tyranny of lust and greed
with bullets from the magic wand of power.

For seven hundred years now gangs of men
who wield long metal tubes of blasting fire
fight world wars for supremacy of Earth,
shooting bullets from magic wand of power.

The soil of our spinning world is soaked red
with blood of a hundred trillion dead people
heaped in high mountains of their laughing skulls,
all slaughtered by the magic wand of power.

The first god who rose to fight against evil
wielded the scepter with the diamond eye
by smashing the skulls of tyrants and thieves
to rule before the magic wand of power.

The first king who rose to fight against evil
wielded the sword with the long blade honed sharp
by chopping off heads of rapists and slavers
to rule before the magic wand of power.

The wizard who rose to fight against evil
wielded the gun with the powder of fire
by shooting the hearts of rebels and kings
to rule now with the magic wand of power.

We sailed across the stormy sea of hope
and swarmed across land of America,
shooting people who lived in paradise
to claim Eden with magic wand of power.

Cowboys and gangsters shoot each other down
in endless civil war of cops and robbers,
police commissioned to protect the people,
enforcing laws with magic wand of power.

Young angry boys, bullied or spurned by love,
enraged they cannot control girls they want,
shoot innocent people in fierce rampage,
destroying lives with magic wand of power.

We march for our lives to protest the gun
that angry men shoot to terrorize us,
demanding restrictions and background checks.
on who can wield the magic wand of power.

Wars Of Every Age

Wars Of Every Age
© Surazeus
2018 03 24

The slender trunk of the brown tree curves high
to brush ink of thoughtless words on the sky
that knows all the secrets of our short lives
having seen how the meanest one survives
endless wars over who controls the land
while the artist creates things with their hand.
Each cloud that stares at me from the blue sky
cares nothing whether I feel low or high
but somehow I am the one who survives
to write the stories about anguished lives
with broken angel feather in my hand
that details whose blood soaks the dreaming land.
I chronicle the wars of every age
how tragic kings still strut upon the stage.

Blue Butterfly Of Light

Blue Butterfly Of Light
© Surazeus
2018 03 24

While Carla lies on her belly in grass,
heart aching with sorrow at the harsh way
the kids at school call her insulting names,
the blue butterfly lands on her left hand,
and her bitter despair evaporates.

Holding her breath for a thousand years,
Carla gazes into its gentle soul,
and whispers, "I bet no one calls you names.
I will become blue butterfly of light
and float without care through the maze of life."

When the blue butterfly flutters away,
Carla rolls on her back and stares at clouds
that sparkle like snow in indifferent sky.
"My sorrow flies away on flapping wings
and leaves my heart empty of aching pain."

Closing her eyes to float on the white air,
Carla hums to feel vibration of light
emanate from core of her beating heart,
waves that ripple outward across the void
till she becomes the swirling universe.

Rising to her feet and toting book bag,
Carla walks across the field to her school,
and glides in cloud of bliss past everyone,
hardly hearing them shout insults at her,
then sits calm in the library alone.

"The ache of sorrow twisted my heart weird,
so I wanted to disappear from life
and cease existing to numb the harsh pain,
but now I feel desire to savor joy
and float like the blue butterfly in peace."

Thinking about the gun in her backpack,
Carla watches students outside the window
who assemble in groups to talk and laugh.
"I understand why boys who are filled with rage
shoot their bullies with bullets of despair."

Opening the American history book,
Carla reads about the Civil Rights Era
when people demonstrated for equal rights,
and smiles, admiring noble deeds of heroes,
while she floats like blue butterfly of light.

Shadow Of Her Face

Shadow Of Her Face
© Surazeus
2018 03 23

Sitting alone by the stream in the woods,
the girl who shimmers like mist on the lake
writes the name and story of every person
who ever walked alive on spinning Earth
on every leaf that falls from the oak tree
to drift away on the stream of lost time.

I hear her singing in the silver mist
and though I walk in curves around old trees,
following the siren spell of her voice,
I float somewhere in the flash of sunlight,
yet never see the shadow of her face,
so I kneel by the river of lost souls.

Fragments of memories float on the stream
of ceaseless change, each leaf discarded mask
of people who died before I was born,
so I assemble stones in winding spirals
to map the way home from the Underworld
that guides my journey back to glowing hearth.

She is not there, the woman with no face,
singing at the hearth I built with my hands,
where she was sitting when I left to join
army of warriors to defend our land
against invaders hungry for our fruit,
so now I sit alone with smiling skulls.

I stare into the sky at swirling clouds
that flash white lightning in the pouring rain,
and shout at God my father said was there
to ask why he does nothing to restore
peaceful paradise of our garden home,
wondering if he speaks in the gusting wind.

I feel the fire of the sun in my heart
urging me with rage to wrestle the wind,
so I howl at the blind indifferent rain
as I fall into the abyss of despair
and wake at dawn to the chirping of birds
so I laugh when understand why not.

I stare at trees sprouting from river shore,
intent on reversing the flow of time
but rivers continue to flow down hill,
and sunlight continues to beam my face,
and apples continue to sprout from blooms
and I continue to look for her face.

When I accept that she vanished from time,
I walk nowhere along the winding stream
to find young woman with long flowing hair
who twirls and sings among the apple trees
and falls gasping into my gentle arms
so we kiss for a thousand years in rain.

Two Little Birds In Grass

Two Little Birds In Grass
© Surazeus
2018 03 23

Two little birds hop in the dry spring grass
and peck to find lost memories in my heart.
Late afternoon sunlight of the March day
glimmers gold on the white trunk of the tree
that watches me through the window and waits.
The dark shadow on the wall is not me.
To dream the history of the universe
I finger the wrinkles on my left hand
since no fortune teller can understand
the way afternoon sunlight knows my name.
I lose so I refuse to play the game.

The book on the coffee table reveals
the map to the lost memories of my heart.
No wind blows in the late afternoon light
that shimmers over veneer of my face
I hide with the mask I carved from dead tree.
I follow the bees to find honeycombs.
The dark shadow on the grass is not me
so I touch the air that swirls from my eyes
and I float away into voiceless skies
the way afternoon sunlight shows my soul.
I will disappear into the White Whole.

One little bird in the grass flies away
at the whisper of memories from my heart.
I want to wash my soul with the sunlight
so I stand in the grass a thousand years
to watch trees sprouting from palm of my hand.
I ask the shadow the name it conceals.
Each leaf that falls from the indifferent tree
becomes one shard in the puzzle of me
but in the flow of water I still hear
the ancient song of the first flash of light.
I can teach myself the spirit of flight.

I will the little bird to return home
at the flutter of memories from my heart.
The gold sun I thought would forever shine
fades slowly into nothing of white blooms
that never dream of me on hands of trees.
I become the shadow that fades away.
I look at my hand in the lightless house
to read the fortune I already know,
that I dissolve into the sun-drenched yard
and grow as flowers who will watch you live.
You will feel me with you in the sun glow.

Metapost On Face Book

Metapost On Face Book
© Surazeus
2018 03 23

The latest poem that I wrote about nothing.
What I am doing now that is too weird.
Photos of nature where I am exploring.
What song bird is now living in my beard.

The cool movie I am watching tonight.
What awards my children at school have won.
How I will transcend the mystical light.
What I think about sitting in the sun.

Long crazy-eyed rant about politics.
How I transformed into an atheist.
Why I am really an old moon-eyed Strix.
Wondering if I am on a secret blacklist.

Buy my new awesome book of poems for sale.
The bad accident I barely survived.
How I handle my privilege of being male.
The facade of calm success I contrived.

Spirals Of Engendering Quarks

Spirals Of Engendering Quarks
© Surazeus
2018 03 22

Why the sun explains how time flashes pure
as silver rain bombastic for the show
beyond the pretty devil who, demure,
guides me to kiss her in the morning snow.

Naked as sunlight on water at dawn,
she explains how seeds explode from black skies,
transforming dirt into fruit of the swan
who cracks the mirror of my ice-blue eyes.

Curious about where the sun was born
I explore field of flowers wet with dew
to drink honey mead from the curving horn,
reluctant to reveal where apples grew.

Broken door falls from the tree made of bones,
allowing me to forge the key of death
from angels who try to escape from stones
with serpent eggs that hide the shibboleth.

I calculate comedic formula,
extracting from our universal truth
the wretched joke of our particular
how I evolve from messiah to sleuth.

How weird that nothing fills my empty brain
in writhing strands of hot electric sparks
that generate virtual worlds in the rain
since we are spirals of engendering quarks.

Unemployed In Green Land

Unemployed In Green Land
© Surazeus
2018 03 22

Standing still on the corner of the street,
and holding leather briefcase in left hand,
Michael watches busy people walk fast
with far-away looks in their staring eyes,
and he watches cars and trucks speeding past
as their engines emit vibrating roar,
and the giant ball of fire in the sky
illuminates glass towers and asphalt streets
with stark intense light of pulsating heat.

"Though I worked as an accountant for banks
for twenty years, processing new home loans,
today I am unemployed in Green Land.
How strange it seems that I once raced along
with intently focused activity
of ten thousand people in this huge city,
determined to play vital role
as one tiny cog playing my secure part
in this grinding economic machine
to earn enough money so I can eat.
Now that I have been fired from my bank job,
extracted from my part in the machine,
I stand still and useless on the bright street
like the gear cast aside on factory floor,
no longer turning on schedule of time,
motionless amid the motion of business.
I stand on still point of the turning world,
as if I were the axle of the wheel,
but the axle is central to its motion,
and I was never core to the machine,
so now I am the axle and not the gear?
I think the mayor who must run this city
functions as the axle connecting wheels,
though maybe he must be the steering wheel,
but are we humans parts of some machine,
mindless robots performing functions well
in communal societies of action?
As office worker in large company,
I was but one part of some giant whole,
yet we humans are autonomous persons,
complete individuals in ourselves,
so now that I am separate from the whole
I can move on my own independent track
and devise private reasons to exist.
I always helped people get loans to buy
new homes where they can care for families,
but now I feel useless without my job.
What function that contributes to success
of my personal growth with stable income
do I want to perform in game of life
that fulfills my sense of purposeful worth,
rather than what society demands?
How foolish I sound, searching for my purpose,
like those self-help gurus who earn their living
spouting bromides at flashy seminars
that fool morons into giving them cash
in return for phony steps to success.
Yet why should I apply my energy
to perform any good function at all
that maintains engine of society
which milks our labor for the billionaires,
choosing instead to sit on the street corner
or under shady tree in city park
and do nothing with my hands or my mind?
The only result is that I would starve
and my body dissolve back into dust
when I refuse to perform any part
in the ruthless economic machine
that produces food to feed everybody
who chooses to cooperate for pay,
for anybody can play my small part.
Like Buddha I can sell all my possessions
and meditate under the fruitful tree
far from the business zone of cityscapes,
and listen to the river sing all day,
except that I will feel bored in one hour.
My mind spins active as the cranking piston
that twirls the axle so it turns the wheels
which motivates me to perform my role,
zooming along the highway of production.
Each person plays their role along the way
of transforming minerals of the Earth
into food or machines that aid our lives,
so though I want to leave Great Babylon
and meditate like Ezekiel by the river,
yet I want to eat, sleep safe, and watch movies,
so I must participate in society.
I would go mad sitting alone all day,
my mind inventing movies I would watch,
so I must work to live safe and eat well.
Although I will need to sit by the river
for one week to balance my energized mind,
yet I will return to play the money game
after I regain stoic calm of purpose."

Walking from the city over the bridge,
Michael sits meditating by the river,
dreaming the history of the universe
from First Flash of Light to the Flaring Forth
when life evolved from the sea of the world,
then returns and searches for a new job.

Simplicity Of Sunlight

Simplicity Of Sunlight
© Surazeus
2018 03 21

The simplicity of sunlight on dirt
explains without complex theology
that the universe is indifferent
to whether or not I exist, so I
write my name in the dust as the cool breeze
from the infinite sky of glowing light
erases it from the world chronicle.

I feel sunlight flicker on water waves
that pierce my soul with threads of Helium
forged by the sun that billows waves of light
which swirl into this sphere of surging soil
nourishing our bodies through natural flash
of chemicals spiraling into our brains
so I glow with pulsing atoms of love.

I see my reflection in flashing water
so I reach out and touch its gleaming surface
that ripples away across the vast sky
where the sun shimmers heat against my skin,
then stand and stretch my arms to touch the clouds,
and shout against the memory of cold night,
"I am Helios, son of the glowing sun."

Nothing but sunlight beating at my face
answers my anguished cry of self-awareness,
so I watch white clouds appear from the air
and spiral huge from cold buffeting wind,
and I dream particles of light and wind
flashing together in cool drops of rain
that drench the hills with beating of my heart.

I lift my face up to the flashing sky
and drink the rain drops falling from the sun
to feel its emanation fill my flesh
with urgent passion of delicious hope
that sparks visions of the First Flash of Light
expanding to spiral in galaxies
which shimmer in the cells of my wet flesh.

I dream creation of our universe
recorded in every drop of blue rain,
and though these mindless elements of force
swirl around me, indifferent to my life,
I feel their potent energies shock swift
to weave thick web of neurons in my brain
which mirrors network of vast galaxies.

Like footprints of birds on the sea beach sand,
I write the name and deeds of every soul
who ever woke from dream on spinning Earth
to record world chronicle before wind
of death erases memory of existence,
so I sing the visions of life I dream
in simplicity of sunlight on water.

Old Professor Of Literature

Old Professor Of Literature
© Surazeus
2018 03 21

Surrounded by dozens of family friends
and former students he taught many years,
the retired professor of literature
relaxes in stuffed armchair by the hearth
and puffs tobacco in curved wooden pipe
while contemplating movie of his life.

"I taught the arcane art of literature
and writing poetry for forty years
at this ivy-league university,
founded by my ancestor, Thomas Dudley,
to generations of eager young students,
teaching them the power of creative writing
to present visions on nature of life.
Yet after all this work teaching young minds
I retire in obscurity of fame,
unknown and forgotten by society,
as if I were some old leather work glove
discarded after years of faithful service."

Sipping glass of Rioja wine from Spain,
the eminent doctor of literature
gazes around at eyes watching him speak.
"Rather than suffer anguish and distress
at my failure to achieve success,
with people proclaiming art I create
expresses complex concepts about life
and therefore proves the genius of my mind,
I make it part of my life narrative
that people cannot recognize my greatness
because their ideas about great art
are simple and out-dated modes of thought.
I cannot control how people view me,
but I can control actions I perform
and words I speak to express point of view,
and above all I can control the art
I create through the gestures of my hands,
organizing words in lithe sentences
by typing letters on computer keyboard
that capture well the visions in my mind
so readers see the same visions I dream
that analyze flow of cause and effect
through dramatic process of human actions
which narrates great arc of historic games
that prove complex ontology of truth
I designed from my research into facts.
As the poet I create visions of life
that accurately describe human nature
in relation to the world we perceive.
Ignoring the opinions of the crowd,
who clamor for the simple narrative
where good people fight and defeat bad people,
I tell stories of people, who are both
good and bad, exploring nature of life
to understand force of cause and effect
that results from chemical interactions
of atoms forming geometric structures
through process of construction and destruction
so we can establish rules of morality
defining what actions are good or bad
that guide our behavior in situations
that threaten the existence of our souls."

Pausing to puff tobacco in his pipe,
the professor listens for nodding murmurs
attesting to the truth of his assertions,
then continues contemplating the mystery.
"We want to replicate our genes in children
who will live beyond the death of our bodies,
so we stay alert for dangerous forces
in nature, animals, or hostile people
who threaten to enslave us to their will
to exploit our labor for their own gain,
or kill us to obtain land where we live
and control resources of food and water
we manage to sustain life of our souls,
so we fight to defend our way of life
against people who threaten our existence.
All things are structures of material
that we manipulate to produce food
which sustains chemical process of life,
so we design machines from wood and metal
that assist our work of producing food
so we can feed more children of our bodies
who dwell inside protective walls we build
that forms haven of strong base citadel
where we manage the business of production
and plan more actions to control the land,
harvesting resources that we all share,
and organize all people in one project
where each person plays their vital role
to process functions of civilization
and educate our children to improve
good government of growing populations
who strive together within one world view."

Late evening sunlight slanting through the windows
illuminate the roofs of Cambridge town
as the professor of world literature
eloquently explains his firm world view.
"My failure to achieve success means nothing,
for I am but one lone individual
who dreams the vast and complicated world
from the limited view of my two eyes,
expressing one aspect of the diamond world,
so we all share the visions we perceive
and aggregate our views in one world view
that constructs complex ontology
to generate virtual model from words
that reflects the truth of our universe.
I hoped that I could, through my deep research,
design new ontology that explains
all opposing concepts scientists devise
in one grand theory of our universe
which could predict in simple formula
all functions of historical events.
I feel that I did succeed in my program
to present whole ontology of truth
because I see this grand vision of time
glowing complete in model of my mind
which organizes historical events
in one complete narrative of our lives,
but no one else will acknowledge my vision,
so my world view will vanish at my death
like the frail soap bubble that pops in air."

Gazing at the first star that twinkles bright
through the window of his home nearby Harvard,
the professor knocks ashes from his pipe,
and sighs like wind blowing from Rocky Mountains
just as his wife enters the room and smiles,
inviting them all to the dinner table.
Rising from his stuffed armchair by the hearth,
the old professor of world literature
lingers by the clear window of his soul
to gaze at the moon behind ragged clouds,
feeling the emptiness of his proud words,
then follows them in to eat the roast beef,
and they laugh as they talk of everything
while the world spins in the infinite void.

Tuning Of Fifty Violins

Tuning Of Fifty Violins
© Surazeus
2018 03 20

At the tuning of fifty violins
in the gymnasium of the middle school
the single note vibrates the universe
for a thousand years of timeless desire.

Invisible wind flowing over stones
and swirling between the wood trunks of trees
sings with ancient voices from the blue sky
that explain where I should go to survive.

I hear enchanting cry of aching hope
and kneel on the plain under shining clouds
to watch the woman walking in the wind
who sings one endless word across the sky.

Approaching me among the purple flowers,
the singing woman who voices the wind
glows bright as the sun haloing her head
and spreads her arms wide to embrace the world.

She stands above me in the flashing wind
and sings vibration of the universe
in ringing melody that burns my heart
with aching flame to become everything.

Transcending body of this nameless ache,
I spread across the sky in sunset flames,
and countless stars flash through my freezing eyes,
enchanted by the woman singing high.

She pulls me deep inside her aching heart
and we become the spinning world of wind
at lust of surging waves that flush our minds
when I begin to sing the word she knows.

We sing together under twinkling stars
and flowers blossom from our tingling skin
so kisses that caress my aching heart
influence me with spirit of the light.

Then deeper in the darkness of her song
I float on sweet vibrations of the mind
when surging time of endless relevance
bears me beyond the melody of death.

I wake from dream of ancient memory
when one incarnation of my deathless soul
was conceived in the field of flowers and stars
to hear the children stroke their violins.

I see my child in the large orchestra
slide arching bow across vibrating strings
to tune the aching love of ancient souls
who wake inside our minds with ringing tunes.

For a thousand years of timeless desire
the single note vibrates the universe
in the gymnasium of the middle school
at the tuning of fifty violins.

Vigilant For Predators

Vigilant For Predators
© Surazeus
2018 03 20

Whenever I walk down the city street
heat rays from the sun penetrate my skin
and weave electric energy of light
tight within the fabric of my frail being.

I move among people, tense and alert,
watching for danger of sudden attack
because all my ancestors who survived
never relaxed into dreamy contentment.

Their constant state of tense heightened awareness
that some misconstrued as paranoid fear
was realistic assessment of human nature,
expecting the worst from cruel predators.

I remain vigilant for predators,
hoping to avoid becoming their prey,
because I want to escape crushing death
and live well before I die of old age.

Sometimes the predator will be disguised
as the good person who cares about me,
but if they always take and never give
their cruel greed lies exposed to my eyes.

Though my heart fountains with generous love
if someone attacks me in word or deed
I can protect my heart from getting hurt,
defending myself without hurting them.

Though people try to hurt me with their greed
I am reluctant to hurt them in turn,
deflecting their attack with graceful wit,
and hurting them only if they persist.

I savor give and take of generous love,
exchanging pleasure in fulfilling trust,
so I avoid people who try to hurt,
and seek the company of those who heal.

Blue Of Infinite Time

Blue Of Infinite Time
© Surazeus
2018 03 19

When I cover my face with the gold mask
of the famous poet, I would confess
family-borne angst as virus of despair,
and drink ginger ale brewed from blood of truth.

Walking in the blue of infinite time,
I toughen my heart against mocking jokes
that charge me up with honest energy
to fight cruel insults with indifferent grace.

Brushing wind-blown hair from her flushing cheek,
the goddess of the sea channels green waves
through her eyes to fill abyss of my heart
with infinite love her soul generates.

Each thought about nature of Earth and Man
flashes epiphany through formal clues
how action calculates cause and effect
I capture with formula from word spells.

Drifting half-asleep one moment of why,
I see the face of the one I once loved,
so I snap awake and open front door
to see the ghost of blue infinite sky.

I think you have the kind and loving heart
that will not let you hurt those who hurt you,
but you must speak to deflect their sharp words
and shield your heart with calm indifferent grace.

Predators stalk the world, thirsting for blood,
so the innocent who love generous peace
must fight the fighter to defend their right
to drink the water of infinite hope.

My father photographs exotic birds
and races cars he built from bones of wolves,
so I note every sign along the way
that leads bold fools to the castle of skulls.

The Muse who gushes visions through my brain
speaks only arcane riddles I invent
that no one reads, so no one will receive
breath of infinite blue that mirrors you.

The owl with eyes gold as the windless lake
reveals true stories that we tried to hide
through hope exacerbated by desire
to rule as incarnation of your dead god.

I have traveled twenty-two thousand miles
across the continent of Onatah,
searching for Arcadia in my heart,
which far across the Eastern Sea calls me.

I stop in the door to balance the light
changing moods dialed by weather of my hope
to flick through channels that conceal the truth
in metaphors packaged by hands of jokers.

I cannot solve the puzzle of your face
assembled from ennui of each lost place
so I let the order of chaos flow
in gold honey dripping from Tree of Life.

Are we now halfway through the labyrinth
where faces in the ancient gallery
appeal for me to wear each one in turn
till I dream everyone who ever lived?

Huddled in the grove after snow melts brown,
the blind poet scribbles verses on leaves
that blow away in the indifferent wind
so lost people can see map he conceived.

I follow sweet song of sirens in rain
into the true blue of infinite time
when I sense ghost of her words in my brain
concealed by riddle of my paradigm.

Mind Writhing In Stone

Mind Writhing In Stone
© Surazeus
2018 03 19

The mind writhes in the superstitious stone,
teaching me how to see outside my head
the secrets of death written on quartz teeth
in alphabets invented by blind fools.

Removed from the water of flashing light,
I name the wind that fills my heart with truth,
wondering what I shall tell children of love
cracked from the glass mountain of contrived words.

At hard shadows two pairs of matching eyes
express the void that ripples with clear water
to arouse the mind writhing in the stone
from memory of atoms forged by the sun.

Oblique shadows of words I never speak
drown shapes of flashing atoms with real light
making visible the painting of faces
to reveal the subject I am not void.

We walk with everyone in the wide realm
of continuous creation to touch
seeping darkness that fills my soul alone
full of water that never speaks my thoughts.

I would eat grits but cracked enamel bowl
white as the moon that knows my secret fear
casts shadows hard as stone across my eyes
to split darkness from the indifferent sun.

Flat on my back in the boat of the moon,
I float over the abyss of my heart,
sinking in clear vacancy of my eyes
flooded with dreams only seen by moonlight.

I master the flashing thoughts of my brain
by breathing wordless wind from restless seas
to blow sorrow through the flute carved from bone
I retrieved from the dust of my dead mother.

When white lilacs last in the dooryard bled
starlight from the eyes of angels who trudge
wingless to work all day in factories
I mourned the drinking of money like blood.

Ever-returning spring breaks through my heart,
spiraling vines of moody power to bind
flashing atoms within limits of math
to surf murky waves of horror with Death.

In the silent swamp of my aching heart
the shy bird warbles spells of lost desire
to show me the way through cities of hunger
when I carry the corpse of Fallen God.

Following the orb that sails in blank heaven,
I walk in silence the transparent night,
and linger in the lustrous light of nothing
to remember friends whose names I forgot.

I hang their pictures on my chamber walls
when sea wind blows petals of lilacs slow
in swirls of memories that blank my mind
writhing in the stone that cracks mirror eyes.

The bird in the swamp this time will not sing
for the dead king dumped in swallowing mud
of relentless time that transforms our bodies
to slime of the sea from which we evolved.

The mind writhes in the stone with thirty eyes
crystallized through flow of dark energy
surging from soil of the Earth to my bones
which expand to enclose millions of stars.

I see all this when I gaze at the quartz
shimmering rainbow colors from every atom
that fluctuates between our body flames
to solidify pulsing chemicals.

Back from the Underworld of broken souls,
who wander wordless in the nameless city,
I parade through town, wearing the mask
I carved from ice, to reveal nothing false.

Now that you see the real me in fake words,
scattering light to glow blue through my eyes,
you will write dreams based on the formula
learned from the mind writhing in the stone.

Ghost Of Memory

Ghost Of Memory
© Surazeus
2018 03 18

The rain that explains why we are alive
splatters the windows of the lonely house
where no one talks about shadows of light
or the cold that hides in the empty books.

The heavy heart that sleeps all afternoon
forgets the turning of relentless time
which cracks every cell in the organism
who relies on mirrors of flashing words.

If I could sit quietly on the couch
all day and never buy or sell my words
the snap of angel wings disturbing wind
would never blow sand off the patient beach.

The shadow of the concept I ignore
is always walking towards me from the sky
down every hill where no one ever roams
to bring the treasure someone promised me.

She knows the secret you can never spell
in letters of contempt on walls of dust
because the leaves that fall from angry trees
clutter the ground of forgotten desire.

The voice that never whispers any song
twists backward every wrong long suffered why
if we must try to speak words no book keeps
alone on the bridge that goes nowhere far.

I cannot hide the secret I ignore
so every flower pressed forgotten in books
reminds me of the one who walked away
to keep the shadow of my numbing heart.

You are not the concept still in my mind
so every second your true soul transforms
beyond the ghost who lingers in my eye
inside the glow that hides your polished mask.

The rich spirit still flashes in your eyes
that I recall feeling there years ago
but like the seed that sprouts into the tree
you grow beyond the ghost of memory.

Code Of Thought Rhyme

Code Of Thought Rhyme
© Surazeus
2018 03 18

In the brutal competition of words,
bumping each other on the stage of fame,
blind poets wield pens mightier than swords
to slash conceptual silence of the game.

We twist thoughts unwoven from burning brains
to weave tapestries of language disputes
clacking puzzles of cripples in day rains
since clowns howl while banging on broken lutes.

Disassembled world view of modern truth
glitters scattered on cold cathedral floor
while priests take confession in mirrored booths
and choose who enters academy door.

Last of the Parnassians in the Waste Land
broadcasts fascist propaganda on the radio
to rail against usury of the Black Hand
while stuck on the lost island of Calypso.

Follow me through the labyrinth of myths
where funhouse mirrors reflect Masks of God,
forged in the fires of Hell by the blind smiths
who trick you into voting for the fraud.

The spotted owl in the dead Tree of Life
moon-eyes my soul to transcend aching flesh,
reincarnated by my startled wife
who weaves flashing atoms in spirit mesh.

How can you say we mock the verse you spell
when vision conjured by the words you choose
dissipates in mist from the tragic well
where Melusine taught us misguiding ruse?

The nothing you express in aching song
your friends praise with fake trinkets as awards,
but when the true voice vibrates from your tongue
cacophony is all your poem records.

You sing together in dissonant choir
while shouting social justice at the crowd
to lead angry mobs who attack the liar
and crucify the king who once reigned proud.

Avoiding the pyramid of false fame,
where haughty word priests rule schools of mute bards,
we climb holy mountain of the spell game
to prophesy through changing Tarot cards.

When the thunder in the empty sky speaks
riddles about the wizard with six hands
we sail nowhere in the Argo that leaks
to the island where skulls sing in white sands.

So if you map your way through maze we build
you may yet find the key of secret truth
that might unlock the tower where love was killed
before you get caught by the holy sleuth.

The tower of song with lofty parapet
where we compose weird spells of prophecy
conceals the entrance to the star-swift jet
we fly to mountain of true honesty.

The trick to orchestrate astrology
to change fateful flow of cause and effect
is how we engineer ontology
designed by the world-shaping architect.

By slanting truth in beams of divine light
we conjure world view from puzzle of dreams
assembled by our messiah in midflight
while falling from blasted tower in swift streams.

The flashed hallucination in my eye,
dreamed in the half-sleep of aching desire,
retrospects the ghost who wants to know why
our memories play tricks through the signifier.

The process of social change realigns
people into teams with their own world views
who each develop strange secretive signs
that incite conflict through mistrust of clues.

The candor you express in honest poems
conceals arrogance behind contest hoax
while the blind troubadour of lies who roams
sea to shining sea steals all your lame jokes.

Blind poets wield pens mightier than swords
through brutal contests of mock or be mocked
to battle over word chairs and awards
in tower of prophecy where truth is locked.

Your poems are weeds on the huge mountain slope
that wither in the silent sun of time
when spells are carved in ruined church of hope
to reveal truth in the code of thought rhyme.

No Matter Who Won

No Matter Who Won
© Surazeus
2018 03 17

The love that makes my heart run like the horse
of the apocalypse through thundering storm
urges my quest through the labyrinth of myths
to find the mask that suits my spirit cry.

Once I map the sacred angelic course
through vast museum of idea and form
I carve dreams on ten thousand monoliths
to shelter our souls from indifferent sky.

That faith that blinds my eyes to facts of life
conceals the ancient vision of desire
that fuels competition to rule the globe
till I see the vision of the White Whole.

The wisest and strongest emerge from strife
when our messiah becomes our vampire
who explores galaxies in swift space probe
while I practice to play the laureled role.

Her face appears in the puzzle of truth
when I assemble fragments of lost dreams,
weaving ontology for new world view
that solves the riddle of the laughing sphinx.

If you vote for me to play the world sleuth
I will design the power games of streams
and build ringing harp from wood of the yew
to chant code revealed by words of her jinx.

I guard books of spells in library hall
which I composed from the light of new stars
flaring forth from the first flash of her eye
conceived from our love in tower of mirrors.

She paints my face on the hidden church wall
the moment I invent engines for cars
we drive on highways to achieve the high
of honest heroes who rule waves of rivers.

I bring new message from the blind mad king
that each person should follow their own dreams
and marry for love in the game of thrones
before Death flies from shadow of the sun.

On street corners I strum guitar and sing
ancient memories of lovers by cool streams
who ride horses and eat apples of bones
because we all die no matter who won.

Pepin Guards Her Garden

Pepin Guards Her Garden
© Surazeus
2018 03 17

Chasing sunlight along high garden walls,
while three girls in long gowns play harps and flutes,
the young boy with long red hair and green eyes
leaps on branches of the apple tree,
and crouches quiet like the mountain cat
to watch two cats stalk mice that eat grain.

The tall stout woman with long flame-red hair
straightens her back from picking herbs and berries
and whistles, gesturing he come to her side,
so he leaps down and scoops up the young kitten,
who looks at him with eyes gold as the sun,
and skips to her side as she wipes her brow.

"Wild Pepin, you playful sprite of the woods,
the spirit of your mother, Begga, glows
bright as the sun in your eyes, so you play
free as the butterfly among the flowers,
like she did, but now is the time to work,
so help me gather strawberries for supper."

Pepin sets the kitten down in the grass
and giggles when she leaps into the basket.
"I will gladly help you, Aunt Geretrudis.
My father, Ansegus, said he would bring
new white horse from the herd for me to ride,
so I am going to fly fast as the wind."

Holding the basket hanging from his arm,
Pepin grins when the kitten boops his cheek
as he leans down to pick strawberries from vines.
"When my father rides with King Sigebertus
they protect sacred gardens of our tribe,
so I will help him guard land of Austrasia."

Geretrudis smiles and shakes her head sadly.
"We are the children of Meroveus,
descended from our father Jesus Christus
and his tower bride Mary Magdalena,
who fight each other to rule the whole world
where the scepters of Caesars once held sway."

Gasping for breath as she works in hot sun,
Geretrudis gazes up at the sky.
"I stay out of that brutal game of crowns
played by the clever sons of Melusina,
who kill each other to play Christ on Earth,
preferring to tend my garden of herbs."

Hair whirling around her face in the wind,
Wulfetrudis runs into garden grove.
"Some strange man leaped over the garden gate
and twirled bright sword that flashes in the sun,
shouting for Ansegus to come and fight,
and killed seven guards who tried to arrest him."

Running to hide in the secret treehouse,
shrouded by leaves that flutter in the breeze,
Pepin and Wulfetrudis crouch in shadow,
and gasp to see Geretrudis twirl hoe,
leaping as she fights the man with the sword,
then bonks his head hard, so he backs away.

"I am Gundewin, wizard of the thunder,
and I search for the children of Ansegus
to chop off their heads and feed them to dogs,
like Ansegus did to my own six children,
leaving their corpses to rot in the mud.
Reveal this evil killer for my justice."

Laughing as she crouches, ready to fight,
Geretrudis leaps, striking at his head.
"No man named Ansegus lives in this garden.
We are humble nuns and the brides of Christus,
dedicated to growing fruits and herbs,
and caring for children orphaned by war."

Snatching the bow and arrows of Cupido,
that he plays with while hunting in the woods,
Pepin aims slender arrow at his face,
then pulls the string taut as the howl of wolves,
and twangs the bow when Gundewin attacks,
shooting the arrow straight in his sword arm.

Shrieking in pain, the warrior turns and runs,
clutching his arm that spurts blood on the grass,
and escapes from the garden of sharp arrows,
shouting he will return to seek revenge,
but runs away before more arrows fly,
then they all cheer, astonished at good luck.

Pepin leaps from the tree and hugs his aunt.
"I know you avoid brutal game of crowns,
but because we are Merovingian
we are vulnerable to brazen attack
so you need me to guard you with my bow,
fighting war to protect your honest peace."

Geretrudis gazes in his green eyes.
"Your spirit is strong, Pepin Heristal,
and someday you will help your noble kings,
divine sons of King Jesus and Mermaid,
rule his kingdom that flourishes on Earth,
so I appoint you guardian of my garden."

Wulfetrudis kisses his cheek and smiles,
and they return to tending garden herbs
while the kitten in the basket leaps high
to land on his shoulders while he bends down,
and Pepin laughs with delight to feel paws
as the kitten curls on his back and purrs.

Surfing Seattle Rainbow Soul

Surfing Seattle Rainbow Soul
© Surazeus
2008 09 08

Long brown shaggy hair of a reborn Celtic shaman
hangs over blue-green eyes of skinny hungry poet
slouched shivering in small dark basement room
who pulls long green tattered wool coat tighter
around his shoulders as he stares at wall of illusion.

Moonlight glitters through small broken window
where gold spider watches him eat can of beans
but he stares past spider at leaf-bare trees
where black ravens flutter wings in purple mist
that hangs forever over hills and towers of Seattle.

Blank pages of thick sketch book gleam white
as he holds fountain pen poised low to write
while Muse of History whispers songs in his ear
streaming a swift flow of images and visions
in complex patterns of human civilization process
but his pen hovers over paper not writing a word.

Stuffing Marijuana buds in small clay pipe
he flicks lighter and inhales deep sweet smoke
of cosmic spirit that fills his lungs with heat
of ancient souls and his eyes sparkle stars
that weave faces morphing many generations
of ancestors when his mothers and fathers embraced
and flashed creation of life in each new child
who squirmed from womb to become a new soul.

Three hours he stares at blank white page
watching a thousand generation of his ancestors
sprouting faces like grapes on line vine of soul
and tries to remember name and feelings of each
as they appear and blossom and flash out eyes
like fireworks of spirits exploding from his mind
and he sits silent in cold basement watching flow
of their blood fill his brain with pool of light.

I am each of you and you are all of me
he mumbles and takes a deep cold breath
because spirit is Latin verb that means
he breathes so a spirit has a body of flesh
then he touches his chest and feels his heart beat
so he stands and takes guitar in his hands.

Hungry poet walks outside into cold mist
and walks empty silent street past large homes
to Red Square to stand by statue of George
at center of University of Washington campus
after midnight then strums out-of-tune strings
and sings making up verses from memories
taking a deep breath and exclaiming visions
in restless tumble of concepts falling from his heart.

Nobody but moon and a flock of ravens hear
so he stops and watches ghosts of lost souls
a hundred years of students streaming past
then he opens wallet and takes a small square
of paper with image of Yin and Yang and eats
placing small stamp of Vitamin A on his tongue
then he walks an hour past ten million years
slow swimming through liquid memories of love
as snow begins to fall on empty black streets.

Stepping slow with long legs of a giant
hungry poet floats on elegant eagle wings
and transforms into a lion wearing coat and boots
and watches stars bulge huge as purple flow
of tower lights shimmer gelatin eyeball brain
over lake of dreams and he smiles as flame
of dragon mother burns in his belly of  desire
and he says with voice outside his glass skull
I am not I am because glass tower wing
helps me fly over Seattle for I am a raven
with owl eyes tall white-wing angel of heaven
for I am all things of this universe in my head.

Ripples of waves from dreaming human souls
flow around me in sea of whispering voices
he says and watches voices become red raven
that lifts off iron gasworks and becomes eye
of his first mind that he holds in his open hand
so he opens book sitting on high round hill
breast of Earth and draws stream of milk
that flows from his fingers in black death blood
ink forming words in slithering snake scribbles.

Each star and planet in universe is a brain cell
in mind of God who is aware of itself alive
through dreams that bubble in all our brains
so I program brain vision code in spoken sounds
I craft in word perfect lines of secret thought
to remember everything my ancestors knew
and experienced from conception to conception
in each new generation of my deathless soul
in gene coils I spring beyond death in new child
who looks back at me for a moment then turns
and explores future as I fade into black past.

Stoned on acid skinny freezing hungry poet
walks empty streets of Seattle all night
going circles nowhere around Green Lake
past houses of turtle shells where angels sleep
then stops before round red brick hall
of Seventh-day Adventist church and smiles
whispering I thew apple seed of religion away
while others kept theirs locked in glass jars
so now my faith grows into giant apple tree.

Then he steps inside bright-lit Seven-Eleven
and buys apple juice smiling like a Buddha
as he sways surfing silent on rainbow wave
then glides outside into falling snow of soul
and drinks cold juice walking on galactic road
becoming a tall bearded king with a sword
guarding a small stone castle in oak woods
while staring at a van with white lights
glide past and disappear into red dawn.

Looking up at gray dawn sky of clouds
he becomes a lizard as he sits on wood steps
and sees ghosts of giant dragons soar slow
a million years ago souls photographed forever
in cloud patterns of rippling stipple steel wings
then he puts both hands on his frail skull
and wonders at throbbing brain so full of dreams
that watches itself perceive words take shape
as things that throb and swell outside bounds
of concepts in fluid accentuations of desire
to push outside limits of time-flow existence.

I am still point of this turning universe
he grins and ignores ghosts of dead poets
Homer and Ovid and Du Fu and Li Po and Virgil
and Valmiki and Dante and Shakespeare
and Milton and Blake and Ginsberg and Dylan
who scatter words that sprout into flowers.

Sitting like Buddha on stone bank steps
stoned poet watches Seattle spring to life
at dawn as skeletons emerge from houses
to walk with serious intent to work all day
in office and store and factory and warehouse
to make and market and distribute and sell
a thousand things transforming stone and tree
into machines and clothes and food we eat
thousands of people swirling in restless tide
while he sits still dreaming awake all day
watching without words as they pursue hopes
and chase invisible dreams looking far ahead.

I will not die for your sins this time around
he chuckles and stands towering high to smile
then glides slow on owl wings past glass doors
back to basement room where he lies down
and stares at endless shifting spirals of light
that become huge elaborate crystal palace towers
and sleeps a thousand years dreaming of You.

Infinite Variations Of Dreams

Infinite Variations Of Dreams
© Surazeus
2018 03 16

Through infinite variations of dreams,
calculating the spiral of the circle
that descends to the bottomless abyss,
regressing through process of evolution
to the First Flash at the big bang of light,
we express every possible desire
to replicate each new face in the mirror
so we know why we flare forth into life.

The oblong symmetry of every object
spreading outward in curves of limitations
reveals the infinite circle of mind
dreaming through the eye of every woke brain,
weird wisdom revealed by swift Uriel
who sings that no straight line is found in nature
since every unit in the universe
curves round as the sphere of the great White Whole.

The word in the window written in light
flashes faces on television screens
to dramatize the tale of every god
who walks the spinning world in human form,
incarnate of our most conscious ideal
to show how we achieve enlightenment
and every one of us become messiah
who proclaims oracles in cave of dreams.

One person out of every million souls
awakes at strike of lightning in the brain
to see the vision of transcendent truth
we can achieve if we fight against death
when angry men try to control our fate,
for we must seize the scepter of great wisdom
and fight to rule the kingdom of our mind
or slave in the factories of the dead god.

From the singularity of my eye
soul seed expands into the Tree of life
and sprouts sprawling Kabbalah stem of brains
when spiraling galaxies nourish worlds
that bubble with alchemical solutions
linking carbon rings in coils of our genes
to transform fish to mouse to chimp to man
to angel surfing waves of light in saucers.

Dividing the circumference of the circle
by its diameter, I calculate
infinite spiraling curve of the Cosmos
as ratio of expanding universe
that flowers from the White Whole of my brain,
so when I eat apples in the green rain
while riding my horse on the sunlit plain
I know the true shape of the world I see.

Walking the silent mountain in bright snow,
I sense watching me the eye of the crow
who knows my secret name that I forgot,
so I show her the sacred book I bought
which should reveal chemical formulas
that generate my conscious mental buzz
so I remain alert to dangerous threats
and hide my fear in witty epithets.

I climb the mountain of Parnassus far
beyond the field of weeds where poets fight
over who wears the laurel crown of fame
Apollo dropped when he got bored of riddles,
and here alone I sing about the star
that weaves our bodies from hot beams of light
composing atoms to mirror the name
expressing quest for knowledge in lost puzzles.

I map the history of the world in zones
to reconstruct great demons from their bones
when wise dragons once walked upon the Earth,
singing the secret of spirit rebirth,
for we were wee mice skittering in the trees
when tall white-feathered angel dinosaurs
gathered in palaces of giant gems
till wind ground them all down to grains of sand.

I dip my hand in the sand by the sea,
and in each grain I dream the universe
that flashes through the sunlight of its eye,
for the First Flash and the Flaring Forth shine
in every molecule of the White Whole
that sparkles in the neurons of my brain
to beam virtual model of reality
through infinite variations of dreams.