(Part I: Philosophical Treatise)
[scene: the mind; allegro, ryhtmic]
Oftentimes I feel misplaced,
torn apart, rearranged and retraced
So I sit late nights by a starry fire
And seek thoughts of which to inspire
So this must be what it feels like when a flower blooms
The simultaneous collision of a thousand heartshaped moons
Blurring the division between dream and reality
In a single daydream spent eternity.
***
(Part II: Invocation)
Humanity, Humanity,
You’re a muttering bum.
Sitting there, complacent
Under a stuttering sun.
Goodbye, Halcyon days
Golden goodness, will not end.
Human kind and our desperate ways.
Hello, darkness my old friend
But I’ve had enough of this
Dreary, desolate, way of living.
We have to do something!
So we may stay up late at night and write new stories for the stars.
***
(Part III: Wandering Poet)
Sometimes.
When the time is late and images of contemporary society are sprayed upon the canvas of earth.
Faceless masks and empty words, makes pens mightier than swords.
Although.
The images flicker, rapidly and enigmatic, shadows upon the wall. Shape-shifters roam the earth in nomadic tribes, extinguishing the flame of whim.
WOOSH! was the sound of moonlight breaking into millions of particles
which gently lay down in a blanket of dim fog upon the eclectic city night.
A snow globe of misty light; both lunar and electric are the sounds of the still dark flood as tragic faces move along like yellowed leaves crumbling in the wind.
The leafless trees outside the library stand like red giants, rustling and dancing to the beat of seismic samba as they anxiously wait for the final explosion.
An unknown HOWL darts throughout the fragmented universe as angel-headed hipsters grab their bongos and travel to the promised land -- seeking music lessons from god; the best improviser this side of the imagination.
An island onto ourselves; we build bridges to connect and shout: enough!
And sprawled across the wall. Across the canyon wall; the sacred word: LOVE!!!!
Trapped in the amber of the moment and with no "why," we prepare to be cremated upon our death that way so we may go on as lightly as we wanted to have lived.
And when the wind picks up around the ears of new generations, we -- the voices of the dead -- will attempt to whisper sense to those willing to listen:
Dammit children!, if you do one thing on earth, you've got to be kind to one another.
And they run away in laughter, the only way they know how: towards the future as other voices struggle to be heard.
So this broken world lays outside as a solitary stroll invokes a seemingly coincidental foray into the musical etudes of memory which trigger a brief moment of nostalgia.
This is the now and we must be prepared for any moment upon this spiraled timeline.
Like water, formless and strong. Both empty and full. Tranquil and relaxed yet, ready to act at a moment’s notice.
This is the life we live, no longer directed by sinister muses but by the gentle spirit of love. And the dreamers stand up and jam to the fluid movement of feeling romanticized in the form of other worldly rhythmic vibrations.
Two lovers: both existent and non-existent. Yet, lying in the realm of Possibility.
They stay up late and write new stories for the stars.
***
(Part IV: Masquerade)
Sometimes, I think that I too
have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness...
And burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo
In the machinery of night…
(looking for anything)
(…anything)
They are the burning hot quasars of existential memory -- nostalgic interludes of this melancholy masquerade
-------
(Scene V: Poetic Perseverance)
[scene:late night]
I step of my house -- tired.
I look out at the deep dark ocean of a starry night
and breathe a sigh of relief as my eyes caress
the milky white streaks of matter spilled across
the sky: straggling clouds separated from the herd,
distant star clusters blurred by restrictions of sight,
and spiraling galaxies -- whizzing by at tremendous
speeds. Unfathomable.
Drifting away.
Swept under
the gravitational pull
of an angry sun.
Humanity dwindles on the edge of reason
softly singing a song -- quite possibly a requiem.
The cool breeze of chance glides around
our collective skin -- chills recollect static.
The sound of silence, deep in space.
Under the glow of a million dead stars.
The settled dust of an empty planet
begs for the creation of life.
I gaze outward into the open void
of the desolate universe and wait
…waiting.
Waiting for the moment to soar.
Because this is the one where we learn how to fly in the end.
The Stanton Street Collective: Rich, Eddy, Zelene, Freddy. (Not pictured: Tony)
