Odysseus Washes Laundry

Odysseus Washes Laundry
© Surazeus
2018 04 30

Hiding with her friends, who giggle and blush,
behind the high-sided and strong-wheeled wagon,
Nausikaa watches the tall naked man
kneel in the honey-sweet grass of the meadow
where he gazes at their clothes on hot rocks.

Grinning to himself, Odysseus sings
as he begins to wash the dirty laundry,
beating garments with rocks and flower blossoms,
then dipping them into the clear black water
that flows swirling around his arms and legs.

After washing each load of clothes on rocks,
Odysseus rinses out the dirt in pools,
then spreads the garments on lines on the beach
where foaming waves sparkle in the sunlight,
and begins to eat food he finds in baskets.

Smiling at the hushed whispering of the girls,
Odysseus lies down and pretends to sleep,
and watches like a hawk through peeking eyes
the princess and her maids sneak over sand
to snatch the garments that dry in the sun.

Leaping to his feet, Odysseus roars,
and the maids shriek and run across the sand
to hide again behind the high-sided wagon,
but Nausikaa puts both hands on her hips
and glares at him as he laughs in the grass.

Plucking her basket of grapes and goat cheese,
Odysseus walks over to the large rock
where he perches like a lion in the sun,
and smiles when Nausikaa sits at his side,
and they eat while sun glitters on sea waves.

Delicate Red Flower

Delicate Red Flower
© Surazeus
2018 04 30

The delicate red flower grows through the crack
in the hard cement sidewalk like my love
for you cracks my bitter heart with desire.

Though we were married for forty two years,
you are nothing more than this photograph
and flashes of memory in my sponge brain
because all my memories about my life
are leaking out, but you I still remember.

I was just talking to this photograph
of my wife, but now that you have arrived
we can smoke weed like we do every day.

The gentleman who walks by every day
gives me more ripe apples than I can eat
so I am glad to trade apples with you
for a kiss from the lips of Mary Jane.

From this park bench I can see nothing more
than the brown river by pollution sludged
foul as it flows past the steel factories,
but I like the way the yellow sun gleams
through endless gray clouds to flicker gold
on the ever-flowing river of dreams.

I drift in and out of dream-state all day
while I sit alone on my private bench
which is why I like to sit at this spot,
because it is so far away from where
rich people in suits work in towers of glass.

I remember how my mother would bake
apples and peaches with cinnamon spice
in large pies that steamed on the window sill,
and she would always pretend to get mad
when I scooped out bites with my grubby hands.

She always shouted at me, "Wash your hands"
as I ran into the woods to climb trees
and talk to ravens about all the kids
at school who make fun of me because I.

I can see that mountain where I would play
over there across the river where coils
of the electric generator sparkle.

Sometimes the mountain is hidden by clouds
of smoke billowing from factory smoke stacks,
and then I want to go to the small grove
where I built the fort in the old oak tree
to hide from the mean kids who chased me home,
but fatigue makes my bones ache with despair.

I worked as an accountant for thirty years
but one day when my son ignored some rule
I commanded to better run our home,
I just walked out the front door of the house
I finished paying for, and came to this spot,
and I have been sitting here ten years now.

My wife and children all came to see me
and begged me to come home, but I refused
so I am happier now sitting all day
on my park bench, watching the black birds fly,
and listening to the sun shine on the river.

Be careful where you step with those thick boots
because you almost crushed on my red love flower.

Now why did you shoot me, you stupid coward?

The delicate red flower grows through the crack
in the hard cement sidewalk like my love
for the crazy world cracks my bitter heart.

Ode To Pulsing Atoms

Ode To Pulsing Atoms
© Surazeus
2018 04 29

When the last harsh wind of winter has blown,
blasting asphalt streets where metal cars chug,
and blustering against thick glass of steel towers,
amid the teeming crowd of faceless souls,
who trudge against brute anger of white snow,
one frail person pauses and gazes up
amazed at the sun blazing through black clouds,
and all the anguish of lost April hope
bursts out like the apple sprig that grows fierce
through jagged cracks in polished veneer
of civilization, stretching toward heaven
aching hands to worship White Whole of Truth.

Though cars race past on rubber tires of greed,
grinding pure snow to slush on asphalt streets,
the one awakened soul, bundled in thick coat
to armor their heart against freezing wind,
reaches both arms to sudden flash of light
when the indifferent sun pierces thick clouds
and flashes photons in their dreaming eyes,
diamonds forged by the burning core of Earth,
so seeds of hope, long sleeping in cold horror,
sprout awake from darkness of hungry death
and begin endless search for perfect truth
they express in spiral of blooming eyes.

Feet aching from exploring beyond walls
of private paradise, where special people
sing hymns of praise to dead god who will never
return on wings of love to resurrect
faithful souls by reconstituting atoms,
I wander nowhere through cold busy streets
of ten thousand cities from coast to coast
and listen to whispers of wordless fear
that hover as clouds over the playing field,
then weave their lost hopes and dreams in new vision
of global cooperation when bold artists
create virtual world which hides our real world.

As I stand on tallest tower in the world
I gaze at vast metropolis of cities,
shining in thick webs of lights coast to coast,
to see atoms are the only real things
that exist as light in the universe,
for there is nothing but the pulsing sparks
of light in the void that will congregate
through chemical interactions of lust
to wake from dream, now aware of myself
writing drama of objects I perceive
when I measure their bounds and qualities,
so I sing like fragile flames in rain storms.

We humans invented concept of God
as Platonic Idea which presents
most perfect example of conscious souls,
the human who creates things with their hands,
for flashing neurons of our dreaming brains,
structured in webs like clusters of galaxies,
generate virtual model of the weird world
we observe, then measure state of existence
to proclaim basic laws that describe physics
in formulas tracing cause and effect,
so I wear mask of the Many-Faced God
to become every soul who ever lived.

Lucretius described our world made of atoms
that compose structures of material things,
while Plato described how the brain perceives
complex universe, and constructs ideas
that define shape and quality of things,
and signifies each existing thing with Word
that organizes things in categories,
thus we define existing things with word
so we can communicate what we dream,
like millions of trees are signed by word Tree,
since astute Titus was the physicist
while Aristocles was the psychologist.

How lucky I am that these pulsing atoms,
of all the atoms in vast universe
flashing in zillions of planets and stars,
constitute this unique soul I express,
for I exist at this small span of time
in all the infinite stretch of expansion,
now here yet nowhere in the flash of change,
so I wake with consciousness of desire
and become God, the great omniscient soul
who dreams each pattern of existing things,
how everything expands from the First Flash
as we evolve in God we want to be.

Now when I look straight at existing things
I try to see beyond the Idea Word,
we agree will signify its basic concept,
and perceive with joy the thing in itself,
becoming one through empathetic play
with pulsing atoms that construct its being,
so I control the effects of my actions
by standing on the street corner to sing
weird visions about the nature of things,
how we spring to life in glowing sunlight
which weaves photons of light to charge our brains
so we become one soul with the White Whole.

Ladder Of Jacob

Ladder Of Jacob
© Surazeus
2018 04 29

Step by step I climb the Ladder of Jacob,
ascending thirteen levels of existence
to enter golden temple of the sun
and twang vibrant strings on the harp of light.

Pythagoras taught our souls beam from stars
to animate these bodies of flesh till death,
but swirl back up to the fountain of light
where we swim in the swirling pool of souls.

I lie on my back in safe lair of grass
where the wind swirls through the pores of my soul
and travel the universe with closed eyes
along the bright thread of imagination.

I hear harmonious music of each atom
that constitutes this giant ball of dirt
so I hum its vibration in my belly
that makes my whole body buzz with desire.

I feel presence of David and Orpheus,
musicians who taught me how to play tunes
and chant visions I perceive in weird spells
but I am alone when I open my eyes.

Sitting up on the hill of wind-blown grass,
I feel the sunlight beaming off the sea
penetrate every singing cell of my soul
so I ring like glass chimes in the soft breeze.

Rising to my feet on breath of the wind,
I carry my guitar that David gave me,
and walk the hot streets of Miami Beach
till I find the cool spot to strum and sing.

I push play on tape-recorder machine,
that hangs by its leather strap from my neck,
then play folk chords ringing from the guitar
and sing whatever words glow in my mind.

I sing about the fool who wanders lost
in vast labyrinth of numberless doors
who kneels in the rain on the cold dark night
to cry out for help to the empty sky.

Then from the flash of lightning in the sky
the angel of liberty on wings of fire
soars singing through the crack of mirror light
and hovers over him in sparkling rain.

I am Takoma, Goddess of the Mountain,
she sings in the bluster of the storm wind,
and I commission you, lost nameless fool,
to preach my message of love to all the world.

I stand on the stone ziggurat of Ur
and gaze in the black eyes of Empress Ishtar
who places ring of gemmed gold on my head
and commands I go forth to sing the truth.

I travel ten thousand years on the Earth,
singing hymns to celebrate power of women
who regenerate seed of man in flesh
so we reincarnate from mother to child.

I wake from vision on Miami Beach,
singing about Ishtar the Queen of Love,
who founded all religions of the world,
while people and cars move past in sunlight.

When I finish singing my hymn to Ishtar,
I turn off the tape-recorder and count
nine dollars people dropped in my fedora,
so I buy fresh tuna sandwich from Subway.

The Ladder of Jacob rising to Heaven
is nothing more than metaphor for hope
to gain success of fame through bold performance,
expressing visions of people in songs.

Indifference Of Starlight

Indifference Of Starlight
© Surazeus
2018 04 29

These are not the white days of broken rocks
beyond the perimeter of the ring
expelled by the sun to javelin time,
though tangled threads of ancient tapestries
unravel memories I thought were mine.

The mystery of the ache I cannot feel,
exposed by the rotting banana peel,
fails to explain why the cracked window pane
leaks tears of sorrow from the laughing rain.

The moon-eyed owl always knows my true name
each time she whispers who in the night wind.

I lean against the rotting door to ask
the ghost of my father no one can see
the way to get past the cathedral wall
so I can find the grave by the oak tree
where my mother talks to ravens at dawn
and explains to me the secret of love
painted on the stone wall with silver blood
that flows from the heart of the unicorn
who takes me to the cave where Sibyl sings
unless my mother makes new pair of wings
so I can fly above the labyrinth
where I see you all wandering in dreams
and pretending to know the reason why.

Through trees that leak sunlight in broken hearts
I hear the nameless girl singing my name
so I run circles through the lonely grove,
searching for the right girl I want to love,
racing between the shadows of desire,
but kneel before the statue of our queen.

She gazes down at center of the world,
looking straight through the mirror mask I wear,
and holds open both hands with generous trust
to bless my desire with eager embrace,
so I step forward to kiss her cold lips
but she does not spring to life at my touch.

The moon-eyed owl in the apple tree laughs
and mocks my quest for the secret of who.

Each morning I wake my memory is blank
so I invent the new name I will wear,
then walk the crowded streets past every stranger
who smiles as if they know tale of my life,
but I sit by the fountain in the market
and watch people who buy and sell the things
that other people make with crafting hands,
and I fall in love with every cute girl
who walks past me in cloud of flower scents,
longing to participate in her drama,
but they all vanish through the labyrinth
where I wander, staring at the locked doors.

Beside the giant stone cathedral I see
the oldest woman in the world with eyes
blacker than the terrible moonless night
who dips brush of horse hair in jar of blood
and paints Runes of Odin on crumbling leaves
to prophesy the names of angry men
who rule every nation as noble kings,
then crushes the leaf in her wrinkled hand
to signify that death crushes us all.

I run from the city and climb the mountain
where I watch invading armies attack
to kill the leaders, enslave the strong men,
and impregnate the women with their seed,
then I walk back down and they crown me king.

I rule one hundred years of solitude,
fathering one thousand sons who form gangs
to storm the citadel where I dream laws,
and each son crowns himself the noble king
on one thousand pyramids they construct
from the skulls of the people whom they conquer,
but we all fall asleep and forget how
we kill each other and breed with each other
to build empires that crumble in the wind.

The moon-eyed owl in the strange ruined tower
stares at me with the indifference of starlight.

Every object is a structure of atoms,
therefore flashing atoms coming together
as a complete entity is construction,
and atoms of a composed entity
dissolving into small parts is destruction,
therefore we base all our judgments of value
about whether events are good or evil
on whether these change-inducing processes
of construction or destruction are good
for our continued life as conscious structures,
and decide what actions we want to take
when we understand the process of action
that executes functions of cause and effect,
which we codify as the moral system
of ethics that guides will of our behavior.

I cut stones in blocks and build the strong walls
that surround the fountain bubbling fresh water
and protect the grove of tall apple trees,
then I stand in watch tower and tend warm fire
while my wife and children tend blooming plants,
for I am god who guards the sacred garden.

From that paradise of surrounding walls,
the safe haven of heaven by the river,
we expand to conquer the entire globe,
incorporating all nations in our empire
to enforce laws that rule common behavior
which maintain daily routines of strict labor
so every person who works earns reward
of gold coins stamped with the face of God Father
whose wise judgment enforces equal justice
only for those who obey his commands.

The moon-eyed owl watches me wander lost
in the ruins of ten thousand great empires.

Holy Communion With Earth

Holy Communion With Earth
© Surazeus
2018 04 28

The moon shines silver on the placid sea
somewhere far away from where I am now
for I float at our highest apogee
to pluck ripe apple from the golden bough,
so join our holy communion with Earth.

The moon reveals nothing about the truth
no matter how long I gaze at its face
and search old maps for the fountain of youth
to find real paradise that leaves no trace,
so join our holy communion with Earth.

I know real human beings were once near by
since every mirror hides their shadow soul
so I write riddles to understand why
death vacuums us back into the White Whole,
so join our holy communion with Earth.

I feel the Earth spinning inside my head
to weave threads of sunlight in song of love
so I eat the body of Earth as bread
and as mind-enchanting wine drink her blood,
so join our holy communion with Earth.

Beauty Of Sunlight On Water

Beauty Of Sunlight On Water
© Surazeus
2018 04 28

I watch sweet sunlight flicker on the pond
and feel the ache of beauty strike my heart
because civilizations rise and fall
but sunlight always flickers on the pond.

Yet why do I see beauty in how light
of the blazing sun flickers on the water,
waves of photons bouncing off surging atoms
to flash photoreceptors in my eyes?

More than three hundred million years ago
our ancestors first crawled up flowing streams
to lounge on wet shores after eating fruit
and watched sunlight flicker on flowing water.

Beauty of sunlight on water is truth
because every generation to me
gazed with pleasure of satisfying love
at how sweet sunlight flickers on the pond.

Since the beginning of our long dream time,
through hunting and gathering sweet food to eat,
through copulation and raising our children,
we always gaze at sunlight on the pond.

Lounging with lovers in branches of trees,
learning to walk in surging ocean waves,
following cows across the mushroom plains,
we always watch sunlight flicker on water.

I dip my hands in water of the Earth
and dream about each pair of fertile lovers
who copulated to produce my soul,
suspended at the moment when they kissed.

Ever young on the shore of the bright river
each pair of lovers who form my ancestors
embrace forever at spark of conception,
intense passion of love wired in my brain.

I see suspended in the flow of time
countless families gathered with their tribes
in thriving camps, villages, towns, and cities
on shore of every stream around the world.

Around the fire they gather after work
and share bountiful feast while singing hymns
then make love which generates more young children
who share tales while gazing at light on water.

I see them in the tableau of their lives,
the first mother and her guardian husband,
the priest who cooks the animals to eat,
and loving couples playing with their children.

Children play games of chase along the river,
lovers woo each other with vows of trust,
parents teach their children ways of the tribe,
and elders offer advice how to live.

We capture vision of our social lives
in stories about heroes we admire,
in paintings that depict our ritual dramas,
and in gods who personify our values.

Though all those generations are long dead
their genes and memories live in our minds
since beauty shines in tales we love as truth
for all our descendants yet to be born.

So turn off televisions and computers
which connect us to everyone on Earth
for but one hour in turning of the world
and sit with me outside in our backyard.

We watch sweet sunlight flicker on the pond
and feel the ache of beauty strike our hearts
because civilizations rise and fall
but sunlight always flickers on the pond.

Mask Of Victor Eremita

Mask Of Victor Eremita
© Surazeus
2018 04 28

Pausing as they stroll among fluttering trees
in the park by the large Church of our Lady,
Soren and Regine gaze at each other,
and she blushes when he takes both her hands.

"What I really need," Soren declares softly,
"is to get clear about what I must do,
not what I must know, except insofar
as knowledge must precede our every act.
What matters the most is to find a purpose,
to see what it really is that God wills
that I shall do because the crucial thing
is to find a truth which is truth for me,
to find the idea, my guiding light,
for which I am willing to live and die.
What is truth but to live for an idea?"

Reaching out her hand in the white lace glove,
Regine caresses his wolf-like cheek,
and smiles at the gleam that flashes his eyes.
"Since we met three years ago, my wild bear,
and sweet spark of love connected our hearts,
I live for the idea of being with you,
for the visions of your eyes you express
enchant my heart with love to hear you speak.
Since you paused while playing piano for me
and declared your love, I have lived for you.
You are the idea of truth I live for."

Kissing her hand and gazing in her eyes,
Soren beams with joy, then blushes embarrassed.
"My little Heks, witch who enchants my heart,
you are the greatest treasure in this world.
You are sovereign queen of my heart, Regine,
hidden in the deepest, most secret sanctum
of my breast, the heartbeat of my desire,
in the full compass of my life-idea,
within the cathedral hall of my heart
where it is just as far to light of heaven
as to hell, unknown deity of my heart.
Can I believe the poets when they claim
the first time he sees the beloved object
he thinks that he has seen her long before,
that love like all knowledge is recollection,
that love in the single individual
also has its prophecies, its types, its myths,
its Testament to the virtue of love?
Everywhere, in the face of every girl,
I see the timeless features of your beauty."

Regine blushes and glances away,
noticing the sparkle of light on water.
"I want to be the idea of truth
you live for, but I want you to love me,
and not love the perfect idea of me."

Feeling anguish like lightning strike his heart,
Soren trembles as he feels the world spin.
"I fear my spirit is too melancholy
for the daily mundane routine of marriage.
I love you, Regine, queen of my heart,
with the aching passion of God for truth.
I wear the mask of Victor Eremita,
the victorious hermit who seeks the truth,
to hide failure of Soren Kierkegaard.
I fear my prospects for making a living
are few since I can do nothing but write,
though I want to pastor my own small church.
I love you, Regine Olsen, my queen,
but I fear I will fail you as a husband,
yet you will haunt me everywhere I go."

Strolling together among fluttering trees
in the park by the large Church of our Lady,
Soren and Regine look at the blossoms
that glow white and red in afternoon light.

Pent Walls Of Paradise

Pent Walls Of Paradise
© Surazeus
2018 04 28

The gray river flows between bare white trees
in pale blue light of dawn that reveals why
I cannot remember my childhood name
that floats with dead leaves to the shining sea.

I follow the red-brick path between tulips
flaring pink and orange as sunrise on hills
where strangers eat rich meals in doorless homes
while I claw for seeds in wet pungent soil.

I refuse to own any land or object
outside my body because fragile humans
appear and disappear in flow of time
so how can one claim any spot their own?

Each time I sit down somewhere in the world
someone appears to tell me I must leave,
and they hurt me if I refuse to move,
so I keep roaming nowhere down the road.

Why must one person, who kills other people
if they refuse to obey their commands,
declare themselves ruler of bordered space
in ruthless game of power to control souls?

I am the messenger of the whole world
for I bring no command to obey rules
but information about how things work
so we can act to create not destroy.

I will sit in this garden of gold flowers
under this tree that bears fresh fruit to eat
and meditate on the meaning of life
that each person invents for their own good.

Your angry declaration that this garden
is your private space where I cannot stay
means nothing to me for we cannot both
occupy the same space at the same time.

Pent in stone walls of false security,
constructed as haven from brutal wars,
I ache to leave this paradise of peace
and follow the gushing river of hope.

Each tear of rain that falls through the clear ether
contributes to the surging flood of change
that carries my boat past huge city towers
so I wander debonair hills of grass.

I cannot hold the wind pent in my net
except its invisible force propels
my fragile ship bouncing on seething torrents
that push me past civil towns to the wild sea.

I dance the signless road from town to town
on tightly coiled springs of spiraling spells
to leap beyond pent walls of paradise
and explore the waste land of Elysium.

Beyond the city walls I follow him
who longs to find beauty in every truth,
savoring weird smile of the blue firmament,
and talk of truth in lair of wavy grass.

Each new day glides by too soon, he laments,
and drinks the dew as tears that angels lose,
wearing the painted mask of Philomel
so no one on city streets knows his name.

I write my songs on water with pure light
the indifferent sun beams into my brain
by painting letters on pebbles of glass
and tossing them in the swift stream of time.

We sit together by the singing sea
and watch the spirit of Alastor rise
on wings of fire to play the lyre of Hermes
because we followed Orpheus back home.

The flaming angel points to the sea cliff
where every poet who ever breathed the light
gathers in ring of stones to join the choir
so I climb jagged rocks in thundering rain.

I want to join the choir of all world poets
but when I have scaled the cliff of despair
I find ten thousand skulls among cracked gems
singing wordless nothing in wild sea wind.

I sit in the ruins of some old temple
dedicated to nameless god of tales
and translate the whistles of their lost voices
in coiled pentameter verse of my spells.

I scribble melodies of aching faith
calculated by formulas through sorrow
on fragile leaves that crumble in the wind
because our songs are written in the atoms.

Passion Of Electra

Passion Of Electra
© Surazeus
2018 04 27

What can I say when dead tired at midnight
to convince you that I can weave the light
except to show you by arranging words
that reveal from mist in the Cave of Delphi
secrets I see in the mirror of the tripod
how we are not angels who fell from stars
but animals our mothers mold from atoms,
so let us sing the passion of Electra.

The shining sun beams photon rays of soul
which swirl around the sphere where we perceive
visions in sharp flicker of light on water
our brains translate to vibrant melodies
which surge from deep within our aching hearts
when we hold hands, hushed in the Cave of Delphi,
while Pythia sits on the tripod of words
so we can sing the passion of Electra.

Gazing past weird illusion of the cave,
where shadows of things flicker on the wall,
I chew laurel leaves and lament the loss
of gold-haired Daphne who fled from my love,
then prophesy ninth coming of the woman
who will defeat the tyrant of the gold
by riding the milk cow to temple hall
where I will sing the passion of Electra.

When I rise from the dead after midnight,
revived when wild Daphne kisses my heart,
I walk the signless road past busy cities
to stroll the sea shore where ocean waves sing
explaining calculus of divine curves,
then sit on tripod in the Cave of Delphi
to breathe the spirit of the dreaming Earth
before I sing the passion of Electra.

Insane From Psychotic Visions

Insane From Psychotic Visions
© Surazeus
2018 04 27

When people first saw visions of events
they predicted would occur in the future,
other people were awed at their weird foresight,
proclaiming them prophets and oracles
because their brains programmed ability
to analyze sequence of forceful actions
and conceive process of cause and effect,
so it seemed they must possess magic power.

Those people who predict future events
survived the destructive catastrophe
while those who could not were killed in wars,
so clever wizards bred new generations
who multiplied to populate the world
and with each new generation the wiser
bread more children who outwitted the fools,
and so today the world is full of wizards
who can all predict possible events.

Around one hundred years ago, in growth
of this magic ability in foresight,
so many people could predict the future
they all went insane from psychotic visions
that failed to reflect the real world of forms,
so they were locked in mental hospitals
where they got lost in strange dreams of desire.

I may have done a lot of stupid things
in my life, but never more than one time.

Revenge Of Alastor

Revenge Of Alastor
© Surazeus
2018 04 27

We see the star of the angel fall
and explode in black cloud of nuclear flame
so we surround garden with haven wall
to protect secret of our family name.

Ten thousand people with fire-burned skin
wander blasted cities in hungry packs
but indifferent Earth continues to spin
and swallows their souls through infernal cracks.

I hope that through experiences of life
I change and grow into my better self
by managing peace through chaos of strife
then writing my tale in books on the shelf.

Five hundred years ago sagacious brains
could analyze flow of social events
to predict effects on multiple planes
by noting progress of cause from portents.

When people saw their predictions come true
they praised them as prophets and oracles
but now any person who notes the clue
can explain the process of miracles.

When the angel crowned me the messenger
I wrote the history of the world in blood
since we humans are but the passenger
riding the boat carried off by the flood.

Our planet of atoms spins through the void
alone in the vast emptiness of space
so I spend each day gainfully employed
charting immigration in the soul race.

Now I sit by wall of heaven and brood
on how every human predicts the future
because each prophet sired the wisest brood
whose progress on the path of life is smoother.

While sailing my boat on Ligurian Sea
I see the poet Shelley rise from wild waves
and gaze at me with bright eyes burning free
who commissions me to free all the slaves.

I follow his weird spirit as Alastor
who leads me through ten thousand crowded towns
to avenge evil deeds of the pastor
who deceives with his gang of clowns.

Dynamic God Of Action

Dynamic God Of Action
© Surazeus
2018 04 26

Though I long wandered the strange world alone,
and live now with my small intimate family
of wife and two daughters in our cozy home,
the prophet of my own private religion,
my poems are coded with ancestral memories
of people performing in social dramas.

Each person I meet on the road of life,
walking across the stage of hidden secrets,
plays the star of their own personal movie,
narrating the theme of their character
as they improvise their lines in each scene
while praying to God the Director for Guidance.

I refuse to play the unfamiliar role
others attempt to impose on my soul
that supports the fragile pride of their ego,
the tragicomic clown they love to mock,
because someone mocked them in their last scene,
so I exit their stage with silent speech.

Would I prefer to declaim monologues
through existential crisis of despair
like Hamlet at the tomb of his dead father
pondering what great action he should perform
that would result in ascension to power
because his uncle outmaneuvered him?

The greatest characters in ancient epics,
Gilgamesh, Achilles, Odysseus, Mithras,
Aeneas, Krishna, Apollo, Jesus, Beowulf,
and a thousand other remembered heroes,
spring alive from the vision of song words,
idols that flash before our dreaming eyes.

I wear the mask of each god for one day,
performing his role in the game of life
to comprehend the program of his vision
for transcending the terror of mute death
and becoming dynamic god of action
who creates good community of friends.

The more I conceal agonizing wounds
from shame at bumbling the role I would play,
that hurts people I love with careless words,
behind the polished mask of this persona,
they more astute eyes see through my disguise
the weird character from the Other World.

How We Evolve Into God

How We Evolve Into God
© Surazeus
2018 04 26

The puzzle of our brain that calculates
psychic formulas through erotic pleasure
conjugates passion from genetic structure
when the foetus clocks change of evolution.

I sit lotus on the large granite boulder
in the desert of southern California
to feel the wind of centuries pass through me,
transforming my body lizard to human.

The black thunder cloud drops truth on my head
so I cup my hands and drink spirit rain
while cars flow by on the distant highway
to the busy hive of our civilization.

Whatever revelation I may dream
guides me alone through weird maze of our world
for I see the flow of migration patterns
from Kem on the faces of fellow humans.

We sprout from seed Amen planted in Kem,
spreading out to colonize fertile lands
along river shores all over the globe
where we dance and sing in the ring of stones.

I sit alone under bright eyes of stars
on windy peaks of every mountain range
to perceive the Wyrd of our Turning World
and predict process of physical fate.

I coded the steps of scientific laws
in formulas of quantities and actions
that calculate flow of cause and effect
conjured by the Force of conceptual will.

I wish I could float above rock of dreams
but gravity connects mass of my body
in tandem with our globe spinning in space
so I stand and walk over gleaming sand.

I dream the song of rain on window glass
while gazing at the large map of the world
and note that all the first civilizations
sprouted at the mouths of the longest rivers.

Each atom that sparkles with energy
since they all flared forth far from the First Flash
pulses with the passion of hungry light
to form stars that spiral in galaxies.

The sun compacts Helium at its core
to forge all heavier elements in layers,
then explodes to swirl elements in planets
that spin around the matter-beaming sun.

The sun beams rays of light photons in threads
that weave our globe of surging ocean tides
where shooting waves from hydrothermal vents
link carbon rings into taut coils of genes.

The long writhing strands of genetic codes
form one-celled eye that floats in sea of light
so sperm of will penetrates egg of love
transforming two coils into conscious souls.

Through many generations of rebirth
we spirits evolve into conscious God,
fish to lizard to mouse to ape to man,
becoming wiser each new incarnation.

Then I walk the waste land of Onatah
on quest to express Orenda of love,
chanting songs on town streets where people go
till I find secret garden of my heart.

Now I sit in the back yard of my home,
writing songs that chart progress of humanity
to build global community of peace
so we thrive on Earth that spins in the Void.

I stand alone in the indifferent rain
and feel every atom forming the Earth
pulse with the vibrant Force of aching hope
to live one more day with pleasure of love.

I gaze at the puzzle my words create
which conjures virtual model of our world
that maps life of all souls who ever lived
revealing how we evolve into God.

Asteroid Of Random Fate

Asteroid Of Random Fate
© Surazeus
2018 04 26

Seven days after the giant asteroid,
about the size of one long football field,
whizzed past our planet spinning in the void
halfway between Africa and the Moon,
I stroll with my family on the lake shore
where Diana danced at the midnight hour.

The light of her voice through the oak grove shines,
guiding us through the turmoil of world wars
to the ring of stones where Sibylla dreams
the history of the world through arcane riddles
which reveal fortune of the turning wheel
where I park our wagon on the lake shore.

We lounge till dawn under the golden bough
and watch the stars form gods in the sky
who personify the Force of our souls
so we sing formulas through magic spells
that wake the true Orenda of our brains
which fuels our performance in social dramas.

To seek the nature of my fateful Wyrd
I gaze in Well of Odin where Runes shine
revealing the constant turn of events
so I perceive the sacred worth of life
expressed in the word of my bard spell
through logical progress of cause and effect.

From mist the vital goddesses of love,
Amen, Hat-Hor, Inanna, Ishtar, Elat,
Asherah, Anahita, Aphrodite,
Astarte, Venus, Isis, Oshun, Rati,
Marya, Freya, Nuwa, and Xochiquetzal,
bring fresh water to every thirsting soul.

The mothers of all nations of the world
hold hands in ring of eyes around Star Lake
and sing strange stories of human survival
that we express in our popular songs
to code the moral values of religions
so we confirm our soul in self-control.

Dancing in moonlight by Mirror of Diana,
I gaze in eyes of the woman I love
and see the path all her ancestors blazed
ten thousand years east from Egypt to Java,
daughter of Ishtar still alive on Earth,
reborn in the children of our desire.

Since the giant asteroid just missed the Earth
our world keeps spinning in the void of death
so we sing gratitude of aching hope
to the sacred fortune of random fate
and dance together in grove of fruit trees
to celebrate that we are still alive.

My Angel With Her Broken Wing

My Angel With Her Broken Wing
© Surazeus
2018 04 25

The day Ludovicus is crowned the king
I find my angel with her broken wing
tangled in the sizzling telephone wires
so I extract her from blackberry briars
and carry her limp to the castle tower
where I zap her soul with electric power.

I name her Lutetia because her skin
glows white as snow in the gold winter sun
that reveals the way from Cirrea to Delphi
where I sit in her cave and ask myself why
the spirit to sing howls inside my heart
which helps me complete my world history chart.

My father Phoebus taught me how to spell
incantations that prophesy how well
women teach children the meaning of life
to tend fruit trees and avoid greedy strife,
so I build garden walls on Mount Parnassus
and carve statues of angels wearing glasses.

I compose weird melody that reveals
heart-breaking angst to the court of appeals
but the blind judge burns my book of lost dreams
so Lutetia shows me sun flash on streams
which sparks my spirit to transcend despair
when I sing true love at Scarborough Fair.

Back home at the House of the Rising Sun
Lutetia wears mask of the pious nun
then stands in the Tower of Rapunzel nude
to sing with ravens while I slouch and brood
and ponder why some can generate new life
because I want to crown the queen my wife.

She tells me she knows why the caged bird sings
but when I try to fly on angel wings
I fall from Heaven to walk the hard Earth
and calculate with verse the sacred worth
which glows in every atom of my soul
so I sing in tune with the Great White Whole.

Coming Of Our Messiah

Coming Of Our Messiah
© Surazeus
2018 04 25

The stars the ancient people made friends with
still smile at me in the still of the night
and tell me stories about all the people
who used to wake up in the soft moonlight
and sing to each other while in huge trees
where they cuddled each other and ate fruit.

I still remember the way her hair smelled
and how she wiggled gently on my lap
as she sang about how sun gleams on water
and she pulled from the pulsing of her heart
the little one who looked at me with eyes
of my mother when she sang about stars.

After reading some novel about life
in the big city where fabulous people
talk about the ennui of living well
I walk outside and stand in the moist grass
to look at the stars that reveal the faces
of people who ask me to give them names.

I paint their faces on the red brick walls
of old buildings in the wild urban zones
where empty lots, where nothing ever happens,
wait forlornly inside the barbed wire fence
for the coming of our messiah on clouds
that splatter indifferent rain on cracked windows.

The stars are spheres of burning Helium
that forge whole range of heavy elements
linked together by spiraling electrons
which sparkle genetic strands of our souls
because we eat compact photons of light
beamed through photosynthesis of desire.

I turn around with eager hope of love
when I sense the presence of my young child
but only the shadows of long-dead people
gather around me under twinkling stars
whose whispers activate my typing fingers
so I code dreams of their souls in your minds.

Do you expect coming our our messiah
any day now, the man in robe of fire
descending from the stars on swirling clouds
who will reassemble bodies of flesh
from atoms already part of the dirt
so we are more than memories in words?

Every atom that first composed my body
when my mother generated my brain,
and each atom of all the food I ate
that once constituted my flesh and blood,
are now dispersed in the clouds in the sky
and the dirt of fields where new food plants grow.

Just today as I drove my car back home
I looked at one small fluff of one huge cloud
out of zillions of clouds that have existed
and saw the drops of water that once sparkled
in water I drank forty years ago,
and now they glitter blue in the vast sky.

Every atom that was ever part of me
now flashes somewhere in the huge world,
even now pulsing inside other people,
and yet I feel so alone in my head,
knowing that someday I also will be dead,
and my brain atoms will become sea waves.

Ten thousand years from tonight when you stroll
shining strand of gold sand by hills of grass,
and stop to gaze at my face in the stars,
you will hear these songs I compose this hour
humming wordlessly in the flowing waves
for the atoms in me will be in you.

Red Flower Of My Sins

Red Flower Of My Sins
© Surazeus
2018 04 25

The red flower that blooms from black frozen soil
reveals nothing I do not already know
about how I ignore aching despair
that bursts from the old wound I try to hide.

The strange disaster of my character
I cover over with masks forged from glass
of modern sophistication I learned
from masculine role models in the movies.

Search for the truth with relentless resolve
in bold defiance of men who wield power
to overthrow the tyrants in gray suits,
and always protect the beautiful woman.

I spend late-night hours in dim smoky pubs,
drinking beer and writing in old notebooks
to dredge every horrible fear from muck
of my swamp-stinking heart, and see the truth.

Though I acknowledge in my secret heart
every stupid mistake I ever made,
that hurt the woman I love more than life,
I confess my sins to no one but the rain.

Then at last I track down the criminal
who hides disguised as the good businessman
and deploys his office for stealing funds
through legal means that no one can dispute.

Instead of stealing from wallets and purses,
thieves disguised as businessmen in clean suits
steal by billing accounts for services
never rendered that skim millions through pennies.

I grab his collar with factory hands
and shove him against the wall of the law,
then let the courts process his felony case
that locks him in prison where he belongs.

The woman I rescue from his control
realized his fraudulent method of theft
so I protect her from his thugs with guns
then take her for dinner at the swank bistro.

We dance on the patio in the soft moonlight
where red flowers bloom from the soil of the world
and we kiss as the credits roll that show
we get married and raise three honest kids.

Find My Way Back Home

Find My Way Back Home
© Surazeus
2018 04 24

Because pink cherry blossoms of my sorrow
decorate your hair with laughter of joy,
we can expect the sunlight to refresh
the vibrant energy of expectations.

I talk so far beyond the truths I know
I wander lost in labyrinth of myths
where every god represents some dead person
whose dreams are coded in my sparkling genes.

Whenever I stroll busy city streets
I see familiar spirits in strange faces,
but we played that drama ages ago
and now we play new parts in this fresh season.

The only part I want to play with you
is Adam and Eve in Garden of Eden
who eat ripe apples together with kisses,
and this time no one forces us to leave.

Excessive urge of lust to copulate
electrifies our bodies in our youth
so we dance awkwardly flirtatious games
that leave wounds stinging in frustrated shame.

I prefer we avoid the tragic romance,
like Romeo and Juliet in Boston,
but when he tried to date cute Cinderella
Hamlet punched him outside the Irish pub.

I pull Ophelia from the flowered stream
who asks if I might be bold Lancelot,
but when she sees that I am Mercury
she returns home to castle of Shalott.

While looking for Venus on the sea shore
I hear Frank shouting at the roaring waves
about the catastrophe of his personality
gray as towers and streets of this modern world.

So I look at brown trees frosted with snow
and remember sunlight on the stone wall
that surrounded private Garden of Eden
where only the Elite are allowed to play.

The facial features on the ancient statues
of Egyptian pharaohs, Greek Kore maids,
and Olmec kings look like those on your face,
for you are the daughter of wise Ses-Hat.

Our home is the stage for our private play
where we express romantic energies
that urged dead ancestors to procreate
so they live again through the roles we choose.

All our prophets, the poets and the singers
who chant the secret visions of our hearts,
sing in the chorus of our tragic romance
since Briseis was snatched from arms of Achilles.

If you wait for me like Penelope
I will not be trapped on the hidden island
of languid desire, drinking wine of lust,
for I will always find my way back home.

Anxiety Is Energy Of Success

Anxiety Is Energy Of Success
© Surazeus
2018 04 24

Anxiety is the energy of success
because the terror of failure and death
jolts urgent desire to spark my heart tense
in coiled springs charging my soul into action.

When the lightning of anxiety strikes,
zapping my mind with crippling fear of failure,
my chest tightens and all my limbs buzz numb,
so I feel like I am falling through space.

Breathing deep the spirit of calm concern,
I inspect state of my physical body,
then analyze the nature of the threat
to schematize what action I should plan.

The universe of objects we perceive
is composed from structures of swirling atoms,
so my actions will cause chain of effects
in construction or destruction of forms.

Researching functions of vital formulas
expressing process in the laws of science,
I assess effects of actions I want
to determine action I should perform.

In hunting tribes and farming communities
people who were more anxious than the others
detected dangers and solved problems through wit
while calm people were killed by surprise attacks.

I am descended from the anxious people,
driving farther along the road of life
through desire to overcome adversity
when anxiety causes my brain to think.

When danger strikes anxious fear in my heart
my brain lights up with energy to think,
contemplating process of active change,
so I perform my role to sustain life.

Anxiety is the charging horse of lust
that powers forward progress of my soul
so I rein visions of destructive suffering
that guide my actions to creative pleasure.

When anxiety threatens to cripple me,
I channel jolting surge of energy
to power perception of my dreaming brain
so I dance tightrope over abyss of death.

I gaze in the abyss of anxiety
when fear burns through my body with great fire
to energize the actions of my hands
so I laugh at death through song of my love.

When I fall like Lucifer, the light-maker,
I walk the labyrinth of anxiety,
painting bright colors on the masks of fear,
and sing electric energy of love.

White Clouds In Blue Skies

White Clouds In Blue Skies
© Surazeus
2018 04 24

While standing before the red-brick library,
gazing at white clouds in shimmering blue sky,
I wonder why we feel such peaceful joy
at this sight so familiar to our minds.

Since we first crawled up rivers to fresh lakes,
and poked our heads above the water surface,
we have gazed with perceptive eyes of hope
at white clouds in blue skies over green hills.

After huddling in caves to hide our souls
from brutal thunderstorms of wet black clouds,
we gazed with joy when the gold sun peaked forth,
illuminating hills of wind-swirled trees.

In some lush valley on wide river shore
we ate mushrooms and danced with dreaming joy
in ring of stones that measured the sun flash,
then drank sweet wine that flushed our beating hearts.

We danced inside that ring of sun-flash stones
with every full moon for two thousand years,
sharing stories about our tribal heroes,
till our children scattered across the land.

Though no one dances now in that lost ring,
and only sad wind sings across the valley,
yet that eternal dance of human joy
still pulses in the heartbeat of my dreams.

I feel the energy of that wild dance,
and dream the visions of those charming songs,
woven in strands of my genetic code,
triggered when new music begins to beat.

I see reflected in the clear blue sky
visions of human experience on Earth
recorded through archetypes of my brain
that guide me to play my own role in life.

Music Of Wind And Waves

Music Of Wind And Waves
© Surazeus
2018 04 23

The man who falls from the lightning-struck tower
spreads wide wings of hope to soar on the wind
but Death drags him down from the empty sky
and throws the haughty king in deep abyss.

The tight anxiety clenching his chest
binds beating heart tight with lost angel wings,
urging him forward through maze of illusions
where people wear masks to protect their souls.

The black rain clouds in the sky hear his cry
for help and drench him in tears of their love,
and the wind blows down from the burning moon
to push him far over bleak rock-strewn heath.

He leads his wife and children through the storm,
trudging together while holding hands tight
as they push forward to the mountain cave
where they huddle in darkness of despair.

Sharp gleam of light strikes through gray swirling clouds
and stabs the stone of his heart with weird glow
to flash his heart to flutter on sea waves
where birds flap wings and run on sparkling sand.

Nudging the bodies of his wife and children,
the fallen king kisses each face with tears
but none of them wake in the morning dawn
except the youngest girl with silver eyes.

Reaching her small hand from shadow of death,
the little girl caresses his wet cheek,
so they hold hands and walk from the dark cave
to stand on the beach in gold morning light.

Together they walk on the sparkling beach,
smiling at how their feet sink in soft sand,
then laugh when bright waves swirl around their legs
as they collect bird eggs with smooth blue shells.

Collecting dry wood, he strikes two flint stones
which sparks hot flames dancing in gentle breeze,
and they roast eggs sizzling on the flat stone,
then eat them with strawberries and acorns.

Sitting together on the ocean shore,
the fallen king and his silver-eyed daughter
watch white clouds flash as they form shapes of things
and sing with the music of wind and waves.

To Gain Immortal Life

To Gain Immortal Life
© Surazeus
2018 04 23

The circle of water in the wood bowl
that spirals from my brain to distant stars
reveals electric sentence of the whole
connecting me to computers and cars.

Though I reveal secret of living well
to analyze the process of our kiss
we giggle at the tolling of the bell
and by the river share connubial bliss.

Through labyrinth of mirrored eyes we run
in nubile elegance of leaping joy
to flee the man who claims he owns the sun
then leave our robot selves as slick decoy.

We journey far along the winding stream
to flee the clanking chains of slavery
and found new commune on the noble theme
that all might live in loving harmony.

Some arrogant man always tries to claim
that he should reign as king by rule of law
but if we refuse to play his power game
his empire will fall from his fatal flaw.

We paint our story on the temple wall
so when our skulls smile on the altar stone
our children will gather in feasting hall
to worship Liberty in the Truth Zone.

With money we fund production of goods
through capital that operates factories,
then distribute to all our neighborhoods
equal wealth to feed all communities.

I want to build infrastructure of wealth
that sustains every honest citizen
so we can work and play in thriving health
that confirms our soul through strict discipline.

Yet all material structures are frail things
that crumble into particles of light
and, though I thought we were angels with wings,
I see creatures grow, then decay from blight.

I wish we could wield supernatural powers
like mythic gods or comic superheroes
but we are humans toiling among flowers,
innocent children gazing from small windows.

I sit alone in my home by the woods
and sing my little vision of the world
which I then publish in cute picture books
that cogitate where the dragon lies curled.

We leave our books behind like barrier reef,
great wall of stories that divine the Earth
which segregate experience into belief
to gain immortal life through child rebirth.

Allegiance To Liberty Not Race

Allegiance To Liberty Not Race
© Surazeus
2018 04 22

The weird vibration of the universe
weaves melodies of music in my brain
so I convert to blessing every curse
that beams sunlight to penetrate cold rain.

Though I feel hurt that people put me down
and ignore me because I am some girl
I play the queen while they see a cute clown,
and smile while wearing the mask of the churl.

I need no close community of friends
to perform my art that glows from my heart
for I do not follow the latest trends,
instead exploring themes far off the chart.

I paint the souls of angels on brick walls
who bless the lost souls of our national tribe,
erecting statues in heroic halls
to celebrate loners who jazz the vibe.

I focus spotlight on the marginalized,
presenting stories of the humble souls
our culture ignores and pushes aside
to give wise losers more important roles.

Though we outnumber white males in control,
who tell their story as America,
we unite to form strong communal whole
with genuine soul, not some replica.

We speak with voices they cannot ignore
to change the story of our national quest
with more characters for our common lore
who share space in our democratic nest.

People from around the world immigrate,
leaving behind rigid systems of class,
and pledge allegiance at the welcome gate
to Liberty and Justice, not to race.

Hymn To Mother Earth

Hymn To Mother Earth
© Surazeus
2018 04 22

Sweet Earth, great mother of all conscious creatures,
pregnant ball of dirt and water and wind
that spirals around the hot glowing sun
nowhere through the boundless void of cold death,
we love you with every beat of our hearts
that flush in rhythm with the ocean tide.

Mother Earth, who weaves sparkling molecules
at hydrothermal vents of steaming lust
in flashing rings of carbon elements,
which constitute character writhing strands
of deoxyribonucleic acid,
we sing rich melody of your compassion.

Fertile Earth, who generates conscious souls
from fecund womb of your vast surging ocean,
sparking desire in our blood-flushing hearts
to crawl sparkling rivers to cave of dreams
where we stand on diamond stone of perception,
we thank you for the fruit of your mute trees.

Spinning Earth, who seethes with chemical change
through each cycle of seasons you revolve
around the Sun Spider of Helium flames,
your passion urges us to evolve shapes
when we copulate to reincarnate
through our children who celebrate your power.

Great Earth, mother of our perceiving brains,
who watches over us as we evolve
fish to lizard to mouse to ape to human,
molding improved models of our lithe bodies,
we worship you by forging steel-glass cities
and driving cars that burn your gasoline.

Cruel Earth, monster mother sparking our souls,
who gives us life and devours us in death,
transforming us from animals to gods,
we tremble awed before your hurricanes
and drown in floods of your indifference,
then sing this hymn of love as you destroy us.

Indifferent Earth, molding our souls from atoms
then mulching our bodies in humid soil,
creating us from mud with lust for life,
then blooming as we battle to control
abundant resources of your rich breast,
we pray to God we invent in your image.

Loving Earth, great mother of our weird dreams,
who creates us and devours us in turn,
transforming us so we soar into space
to propagate your soul on other worlds,
we celebrate you this April Earth Day
and sing this hymn to your indifferent Love.

Gynecism

Gynecism
© Surazeus
2018 04 22

When the men in gray suits clutching black Bibles
wanted to legislate away the natural right
of women to decide whether or not
they will bear the child growing in their womb,
Senator Wendy Davis of Fort Worth
stood in the Texas State Legislature House
for thirteen long hours past the midnight toll
to filibuster their weak male attempt
to control the fertile bodies of women.

Though they passed the chauvinist law anyway,
restricting reproductive rights of women,
nevertheless she persisted to fight
for truth, justice, and the American Way.

When Deborah Tyler, conservative writer,
called Wendy a Gynecist as an insult,
Jenny Kutner cheered the positive term.
"Gynecism promotes the political position
that the primary and most essential power
a female can hold is the natural control
of her own sexual and genital functions."

I am a follower of Gynecism,
worshipping the Goddess in every woman
who transforms the seed of man to create
new human beings by weaving vibrant atoms
that shape the brain which generates our souls.

Uncaring Universe

Uncaring Universe
© Surazeus
2018 04 22

My heart glows with love that you all are here.
I would rather die at home by my hearth,
but these machines in the sterile hospital
keep my alive just long enough to share
the love I feel for every one of you.

What story should I tell you now that I
am dying? Should I tell you about the time
I thought the universe was good and kind
and cared about me as great loving God
that everyone told me was real and strong?
I know now that the universe of things
is indifferent to my existence, therefore
I should treat other people with that kindness
I once expected from the universe.

Although the whole vast universe itself
is indifferent to any living creature,
yet we are part of the whole universe.
So are we part of that indifference
since we are products of the universe?
Since we all are the most integral part
of this universe through chemical functions
of molecules that interact through force,
we are that conscious part of the universe
that cares, so from the indifference of nature
we transform into creatures who do care.

Though nature is mindless we each have minds
that perceive the blind functionings of nature
and act to create rather than destroy.

Although the natural functions of my body
are breaking down in the process of death,
I savored the sweetness of being alive,
and always tried to act toward everyone
with caring love the universe must want,
since through the strange progress of evolution
the universe is attempting to create
more efficient bodies that function better.

We must continue caring for each other
to live in this uncaring universe.

Where Runes Of Odin Gleam

Where Runes Of Odin Gleam
© Surazeus
2018 04 21

The rancid nonchalance of the blind king
who steals famous paintings from the glass hall
prevents the white iguana with the gun
from breaking the chains that choke Liberty.

The naked man running down the dark street
returns the White Queen of the last chess game
to the laughing wizard in weird cafe
who drinks battery acid from bull horns.

The jester without eyes grabs crippled arm
of Lucy in the sky who falls to Earth
because the airplane shaped like serpent egg
attempts to escape gravity of truth.

The bridge by the fountain of chocolate snow
where rocking horse people laugh without care
connects Fillory to Narnia at last
so Alice takes me back to Wonderland.

Nowhere Man leads her to Strawberry Fields
but she sells flowers on busy roundabout
where Henry the Horse refuses to dance
because she is leaving home without him.

The Egg Man takes me to the broken wall
built between Onatah and Mexico
to show me where the flashing light gets in
through shattered mirror of the dreaming eye.

The Spirit of Wakanda beams lost souls
who wander in my star ship lost in space
to planet of the apes where I was crowned
king of fools before the cathedral tower.

The upstart crow in the Globe Theater
follows Oberon in chariot of fire
who leads the Fairy Queen to Avalon
to find the golden apple of the sun.

I have the key that opens labyrinth door
so when Orpheus rises from the grave
I follow Melusine to the Star Well
where Runes of Odin gleam in the abyss.

We all gather inside walls of Sarum
when the full moon glitters beyond the world
so we exchange our hearts for ticking clocks
that beam dramas on television screens.

Namer Of Things

Namer Of Things
© Surazeus
2018 04 21

At dawn with the rising of the gold sun
the girl walks out from the cave of shadows
and plucks ripe fruit from the tree by the stream
where she sits on the rock to watch it flow.

She makes noises with her mouth to express
feelings that shiver the flesh of her body
when she caresses each thing with her hands,
giving them names with the beat of her heart.

"Me, hand, fruit, rock, soil, tree, stream, wind, sky, sun,"
she sings, repeating the words she invents
dozens of times as she points to each thing,
then kneels in wet grass by the flowing stream.

Dipping her hands in the cool flowing water,
she drinks delicious sparkles of blue light,
then gazes at reflection of her face,
and pointing to herself exclaims, "Aman."

At dawn with the rising of the gold sun
Aman walks out from the cave of shadows
and plucks ripe fruit from the tree by the stream
where she stretches her arms to the cool wind.

"Aman reaches hand to pluck the sweet fruit.
Aman sits on the rock by the fruit tree.
Aman eats the fruit and watches stream flow.
Aman watches the sun glow in the sky."

Almond Trees Of Hope

Almond Trees Of Hope
© Surazeus
2018 04 21

Slouching against the wall by a cracked window,
Zafir watches traffic flow down the streets
that wind through the ancient maze of Aleppo.
"My grandfather, Sayid, tended orchard
of almond trees on the wide river shore
on the fertile farm that our family owned
for hundreds of years, till President Assad
sent jet planes to drop bombs killing our trees.
My heart sinks heavy as stone in my chest,
dragging me down into gloom of despair
since I watched all our trees burn to gray ash."

Lifting the pink shayla scarf to expose
her soft lips, and eyes green as mountain olives,
Sakinah whispers through the window crack.
"Though every tree your great-grandfather planted
was burned by the chaotic fires of war,
you can plant more trees with the almond seeds
that you collected from the dusty ash.
Someday when Al-Assad is overthrown,
and we can live free again from his greed,
you can plant those small seeds in the moist soil
and cultivate new orchard of ripe almonds.
Though all the world is burned by flames of war
yet plants will sprout again from blood-soaked soil."

Opening his hands, smudged with engine oil
from learning in school to be a mechanic,
Zafir caresses the nine almond seeds
he managed to scrape from the dusty ash.
"The sunlight of your words beam in my heart,
bending my consciousness toward your world view.
Your words sprout like trees from my cold stone heart,
weaving wings of hope that inspire my mind
that I may soar again to paradise.
Though I wander lost in labyrinth of fear,
that bombs may blast our bodies into dust,
your words glow bright with glory of Allah,
guiding me to find the garden of love
where we may live together and tend trees."

Pressing her small hand against the cracked glass,
and smiling when he presses his hand back,
Sakinah sings soft melody of hope.
"Though my love leaves for faraway towns,
I feel his spirit with the palm trees sway.
Though my love flies like the owl at midnight,
I feel his love in moonlight on the pond.
We are not doomed like Pyramus and Thisbe
to ever talk through this crack in our window.
Someday we will hold hands and kiss in sunlight."

After gazing at each other with love,
Sakinah slips away into the shadows,
and Zafir hides almond seeds in his pocket
as he hurries through traffic back to school
where he learns to maintain engines of cars.

Moonlight On Ou River

Moonlight On Ou River
© Surazeus
2018 04 21

Sitting alone, writing brush in her hand,
in the round room on top of the pagoda,
Jiang Ying-Yue watches silver moonlight glow,
flickering on the black surface of Ou River.

"How long must I wait for Fei-Hung to come,
soaring like a swan among the white clouds?
His laughter makes joy bloom from my sad heart,
like Bai Zhi blossoms that burst whole in Spring."

Watching horsemen ride over arching bridge,
Ying-Yue sighs, and writes her name on the scroll,
Reflection of the Moon on river waves,
then eats a cherry that bursts on her tongue.

"My father keeps me hidden in this room
far above the river where I once played,
running among weeds on the muddy shore
and chasing frogs with my love, Wang Fei-Hung."

Someone knocks and the gray-haired fisherwoman
gives her a scroll so she unrolls and reads.
"When he embraces moonlight in the river,
the Swan will meet the Moon in the peach grove."

When her father Ou Zhu opens the door
she follows him down stairs to the court yard
where she kneels low before her future husband
who leads her to the shrine of her ancestors.

During the feast her father laughs and shouts,
"Fei-Hung was out fishing on the Ou River
when he embraced reflection of the moon
and drowned in the black waters of despair."

Sitting with her husband on the river boat,
Jiang Ying-Yue never looks at her waving parents,
but gazes at reflection of the moon
that shimmers on the black waves of Ou River.

As the river boat glides from her home island,
Ying-Yue stands and bows to her startled husband,
then dives into reflection of the moon
and sinks deep into the waters of love.

Floating in the silent gloom of Ou River,
Ying-Yue gazes upward at the bright moon
that glows silver and round above the world,
then she swims like an otter toward the shore.

Dripping wet with laughter of hopeful joy,
Ying-Yue glows white in the light of the moon
as she runs through woods on the river shore
to the peach grove where Fei-Hung waits for her.

Embracing among trees heavy with peaches,
White Swan and Moon Light kiss in the warm breeze,
two hearts beating with rhythm of Ou River
that flows sparkling between their weeping eyes.

Sitting in the round hut in willow trees,
Ying-Yue cradles new-born daughter Bai-Zhi,
who suckles white milk from her soft plump breast,
while Fei-Hung builds another river boat.

Different Ways To Be Yourself

Different Ways To Be Yourself
© Surazeus
2018 04 20

Whatever the code programming your genes
that model your body as girl or boy
you are free to choose the role you will play
acting on social stage of daily life
across the range of behavior and mood
from aggression of the bold masculine
to nurturance of the sweet feminine.
In primitive tribes in the wilderness
the female generates and raises children,
teaching them to talk and tend fruitful plants,
while the male builds shelter from sticks and rocks,
teaching them to fight and hunt animals.
But now that we survived those brutal times
and dominate the Earth with crafting hands
each person may choose role they want to play,
activating process that will create
to sustain life of our community
in joyful drama of love till we die.
There are many different ways to be yourself
so you may explore them all before you die.

Laughter With Love For Death

Laughter With Love For Death
© Surazeus
2018 04 20

In these sultry days of fresh April showers
I have written over one hundred weird poems
because I am burning with a great fire
of laughter through love for death from desire.

I soar on angel wings to the dead moon
to float in the silence of hungry death
where the spider of the sun weaves star light
from pulsing atoms that spark my soul awake.

Because a thousand girls around the world
died today from accidents and disease
I sit in grass and stare at the orange tree,
longing to sing to every one with love.

Ten thousand poets who once lived on Earth
leave words of their dreams on pages of books
which sparkle from friction of paradox,
inspiring me to sing with the mute world.

I bring the tears of everyone who lived
and suffered from the horror of despair
to water the moon so its dry dust sprouts
tendrils of vines plump with the grapes of wrath.

This paradise which blooms from tears of pain
shimmers false as mascara models wear
when they pose with elegant grace of lust
before flashing eye of the camera.

She glides with graceful beauty in the wind,
the Queen of Manhattan who models gowns,
fragile as the flower in hurricane howl
who blooms again to drink the sparkling rain.

I hold her when she cries about dark fears
that haunt her footsteps in the halls of hope
so she can paint the horror on his face,
revealing face of Death with mask of life.

Come Back Down The Road

Come Back Down The Road
© Surazeus
2018 04 20

Come back down the road with your broken heart.
Though you left our home twenty years ago
to find the promised land some day, somewhere
beyond the horizon where the sun shines,
you never wrote me letters how you are.

Come back down the road with your broken heart.
I think about you every day out there,
still following your star of destiny,
working in some factory making cars,
and sitting at home with your family.

Come back down the road with your broken heart.
The signs to heaven are all turned backward
so maybe you got lost in paradise
and wander in the labyrinth of hopes
still searching somewhere for the promised land.

Come back down the road with your broken heart.
The sun that glows on the grass of our home
reveals why we must wander down the road,
but come back home to our warm Georgia hills
where we will sing again in shady groves.

Come back down the road with your broken heart.
The sparrows singing in the almond trees
discuss the secrets of the turning world,
but I forgot the features of your face
and your name disappears in evening breeze.

Come back down the road with your broken heart.
I sit on the porch of our empty home
and sing about how we played hide and seek
but the signs back home are all turned backward
and you must sleep in your grave by the road.

Dead End Sign

Dead End Sign
© Surazeus
2018 04 20

Slouching against the yellow Dead End sign,
while waiting for my daughter on the bus,
I watch black ravens in the Southern Pine
discuss the indifference of the blue sky.

I wave to every stranger who drives by,
who wonder if the old guy with long beard,
who watches them through Blues Brothers sunglasses,
is the spy from the rebellious empire.

Driving Black Mustang Miami to Alaska,
Mona Lisa gives me a ride to Elysium
where we search for the jewel of ancient truth
that shines hidden by splendor in the grass.

My brain is nothing but the radio
receiving transmissions from your weird brains
so I record in verse your true nightmares
that motivate you to head out to work.

I live at the far end of Dead End Road
where Plato talks about Idea forms
how every tree that exists in real matter
projects from changeless concept of The Tree.

All the lost children of America
gather at the Museum on Saturday night
to watch the Judge and the Jester play chess
over who plays Christ on the Crucifix.

When any man plays prophet of the empire
after he plays Hamlet on the London stage
the King in the Golden Mask with no eyes
will crucify him on the telephone pole.

Now that I wrestled Jesus off the throne
and play the harp of David in Our Temple
I throw coins of joy to every lost soul
who gathers to feast in the Hall of Dreams.

Mona Lisa drives to Los Angeles
with skull on her American flag tee-shirt,
singing the Highways Blues in the Waste Land
while listening to Tally Hall on her Eye Phone.

Sunlight on my back yard grass reveals why
no one knows the Queen of America
who dances alone on the field of grass
somewhere between Seattle and Manhattan.

While I sit on the back porch of my home,
drinking white wine labeled The Winking Owl,
I ponder poetics of Monotony
that inspire me to chant Riddles on Death.

Every person I see alive and well
will fall into the Empty Void of Death,
so I kiss Mona Lisa in the flowers
who reincarnates our immortal soul.

After smoking the Flower of Awareness,
Mona Lisa and I gaze up at the stars
that reveal the mystery of the First Flash
that flares forth into the White Whole of Love.

Dropping me off home at my Dead End sign,
Mona Lisa smiles lightning in my heart,
then drives into the vast indifferent sky
while singing vibrant tune of Helium.

Badge Of Honor

Badge Of Honor
© Surazeus
2018 04 20

The infamous poet with tangled beard,
who always seems to win slam poetry night,
slouches in the cafe on Nowhere Street,
watching people walk to office towers
where they organize spreadsheets of sales data.

The infamous poet wearing pinstripe suit
smokes marijuana and sips ginger mocha
while scribbling endless lines of satire verse
with blood-red ink in the large sketch notebook
while seven friends eat pizza and drink beer.

When his name is called on slam poetry night,
the infamous poet in leather jacket,
and sporting sunglasses like the Blues Brothers,
grips the microphone with one gnarly hand,
then pushes black fedora back, and howls.

"Now I shall wear it as a Badge of Honor
that the famous poetry magazine,
or rather, the editor of that rag,
has placed my name at the top of his blacklist
so that no great poem I ever compose
will be published on its pages of fame.
Every single poem I write from my heart
shines a thousand times brighter with mojo
of wild voodoo soul howling from my mouth
than all ten thousand poems they have published
over the past twenty years put together.
The lame drivel they publish every month
expresses nothing in fragmented lines
beyond the kindergarten mentality
of childish morons who love to play poet.
So no, I will not submit my best poems
to the fool who edits that magazine.
All the little poets with precious verses
intone with poet-voice their victimhood
and whine about oppression that they suffer
then form angry mobs on social media
to join with social justice warriors
who attack and bully racists and trolls
in holy crusade for the marginalized
to enforce politically correct rules
and destroy empire of white supremacy.
We are the poets of the Injustice League
leading the School of New Insincerity
against the revolution of Puritans
who would cleanse sacred School of Quietude
to share their insightful epiphanies
in metamodern verse of jagged lines
that reflect the fragmented mental state
of the best minds of our lost generation
who rage against the corporate machine
by jumbling together in dream collage
lines of verse pilfered from business reports
to express their conceptual universe
projected from the black-hole hologram
that shimmers illusion of life we dream,
for we are shadows in the Cave of Plato.
No upstanding editor for the journals,
funded by the university kings
of the righteous agenda to earn wealth,
would ever publish this bitter satire
that reveals their corrupt complicity
to commodify our intersectionality
with the bankers and the insurance salesmen
who keep the people of our nation bowed
in numb terror before the nuclear bomb
that Shiva the Destroyer wields with laughter
for this prophecy that reveals the truth
would blow their minds in smithereens of greed
to drink the oil that flows from desert sand
for they are the vampires of truth and justice.
Step outside the glass walls of the empire
and you will see returning from the desert
the blind prophet of the waste land of truth
who comes with a final message for mankind
before we blow ourselves to kingdom come
with ten thousand nuclear bombs in the rain.
What does not kill me in the fight for power
will make me stranger than the naked flower."

Tearing the poem into shreds of white silence,
the infamous poet with tangled beard
scatters fragments like snow in winter wind,
then slouches through the wildly cheering crowd,
and flops in broken chair against brick wall
to smoke marijuana and sip cold mocha
while another poet on the dim-lit stage
howls in free verses of impotent rage
their fierce anguish in the loud smoky night.

New Magic Ring

New Magic Ring
© Surazeus
2018 04 20

While every person is delusional
in their own unique way, I try to fool
the world into thinking I am the king
because I can enchant you when I sing.

The legends speak about the man who came
from the wilderness where he found the name
God invented to describe the pure state
of ecstasy when we control our fate.

He stood on the crown of the glorious tower
and sang about how to unleash your power
to achieve great success of wealth and fame
by manipulating the social game.

Each person wants to play the prophet-poet
whose songs lead the lost to the promised land
but none are lost now in waste land of hope
so we all sing to ourselves in the wind.

So I encode the secret to success
in these surreal riddles about progress
on holy pilgrimage through comedy
to learn the formulas of chemistry.

Descending every circle through dark hell
we follow Dante to the wisdom well
where Melusine enchants us with the spell
that leads us to the fertile river dell.

Wandering hungry in nameless wilderness,
I scratch at thirsty dirt of bitterness
to find the apple seed the serpent lost
while shivering in the early morning frost.

Each flash of memory from ancestral ghost
reveals the grand puzzle of Zeus the Host
who designs destiny for me to play
when I preach the new American Way.

Each conscious soul who drives swift motor car
searches for real truth at the Dream Bazaar
where illusions that support your world view
are sold to faithful fools who have no clue.

While standing on the lake shore in dawn mist
I feel the presence of some divine ghost
so I invent the false concept of God
that deceives the world with religious fraud.

I know the way through wilderness of lies
so follow me through the waste land of spies
where unseen spirit of the thunder god
decides to join the quest of our truth squad.

Here we will build foundation of our church
to celebrate young Goddess of the Birch
who taught us how to plant seeds in the soil
and how to sing hymns of praise while we toil.

Yet when I stumble to the ocean shore
after men on horses break every door
I feel the mystery in the ocean roar
that vibrates wisdom from my aching core.

I preach for three hours at the church of dreams
then wander alone by indifferent streams
to search the sunlight flickering in their waves
on quest for honest faith that Jesus saves.

I build New Haven in Connecticut
to shelter seekers of the Covenant
but wander west to silent Idaho
where I find no god on wind-swept plateau.

I stand on sun-bright shore of Oregon
and talk with Goddess of Oblivion
who reveals how the universe weaves light
to spark the White Whole of my inner sprite.

We are the children of the Nameless God
who rule mighty nations with Iron Rod
so we expand the empire of our clan
from Garden of Eden to Gothistan.

The Sons of Jesus rule two thousand years,
I ponder while I shift car engine gears,
but how can we justify his world reign
based on bombing people in burning rain.

Since we escaped the chains that bound our hands
we wander searching for new Promised Lands
but kill local tribes to expand our power
that spreads outward from the high castle tower.

I would play prophet if there was some God
who rules with justice behind good facade
but selfish mortals play the noble king
so in dream cave I forge new magic ring.

Empire Of Christ

Empire Of Christ
© Surazeus
2018 04 20

The bombs that kill children in distant lands
interrupt my prayer with blood on my hands
so I plead with God to absolve my sin
since we must do anything bold to win,
in the chess game of the Empire of Christ.

We wave the white flag with bloody red cross
to avenge our grief at terrible loss
when they dare to occupy land we want
so we sing noble hymns on martial jaunt,
in the chess game of the Empire of Christ.

Onward Christian soldiers we advance far,
blessed by divine turning of our bright star
that sanctions our war against infidel
whose wives and children will burn in our hell,
in the chess game of the Empire of Christ.

Outward from the castle of our strong base
we populate Earth with our noble race,
enforcing our rule of the entire globe
lead by Lord Jesus in his pure white robe,
in the chess game of the Empire of Christ.

We kill everyone who gets in our way
so all the world bows to his regal sway
for we praise Jesus as the King of kings
who rules the world while the love angel sings,
in the chess game of the Empire of Christ.

The jet planes built by our superior minds
soar on angel wings with the divine winds
to bomb innocent people from their land
where engine fuel bubbles under hot sand,
in the chess game of the Empire of Christ.

The Sons of Jesus who rule vast empires
kneel together under cathedral spires
to control resources of the whole world,
united strong where the dragon lies curled,
in the chess game of the Empire of Christ.

The kings of Russia and America
crucify the clown of esoterica
who prophesies the doom of World War Three
and eventual reign of Queen Liberty,
in the chess game of the Empire of Christ.

Sing With Me In Rain

Sing With Me In Rain
© Surazeus
2018 04 19

I just thought if we all gathered together
in the ring of stones that vibrate our thoughts
we might see the same world with different eyes,
but when the angel stabbed me with the feather
of ecstatic insight through bright robots
I discovered the names of the real spies.

I cannot find my way through the faith maze
that traps desperate people in false belief
that God will resurrect us all from death
because this game we play is the next phase
where we evolve beyond tricks of the thief
who wants to charge us for our every breath.

She blushes when we kiss on the massif
where the Mother of Wisdom with three eyes
hides in the cave of visions to protect
the daughter of Jesus wrecked on the reef
when she sailed from Egypt where the hawk flies
to play Baphomet of our secret sect.

Ishtar climbs the pyramid of insight
to bear Horus, the first son of Sky-Walker,
who strums harp of Phoebus on the church stage,
leading us to sing hymns in the Spring rite
while he trains me to play role of the Augur
so I write prophecies on the blank page.

I mount the white mare with thundering wing
to ride with Jesus and his grandson Michael,
son of Gabriel who bears sword of fire,
the four horsemen of the Apocalypse
preaching revelation that Jesus is alive
to overthrow the Emperor of Rome.

I play guitar on street corners to sing
about soul rebirth through the carbon cycle,
preaching evolution beneath the spire
since I will return when solar eclipse
shrouds the world in gloom to search the archive
for secrets hidden in the sophic dome.

I am one member of the Empire Elite,
born from the seed of Eloh on Mount Zion,
and crowned to rule fields of Elysium
hidden on the sacred island of Crete
where I play harp and relax with the lion
who dreams the sun is made of Helium.

Since I am son of Helius, who designed
the wheel that spins on all wagons and cars,
I must sing the metric that beats my heart
how the stars of fate are neatly aligned
to favor my rule over land of Mars
now named Gaul or France on the new world chart.

She weaves our legends as braids in my hair
so I would remember the way to Heaven
that leads from grim Hellas to lush Gerthmania
where Sophia, by Fountain of Despair,
recites the lost epic of Armageddon
since I now rule castles of Transylvania.

Alone in crumbling tower of prophecies,
I dream the First Flash of the Universe,
which bursts from the Great Black Hole of the Brain
and flares forth in vast web of galaxies
where quadrupeds evolve from fertile seas,
longing for you to sing with me in rain.