Adam Naming Things

Adam Naming Things
© Surazeus
2024 12 21

I pretend I am Adam naming things 
so I can make things happen without words, 
but many things happen against my will 
so I keep quiet and go with the flow, 
steering boat of fate on river of time 
with my telephone-wire sunset of faith. 

Somewhere along the endless flow of change 
I row my boat ashore from River Styx 
to explore meadows of Elysium 
where love reveals essential state of life 
inherent in expression of the Force 
which I apply to conjure paradise. 

Each morning when I wake from dream of light 
I assess sun-streaked clouds in the dawn sky 
and state who I want to become today, 
then perform my role in our social play 
that never goes the way I planned at first 
so I am someone else by end of day. 

The only body parts I can see well 
are these hands I use to transform the world 
by rearranging landscape elements 
so I create Cosmopolis of hope 
where children invent games of politics 
when someone crowns himself King of the Hill. 

Though I invent with hope inside my mind 
the way I want our spinning world to be, 
when I explore the world beyond my home 
I discover weird landscapes of despair, 
so I map the real world as it is now, 
then shape my soul to match its destiny. 

The map I draw to imitate the world 
spills off table of curiosity 
in jagged tree-bound coasts lashed by wild waves 
where I follow rivers to mountain peaks 
so I can see the world outside my mind 
casting shadows of ideas in my heart. 

Across span of three hundred thousand years 
my ancestors walked, exploring the Earth, 
from Egypt east along world mountain range 
to Guilin where I climbed to reach the sky, 
then northwest to the rugged Caucasus, 
and west across Europe to Oregon. 

I followed the Sun to edge of the world 
to discover where she rises from the sea, 
then followed the Sun west the other way 
to discover the Earth is a round globe 
that spins around the giant glowing sun, 
so now I know who I have always been. 

After Rapunzel Escapes

After Rapunzel Escapes
© Surazeus
2024 12 20

After Rapunzel escapes tall stone tower 
where Pluto had kept her his prisoner, 
she climbs barefoot across the jagged rocks 
where roaring ocean waves burst into spray, 
shivering in thin dress as she climbs steep hill 
to stand beside old tree on windy plain. 

Bloody feet pressing moist soil under grass, 
Rapunzel breathes fresh gusts of chilly wind 
to motivate fierce beating of her heart 
which fuels each step she takes across the plain 
as she limps slowly toward the gleaming hill, 
then kneels and drinks blue water from the lake. 

Recognizing lush meadow of bright flowers 
where she was gathering herbs, mushrooms, and eggs, 
when Pluto snatched her wriggling in his arms 
and raced away in horse-drawn chariot, 
Rapunzel weeps as she walks toward small hut 
where she lived with her mother years ago. 

Finding small hut nestled among oak trees 
under small rock cliff where the river bends, 
Rapunzel opens creaking door with hope 
to see bright eyes of her mother again, 
but shrieks and sobs when she finds withered corpse 
rotting with worms inside her skeleton. 

After she buries her mother in Earth, 
shrouding her rotten corpse with flower petals, 
Rapunzel cleans the hut, sweeping dirt out, 
scrubbing the walls, and scooping cold gray ash, 
then sparks bright fire that glows with starry light 
to brew apple cider which warms her heart. 

Though she lived thirty years in tower room, 
sleeping on silk feather bed with plush pillows, 
wearing elegant gowns and jeweled crowns, 
and hosting fabulous feasts with rich food 
while feted as queen by ministers and dukes, 
Rapunzel savors freedom of her hut. 

Thinking about the three children she bore 
to Pluto, while imprisoned as his wife, 
grim Orcus, Hades, and Persephone, 
Rapunzel feels reluctant twinge of guilt 
for abandoning them to his abuse, 
but Pluto values his wealth over her. 

While tending her small garden by the river, 
Rapunzel senses presence of her son 
approaching from the lake with eager joy, 
but when she calls Orcus with surprised cry 
his ghost vanishes in the evening dusk, 
so she kneels alone and cries to the moon. 

Sweet Illusions of Happiness

Sweet Illusions of Happiness
© Surazeus
2024 12 20

Relaxed in the rocking chair by stone hearth, 
dressed warmly in wool sweater and tweed coat, 
Professor Randall Simnette sips hot chocolate 
and contemplates snow falling on oak trees. 
"All the cheerful joys of this holiday 
are but sweet illusions of happiness." 

"Though I remember with fondness of faith 
bright cheerful glow of life inside the home 
warmed by crackling fire of togetherness, 
those hours of cheer, eating delicious cake, 
were designed to insulate our frail lives 
from bitter coldness of the world outside." 

His eyes, green isles surrounded by blue lakes, 
gaze out the frosted window at the lawn 
where children, bundled warm in coats and gloves, 
build snow people of various characters 
seen in movies and real society, 
then post photos on social media sites. 

"How innocent they are this playful hour, 
naive to dangers of the ugly world, 
sheltered by their parents from bloody horror 
of wars empires wage to control rich lands 
by killing loving families just like theirs, 
shielded by faith in our Heavenly Father." 

When his wife, in dress embroidered with flowers, 
brings him plate with slice of angel food cake, 
he smiles with gratitude, then beams with pleasure 
after one big bite, so she pats his shoulder 
as he hums Hark the Herald Angels Sing 
with the charmed singer on the radio. 

"These rites of togetherness we perform 
to assuage our loneliness in cold winters, 
are sweet illusions of happiness we share 
to help us survive long cold bitter nights 
while waiting for the Sun to be reborn 
and resurrect life on Earth with his Light." 

When gang of homeless men from somewhere else 
approach his door and beg for food to eat, 
he contemplates what King Jesus would do, 
so he aims his rifle at hatless heads 
and demands they leave his property now, 
so they turn and run down the signless road. 

"These heart-warming holidays of true faith 
we spend together when the world has died 
are our sweet illusions of happiness 
in safe havens we build with bleeding hands, 
standing guard over walls of paradise 
to keep our families safe from gangs of thieves." 

Freedom Of Zarathia

Freedom Of Zarathia
© Surazeus
2024 12 20

Letters written one hundred years ago 
have scattered into fragments of stale words 
no longer able to contain emotions 
soldered with intensity of vain hope 
while ghosts of senders and receivers wait 
century of endless wars at locked gates. 

Old half-blind writer of stories and plays 
sits at worn wood desk with paper and quill 
in apartment above the bakery shop, 
staring at the cemetery of oaks, 
then writes weird prophecies in awkward verse 
about how the new empire will fall too. 

Motherless woman in the warehouse shed 
slashes hundred of portraits with sharp knife 
that she had painted over twenty years 
to erase her pain from dream of the world 
till men lock her in blank asylum room 
where she bites her fingers to paint with blood. 

I hear deep voice in soft splash of sea waves 
murmur with grief of the Americas, 
so I document silence in the cries 
of children orphaned by corporate greed 
who grow up to mourn the bodies of steel 
that we inhabit with computer brains. 

I paint blank mask of my national face 
with color of time extracted from trees 
that grow through cracks of asphalt parking lots 
so bees can thrive again in dusty fields 
to fertilize our lonely hearts with love 
poisoned by insecticides of glass angels. 

The bodies of people painted with blood, 
killed by angry boys with their righteous guns, 
are displayed as mummies of innocence 
in museum of individual rights 
where worshippers gather with solemn prayers 
before gold statue of the rifleman. 

Sacred hunting grounds of the native tribe, 
where their Garden of Eden thrived in peace,  
is now covered by the Mictlan Strip Mall, 
where we drive roads with traffic lights and signs 
to shop at stores for clothing and jewelry, 
then eat hamburgers and fries with cold soda.  

When America vanishes in flames 
of civil war between opposing views 
of democracy against tyranny, 
we will replace fallen empire of greed 
with generous freedom of Zarathia 
where everyone lives equal in the law. 

Chew Gold Coins

Chew Gold Coins
© Surazeus
2024 12 20

Not long for the darkness of the closed book 
will I still float in water of the lake 
to contemplate how birds fly among clouds 
where they transform into angels with harps 
who play sweet music of the afterlife 
that lures me to walk the lost primrose path. 

Each person in our far-wandering clan 
lies down along the signless road of hope 
where they dissolve into soil of the Earth, 
so we continue walking somewhere else 
to find the elusive fountain of youth 
whose waters restore our bodies to health. 

This ancient memory of my wandering tribe 
haunts me while I sit at my office desk 
with fingers weaving documents of faith 
that describe progress of our business model 
to sell more units to our customers 
who remember crouching on the bleak plain. 

Our shared communal memory of the past 
when we journeyed across landscape of desire, 
hunting animals to roast on the fire, 
and gathering fruits and herbs from lush vales, 
motivates drive of our capitalist state 
to operate factories producing food. 

Rising from silver water of the lake 
that cleans my body and mind from hard work 
of helping run the world corporate machine, 
I stretch my body from Earth to Blue Sky 
where no angels play harps on glowing clouds, 
then lounge under the willow on the shore. 

The man gliding behind me on the road 
slows his motorbike when I turn around, 
and grins as he aims pistol at my heart, 
then shouts, "Your business model based on greed 
scams the people who work hard while you play," 
then fires seven bullets into my soul. 

I wish I could say that when I arrive 
at the Gates of Heaven, where Peter sits 
processing souls, he could adjudicate 
my earned admission into paradise, 
but I sink into gloom of nothingness 
as Peter pushes me off the gold cloud. 

Now I wander in my enormous mansion 
forever searching for something to eat, 
but all I find are heaps of metal coins 
that once could buy favorable legislation 
deregulating how I conduct business, 
so I chew gold coins for eternity. 

Absent Moon Calls Me

Absent Moon Calls Me
© Surazeus
2024 12 19

If absent moon calls me out of my mind 
one demon star swells larger than my heart, 
yet I sway dizzy from vastness of time 
when I rise from bed in cold predawn gloom 
as whisper of your church dress fills the room 
with shadows of thoughts no one ever shares. 

Though spin of timeless fantasy unspools 
reflective phonemes woven into spells, 
I mispronounce secret name in my heart 
to glide over boundaries of ancient truths 
which separate boundless domains of faith 
in precious gardens where wild children fly. 

In rooms of white paper where windows cry 
my eyes bloom lavenders of humble hope 
to twist Me with We in spiraling loops 
which still conflate strange personalities 
with standard characters in romance tales 
who become ghosts in television screens. 

I beam rays of consciousness from my eyes 
as radio signals seeking to transmit 
conceptual vision of my weird world view 
across soft silence of snow-frosted fields, 
so I calmly claim I am the bold farmer 
who transforms the waste land into lush Eden. 

I take for granted the concept of land 
defining space of dirt where I alone 
have right to dwell in harmony with Nature 
who churns fresh cow milk into honey butter 
we spread on bread of arrogant dismay 
when flap of butterfly wings changes fate. 

Absence must be fierce desire of my heart 
to join the circus and travel the world 
so I can find the faceless mate I love 
who waits for me in the lace-quiet room 
while my ghost plays soothing piano tunes 
that swirl into the television screen. 

Leaning over Bridge of Forgetfulness, 
I almost hear whispers of faceless ghosts 
who laugh at how I try to understand 
constant motion of water in the brain 
which animates our universe of forms 
incarnate in children who invent names. 

I try to meditate with calm discourse, 
but swelling pulse of sweet anxiety 
explodes in verses writhing serpent-wild 
when I wrap tentacles of mental demons 
in variant bundles of conceptual truth 
for hungry people to eat psychic cake. 

Paper Persona Masks

Paper Persona Masks
© Surazeus
2024 12 19

If we all call each other the wrong names 
our paper persona masks, blown by the wind, 
may land on windshield of the brand new car 
which Zeus drives to his Olympian home 
and cause him to remember we exist 
so he will come and visit us at school. 

Yet when the angry boy who hates the world 
strides in school with gun of hate in his hand, 
we cannot escape wrath of random rage 
that tears our sense of safety into shreds 
of dollar bills laundered by the drug lord 
to buy yachts and senators with his greed. 

We cannot escape this planet of games 
so we must build paradise on this Earth, 
treating each other with honest respect 
because cats love everybody the same 
when they run across the rooftops of trains, 
transforming into superheroes of fate. 

Too many normal and kindhearted people 
become famous when someone shoots them dead, 
so I would rather stay alive and unknown 
than become famous for how I get killed, 
therefore I shift slantwise shadow of fate, 
evading Death for just another day. 

If we could be heroes just for one day 
we would help homeless refugees from war 
build shelter from the storm in paradise 
so every person in the world can learn 
creative skill according to their talent 
to live their one wild and precious life well. 

As I review strange beauty of this Earth 
with animals teeming in varied landscapes, 
perceiving complex beauty of all forms 
composed of atoms glowing into life, 
I comprehend that no one made this world, 
for everything transforms from energy. 

So when we gather on the river shore 
that flows by the temple where Zeus plays chess 
with Hades over who will die today, 
we give each other new names from our hearts 
to wear as paper masks when we perform 
game of politics in grand halls of power. 

I see you with my complicated eyes, 
sensing with my heart your essential soul 
which glows with divinity through your eyes, 
so we make fruit pies and hot chocolate 
to eat around the glowing hearth of love 
on this dark eternal night of the soul. 

Glass Mask Of Righteousness

Glass Mask Of Righteousness
© Surazeus
2024 12 19

People who wear glass mask of righteousness 
shatter facades of brick buildings with jokes 
so they can perceive the industrial heart 
that operates machine of privilege 
which we fuel with blood of obdurate pride 
to maintain distance from toxic belief. 

Transparent trail through ideology 
leads us to grove of thirteen singing stones 
where people rendered homeless by the war 
offer without arrogance of despair 
testimony of the sacrificed self 
which confuses the faithful-minded fraud. 

Innocent shopkeepers of the lost lake 
build walls of paradise with prejudice 
to release hungry hearts by breaking stones 
pilfered from ruins of cathedral halls 
so tired workers can wear another face 
by exchanging keys to towers of oil. 

We follow money on the water trail 
that always winds back to the offices 
where robots of incorporated persons 
issue decrees for workers to obey 
though we hide bananas in cowboy hats 
to prove we are superior to clowns. 

We create God in the image of Man 
to prove we are better than animals, 
then build the fire on misty mountain ridge 
and dance all night while drinking blood of gods 
to honor mystery of the kitchen witch 
so everyone speaks about how they feel. 

No one dares steal cinnamon apple pies 
cooling on the windowsill of despair 
that Eve bakes in hot oven of her hope, 
so we stand on the hill around the tree 
and ask the faceless spirit in the sky 
how we can attain everlasting life. 

God says nothing from the eye-glowing cloud 
so we all conclude there is no one up there 
except the Moon who makes ocean waves roll, 
but she is waiting for us to construct 
rocket ships so we can fly to her heart 
and build our lonely house with mirror doors. 

Forgetting wildness of the mindless sea, 
we build vast city of homes to reflect 
maze of myths where dead gods play hide and seek, 
so when I wear glass mask of righteousness 
everybody thinks my authority 
beams down from nuclear eyes of the Sun. 

Holy Apple Of The Sun

Holy Apple Of The Sun
© Surazeus
2024 12 19

Your origin story is based on guilt, 
but mine is based on desire to create 
new bodies from dark spirit of the Earth 
so the Sun becomes conscious of itself 
through light and rain in sacred fruit we eat 
which I take when I trick the greedy snake. 

The Sun becomes conscious inside my brain 
when I wake from sensation of desire 
from floating in the sea two billion years, 
feeling urgent need to crawl from the lake 
and climb the tree that reaches to the sky 
where I eat holy apple of the Sun. 

Trembling from hunger and cold in the rain, 
I walk along the river from the sea 
to see the man standing tall by the cave 
whose head is haloed by the glowing sun 
so I ask for fruit from the serpent tree 
then open my heart to receive his soul. 

I generate new body for his soul 
who grows tall and strong as he withers old 
in endless cycle of death and rebirth 
to reincarnate spirit of the Sun 
which animates the man with gleaming eyes 
who explores the Earth for six million years. 

Though I feel guilty when I miss the mark, 
and fumble when I attempt to create 
something good with lithe gestures of my hands, 
this guilt alerts me to adjust my stance 
when I analyze strict physics of motion 
so I can perform better with each attempt. 

With keen attention of observing eyes 
I study nature of physical bodies 
composed of matter in patterns of forms 
to see all things are structures of small atoms 
and know consequence from cause and effect 
to help me create, rather than destroy. 

When I construct matter into new forms, 
I invent pottery, tools, and machines 
that help me cultivate plants from the Earth 
so everyone performs their special role 
in communal food-production process 
while I keep watch on the high ziggurat. 

Thus I become God who rules the empire 
where every person plays their special role 
to maintain baby-generation cycle 
repopulating cities with wise workers 
who assimilate all nations of Earth 
into Heaven I create with the Word. 

Road Of Paramo

Road Of Paramo
© Surazeus
2024 12 18

Peter Paradise drives red pick up truck 
on thousand-mile road across the waste land, 
passing the same sign every hundred miles 
with the name Paramo, that points the way 
with misdirection through the spiral maze 
to world amusement park of Wonderland. 

When he arrives at last in Wonderland, 
after ten thousand generations of sons, 
who each had spent their century-long lives 
driving the Road of Paramo through Hell, 
Peter Paradise parks in the empty lot 
and walks in his snake-skin boots to the booth. 

Dafne, the oldest woman in the world, 
covered with black widow spiders, extends 
withered hand to give him ticket he bought, 
so he walks in snake-skin boots and large hat 
past crowds of ghosts waiting in line for rides, 
people who suffered all their lives as slaves. 

Ignoring frantic music of the rides, 
ferris wheels, carousels, and roller coasters 
that spin and spin with fortune of grim fate, 
Peter Paradise searches for the tent 
where the Serpent Woman in cage of glass 
sings siren tunes that drive people insane. 

On stage in Theater of the Blind Horse 
Serpent Woman dances to eerie music 
while King Midas, wearing blue business suit 
and red cape, demonstrates his magic power 
of turning all he touches into gold, 
till he turns the entire crowd into idols. 

Just as King Midas reaches out his hand 
to grasp throat of Serpent Woman with greed, 
Peter Paradise declares with soft voice 
causing mountains to shake with respect 
that his reign of terror exploiting hope 
will end when Bear Girl takes his jeweled crown. 

Sweeping Serpent Woman into his arms 
with whirling leap of superior wit, 
Peter Paradise rescues her with love, 
bearing his bride in maze of Wonderland 
deeper down levels to cave of illusions 
where she transforms from serpent into human. 

Holding each other close with loyal love, 
both Peter Paradise and Serpent Woman 
spread one wing each and fly into the sky, 
then glide gracefully over maze of myths 
to land by River Styx in Elysium 
where they operate their strawberry farm. 

Mountain Of Words

Mountain Of Words
© Surazeus
2024 12 18

Vast view of our world from the mountain peak 
where we can perceive beauty of its scenery 
awes our hearts with spectacular expanse, 
but the peak where we stand is treacherous, 
susceptible to collapse from the weight 
of expectations we project through faith. 

With inspiration of projecting breath 
I decide to climb the mountain of words 
founded on ideology of insight 
to reach nirvanic height of vainless bliss 
where I perceive the wholeness of the Earth 
from treacherous peak of my analysis. 

To climb the unclimbable peak of truth 
and attain the unattainable goal, 
I transcend suffering of my hungry soul 
through extinction of distracting desire 
to expand individual consciousness 
gained through experience of ten billion lives. 

Though my soul emanates from my small brain 
so I am trapped in this body of flesh, 
I climb the mountain of words to transcend 
limiting bounds of my one consciousness 
so I envision life of every mind 
who ever lives in history of our world. 

Smoke from houses rises over broad plains 
where trees sway and hum on the river shore 
as snow drifts from clouds over mountain peaks 
to shroud sorrows of the world in calm peace, 
so I lean against my door with hot cider 
and listen to people sing in their homes. 

Bright light bulbs twinkle on houses and trees, 
gleaming warm with rainbows on long dark nights 
when people gathered around glowing hearths 
share tales of their adventures in the world 
with friends and family after years away, 
showing pictures of far lands they explored. 

Though I climb treacherous mountain of words, 
mapping ontology of my world view 
that provides framework for our anecdotes 
which illustrate lessons of life we learn, 
I savor beauty of this world I see, 
and sing about its mysteries in these spells. 

With mercurial voice of soul-haunting truth 
I join world choir of reverent storytellers 
and sing unending epic of our quest 
to climb the mountain of words to its peak 
and sing about creation of our world 
that flares forth from first flash of the big bang. 

Hope Of Helius

Hope Of Helius
© Surazeus
2024 12 18

If, as Paul claims, the wheel invents the road, 
then our global metropolitan maze 
of cities connected by countless roads, 
that we have blazed the past ten thousand years, 
was designed by the hope of Helius 
when he invented the wheel from despair. 

The spin of the wheel measures the whole world 
within parameters of human hope 
based on ambition to explore the dark 
and map the unknown with perceptive myths 
enclosing waste land of the wilderness 
inside the civil walls of paradise. 

Since Helius first stood on wagon stage
and sang his mercurial hymn to the sun, 
we have stored information about life 
in tales our singers share in distant towns 
to weave our heavens, born in solitude, 
in single matrix of our global fortune. 

When I find two roads diverge in the wood, 
while driving my wagon in the waste land, 
I swerve from ancient road of strict tradition 
to blaze broad religion of curious hope 
so I can construct new City of Mirrors 
where all the hope-roads of the world converge. 

This urgent drive of curiosity 
to find where the sun goes after it sets 
fuels endless exploration of the world 
measured by steady turning of the wheel 
to weave my fortune from the threads of fate 
in tapestry that depicts my epic quest. 

Till I connect every town in the world 
in global empire of my consciousness, 
I drive my wagon on each signless road 
with crafts to sell in markets far from home 
where grand gods that look like mine guard their lives 
though all our idols have long lost their masks. 

The hope of Helius inspires my life quest 
to map every nation thriving on Earth, 
depicting how they flow in streams of history 
from fountain where Amen, Mother of Mankind, 
under four palm trees on the ziggurat, 
gives fresh water for travelers to drink. 

I dream whole history of our teeming world 
with ceaseless spinning from the wheel of time 
that measures fortune in our rise and fall 
of each empire that nurtures human life 
based on global food-production machine 
prophesied by the hope of Helius. 

If Humans Become Trees

If Humans Become Trees
© Surazeus
2024 12 18

If humans become trees when we grow old 
then I want to become the apple tree 
that grows unseen in the middle of town 
where only children notice my existence 
for they can see the essence of all things 
before words distort what our minds perceive. 

If humans become trees when snowflakes swirl 
then I want to become the white pine tree 
that grows tall on the rugged mountain ridge 
where the prophet who escaped Babylon 
hears voice of God in whisper of the wind 
from the hurricane that destroyed his city. 

If humans become trees when bombs explode 
then I want to become the maple tree 
that grows on lake shore in the wilderness 
where men collect sap and boil it to syrup 
for children from low-income families 
to eat breakfast free before they learn math. 

If humans become trees when stars burn out 
then I want to become the willow tree 
that grows enormous among city ruins 
where mothers take their children to the park 
so they can learn rules of social behavior 
we use to fight civil wars over Heaven. 

If humans become trees when ships collide 
then I want to become the rowan tree 
that grows from cemetery of dead gods 
where storytellers memorize burned books 
which recount history of Gothinia 
till it was conquered by invading hordes. 

If humans become trees when gods depart 
then I want to become the olive tree 
that grows from rotting corpse of Artemis 
who wins election as the President 
whose policies balance equality 
with individual rights of happiness. 

If humans become trees when cities fall 
then I want to become the walnut tree 
that grows from core of the cathedral nave 
where wingless angels design and build planes 
so we can fly to Heaven in the clouds 
where Jupiter reigns on his crystal throne. 

If humans become trees when kids are born 
then I want to become the chestnut tree 
that grows in courtyard of the sprawling house 
where descendants of the mad scientist 
cherish illusions of religious faith 
through banana republic of the world. 

Explosions Of Epiphanies

Explosions Of Epiphanies
© Surazeus
2024 12 17

Back and forth the little sparrow rotates 
twelve times between broken clock in the tree 
and orange dripping blood in the church tower 
so I can calculate how long it takes 
to change my boredom into jollity 
without regard to homeless of the world. 

If we all gather on the river shore 
at the same time the tower of gold falls, 
we might agree to put an end to war 
and strew all our weapons upon the ground, 
but someone will find a reason to fight, 
so we will have to convene somewhere else. 

Once we invade the glass convention hall 
to hold discussions about the dream code 
with moderators keeping the talks civil, 
we can all pretend we understand well 
how words arranged in various formulas 
project accurate visions of the world. 

I refuse to let you publish this spell 
in your prestigious literary journal 
because its symbols might collide with lies 
people prefer to believe about fate, 
and cause explosions of epiphanies 
that would shatter fragile egos of poets. 

Instead we shall stroll to the Irish pub 
to eat hamburgers and drink golden beer 
then talk about the dying of the light 
and how we shall not go gentle into it, 
as if our blind faith in the afterlife 
ensures our place in halls of paradise. 

When I go looking for the afterlife 
I see this fantasy of desperate fools 
is nothing more than illusion of hope, 
and find instead the dreamless nevermore 
where we sink into dark gloom of the sea 
where our genes were woven by Mother Earth. 

Nowhere else in all the universe, 
nor in all the flow of eternity, 
has anyone else who is just like me, 
with all my special features I design 
based on my private experiences, 
existed with my weird consciousness. 

I ponder what the sparrow wants to say 
as I play chess with Death on the sea shore, 
then follow the river among lush hills 
to cavern of illusions where my soul 
was forged from gusts of wind that open doors 
when I welcome you to my floating home. 

Flower Into Dreaming Brains

Flower Into Dreaming Brains
© Surazeus
2024 12 17

When I kneel and gaze in the river mirror 
I see everything that happens on Earth 
as endless stream of conscious consequence 
where light beams flower into dreaming brains 
who sing strange beauty of the universe, 
then float in darkness of the nevermore. 

While reading book about history of Europe 
in reverent quiet of the school library, 
Kelly gazes out the window to watch 
flock of birds erupt from the chestnut tree, 
so she grins at soft sound of fluttering wings 
that soothes strange ache of her unwounded heart. 

Guns shots startle her mind from reverie, 
which revs up her heart to beat in high gear, 
so she looks over with eyes of the hawk 
to see the boy Donald, who asks her out 
though she keeps saying no, shoot seven boys 
in the head, so she leaps behind the shelf. 

Standing at the library window, stiff 
with rage, Donald glares at the distant city, 
and snarls about how girls reject his love, 
then mumbles that he will kill everyone, 
but sirens wail, and voices of police 
echo down blood-splattered hall of the school. 

When Donald holds gun to side of his head, 
Kelly stands up with the radiant force 
of eye-blinding rainbows after storm rain, 
so he turns to stare in her emerald eyes, 
hoping to see faint flicker of true love, 
then sneers with disdain as she shoots himself.  

Buzzing faster than honey bees that spot 
lilacs blooming purple by the front door, 
steel bullet erases his consciousness, 
scattering his soul as stars in the sky, 
and Kelly jerks with shock to see his brain 
splatter secret messages on the window. 

Kneeling on clear floor of the school library, 
Kelly feels profound heartbeat of the Earth 
that vibrates in her body, so she shakes 
with shock at vision of light in the sky, 
then floats above the ground on angel wings 
that unfold from coil of fear in her heart. 

Many years later while teaching world history 
to high school students who like to act up, 
Kelly will remember cloud of despair 
blinding eyes of the cruel killer with rage, 
so she dances lithely among their desks 
so fast she floats in the sky without wings. 

Awake In Human Shape

Awake In Human Shape
© Surazeus
2024 12 17

Turtles play chess over who rules the world, 
but the turtle does not represent God, 
so I carve on limestone stela of faith 
divine faces of Isis and Serapis 
on serpents of power that rule the sea, 
for I am the hidden dragon of truth. 

Though I understand why belief in God 
is easy for most people to retain, 
once I dispelled illusion of that idol, 
that veils the real world from perceptive minds, 
I easily see through delusion of faith 
which safely guides people to quiet graves. 

The universe is formed of molecules 
that congregate as active chemicals 
to generate organic animals 
created by the mindless Earth to see 
its face reflected in after-rain pools 
which I like to wear to mask my true soul. 

I am the Earth embodied in this form 
as wingless angel walking on two legs, 
so I am God awake in human shape, 
learning about true nature of our world 
as I express clear vision of my mind 
in words that convey ideas of things. 

When the days get long and the nights get cold 
we gather in the large summer-built hall 
to brew apple cider and bake fruit pies, 
then sing long ballads of heroic deeds 
while firelight causes our faces to glow 
with desperate joy for life as the world dies. 

I want to wish you happy holidays 
as we all celebrate the longest night 
when Christ Mithras was anointed Tribe Guard 
to lead our way from paradise we lost 
across the mountains to the river shore 
where we have built new secret paradise. 

One thousand years we lived in solitude, 
far from grand palaces of world empires, 
secure in strict traditions of our tribe 
that we devised on principle of trust 
where we live as we will, if we harm none, 
brave with justice and liberty for all. 

Which turtle will I choose to play as God, 
everyone asks me with fear in their hearts, 
so I vote for the serpent in the tree 
that guards flourishing apple trees from thieves, 
but he casts me me out in the wilderness 
where I plant apple seeds on river shores. 

Searching For Stable Truth

Searching For Stable Truth
© Surazeus
2024 12 16

Searching for stable truth of common sense 
in constant chaos of conflicts for power, 
we write stories about puzzling events 
presenting action through cause and effect 
performed by characters who seem too real 
till they do something supernatural. 

The gas station attendant sprouts hawk wings 
and chases down the sexual predator 
who turns into the snarling wolf of rage, 
gaunt faces lit by lightning flash of hope, 
till social law sees that justice is served 
while bones of devils dance in hurricanes. 

The high school math teacher becomes the deer 
who darts with graceful pride in apple grove 
where the state senator raises his rifle 
to cut education funding each year 
so children on the playground reenact 
lord of the flies in game of politics. 

The newspaper reporter, who revealed 
corruption of the governor who took 
bribes from bankers to deregulate cards, 
gets fired by the new owner of the journal 
who plays golf with the governor each month, 
so he wears cape of Superman and cries. 

The chief of the health insurance company, 
that denies most claims based in secret codes, 
transforms into the bull snorting with rage 
as Mithras whips red cape and twirls sharp sword, 
then Zorro assassinates corporate thief 
to the cheers of the sick in hospitals. 

The man who bullies people all his life, 
attacking women and stealing from men, 
becomes clear target of the Thought Police 
who chase him through dark corridors of power 
till they corner him in the Oval Office 
where Brutus declares him under arrest. 

The patriotic soldier, wearing medals 
earned in fierce combat against tyranny, 
transforms into Raguel, Angel of Justice, 
commissioned to maintain peace in the land, 
who hunts bitter Midas in maze of myths 
to prevent him from crowning himself king. 

Searching for stable truth with honest sword, 
Minerva fights injustice in the world, 
though powerful men obstruct her progress, 
supporting common people who construct 
creative routines in productive lives 
to make America happy again. 

Never Flow In Reverse

Never Flow In Reverse
© Surazeus
2024 12 16

If perfection is the sense of being whole, 
my life is perfect in this flowing hour 
because I know just how to play my role 
with swirling symmetry of subtle power 
which I encode in sentences of verse 
because time will never flow in reverse. 

Through many centuries of death I spring 
awake with conscious vision in my heart 
above this cluttered world on angel wing 
as global guardian of the star-fate chart 
which helps me navigate vast maze of myths 
where masks of gods are carved on monoliths. 

The star-eyed seraph with ten thousand arms, 
who hovers over garden of my faith, 
smiles at me with weird code of magic charms 
alerting me to presence of the wraith 
who wants to know if I am happy now 
while I play flute and lounge on the milk cow. 

I want to explore Immaculate Here 
which glows beyond last hill of singing trees 
so I can learn how to overcome fear 
while dancing with my wand in river breeze, 
then stand guard on the flat-top pyramid, 
performing job that goes unheralded. 

Contrary to argument of wise fools, 
Earth is not divided in rival parts 
of Mind and Matter, engineered by tools 
which we apply to analyze brain arts 
since nonexistent deities employ 
fear of destruction to activate joy. 

This silver-lighted wood of singing trees 
invites me to transcend my mortal frame, 
so I stand tall and issue weird decrees 
that brave explorers should invent the name 
as code which channels chaos of desire 
from howling cave clan to cathedral choir. 

Prime Mover who first animates each thing 
is dancing on the crest in wind-blown grass 
to manifest beauty of Earth in ring 
that binds similar objects in one class 
so we can talk about the truths we see 
in desperate bid to prove our souls are free. 

With weight of this dark earth upon my breast, 
I measure flow of time with ticking clock 
by chasing the sun across the sky, west 
ten thousand years, guided by the star rock, 
till I forget my original goal 
where perfection is the sense of being whole. 

Give Me More Light

Give Me More Light
© Surazeus
2024 12 16

"Give me more light!" cries the old bitter king 
who gropes alone in the mirrorless maze 
to find salvation on the ocean shore 
where ghost of his brother he killed for power 
haunts him with angelic eyes of despair, 
but floats on his back in the sea of tears. 

Finishing his literature class report 
about the boy who could not kill for power, 
Horace walks home along the country lane, 
convinced Hamlet knows in his angry heart 
that Claudius the Sly is his real father, 
and that is why he hesitates to strike. 

The swallow chirping in the maple tree 
regards the ambling scholar with disdain, 
so Horace sticks out his tongue with a sneer, 
then stands on the ancient arching stone bridge 
to watch stream water flashing in sunlight 
with casual indifference to murder mysteries. 

When shriek of fear rings out in grove of trees, 
followed by sharp crack that sounds like a gun, 
Horace runs quickly along the wood fence 
to find his father sprawled across the road, 
bleeding from the bullet wound in his chest, 
so he cradles his head and looks around. 

Swish of the long black cloak in maple grove 
alerts his cautious attention to clues, 
but, as he asks his father who shot him, 
the bearded man splutters with mouth of blood, 
"my brother who died twenty years ago 
has returned from hell to punish me now." 

Sending swarm of butterflies in the air, 
Horace leaves his dead father in the road 
to chase dim shadow of the murderer, 
wondering if his uncle is really dead 
since no one ever returns from the grave, 
then corners the tattooed man by the cave. 

Grinning at him, the sea pirate declares, 
"I am your father, heir to our estate, 
but when your mother was pregnant with you 
my brother framed me for stealing a cow, 
and I was sentenced to slave on a ship, 
but I have returned to claim what is mine." 

Laughing at the irony of his tale, 
Horace leaves and carries his father home, 
and lays his body on the dining table 
where his mother spits on him with disdain, 
then runs to embrace the wild man she loves, 
so Horace sings sad lament for the dead. 

Faces We Lost In War

Faces We Lost In War
© Surazeus
2024 12 16

Those people who lose their faces in war 
wear masks of angels when they attend church, 
so I stand by the window of long years, 
and, with light of the angel in the sky, 
embrace map of the world no one can see 
that yields gardens where the dead go to sing. 

Tall maples on the ever-rolling hills 
still blaze crimson to show the empire dies 
with men who oppress people with their greed, 
releasing traumatized victims from fear 
so they can gather in silent snowfall 
and pretend nothing bad ever occurred. 

Young wife of Gabriel, older than the moon, 
cleans vast Cave of Illusions where they live, 
cooking meals of apples for him to eat 
while he records clear divine messages 
God wants him to relate with golden runes 
to prophets who guide kings on the right path. 

Each swan that rises from lake of lost dreams 
bears soul of one person killed in some war 
humans are always fighting to control 
their national narrative which defines 
the highest values of that hungry tribe 
who claim this land they conquered as their own. 

Sitting with pearl keys on the ocean shore, 
I try to decipher grammar of stones 
so I can translate sentences of waves 
to clever riddles only children solve 
because words I choose to describe the world 
reveal the type of character I am. 

I am not responsible for the hills 
for without my permission the trees grow 
and bloom with fruit that anyone can eat, 
and birds playfully fly in whistling light 
to prove they need no meaning to exist, 
yet ghosts of my dead friends scream in the mist. 

I build new house from carved mahogany 
to shelter lonely refugees from war 
who wander without purpose of false faith 
in city of mirrors to buy new dreams 
that fail to replace those lost in the war 
based on letters that conceal agony. 

I cast bright threads of psychic energy 
from dancing fingers of conceptual faith 
to weave new world map of hope from our dreams 
that we make real with how we play our roles 
to build city of mirrors with our eyes 
so we can find faces we lost in war.