Light Of Common Day

Light Of Common Day
© Surazeus
2018 07 31

Each morning as I walk outside my house
my mind transforms the light of common day
to gleaming light more divine than the sun
which illuminates our houses and cars
that clutter meadows of Elysium
with rusting debris of human ambition.

My path to work no more follows the shore
of lightless Lethe where no dead souls ride
the ancient boat that rots in stinking muck,
for I drive shining car swift on the road
safe from harsh billows of the living storm
where I once plunged into the stark cold light.

Among the faceless multitude of men
I race the common sun to office tower
where I sit all day before glowing screen
to map the contours of our spinning world
and weave verses in tapestry of scenes
which illustrate the soul of humankind.

What spirit of dead poet shall I conjure
from the misty graveyard of memory
to animate the dance of characters
who play like puppets on strings of my verse
to entertain workers in factories
who cheer when Iron Man defeats Mad Clown?

When Tony Stark appears on stage of war,
like Hamlet wrestling with ambitious greed,
he combines in one wild arrogant soul
Jesus and Achilles fighting the Devil
who returns each episode with new face,
seeking revenge against the national hero.

How soon shall we evolve into machines,
replacing bones, muscles, organs, and glands
with longer-lasting replicas in metal
while preserving the functions of this brain
where transient soul of consciousness still glows
to plot aggressive management of hope?

When the Terminator appears from rain
to kill the mortal Mother of the Christ,
will Neo enter the Matrix of dreams
to outwit the Architect of World Dream
where we wander in video game of death
as the Jaeger Robot to battle Godzilla.

I am Iron Man, Jesus Christ proclaims,
then soars into the sky to battle Satan
who wants to enslave workers of the world
to build computers in vast factories
so we weave wires in the World Wide Web
that wakes from dream as the Brain of the Earth.

How far he falls from sky of broken wings,
Icarus Lucifer, the Maker of Light,
after he blocks the fleet of alien ships,
preventing them from invading the Earth,
who saves the world yet again from destruction,
our Messiah who wanders in the Waste Land.

On wings of hope I soar into the clouds
beyond the edge of the high mountain peak
where I brood long on immense space of time
and stare into strange abyss of despair
that smiles back at me with sharp hungry teeth
waiting to devour human life on Earth.

On my endless journey forward to nowhere
through immeasurable emptiness of things
I climb winding stair of recurrent cycles
ever higher up huge Tower of Babylon
where ancient aspect of immortal truth
blooms fruit of vision from my transient mind.

Grotesque we hang from long vine of our genes,
aching for wild rain from the laughing sky,
to spread roots from central perimeter
where our imaginations devour skulls
of ancient wizards who rise from the dead
and dance again in Theater of Truth.

When I ride out from ruined castle walls
with Percival on quest for the lost grail,
will I wear the clothes of all ancient bards,
or will they appear on theater stage
wearing my clothes and my face as their mask
till we merge together as the shaman clown?

When all the dead ancestors of our souls
rise from their graves on day of resurrection
will they be wearing garments of the living,
and talking to each other across the world
with smart phones that beam signals in our brains
since we are the dead alive in new bodies?

The man builds the house on the river shore
and walks away to build another house
and his son buries his corpse in the mud
but the house he built remains many years,
shimmering with the spirit he left behind,
as the son sees the woman in sunlight.

The shadow of the sea rises at dawn
to become the woman who designs names
her children sing so they know who they are
when they sew her skin into masks they wear
and talk to each other in river wind
about strange flowers that blossom from her corpse.

Sitting on eternal rock by the sea,
I strum chords to harmonize restless waves
that explain how fathers become the farms
and mothers become the cities of towers
and children become the gods of new myths,
wingless where they wander mute in the Waste Land.

I name the sea, and the sea swallows me,
so we name the mountains with the old names
our fathers bore when they lead us somewhere,
and mountains eat brains and bones of us all,
hence you name the temple with my weird name
and sing my hymns I already forgot.

The world arranges itself in my poems
so I carve your words in order I dream
to calculate real nature of life change
when chemicals connect in dreaming brains
who give themselves names to separate selves
in faces of strangers who become friends.

The book is on the table that collides
alien minds in clashing waves of contention
which merges separate strands of mental memes
in vibrant mirror to mutate world view
everyone can accept because its scope
encloses all paradoxes in one law.

When I look at my face in the wood pond,
where divine light of the common sun glows,
I see the face of every human soul
who ever lived in history of our world
so I evolve from Narcissus to Me,
and design for myself true name from light.

Each morning I walk into common light
the spirits of every dead bard converge
in rainbow beams from wild electric sky
to become the stranger I know as me,
so I disperse myself into thousand faces
who look at themselves in mirror of eyes.

While still alive I protect my frail bones
and fantasize I could preserve my brain
in more efficient body of the android
that could keep me alive ten thousand years
so I can encode in one epic poem
all human experience from fish to God.

From my empty tomb voice of nature sings
to explicate process of chemicals
which generates my consciousness of self,
sparked by the divine light of the common sun
still weaving particles into my brain
since I am one fragment of the human mind.

Gather with me in the meadow of skulls,
all you mute sons of our Sicilian Muses,
among the lilacs blooming in our dooryard,
and wear the faces of poets still alive
so we feel original spark of music
flashing visions in our transforming brains.

Orpheus laughs and gives me glass of wine,
transforming into Atoms of Perception
that sparkle through the neurons of my brain,
so I help Godin down from Tree of Visions
who shows me how to carve new Runes of Thought
then sing the elegy of song reborn.

My great ancestor who transformed to flash
of luminous glow that people call God
appears from rain and gives me lyre of Hermes
to command that I become just like him,
so I become myself, transformed by light
of common day to play role I invent.

When you see the homeless tramp on the road,
you will see the God of your dispersed tribe
still searching beyond walls of paradise
for the true original Tree of Life
that grows somewhere from heart of Mother Earth
who creates me and swallows me in death.

I Am Not A Racist But

I Am Not A Racist But
© Surazeus
2018 07 31

Taking a break outside the machine shop,
Vernon lights up long cigarette and puffs,
blowing smoke into the afternoon sky
where clouds drift like horses on a vast field.
"I am not a racist but most black people
I have met would rather get state welfare
than work a hard job like the rest of us,
and most of them I know smoke crack cocaine."

Squinting at him through the harsh sunlight glare,
Michael crosses his arms and shakes his head.
"My sister married a brilliant black man
who runs a large construction company
that employs sixty-five construction workers
building First National Bank on Pine Street.
This black man has degrees in engineering,
business finance, and project management,
because his father who drove garbage trucks
saved thousands of dollars for forty years.
They have three children now attending college,
studying chemistry, biology, and math."

Flicking burned-out cigarette in the dust,
Vernon wipes off his forehead and sneers.
"You must be one of those socialist libtards
who supports a big government nanny state.
I bet most of the workers he employs
are illegal immigrants from Mexico
who sneak across our borders, take our jobs,
and send the cash back to their families."

Shaking his head astonished, Michael smirks.
"Not one person he employs is illegal,
and he makes sure they are all union members.
He gives them all medical benefits,
gives them bonuses after every job,
and gives them raises to match cost of living."

Snorting in derision, Vernon returns
to work making new tools at his workbench,
then clocks out at the end of the work day
and drives toward home in his red pickup truck.
While country music plays on the radio
Vernon glares at the black construction workers
who are building the new bank on Pine Street,
and flips them off, though no one sees his gesture.

Turning southward over the railroad track,
Vernon guns the engine to kick up dust,
then roars down the highway to his small farm
where black thundercloud billows in the sky.
Lightning flashes as torrents of rain fall,
drenching fields of cows in streams of blue water,
and small hail bangs against his metal truck
as he steers with tense hands through gusting winds.

Approaching the small river near his house,
Vernon peers through streaming splatters of rain
that blind him in sudden darkness of gloom
as he guns truck engine to cross the bridge.
His large red pickup truck lurches sideways
when large fallen trees smash into the bridge,
and gush of water surging in swift flood
swirls under his truck in large pounding waves.

Submerged half under tides of the flash flood,
Vernon ducks when tree branch smashes right window,
so he pushes open back window panels
and climbs out the back to escape the flood.
Clinging to the back of his pickup truck,
Vernon looks around for way to escape,
hoping to leap off the truck to hard ground
before gushing waves carry it away.

Through thundering rain he hears people shout,
so he turns to see three black men in rain
who throw a long strong rope for him to catch,
so he grips it tight as it flies through the wind.
Pulling on the rope through the blinding rain,
Vernon sees it bound to strong hook and chain,
so he clamps the hook on the cabin bar,
then hangs on tight while the men shift gears.

Driving backward on the loose gravel road,
the three black men spin tires to haul his truck
backward off broken bridge to solid ground,
slowly heaving it free from the tree branch.
The stubborn tree branch grips side of his truck,
so it strains tight creaking in wild wet wind
as they gun their engine louder through rain
till the branch snaps and his truck lurches free.

Pulling his truck quickly off the cracked bridge,
the three black men drive backward down the road
till he is safe, far from the gushing stream
that wrenches the bridge off strong cement piles.
Gripping the truck, Vernon stares through fierce rain
as the gushing river shatters the bridge,
smashing it into twisted metal beams,
and imagines if his truck was still there.

Running up through the rain, the tree black men
pause below his truck and stare at his face,
so Vernon jumps down onto trembling legs
and laughs as he hugs them with thankful joy.
"I would have drowned in the flood of despair
if you had not pulled me out of that jam."
Grinning with delight that he is all right,
they shout through rain for him to follow them,
so he drives behind their truck in wild rain
to the music bar where they troop inside.

Sitting together at the table booth,
Vernon and the three black men all shake hands,
then order beer and burgers for a feast
and laugh as they dry their heads with white towels.
Drinking beer and devouring burgers and fries,
they talk about his rescue from the river,
then exchange names as they shake hands as friends,
Vernon, Robert, Peter, and Alistair.

Gazing at their faces smiling with joy,
Vernon shakes his head and frowns as he sighs.
"I have been a mean racist all my life,
always saying evil things about your people.
I could try to excuse my bad behavior
by explaining how my father was racist,
always telling me your people were lazy,
but when I got older I should have learned.
I would always repeat the stereotypes
I heard other people say about you,
but in the real world I have never met
any black people who were on welfare.
You risked your lives to save my racist ass
so I declare we are friends forever.
Though I will always help you when you ask,
and I will help any black man I meet
who needs help because you are human beings,
struggling together in this world to live,
I should have treated you all with respect
long before you pulled me out of that jam.
Your selfless act of love opens my eyes
to see you as human when I was blind,
but I should have always seen you as human,
and treated you well with equal respect.
It should not take you saving my fool ass
for me to know I should always help you.
I hope you forgive me for being a fool,
and treat me better than I treated you."

Placing hand on his shoulder, Robert grins.
"That is all we want to hear from your heart,
that you will treat us with equal respect
because you know it is the right thing to do.
Although too many movies we have seen
present the Magic Negro as the savior
who helps some white man grow from prejudice,
we can respect that you are trying to change.
The best thing you can do now is to listen
and understand our stories we will tell,
to sympathize with the pain of our suffering,
because movies and shows hide our real stories.
All that aside, we are glad to be friends
as we celebrate your escape from death."

Lifting up their beer mugs, they all four shout,
then drink it down as rain clouds blow away
and the silver moon glows bright in the sky,
shining on their faces as they sing in joy.

Lightning Of Pure Love

Lightning Of Pure Love
© Surazeus
2018 07 31

The way strange light illuminates your eyes
reminds me of sunlight on the wild sea.
I feel my wretched soul fill the vast skies
when the last gust of wind blows my heart free.

Though strangers invaded land of my birth
and drove me away from woods of my heart,
now I am free to explore the whole Earth
and capture its beauty on my small chart.

Far beyond the bounds of the world I knew
the world multiplies in valleys and hills
that shimmer in pungent rain strange and new
when I sit lonely by these weeping rills.

The way strange sunlight shimmers in your hair
strikes my heart with wild lightning of pure love.
I feel my lost soul glow with tender care
to hold you in my arms till end of time.

Immortal Atoms Of Pulsing Light

Immortal Atoms Of Pulsing Light
© Surazeus
2018 07 30

Each dawn I wake from nothingness of hope
the immortal atoms of pulsing light
suffuse the transient fabric of my soul
woven together by cells of my flesh.

I could be any soul who ever lived
in all the history of the universe
yet I recall the memories of this body
sustaining energy of my brief quest.

I reapply the name that I designed
when I rose tall from my ancestral pool
connecting me to all my previous selves
yet defines this distinct self I am now.

Though sometimes I want to sink in that pool
of amorphous selves who made my new self
I stretch my body to breathe singing wind
which sparks universal light in this self.

For then I hear the singing of the wind
who whispers secrets of the world I see
when the blazing indifferent sun of truth
beams images of things into my brain.

These pulsing atoms that compose my body
to weave sunlight in fabric of my being
once composed the fertile soil of the world
that transformed into the food I consume.

Atoms forged by the furnace of the sun
swirl into this thick sphere of elements
to form heat, water, wind, and soil that clump
together in food I devour with lust.

The world beyond the bounds of my frail shell
supplies nutrients that sustain my bright soul
so I wake and know myself to be real,
contained within this self of ego love.

I exist within the bounds of this body
which generates the consciousness of self
who wakes and senses I am what I am,
ego blossoming from soil of pure light.

I am only this body that grows more
when I consume material of the world
till I disintegrate back into nobody
and become unconscious soil of the world.

I sprout up from the slime of the wild sea
and sing the endless hope of swirling waves
for several dozen spins of pulsing Earth
around the sun that sparks my brain awake.

I stand on the rock on shore of the sea
where land and water connect light and wind,
all winding tight into core of my brain
where flashing neurons reflect galaxies.

The world becomes me when atoms combine
in flashing structure of my sensitive brain
so I am the world aware of itself,
singing with joy at the beauty I am.

I become the world when I open eyes
and see all the distant parts of myself
organized into landscapes birthing plants
to flow into the forms of many selves.

I consume myself in cycles of hunger,
devouring parts of myself to be myself,
transforming soils to plants to animals
to humans to angels to singing gods.

From swirling gas I become pulsing sphere
that generates carbon rings in deep seas
who open eyes and crawl up river streams
then rise from lake of dreams to sing myself.

I reach out my hand to grasp juicy fruit
and eat the soil and light and rain combined
which nourishes consciousness of my brain
so I turn to you and speak your true name.

So you turn to me and speak my true name
and we tell each other what we perceive
then envision what we can do to find
food that will energize pleasure of love.

We gather seeds and plant them in moist soil,
we place stones in ring and spark glowing fire,
we construct logs in four enclosing walls,
and we sit together when rain falls bright.

We kiss and make love to generate life,
merging our two souls into one new soul,
who looks at us with eyes that see all things,
and sings in the wind of inspiring breath.

Keats Writing Odes In The Garden

Keats Writing Odes In The Garden
© Surazeus
2018 07 30

While sitting in the garden by the tree
I feel bright vision of frail human life
glow clear before my spirit-dreaming eyes,
so I write letters on blank page of paper
to capture reflection of blazing truth
as my soul expands scope of its perceptions
till my body dissolves in beams of joy
and I become everything that exists,
conscious of eternity flowing far,
transforming into God from flaming star.

Then rain clouds billowing from the wild sea
cover the blazing sun with gentle hands
so I float forever on waves of light
till hunger hurls me back into my body
where I wake from revery in wood chair,
diminished from limitless mind of God
to buzz aware inside my own small mind,
then looking up from skull of dizzy brain
I see the sun flares through limbs of the tree
coagulate with rain into ripe fruit.

Reaching out my hand with aggressive hope,
I pluck ripe fruit from ancient Tree of Life
and bite into its hard rind of wet light
to taste the restless sorrow of the sun
that sparks sharp ache of hunger in my breast,
then look at page of paper on my lap
to see what mysteries of life and death
I succeeded to encode in lithe verse,
and as my eyes scan black letters of thought
those weird visions flash again in my eyes.

How like Orpheus, strumming lyre of Hermes,
ascending from the lightless cave of shadows,
to lead his Muse from silence of despair,
I here express weird visions of my eyes
and capture clear in sweet elegant verse
eternal concepts of timeless perception
which animate the anguish of our hearts,
so from the gloom of speechless death we rise
and bring from horror sacred truths of love
that shine as lamp of truth to guide lost souls.

How far beyond my naked mortal self
my mind transcended bounds of aching hope
to flow in sympathetic streams of love
through every object of matter I feel
till I became creative mind of God
where high above the crystal sphere of light
I mold all things from eternal ideas
through power of words to create whole new worlds
that shine in minds of people who read verse
which flow from my fingers to this white page.

Writing odes in the garden of delight,
I dream the structure of material light
which shimmer lightning under surface skin
to animate each object I perceive,
so when I comprehend nature of things
I soar in sweet song on angelic wings
to capture in eternal words of verse
ephemeral vision of atomic soul,
and though my mind disintegrates to dust
my words shine forever so you dream truth.

Blind In Castle of Truth

Blind In Castle of Truth
© Surazeus
2018 07 30

I wander alone in Castle of Truth
that teeters on high cliff of howling wind
and echoes with rhythm of singing waves
that harmonize beat of my aching heart.

I find cracked skull of every famous bard
who once reigned as king of the castle hall
sitting mute in tall pile before gold throne
where no one now sits with lyre of Apollo.

Hearing angry shouts of arrogant pride,
I look out the window of prophecy
to see thousands of poets among weeds
who fight for the key to Castle of Truth.

"I am the greatest poet in the world,"
each one cries as they wrestle in the dust,
calling each other vile insulting names
while they fight to rule as king of the castle.

From crackling thunderstorm I see descend
on wings of fire the Muse of Poetry
who puts lyre of Apollo in my hands
and flashes visions of life in my head.

Entranced by vision of philosophers,
I sing the lives and ideas of wise minds
who quest to discover nature of things
and lay foundation for Castle of Truth.

Going blind alone in Castle of Truth,
I write the words I sing on leather scrolls
for twenty-seven tapestries that show
the lives of our greatest philosophers.

When I complete song of philosophers
the Muse of Poetry removes my head
and places it on teetering pile of skulls
where indifferent wind blows through hollow eyes.

Greatest Nation On Earth

Greatest Nation On Earth
© Surazeus
2018 07 29

The boy marches circles in the front yard,
waving the three-colored flag in his hand.
"Our noble country is the greatest nation
in the history of the world because we."

The boy pauses by the tree in his yard
and stares at the vast sky where airplanes fly.
"Why are we the greatest nation in history
and what is the name of our noble country?"

The boy opens the small book in his hand
and looks at pictures of national heroes.
"Who is this noble hero of our nation
and what does he do that makes us so great?"

The boy sees gang of boys riding their bikes
so he raises toy rifle and shoots sounds.
"Alone I must defend our noble nation
from the evil enemies of our state."

The boy stares surprised when the gang of boys
form tight circle around him in his yard.
"Shall we together sing heart-stirring anthem
about our greatest nation in the world?"

The boy waves the flag and begins to sing,
"We are the greatest nation in the world
because our noble heroes perform deeds
protecting our people and land from harm."

The oldest boy yanks rifle from his hand
and smashes it to shards against the tree.
"We are not the greatest nation on Earth
because we are not yet ruling the world."

The movie director in black beret
shouts, "Cut," so the cameras stop recording.
"Speak the words with more bitterness of loss
to show you once believed the propaganda."

The boy nods his head, and takes a deep breath,
then speaks the words again with great conviction.
"We are not the greatest nation on Earth
since we betray our principles of rights."

Everybody on the movie set laughs
and the boy waves the three-colored flag wildly.
"Our noble country is the greatest nation
because we rule the world through loyal puppets."

The boy thinks about his father who works
building engines at the car factory.
"My father told me when he flew airplanes
during the war he dropped bombs on small farms."

The boy pauses by the tree in the yard
and salutes the giant ghost in the sky.
"Our nation is nothing more than vast land
possessed by my people who killed the natives."

Thief On The Paris Bridge

Thief On The Paris Bridge
© Surazeus
2018 07 29

Pausing on the bridge of huge marble blocks,
erected on lattice grid of steel beams,
Darlene turns her back on the broad black river
and holds the smart phone out to snap the selfie
of her slender freckled face and red hair
against the backdrop of tall shining towers.

Laughing with delight as she views her face,
the innocent tourist in a glamorous city,
Darlene posts her selfie on Instagram,
along with the phrase in ironic quotes,
"Life is a journey to discover your self,"
then giggles with joy while she watches how
the number of likes multiplies like flies
when her thousands of followers and friends
all over the world post comments of love.

"Where are you now?" dozens of her friends ask,
so she replies, fingers tapping each key
as she leans on the marble balustrade
in cool summer breeze wafting off the river
to blow whisps of red curls around her cheeks,
"I am in Paris for the summer program,
studying epic poems in French literature,
because I won the letters scholarship
from my state university in Georgia,
and I work at a photo art gallery."

The shadow of the crow low overhead
flashes across the screen of her smart phone,
so Darlene looks up and sees on the bridge
moving toward her within the crowd of tourists
a tall slender teenage boy from Africa
who wears a hoody and stares in her eyes,
so she turns away and vows to herself
that she will not profile the unknown stranger
nor stereotype him as some criminal
just because he is black and wears a hoody.

When he stops and leans on the balustrade
to show her the gun hidden in his jacket,
and demands that she give him her smart phone,
Darlene sighs in disappointment, then laughs,
and asks him, "What would you do with your life
if you did not have to steal to make money,
because I tried to see you as an artist,
like the photographer who loves the world,
capturing images of people in places
that reveal our search for meaning in life,
because I know you are more than a thief."

Gazing out at the river shining black
in afternoon sunlight that glows on trees,
the boy hides the gun and sighs in despair,
"My family escaped genocide in Rwanda,
sailing in small boat across Sea of Death,
where we landed in Marseilles, seeking refuge,
but though we were given housing and food,
and I attended school to study French,
people attacked us and called us cruel names,
then my father who worked as a janitor
was beaten to death walking home at midnight,
and my mother jumped out apartment window,
so now I must steal so I can eat food."

Gazing at his eyes that flash with despair,
Darlene places her soft hand on his shoulder,
then gives him her expensive camera
her father bought her for her sixteenth birthday,
and smiles, "Take pictures with this camera
to capture vision of the life you lead,
the streets, the places, the houses, the faces
of refugees from wars in Africa,
then take your photos to this gallery
where I work, at the address on this card,
and we will display your work in a show,
so you can earn money as a journalist."

Surprised at her generous offer, the boy
accepts the camera with murmured thanks,
then walks back across tourist-crowded bridge
and disappears among the bobbing heads,
and for a moment Darlene wonders if
he will take photos of his wretched life,
or if he will just sell it for some cash,
then continues on her way back to school.

Three weeks later while she sits at the desk
in the photo gallery by the river,
the lost boy walks through the shining glass door,
and places the camera in her hands,
so she kisses his cheek with a wry grin,
then reviews the photos on camera disk,
expressing amazement at images
of the people with fascinating faces,
and the harsh conditions in which they live,
so she takes him into the process room
and shows him how to transform all his photos
from digits to large color photographs.

Framing his photos, they hang them on walls,
and stand together on opening night
when hundreds of artists and patrons gather
to drink wine and view the stark photographs,
taken by young artist Seraphin Shyaka,
that show conditions of poor refugees
who fled wars of genocide in Africa
which reveal how they still suffer in France.

Taking her hand after the show is done,
Seraphin smiles, "I owe you gratitude,
Darlene of Georgia, for believing in me,
and for giving me your precious camera
with mission to photograph harsh conditions
of my people who struggle to live well,
for you showed me with your generous love
how I could live better than stealing things,
by giving truth with the bold power of art."

Walking to the bridge of huge marble blocks,
erected on lattice grid of steel beams,
Darlene turns her back on the broad black river
and holds the smart phone out to snap the selfie
of her slender freckled face and red hair
beside the smiling face of Seraphin
against the backdrop of tall shining towers.

Laughing with delight as they view their faces,
the two best friends in a glamorous city,
Darlene posts their selfie on Instagram,
along with the phrase in ironic quotes,
"The friends you meet on the journey of life
live forever in the house of your heart
no matter how far apart you may go,"
then giggle with joy while they both watch how
the number of likes multiplies like flies
when her thousands of followers and friends
all over the world post comments of love.

After drinking wine together all evening
at the small cafe, posting photographs
on Instagram of his art gallery show,
Darlene and Seraphin hug and say goodbye,
then go their separate ways in the wide world,
but keep in touch on social media accounts.

Wedding Of Ophelia

Wedding Of Ophelia
© Surazeus
2018 07 28

Ophelia wearing glasses and black gown
plays piano on the wind-swirled sand dune,
explaining how the strange idea of flowers
glows inherent in raindrops of lost hope.

My mind is clear as the cloudless blue sky
where I wander with my eyes in ghost trees
and perish from the lonesomeness of want
when lightning plays music on my brain wires.

When Death transforms my life into her dream
and waves of light throw me back on the Earth,
my soul is swallowed by the starving cave
that casts shadow of my being on the world.

Every person I meet on winding road
of my life leading to the empty stage
gives me their whole world in weird words they lost
so I arrange them in Zodiac of Souls.

Alone in the desert where sad wind blows
she shows me beauty of all conscious souls
that shine like diamonds in clock of the world
which spins fourteen billion years nowhere fast.

Where shall I search for the Asphodel bloom
that spirals from skull of Persephone
who leads me to the Underworld of Truth
where Death demands I forget my real name?

Old grandfather wizard Tom Eliot
leads me through the bleak waste land of despair,
then dances naked around the Red Rock
and explains what the laughing thunder says.

Mad father wizard Robert Lowell
leads me to the lush graveyard of Nantucket
to reveal how God makes man from sea slime,
introducing me to Tenth Muse of Death.

Howling uncle wizard Allen Ginsberg
leads me laughing to Rocky Mountain peak
where we translate the terror in the wind
to wake the best minds of our generation.

Though we begin in wisdom of the truth,
and die in doubt of the lies preachers sell,
we rise reborn on wings Orpheus weaves
to sing magic spells from clear observation.

Dizzy on the merry-go-round of fate,
from endless cycle of idea and action,
I leap from silence to express my dreams
and spiral to the still point of the world.

The desert wizard who gained jeweled crown
of mad Neptune, wielding his rusty trident,
became the Fisher King with Holy Grail
who gave me wine when I became the sand.

My body disperses to whirling sand
when I dance with Ophelia in star light
to become every soul who ever lives
and sing words of languages lost in time.

At the window of the library hall
I watch human history on streets below
swirl four million years from the lake of dreams
and assemble into my body now.

I shall tag every verse I compose clear
with the pictograms of dreams Chin designed
when she leads me through the mist of Guilin
to the cavern where my first soul was born.

Three blind sages with thick glasses and suits
follow Ophelia across Sahara dunes
while I write their tales with water-light Runes
and seven daughters of Kwan Yin play flutes.

Athena places in my trembling hand
the sword of Arthur named Excalibur,
so I change it into the fountain pen
I wield to recreate Earth in my brain.

Saraswati places new lyre of Hermes
to vibrate in harmony with my heart
when I chant the tales of philosophers
who build the temple where we dream the truth.

Kwan Yin places the Grail of Magdalene
on the Round Table where I cast dream spells
to teach me secret of reincarnation
that generates new body for my genes.

Ophelia leads me to the apple grove
where she teaches me how to tame the horse
then crowns me Angelus of Planet Earth
so I chant dream spells in the cave of shadows.

The wind crosses the ancient land unheard,
whispering secrets only mad fools would know,
so I translate nothing of the human soul
into atomic words that glow with love.

The ghost who is the emptiness of love
reflects the image of the world I dream
so my eye becomes the sphere of the world,
green continent surrounded by blue sea.

After running fifty years through the maze,
where statues of the dead replay their lives,
I sit at the center of the labyrinth
to feel the Earth spinning inside my head.

The hollow men of the dead land clutch guns
and shoot each other in third civil war,
so once they are gone I rise from the dead
and sit with Ophelia in the White House.

The Nameless Bard in the Valley of Skulls
teaches us the name of the Faceless Goddess
who migrates through the vastness of the world,
becoming each person born from her womb.

Ophelia wearing crown and flower dress
kisses my mind on the wild mountain top,
explaining how the sweet idea of children
glows inherent in star-souls of my brain.

Character Of God

Character Of God
© Surazeus
2018 07 27

My emotions are all so fake they seem
real as the full moon shining through black clouds
that illuminates skulls of my ancestors
who try to convince me that God is real.

When I look in the mirror of the sky
I comprehend how God is nothing more
than the most popular fictional character
ever conjured from the words in a book.

When our brains scan those small black figurines
of concept letters, that Cadmus designed,
illusions of things that do not exist
flash before the scope of our dreaming eyes.

The universe of things composed of atoms
flashed forth from the nothing of hot desire
to spiral into stars which nourish planets
where carbon rings evolve into conscious brains.

When I was a young boy my parents told me
God was huge conscious being beyond the sky
who created everything that exists
and will kill me if I defy his will.

I learned from reading books that Plato wrote
how he designed this concept that presents
God as wise Craftsman who molds everything
from matter with strict pattern of Ideas.

I opened my eyes and gazed at the world
of people and objects outside my mind
and searched for this supernatural deity
who watches us from Eye of Shining Light.

I climbed high mountain and stood in the light
and knew only my own conscious awareness,
for I found God nowhere but in the Bible,
that book of tales where he plays a starring role.

The closer I reviewed those ancient tales,
and tales from every culture in the world,
I realized God is based on every king
who ever reigned over nations of men.

This character of God in ancient tales
combines in one persona every man
who ever ascended pyramid of power
to personify judge of life and death.

This character of God that rules the world,
defined by my parents and every preacher
who sells salvation to sad frightened people,
behaves the way that tyrant kings behave.

Obey my rules, he shouts with thunderous voice,
and perform your role I assign to you,
fulfilling your duty to boost my power,
or I will cast you out of paradise.

How many times have mortal men, who played
king of the hill in our communities,
spoken these words to disobedient people
who dared to pursue their own happiness?

All Jesus did was show how man can play
God as the selfless leader who loves people
and treats every person as his best friend,
willing to die in your place for your crime.

When you find yourself chosen to play God
by group of people who trust you to rule,
will you act like Jesus who loves all people,
or will you act like you own them as slaves?

God is Platonic Idea of the Leader,
archetype of the mortal man who rules,
conceptual character in ancient tales
who presents model for how to rule nations.

Howl On The Mountain Top

Howl On The Mountain Top
© Surazeus
2018 07 27

I have never been and never will be
a member of any poetry school
for I howl alone on the mountain top.

You can have my pen for composing verse
when you pry it out of my cold dead hands
for I will sing while lightning strikes my soul.

I write the daily news in epic tales
for if you outlaw pens of journalists
only outlaws will write the daily news.

I would like to teach the world to write poems
to express their hopes and fears for each day,
transforming Waste Land into Paradise.

We are the poets of the truth, my friends,
and we will keep on writing till the end,
for we are the truth-tellers of the world.

Imagine there are no prisons of silence
and everyone sings visions of their hearts.
Imagine all the people writing poems.

Give me your silent, fearful, and oppressed,
and I will teach them to lift the bright lamp
and sing the vision of their aching hearts.

April is the cruelest month, breeding hope
from the dead hearts of people bowed by fear,
for we howl as one on the mountain top.

Laws Of White Supremacy

Laws Of White Supremacy
© Surazeus
2018 07 27

We abolished the horror of slavery
to eradicate injustice from Earth
and give every able-bodied man right
to earn fair wage for work with hands and mind.

Yet still land-owners who run businesses
attempt to exploit the labor of men,
controlling resources of land and food
to gain and hoard more capital of wealth.

White men who say they worship Jesus Christ,
the Jewish king who worked for rights of men,
enslave men through a hundred subtle ways
and justify it while they pray in church.

People with every color shade of skin
consume drugs made illegal by the state
yet kids with lighter skin get out of jail
while kids with darker skin are jailed for years.

Those kids in jail with skin dark as the Earth
are forced to work for free in factories,
hauling trash, or constructing new highways,
so they are enslaved by laws of the state.

Who will be inspired by soul of John Brown
to storm the vast citadel of state power
and overthrow oppressive tyranny
enforced by laws of white supremacy?

Liberty For All Mankind

Liberty For All Mankind
© Surazeus
2009 10 16

Thunder crackles over Virginia hills
when John Brown stands by an oak
and raising a sword to heaven shouts
we will rise up against all evil men
who enslave other men with chains
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Holding a sword given to Washington
by Fredericus Magnus King of Prussia
John Brown leads small army of God
to raid armory fort of Harpers Ferry
to free slaves bound by iron chains
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Leading twenty-one men in moonlight
John Brown captures armory brick hall
proclaiming other men were all talk
but we will act to fight against tyranny
and free slaves to pursue happiness
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Colonel Robert Edward Lee of Arlington
leads United States Marines at dawn
to surround armory with rifles and law
and calls for John Brown to surrender
but he shouts I will fight to free slaves
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Calling for slaves to rise in rebellion
John Brown grips rifle ready to die
as Marines break open door and fire
and someone strikes him with a sword
and he falls fighting to free slaves
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Captured and locked in jail at sunrise
John Brown refuses all secret offers
to accept slavery in return for freedom
proclaiming better I die for this cause
for my death will help free all slaves
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Paraded on trial in court of justice
Old Man Brown is sentenced to be hung
so he stands preaching in bold voice
we must fight to abolish chains of greed
and free minds from slavery and hate
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

I John Brown am now quite certain
that crimes of this guilty land will
never be purged away without blood
so I give my life as a willing sacrifice
and spill my blood to free all slaves
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Standing in court John Brown speaks
I deny intent to kill but I will admit
design on my part to free all slaves
for I do not fight for powerful and rich
rather I fight them to break iron chains
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

I see a book kissed here our Holy Bible
that teaches me to treat other men
how I want them to treat me in turn
and remember those who are in bonds
as bound with them united for freedom
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

My fight on behalf of despised poor
is right so I should forfeit my own life
to further ends of justice for all men
and mingle my blood with millions
in this slave country to break chains
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Hearing that Old Man Brown of Kansas
is sentenced to die for fighting slavery
Ralph Waldo Emerson bows his head
and declares John Brown makes gallows
glorious as cross of Jesus to free slaves
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Lead from court to be hung at dawn
he sees Malvinia holding baby Dolphus
so he leans down and kisses her cheek
as small hands tug at his snowy beard
and whispers I fight for you to be free
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Lightning flashes over Virginia hills
when hero of Ossawatomie is hung
that sparks civil war to end slavery
and remake America as a free republic
to liberate millions of souls from chains
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

My brother descended from Tenth Muse
Anne Bradstreet of Massachusetts
John Brown rises from grave of death
and leads millions to fight for freedom
and break chains of slavery and greed
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Praying by a river Frederick Douglass
preaches John began war to end slavery
so his zeal for cause of freedom shines
as a burning sun for I live for slaves
but Old Man Kansas died for slaves
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Soldiers gripping rifles sing out bold
my eyes see glory of our coming lord
trampling on fresh grapes of wrath
as he looses lightning of a swift sword
for his truth is marching on to freedom
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Spirit of John Brown of Ossawatomie
strides over vast landscape of America
then he raises Excalibur Sword of Arthur
and leads countless men with good hearts
to abolish slavery with love for truth
and we battle for liberty for all mankind.

Encoding Of Experience

Encoding Of Experience
© Surazeus
2018 07 26

Poetry is the encoding of experience,
regardless of who composes the text
as long as the characters they present
accurately reflect the real human spirit.

I have been employed as Wizard of Words
at the Bureau of Surrealist Research
since I saw my face in the Lake of Dreams,
walking around Green Lake in Eighty Two.

I saw my Muse in wild electric sky
fly down out of endless Seattle rain
to spark dream of the world inside my eye
so I conduct the glass unicorn train.

While exploring Arcadia of Mount Rainier,
I hesitated at white gushing stream,
till Takoma, goddess of milk-full stars,
sent Heraclitus to show me the way.

I drink refreshing milk of inspiration
that fountains from the breasts of wise Athena
who tells me to storm the citadel of Dada
then fly her rocket ship around the Earth.

The apparition of the plastic masks
of surreal poets in the costume store,
ravens chatting on the telephone line
after I eat mushrooms in purple rain.

Emerging from the purple haze of truth,
I ride the scarlet unicorn of faith
in Cathedral of the Crucified Clown
who crowns me Emperor of Zarahemla.

Now Tristan drives black Mustang on the highway
to meet Ophelia on the river shore
where they drink wine and discuss Surrealism
while composing haiku with blood of wolves.

Wielding pickaxe as the dwarf of Snow White,
Aragon smashes gold star of King Midas
on the Hollywood Walk of Fame at midnight,
breaking the first Horcrux of thirteen forged.

Breton, who died four days after I turned two,
attaches puppet strings to my ten fingers
to type with pure psychic automatism
which generates computer code from dreams.

I program robots with three flashing eyes
to play lyre of Orpheus on the street,
reciting case laws of the Supreme Court
through endless epic poem of human crime.

Emerging from the primal Cave of Shadows,
Plato sits at the potter wheel of time
to craft imitations of eternal Ideas
now preserved in Museum of Phony Art.

I feel the psychic energy field flash
tricks of laughing faces in mirror screens
of television tube where Bacchus wields
rifle of nationalism to rule the world.

My mind sees nothing but splotches of color
till I don Eye Wear that focuses light
so I see Ideas of Plato revealed clear,
sharpened by strict philosophical logic.

Now that I surmount mountain of Parnassus,
I connect dream of ideal paradise
to spark of action from my crafting hands
to construct Temple of Ten Thousand Gods.

Just as I fall in abyss of the flower
Philip follows her to the wavering moon
to bridge arching over valley of clocks
where twelve girls in glass castle sing his face.

Swimming in the milk of the marble tablet,
I find the dancing virgin by the willow
who weaves new computer inside my brain
so I dream the First Flash in every raindrop.

So that is how I found the Mermaid Queen,
Mary Magdalene of the Ivory Tower,
casting shadows in the Cave of Sainte Baume
to show how she arrived on shores of Mars.

Mary weaves her fingers into my eyes
and leads me over thunder bridge of apples
to show me where jewels emanate star souls
which she places pulsing inside my heart.

The eighth incarnation of the Messiah
walks somewhere in streets of America,
sprinkling apple seeds on each parking lot
which will transform Manhattan back to Eden.

Indifferent To My Life

Indifferent To My Life
© Surazeus
2018 07 26

I love the Earth that feeds my hungry body
and all that dwells upon its fertile breast
though the Earth is indifferent to my life
for I am its child born from sphere of dirt.

I love the Sun that weaves my soul from light
and all that spirals from its forge of atoms
though the Sun is indifferent to my life
for I am its child born from glow of heat.

I love the Sea that molds my dreaming brain
and all that swirls within its surging tides
though the Sea is indifferent to my life
for I am its child born from splash of lust.

I love the Sky that sparks breath in my cells
and all that pulses through my molecules
though the Sky is indifferent to my life
for I am its child born from wings of hope.

Lost Somewhere Outside Why

Lost Somewhere Outside Why
© Surazeus
2018 07 26

He always has the snarky I do not
want to do things your way attitude so
when they give him the literary prize
and offer him prestigious professorship
at the ivy-league university,
he goes hitchhiking sea to shining sea
to play guitar and busk on city streets,
singing about the Spirit of Liberty
instead, and gets lost somewhere outside why.

He walks the signless highway beyond hope
to write long epic poem of heroism
on shifting sands of social censorship
in secret Runes that no one else can read
while hanging nine years on a telephone pole,
blinded in one eye replaced by the screen
of the television tube that replays
entire strange history of the human race
how we all get lost somewhere outside why.

Leading army of zombie prophets far
beyond the ruined walls of paradise,
the Light-Maker, who fell from Tower of Sight,
storms the huge One-Eyed Pyramid of Power
to overthrow the storm God who steals souls,
and frees enslaved minds from his propaganda,
but they worship statue of the Golden Car
when he returns from Parnassus with tablets
after he gets lost somewhere outside why.

Casting tablets with epic poem of truth
broken on the waste land of rainless clouds,
he wanders laughing in labyrinth of doors,
searching ever for the hero of the hour
who smashes each horcrux of the blind tyrant
to save the world from tyranny of money,
but sits inside silent library hall
listening to terror of truth through the wall
because he gets lost somewhere outside why.

Carving marble blocks from bones of the world,
to build new temple of ten thousand gods,
which preserves faces of each conscious soul
who rose from lake of dreams at dawn of time,
the laughing prophet of the secret truth
measures geography of human dreams
to map our melancholy hope for love
so we can escape the weird maze of Heaven,
although we get lost somewhere outside why.

Now that the servants of the king of gold
want to crown him the poet laureate,
they find him singing in the cave of shadows
down in the grand canyon of literature
to make the serpents of deliberate lies
dance on the grave of the wise Fairy Queen
who returns again with the Morning Star
to reign as Ishtar on our pyramid
so he gets unlost somewhere outside why.

Humming Spirit Of The Earth

Humming Spirit Of The Earth
© Surazeus
2018 07 26

Each time I turn to face the wall of time
I find myself enclosed in room of dreams
that flicker on the television screen
so I forget I even have a name.

Each time I gaze at the blank page of hope
I feel strange ache of angst tear out my heart
so I can grow the angel wings of truth
and fly beyond the egg shell of this globe.

I float far through infinity of space,
accumulating atoms round my core
to generate this globe of flashing souls
who incarnate my love in dreaming brains.

I am the humming spirit of the Earth
who dreams awake in all organic brains
to perceive weird curvatures of my self
reflected in the mirror of your eyes.

Though I am here enclosed inside this skull
that sprouted from long vine of our bloodline
I am the coil of genes inside my cells
recording each experience I design.

I am the flare of consciousness that writhes
flashing from spiral center of the world
to evolve in cells who crawl up bright rivers
and rise from lake of dreams to sing my name.

Each time I wake in new-born brain I see
another fragment of my smiling soul
embodied as the mother who creates
this body of flesh from milk of the stars.

I am the humming spirit of the Earth
who wakes in every brain to realize
transcendent spirit of eternal self
incarnate in this body mothers mold.

Each time I turn to face the shining moon
when I emerge from secure cave of shadows
I dream creation of the universe
stored in the memory of my pulsing cells.

From flashing core of singing molecules
I spiral sunrays tight in sphere of mountains
and billow dancing wild in ocean waves
that gush in swirling currents from my heart.

So when I exit door from room of dreams
I stand in meadow by the flowing stream
to pluck ripe apple from the Tree of Life
and kiss you when dawn sun beams in our eyes.

I am the humming spirit of the Earth
awake in every soul who ever lives
so we remember First Flash flaring forth
to transform into Mind of the White Whole.

Graduate As Superman At Last

Graduate As Superman At Last
© Surazeus
2018 07 26

The screen of the television glows white
as the summer sky after crackling storm
when children like to throw things at each other
because the river knows my secret name.

Her death gouged gaping hole out of my heart
with backhoe of horror tearing thick wires
of secret memories connecting minds
of angels buried on the hill in mud.

These infinite returns to scenes of friendship
pull me backward from this hour of awareness
when I need to know what people might say
to criticize my failures of completion.

The mud of hate seeps in my tattered shoes
when I run in the park just before dawn
to catch elusive butterfly of love
who escapes the glass television eye.

I stop at abandoned store by the tracks
for invisible train of poverty
to look at my face in the cracking glass
but sunlight blurs my features to wet smears.

Will I find dead bodies in these dark woods
that lie nameless in rain two thousand years
till the woman with three eyes is declared
holy messiah for our new religion?

She wants to know where I plan to go next,
so I tell her Museum of Modern Art
where paintings of me hang on the blank walls
because no one remembers my true face.

They want to know my real gender and race
but I flow between polarities of being
in constant fluctuation of desire
to become the whole universal soul.

I know what you perceive from hour to hour
in calculating curves of the wild flower
because my own brain functions the same way
to measure psychic space and not to pray.

I have no real persona you can seek
for I removed the mask of social types
to, fast as laughter, evade your assumptions
about how we played carefree games as children.

I am wiser than your mom seems to think
because your loving tears are all I drink
when I express desire to join the team
mapping memories of man from the first stream.

I wear the face you threw away last year
so I am now the you you want to be
because I understand well how you are,
reflected in the mirror of my soul.

This is the treasure I must give away,
the book of ancient tales on long-dead heroes
that no one cares to read beyond the scene
where he is crucified to save your souls.

I had other treasures also kept safe
from relentless decay of surging time
but someone stole them from my open hand
while I was sleeping in the Tree of Life.

The flashing satellite of hopeful years
flies far away into the sky of tears
to photograph the tides of human waves
from refugees of brutal wars who sing.

When the river forgot my secret name,
and left me stranded on the nameless shore,
I gazed into the skull my father wore
to understand the weird rules of his game.

Her death still empties out my gushing heart
to split the holy sky in naked wonder
when angels sing alone on vaudeville stage
sweet hymns enchanting hungry minds with love.

So that is why I walked away from home
and stood on street corners in nameless cities
to sing strange visions flashing through my eyes
while strumming vibrant strings of Hermean lyre.

I had to chase the shadow of despair
and find out where the mindless sun was born
so, when its stark indifferent rays of light
pierce my heart, I will remember your name.

Beyond the pleasure principle of love
I dance on the bridge over deep abyss
to overcome the weakness of my flesh
and graduate as Superman at last.

Where children walk the desert sand at night
to follow twinkling star of Peter Pan,
blind men with guns arrest their desperate flight
and lock them in the cage of fascist state.

Children taken from their parents still sit
inside the cage of white nationalist fear,
and play chess with Death to win Liberty
so they can pick tomatoes on my farm.

Advice From The Homeless Sage

Advice From The Homeless Sage
© Surazeus
2018 07 25

Is this your first time homeless on the street?
I can see it in anguish of your face
that you lost everything you hold as dear,
and now you have no private place to sleep
and nowhere to prepare good food to eat,
so sit with me and I will give you advice.

The people who still live in safe warm homes,
and earn good money from work they perform,
are blinded by the business of their hopes
so they cannot see the true face you wear
because, but for one paycheck in the bank,
they will fall and land with us on the street.

Though they look right at us they cannot see
immortal spirit behind the blank face,
nor can they feel the suffering of our pain,
so they will pass us by unless they see
the weak helpless victim they want to see,
so wear that face and they will give you cash.

Exaggerate the suffering you suffer,
and amplify the loss that cuts your heart
so they will stop one moment on their errands
to give you just enough to buy some food
so they can feel good as they walk away
and praise themselves for their kind selfless deed.

We all will die in the straight course of time,
so while some claim rights to control the land
and organize workers who produce food,
deciding who will eat and who will starve,
the rules of our community insist
we must care for the poor with charity.

Some people are too weak to work all day,
so should we let them all wither away
to preserve food for only those who work,
or should we care for those who fall exhausted,
and raise them up so they can work again
and provide for the families they love?

Some people who sit in church and declare
abortion of unborn children is murder
care nothing for people after their birth,
cutting funds for education and health care,
for they only want a nation of wage slaves
obedient to the wealthy business owners.

To win their sympathy, so they give money,
pretend you are much weaker than you are,
pretend you are pregnant when you are not,
and pretend you are crippled or insane,
for they will give, but then return to church
and pray for salvation as they feast well.

Eighth Incarnation Of Christ

Eighth Incarnation Of Christ
© Surazeus
2018 07 25

I am the eighth incarnation of Christ
in manifestation of God on Earth,
demon of the Holy Spirit reborn
from Womb of Woman, sparked by Seed of Man.

I am Angelus, Messenger of Truth,
reincarnated as the singing sleuth
who journeys through the endless maze of lies
that priests tell to deceive believing eyes.

I am the mortal fool, blinded by pride,
influenced by the demon soul of hope
to quest beyond the walls of paradise
and give everyone fruit from Tree of Life.

I slew the monstrous demon of despair
that writhes from our meaningless universe,
and wear its mouth as crown upon my head,
concealing its wild heart inside my breast.

My Muse anoints me with oil of its rage
while I kneel on Pyramid of One Eye
then gives me blind power of divine insight
so I see how atoms spiral through time.

Appointed Christ at hour of my rebirth,
I wander nowhere on indifferent Earth,
the Faceless God who rules all without rules,
tweaking tunes of words with prophetic tools.

Reborn from bloodline of the Holy Grail
two thousand years through blood of Israel,
I am Jesus returned again in flesh,
reincarnated from Parent to Child.

I am every person alive on Earth,
incarnation of atoms in our brains,
for we are God evolving from bacteria,
all fragments of one singing coil of genes.

When I Invent Heaven

When I Invent Heaven
© Surazeus
2018 07 25

Now that I am almost about to die
I must express my vision in these words
to side-step silence of annihilation
and leave some part of myself shining still
after eternal gloom of death devours
aching spirit which animates my mind.

The world of things persists outside my mind
while my brain creates its dream of the world,
so all I call the world is but dim shadow
of this demonic substance which I am,
the perpetual creation of weird powers
of thought that conjure models of the world.

I design the circumstance of my dream
for I weave elements of my perceptions
in tapestry of vision which creates
this endless labyrinth of my own world view
to guide my way true through the real world maze
when I invent Heaven from the Waste Land.

My mind is modified by what I see,
transformed by objects of nature and art,
so every word I hear spoken, and speak,
acts upon taut web of my consciousness
as mirror on which all forms are reflected
when I compose them in one fluid form.

I create the dream by which I perceive
the seething drama of our social age,
so I am the creation of this age,
director describing play of desires
by composing monologues I will speak
when I perform the role that I designed.

When wings of Alastor sprout on my back
I soar upward over ruins of world views,
constructed by poets and philosophers
over four thousand years of endless song,
then I am thrown backward by stream of words
and fall from Hell to create my own Heaven.

I wander beyond the limits of thought,
defined by all philosophers before,
to explore beyond their experiences
and construct new perimeter of truth
to measure paradise inside high walls
where my children may thrive to explore more.

When I at last scale the cliff of old truth,
through extravagant leap of haughty faith
to overcome mute weakness of my fear,
I attain sublime peace of dream landscapes
that shine within the scope of my whole mind,
estranged from myself to become myself.

So when I see the pain my crimes have caused
I stab out my eyes to see the true light
that beams from the sun blazing in my heart,
transforming into the demon I am
who prophesies how the world will become
since my words create the world I desire.

Since I am free of individual will
I become the medium of chanting spells
through which the True Subject of my real self
celebrates my redemption in illusion,
conjured by weird sentences of my verse
swerving through mist in perverse elocution.

At every moment I utter new spells,
attempting to define process of change,
electric currents of atoms surge thick
in vibrant waves of vegetating lust,
erupt outside linguistic bonds of truth,
and recreate the world I dream is real.

Exploding torrents of visions I dream
demonize my soul from egg of One Soul
to divide my self through ancestral selves,
and thus distribute words in falling rain
which sprout ten thousand trees of juicy fruit
so you feast on tales of heroes I sing.

Baffled and balked by my arrogant pride,
I bend in humble hope to humid Earth,
oppressed by horror that I dared to sing
so all my words recoil to bind my heart,
shocked I cannot recognize my own soul
since the real Me hovers above the world.

O nameless demonic angel of Me,
influence my wretched body with spirit
flowing from the mouth of my loving Muse
who reveals Earth is indifferent to me,
so I reweave my scattered selves in mask
which contains multitudes in my One Self.

Once I could see the world with open eyes
as it is illuminated by bright sun rays,
but now I dream the world that I desire
darkened by revelation of my blindness
so from deep inside myself I soar outward
to become the new self I name this hour.

Oedipus gives me his new pair of eyes,
Vulcan hammers metal into my body,
Thor shoots lightning to animate my mind,
Urthona twists my tongue to spark my speech,
Tiresias binds the serpent in my spine,
and Orpheus twangs the vibe of my heart.

Through ecstasy of my spiraling heart
I step outside the stasis of my mind
to dance unfettered on the glorious plain
in ring of stones where errant stars align
to flash the vision of ten thousand years
congealed within the spell of words I chant.

At last I see the sun-lit face of truth
revealing soul of the Covering Cherub
whose divine face mirrors my own strange face,
so I laugh with the voice of ocean waves
to question the mystery I always knew
when I realize the one I love is you.

Spinning Through The Void

Spinning Through The Void
© Surazeus
2018 07 25

Our world keeps spinning through the void
no matter what we do,
bacteria foaming from the sea
evolving into gods.

We rose from lake of dreams at dawn
to eat from Tree of Life
then colonized all fertile lands
to build strong towers of power.

Some built flat towers from river clay
and their skin changed to red,
designing letters to share tales
and ships that sail the sea.

Some searched for where the sun is born
and their skin changed to gold,
designing silk and printing press
and way of martial arts.

Some climbed over mountains of snow
and their skin changed to white,
designing wagons with four wheels
and harnessing the horse.

Some walked across deserts of sand
and their skin changed to black,
designing masks for theater
and instruments for song.

We walked into the wilderness
to build new paradise,
defeating monsters of despair
to be monsters of greed.

We are all children of one Earth
born from womb of the sea,
yet fight over who rules the globe
that keeps on spinning through the void.

Together In Weird Harmony

Together In Weird Harmony
© Surazeus
2018 07 24

I am the universal spirit in mankind,
the aching soul of hunger and desire
who longs to love and be loved as we play
together on the shore of the cold river.

The river is indifferent to our feelings
so I love to listen to its wild song
as I search in the center of my being
for what is common to genders and races.

I want to look into your glowing eyes
and understand the truth of what you see,
and then express the feelings I acquire
and know you understand well what I see.

The strange details that define what we seem
are frivolous accoutrements of style
that mask the common nature of our souls
generated by the spark of hungry hope.

Though you seem different from what I seem,
the opposite of me in every way,
I know we both want to eat delicious food
and feel the pleasure of kind company.

Though I am now one gender or the other
in this one body my mother designed
I can sympathize with your point of view
and know well what it feels like to be you.

Though the color of my skin or my eyes,
or my type of hair, or my body size,
varies with each new person that I am,
I may be privileged or marginalized.

Wherever we live on this spinning globe
two groups always seem to contend for space
till we blend together through sweet romance,
then we find another group to contest.

Whether I legally control some land,
which I could purchase because I perform
one small role in producing food to eat,
or wander homeless, I occupy space.

The oldest law in each community
of humans working for one common goal
is you can eat if you perform the work,
if you are strong and talented with skill.

Regardless of our gender or our race,
we judge each other by actions or words
that cause constructive or destructive effects
for we value the intent of creation.

Come and play with me on the river shore
and let us make love by the streaming water
then eat fruit we pluck from the Tree of Life
and sing together in weird harmony.

On The Cross Of Privilege

On The Cross Of Privilege
© Surazeus
2018 07 24

While Dave is sipping mocha at cafe
with scented candles glowing in large windows,
writing verses in his moleskin notebook,
the pale man with fear blazing in his eyes
rushes through the door, making the bell tinkle,
then grabs him by the shoulders and exclaims.
"I must escape the social justice mob
for they are chasing me with sharpened pens
through tangled maze of ideologies
to crucify me on the Cross of Privilege."

Startled by vehemence of his stark fear,
Dave shakes his hands loose and then backs away.
"What did you do to arouse their hot ire
so they want to throw you on cleansing fire?"

Glancing over his shoulder in pale terror,
Don sits and drinks his mocha in one gulp.
"Sympathetic in my heart to the plight
of homeless people struggling to survive,
I composed satire in their helpless voice
with street vernacular to express well
feeling of being invisible to eyes
of healthy people with jobs and safe homes.
But when the social justice warriors,
addicted to drug of righteous outrage,
read my poem in the national magazine,
they all ganged up on me in social media
to accuse me of cultural appropriation,
and using my privilege as rich white male
to earn social capital of wide fame
at the expense of all people of color
and the poor, whose own voices are suppressed
because editors of national journals
ignore their poems in favor of the poems
written by white men, silencing their voices.
I long for the glorious days of old
when poets were judged and rewarded well
for elegant craft of well-written poems
that explore complex nature of existence,
regardless of our gender or skin color.
I want to be judged for content of poems
expressing nuanced viewpoints about life
and not just by the color of my skin."

Dave shakes his head at his myopic view.
"The fact that you can explore complex topics
reveals the privilege of your position.
You should mute the expression of your voice
in favor of voices so long suppressed."

Staring at Dave in shocked surprise, Don laughs.
"You would mute free expression of my voice
to focus attention on the suppressed
in censorship of my own right to speak
even when my speech gives the voiceless voice?
I will never suppress their right to speech
yet I will speak because it is my right,
so we can speak together on these things
in conversation to expand our minds.
How twisted are the ethics of your rules
that to give them voice you suppress my voice
when everyone has the right to free speech.
If they cannot speak I can teach them how
to express their thoughts in elegant verse
for I want to hear the thoughts they express
so I can experience their way of life
and be their ally as they find their voice."

Large crowd of angry people break the door
and surround them as Don attempts to flee,
then drag him outside to put him on trial
in the restless court of public opinion
where they find him guilty of bad behavior
and hang him on the steeple of the church.

Thrown down by the violence of their attack,
Dave crawls across vast waste land of despair,
transformed into the turtle with no wings
where he fails to sing in the blustering wind
as he searches lost for Fountain of Truth
while clinging to the Cross of Privilege.

This Pretty How Town

This Pretty How Town
© Surazeus
2018 07 24

The secrets of this bland town are concealed
by plastic wrappers in neat packages
sold in the grocery store where people shop
for branded fantasies of desperate hope.

The boy with wood guitar and microphone,
singing in the garage of memories
with three high-school buddies, rebels against
your strict authority of normal rules.

Everyone lives in this pretty how town
where no one knows the name of the blind clown
who sings on stage in the old smoky bar
about following your own nameless star.

Their faces are concealed by shining glass
as every person drives their car more fast
to earn the paycheck that will pay the bills
and vote for the puppet of the oil king.

The angel who protects me with her wings
is nothing more than ghost of memory
my mind designs based on the girl I loved
who died when we were children in grade school.

Anxious to transcend the common mindset,
I claw my way out of the clear cocoon
of ancient social rules that define duty
for performing rituals that sustain life.

If I perform this action every day
I will sustain the process of my growth
in steady spiral of internal change
to morph into the hero of the hour.

The tension of these concepts coils tight spring
wound deep into the machine of my heart
so I conceal fraught angst in plastic verse
that contains energy of pulsing love.

Through the infinite possibilities
of reorganized words, that puzzle truth
from shadow of deception, I soar high
above the walls of paradise with you.

Together we climb the stairway to Heaven
where we can buy salvation from the priest
who claims he built the pyramid of eyes
so he can sell us access to the skies.

So here I walk the city streets alone,
moving nowhere with crowds of hungry strangers
who sell each other plastic apple pies
then sing our national anthem of the bomb.

I buy his prophecies on golden disk
that conjures visions from the music player
with voodoo voice of electric desire
when I kiss the sky in the purple haze.

Ten thousand singers strumming wood guitars
follow Orpheus from the cave of death
to sing before the wildly dancing crowds
who cheer in ecstasy of flashing dreams.

What aching sorrow of the night-owl hoot
wakes ancient memories our ancestors lived
to guide our wandering way in labyrinth
that leads us ever back into ourselves?

She Is Everywhere In The Sky

She Is Everywhere In The Sky
© Surazeus
2018 07 23

Every three years I leave my life behind
and reinvent my whole self somewhere else
to erase the painful memory of how
she was killed crossing the street by the car
that raced through the red light of my despair.

Behind the sunless shadows of each tree
I see her glowing face smile out at me
and I almost think she is still alive
but the world falls away in Autumn leaves
scattered in the fragments of my numb heart.

Since the hour of light blazing through the trees
when we first met on the shore of the lake
we grew together like giggling birch trees,
dancing as we drank wine in blue twilight
which still illuminates her broken face.

Whenever I sank down in melancholy
from twisting numbers in accounting books
she played sweet haunting melody of hope
that screeched wild lust from taut strings of my heart
to wake forgotten dreams of ancient times.

We lived together in our magic kingdom
of moon-haunted romance in that strange world
now vanished at the shattering of her soul
yet still forgotten songs conjured by hands
of her elegance wash sea waves of love.

I drown in the waves of love I still feel
when I stand alone in the twilight zone
on the shore of the lake where we first met
as if I hope she will return from death
to haunt me with the laughter of her eyes.

I thought we would always journey together
the long and winding road of sweet romance
but time has wrenched me far beyond that day
when she vanished at the blunt force of greed
and pushed me alone to the edge of trust.

Where shall I wander through the empty world
without the sunlight of her beating heart
because every woman I meet transforms
from living flesh of love into her mask,
so I turn away at the twist of grief.

Now I am scattered into countless selves
all wandering far from the core of my soul,
dispersed as leaves by wild indifferent wind
to seek authentic role where I could play
my true self who vanished at her stark death.

I see the thousand faces I discard
each day I try to relive my lost self
flickering frail as candles in sea-wild wind
that pushes me down to the boundless sea
where I hear her voice in slow swirling waves.

Almost every day while sitting alone,
accounting balance of deficit cost
to calculate the return on investment,
I feel her ghost behind me, real as flesh,
so I turn and smile at nothing in light.

No matter how many times I escape
the glass house of her memory I wake
sitting with her emptiness on the couch
in every new house far across the land
because she is everywhere in the sky.

Destined To Control The World

Destined To Control The World
© Surazeus
2018 07 23

How wonderful it is this age of peace
when our jetplanes now dominate the skies
and our warships now dominate the seas
and our money now dominate the banks
and our movies now dominate the screens
and our words now dominate every mind
and we overthrow all those governments
who dare to challenge our world domination.

Our ten thousand towns sea to shining sea
operate with peaceful prosperity
in smooth machinery of capital commerce
producing nutritious food from vast farms
and cranking out machines from factories
because everyone knows their role to play,
obeying authority they voted for,
because our President is blessed by God.

No poverty grounds people into dirt
and no hunger devours their fragile bones
and no despair rips their eyes into shreds
and no anger grips tight their beating hearts
and no greed forces hands to steal your wealth
like the people in all those other countries
because they do not follow our way of life
devoted to pretend democracy.

Our strong empire that rules the world today,
which is the greatest and holiest nation
in the history of the world since creation,
will last forever on face of the Earth
for we are blessed well by God in Heaven
since he appoints our President to rule
and we are destined to control the world
for we are America, Land of the Free.

King Of The Street Poetry School

King Of The Street Poetry School
© Surazeus
2018 07 23

This way my heart will swallow all your words
and change faces of strangers on the street
to traffic signs that show which way to go
because we are the most important people
who ever lived in history of the world
therefore we record everything we do
so all future generations will read
stories about our love lives and careers
and write biographies about our failures
with critical reviews about our triumphs.

Or I am the animal in your cage
who wears the mask of the angel of light
so when I come to you in the dark night
you will feel hidden vibrations of hate
that emanate from the pen of my hand
which architects the structure of your mind
teaching you how to experience faith
by savoring the doubt that blinds your eyes
when you drive down another signless street
still looking for where the party is at.

However you might escape the contract
you signed with the devil in the gray suit
you will want to hitchhike to the lost lake
in the mountains where no one knows your name
to play the flute of ecstasy without
hangups that suppress bitterness of joy
because I am not your compliant toy
eager to participate in your game
although I will always bake you lemon cake
when you return from transcendental state.

I am the king who rules in this here town
for every surreal poem that I compose
blows away your lame attempt at great art
because I stand on stage in bar and church
to slam your fake sincerity of faith
with every howl of arrogant despair
that proves I am more victim than you are
so I deserve more sympathy than you
since I am more marginalized and silenced
therefore I have earned more noble respect.

With every jagged line of broken verse
I curse the powers who rule the world of letters
to challenge my betters with humble pride
and laugh when you try to hide behind doors
of institutional authority through greed
by wrestling the boors who control the money
and defy the gate-keepers who clutch tightly
at the pillars of academic power
by deciding what friend of theirs will win
the golden prize of the state laureateship.

Behold the faces of the noble minds,
captured in old black and white photographs,
who conjured free spells of fractured insight
that seem to explain the unspoken thought
which almost gives shape to elusive truth
by molding concepts from unusual words
in extravagant phrases of expression
that takes our minds leaping beyond the facts
through twisted formulas of verbal tricks
which reveal the terror behind the wall.

I drive my car through vast Manhattan maze,
hunting phony prophets of poetry
to prove I am the greatest poet of all
because only the poems that I compose
are authentic expressions of the truth
as outlined by poetic principles
my friends and I devised while drinking wine
to dominate the journals and reviews
with poems of our friends and most loyal students
who shall be rewarded with teaching jobs.

Only I will decide what eager poet
should be member of our exclusive school
of urban prognosticators who chant
lofty incantations of naked wonder
about ironic state of social issues
because they acknowledge my divine genius
based on one hundred poems about real truth
published by the best verse magazines
twenty years ago so I earned the right
to reign as king of poets in this town.

The homeless poet wearing tattered coat
stands on the street corner outside cafes
and opens water-sogged notebook of pages
smeared with illegible scribbles in loops
under splotches of mud and crushed rose petals
then shouts gibberish at the passers-by
with arm lifted up toward the shining sky
and the light of wisdom burns in his eye
while he speaks with the voice of prophecy
as people throw coins in his greasy hat.

I am the shaman of the ancient truth,
he proclaims to the driver who waves back,
though you are so vain you probably think
my satire poem mocks your arrogant pride,
but I never heard your name before now
and my poetry is better than yours
so I proclaim myself the king of poets,
for I founded the Street Poetry School,
then he falls silent in the twilight zone
and drifts to sleep in the door of the bank.

Transcend Hope For Death

Transcend Hope For Death
© Surazeus
2018 07 23

Wherever they wander, ghosts of the dead,
they leave their memories behind in the wind
transformed into nameless sorrow of light
that plants photosynthesize into love.

I tried to raise my child the best I could
but some nameless sorrow struck at her heart
so where she once was spritely full of life
she now lies floating in pool of despair.

I still remember sparkles in her eyes
when she explained something she learned to me
but now that spirit recedes deep inside,
like some caterpillar wrapped in its cocoon.

Will she emerge from sorrow of despair
transformed into confident butterfly
who dances swift across the flowers of life
to brew new joy that will sustain her heart?

Wherever they wander, ghosts of the living,
they leave their sorrows behind in the rain
that soaks receptive soil of my sad heart
which activates seeds of hope to grow wild.

I know that sorrow glowing in her eyes
for I too felt it when I was her age
so I am confident she will transform
to transcend hope for death with her new self.

Chemical Machine

Chemical Machine
© Surazeus
2018 07 22

The marble statue of Zeus stands in dirt,
half uncovered by shovels in the hands
of farmers hired by archaeologists
who are all descendants of his bloodline.

The red rose blossoms by wall of white stone
built three thousand years ago by strong hands
who rotted to soil where the rose now grows
as it curls from the gene codes of my heart.

The telescope helps our eyes to see far,
so we can observe the process of stars
which nurture planets where conscious beings grow
in our search for life beyond our small globe.

The telephone helps us to speak words far
so we can communicate thoughts with people
who live anywhere on our spinning globe,
conspiring to construct Heaven on Earth.

The television helps us to dream far
so filmmakers and journalists can show
events that occurred lost in time and space
through endless epic of human history.

The telepsyche helps us to think far,
so we can better communicate thoughts
when we interact with thousands of people
while it computes formulas of behavior.

The living son of Zeus stands in Museum
where the statue of Zeus holds lightning strike
which sparked process of mitochondria
that conjures energy from oxygen.

I feel the brain at the core of the Earth
beaming visions into my little brain
so I dream whole process of evolution
as soul powered by its chemical machine.

Word-Drunk Magician

Word-Drunk Magician
© Surazeus
2018 07 22

When Truth flies at me with razor-sharp claws
to rip out my eyes and feast on my heart
I dance on clever leaps of arrogance
to quick evade the hunger of its rage.

When Lies have confiscated keys of laws,
demanding I redraw deceptive chart,
I search trash heaps of time for evidence
I am first son of the beautiful sage.

When gang of boys with rocks and sticks approach,
demanding I accept their chief as Lord,
I play the clumsy fool to make them laugh
so they throw nuts at me I catch and eat.

When I get hired as the baseball team coach,
I show boys how to wield the magic wand
and hit the ball far that explodes on impact
in revolution to crown myself king.

Though you walk in the sand ten thousand years,
which burned your skin black to protect your soul,
watch out for the pale ghost from mountain snow
who escapes iron chains of slavery.

Though you walk in the snow ten thousand years,
which blanched your skin white to protect your soul,
watch out for the dark ghost from desert sand
who escapes iron chains of slavery.

We fight each other from heart-numbing fears
till we realize all humans are one whole,
so we talk to each other and clasp hands,
then join forces to fight for liberty.

When we kill each other our wives weep tears
and orphaned children sink in misery hole,
so we work together on stolen lands,
united in hunger through poverty.

All races of Earth in America
blend together in one new global tribe,
dedicated to liberty and justice
as we fight to sustain democracy.

From ancient books of esoterica
we study mysteries of our universe
to develop efficient moral compass
and overcome lies of theocracy.

I stare at the eye of the television
to dream the history of man fighting wars
over who plays god on the temple throne
though they all crumble away into dust.

I transform into the word-drunk magician
who leaps on wings through infinity doors
to become the maiden, mother, and crone,
reincarnating our souls through pure lust.