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There's this perception sometimes around here that I'm this Hollywood guy.

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Everyone Around Here

Everyone around here planted those seeds!
So there is no need to ask,
Where all of 'this' is coming from!
You got what you wanted.
If it was not...
It would not be there!

Now that it is in your hair...
And all over the place,
You want to declare a lack of knowledge!
A noninvolvement!
If you declared total stupidity...
Prehaps there could be found a solution,
To resolve your devotion to a 'divine' ignorance!

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Sometimes We Know That We Are Here

sometimes
this is what they say
sometimes

we know that we are both
here
together
yet we prefer
to respect our silence

we extend it further
maybe

may be even deeper
like the blue ocean
refusing
to talk to the river

they all look forward
to bluer clouds
and sunny skies

and for these
what is the need of words?

what is the need of
the struggle
to speak? it is the silence that

makes some bonds
stronger

sometimes, they always say that,
sometimes

some time, we may like
it like this way
mute and yet so revealing

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There Is This Poet

there is this poet who writes his fear of death
thinking that he has been lonely here and that
when he dies, the possibility is he might be
lonely there again. Eternal loneliness, damn.

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George Santayana

There May Be Chaos Still Around the World

There may be chaos still around the world,
This little world that in my thinking lies;
For mine own bosom is the paradise
Where all my life's fair visions are unfurled.
Within my nature's shell I slumber curled,
Unmindful of the changing outer skies,
Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies,
Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled.
I heed them not; or if the subtle night
Haunt me with deities I never saw,
I soon mine eyelid's drowsy curtain draw
To hide their myriad faces from my sight.
They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe
A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.

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There Is This Sadness That Brings......

there is this sadness that i want
to give to you
but of course, you shall not accept it

for who is foolish enough
to welcome sadness when all hopes
of our humanity are pinned
on happiness?

but there is this sadness that makes us silent
and responsible upon our own shoulders
there is this sadness that makes us
fully human, and fully alive,
there is this sadness that brings you literature
and poetry
and then all those fame and fortune that you
have been seeking
there is this sadness which has another consequence
the purification of the soul
the everlasting happiness

shall you not take it now?

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Every Time I Go Around Here

Every time I go around here
I see tumbles
Gone is the Regal automobile
And ever since Im down
Im down
We used to ride in it
In this frozen town
Any time we had in the time we had
We found
We found
In some frozen place
Parked half off the ground
Every time I go around here
I see tumbles
Through my head and the glass cleared
And the motor rumbled
I dont know if its good that they did make the wheel
But ever since I know
I know
Ive been rolling on
Rolling on to you
Any time we have in the time we have
Well go
We go
To that frozen place
Frozen place that we knew
Every time I go around here
I see tumbles
Through my head and the glass cleared
And the motor rumbled

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There Is This Island

there is this island
a very small island where i once escaped
away from the death that the crowd has inflicted

there is this lonely island
where the only house i have is just an old chair
and throughout the nine full moons i simply sit there gazing

looking at the small tree the leaf of which is only one
its veins too tiny for my eyes to love

it gets lonely here most of the time but i owe all my life to this very small island
it saved me once from the death inflicted on me by the crowd

my body becomes a geisha of gratitude
my mouth becomes the kiss of the slave woman to the nth power of Abram

i live in this island and on the last dropp of the day
i become forever

there will be another north star in the heavens
and it shall have my own name

there is this island shaped like a heart and it sheds blood because it is real
i am but a white grain of sand

perhaps, but i have become this grain of gratitude and i have become a star
forever hanging on the heavens.

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Patrick White

Not With The Eye, But Through It

Not with the eye, but through it
easy to see all the pristine faults and flaws
in the immaculate mirror of the lake
that asks me to surrender my sword
as proof the scars on the mirage of my identity
were not self-inflicted or mythically inflated.
Sometimes the mind is nothing but a fraud of water,
a handful of starmud from the bottom up
with an ego like the snapping turtle of the world
savaging the plumage of the moon,
a wild swan thawing like an ice-floe
riding her own reflection downstream
like the pale fragrance of an elegant loveletter.

This place is the downgraded stuff of dreams
that animates the misfortunes of decay
with calendar-eyed views of propinquitous mortality.
Stakes of ghostly bones embedded like fractured trees.
Red ochre cedars like the fragile skeletons of filigreed fish.
Dozy limbs of basswood on the damp shore
pulped by a flesh-eating disease
like the hard heart of an old man gone soft
in the limelight of a circus of fungus on tour.
Not an outrage, but a lingering kind of odium,
this whole place smells like a human on its death bed.

Stealth in the indelible silence of the dead
undergoing their dissolute transformations
into the effluvium of the living in the wake
of their passage through life. What was
solid and upright as the rung of a ladder of oak
or the lifeboats of the oar-winged maple keys
before they went down with the ship,
good captains, all, with nowhere left to fall,
let's its hair down like wavelengths and willows
and returns to going with the flow of things
like ice melting into water again, everything real,
with nothing to stub your toe upon
like the imagined intransigence of the world.

Wing of bat, eye of newt, heart of toad
and the perfect pitch of a virgin hummingbird,
mummified skin from the leaves
of the star clusters of borage sapphires,
the ashes of a poem that immolated itself
like daylilies that no one had ever cried over,
the unreasoned ennui of a seasoned wizard's
attitude toward suffering to play musical chairs
at the periodic table and rise above the salt
where you properly belong enthroned like a dragon
on the skulls of your incommensurable ancestors.

Salt the earth and it will burn green as leaves
in the fires of life nothing can put out.
The axis mundi stirs the seabeds of the ocean
and visionary wraiths hang above it like rags of mist
summoned to the cauldron of the lake
like a seance to the endless first step
of an ongoing beginning that calls them out of exile,
like the lords of life from the last exorcism
they went through like the imperfectible ideals
of the wind sweeping stars and deserts off the stairs
of an underground passage burial
that aimed its spirit at the stars in Orion
but whose bones only made it as far as a flashlight
in the nervous hands of a grave robber
startled by his own amazement
at whose likeness embers in old gold
on the death mask that greets him like a twin of time.

Waterlilies blooming nocturnally in algaic scum
as if they were spreading their feathers
for any chance encounter with the stars
they've fallen in love with in their own images.
Stumps of the beavers, and here and there,
the occasional chain saw, I hear a man shrieking
in the tent of a field hospital trying to heal the Civil War
with the tools of neo-lithic carpenters.
I hear the crow barking orders to its officers.

Significance by association with the lost and fallen
bleeding out like flags on an abandoned battle field.
You fall through the cracks if you don't jump the gaps
and the rest is just the history of electricity
prodding you to twitch like the puppet-master
of Giovanni's frog prodded into leaping like the dead
trying to keep pace with the measure of their hearts
like lily pads wired to circuitous nervous systems
grounded in the silken muck at the bottom of things
that has settled like a peaceful sediment
over the useful refuse of our unsalvaged dreams.
The encyclopedic detritus of our arboreal souls
we keep recurring out of like cosmic eggs
in a deep sleep of inconceivable wonders to come.

Wingspans of the galaxies in the eyes of the seed-atoms,
I sow my thoughts and feelings like symbols and images
as far and wide as the Milky Way, the Road of Ghosts,
like an old farmer I heard of who went mad out here
sowing the deep woods, holding on to the tail
of a black bull that tugged at his heart like a new moon
or the harvest of stars in the wild rice fields of the Pleiades
adorning the horns of Taurus in a garland of light
so the wide-eyed native women could thresh them
into the bows of their birch bark canoes.

How long ago was that? Is there still
an Algonquin village around here somewhere
that didn't surrender its gates to the urgencies of time?
Some memory smouldering like a fire pit under the leaves
that have written over the history of this place
like draught after draught of an autumnal lie ever since?
Did they ever come down to the water like me
to watch the moonlight ricochet off
the wet anthracite scales of a rat snake
sliding its S-curves back into the water
like a wavelength of darkness alone and homeless
in the occult palace of its black diamond eyes?

Did they feel the same chill of recognition
when it disappeared like a sacred insight
into an abyss of enlightened unknowing
that's as boundless as the myriad infinitudes
of forms and events that arise
out of the creative destruction of the mind
efflorescing out of its own ashes, sunflowers at dawn
when the urns convulse like wombs,
and flowers imitate the garish rainbows
of our afterbirth like the palette of a masterpiece
that's caught the ruin and renewal of life
in the enigmatic features of our photogenic minds?

Posing like mood-shifting chameleons
aurorally lifting the veils of a dark mirror
to reveal our own eyes looking back at us
when the night turns around, saturated
like ripe fruit with the mysterious sorrows
of being alive to witness our own windfall
like a rootless tree well-seasoned in letting go
of the orchards that once danced with the wind
in their wedding gowns, climbing up
this scaffolding of bones like a serpent of picture-music
helically winding up the stairwells of our vertebrae
like a thought making the rounds
of an unbroken circle of zodiacal skulls
like boundary stones in an unsustainable orbit,
all living things perfecting the simplicity of death
in the labyrinth of their own elaboration
by reducing it to an axiom of collaborative absurdity
then erecting it like a meteoric cornerstone
above the graves they dig for themselves
monolithically from the sky down,
one foot in the boat and the other clinging to shore.

I can hear the music of the spheres
in the hidden harmonies of dark matter
I've been listening to for light years
like a song with an impact crater for a sea bed
I just can't seem to get out of my head and heart.

I've apprenticed my darkness to the mastery
of a dying art that might make the dead
a little more lyrically approachable
when the picture-music shepherds them
like black sheep born under a new moon
into the available dimensions of the future.

In everything I see and say and do here
I celebrate the emergence of the carrying forth
of the light out of the dark urgent with expression.

I say tree, stone, star, love, birth, death.

Lonely nightbird, or one of the frogs at night,
I make my sound like my mark upon life,
I add my eddy of light, the ripples of my fingerprints
to the flowing. As ignorant of where I come from
as I am of where I'm going, as homeless behind me
as it is ahead, there's an expiring calendar
of tree rings in my heartwood, waning or waxing,
always seems to be growing. What has my tongue
ever been, but a leaf on the wind, or my eyes,
if not stars coming out of clouds? Delusion
or clarity, the crazy wisdom of the madly enlightened,
or sorrow looking for asylum in its own vulnerability,
the lab rat in a random experiment with genetic lotteries,
or my voice disappear like the homing bird
of a word in the distance flying toward
the violet hills that adumbrate the sunset in residence?

A physics of the heart, or the logic of metaphor,
two ends of the same sky-borne telescope.
Whether they're eyelashes or my eyes
are sprouting wings for the journey ahead,
effortless effort of the absurd,
or a labour of elusive significance,
I struggle to celebrate the vital stillness
that animates the heart of all things
into being carried away on impulse
like water and love and life and light
or thousands of fireflies swarming the valley
after a storm of insight, trying to acquit themselves
like constellations in a chaos of starmaps.

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Sometimes I wish that I were Helen-fair

Sometimes I wish that I were Helen-fair
And wise as Pallas,
That I might have most royal gifts to pour
In love's sweet chalice.
Then I reflect my dear love is no god
But mortal only
And in this heavenly wife might deem himself
Not blest, but lonely.

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There Is This Voice Inside

there is this voice inside me
that screams
that this world is hopeless

there is this voice inside my heart
which whispers
go, take care of yourself,
walk gently, and do not ever look back

there is this voicelessness now
it is silent, and it does not mind
it does not matter

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There Is This Secret Room Of My Life

there is this secret room in my life
that will always be closed

it is mine, and no one gets in for in so doing
they shall find me

and if they find me inside this dark room
without windows

as they open and i am there and there will be too much light
to hurt my eyes

have pity
for i shall die.

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There Is This Rain Between My Thighs

there is this rain between my thighs
there is this cloud inside my abdomen
it is heavy with something
that accumulates somewhere
and within there is this
tickling and tingling of everything
i feel for you

in your absence
the clouds get so heavy and my abdomen
gives in

the rain falls under my feet
and then i know
it is the ripe time for sleep

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There Is This Pain...

that goes on and on
and on and on
and even if you offer all these
to relieve yourself
they still keep on going on and on and on
as though you are a fool
not having learned a lesson at all
there is this pain
that justifies you own way of becoming one
hardheaded poet
i stays with you and you begin to like it
because there is something
poetic in its bleeding
an elegy
for its death.

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There Is This Fire

there is this fire
it has not burned you yet

there is this rain
it has not drowned you yet

there is this wind
it has not blown you beyond death yet

there is this earth
that dries and cracks and opens itself to everything

there are four empty spaces inside my heart
all these are there undivided

no one, no one, no one, no one
ever, ever understands it, not even this body this mind this soul

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Is There For This Morning/ Some Small Word

IS THERE THIS MORNING/ SOME SMALL WORD

Is there for this morning
Some small word
That will take me away
From discouragement and despair?
Which will make me feel hope again?

I don’t know-
I try now
The sunlight outside beckons
Perhaps once I am walking
The feeling will change-

Oh how hard it is day after day
Beginning in one’s own dark thoughts
And having to find the way, whatever way, out of them-

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There Is No Poem I Can Write / That Can Deal With The Threats

There is no poem I can write
That can deal with the threats
To our very existence-
There is no poem I can write
That can imagine the horrors
We might go through-
Nothing I say and nothing I know
Can prepare
For the evils that might come-

We live on the edge of an ‘abyss’
For which ‘abyss’ is a tame word
And we get by each day
By ignoring the ‘hells’ that might come to us-
Evils worse than death may await us
And nothing I say or write
Can contend with this-

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There Is This Man Who Does Not Know Where To Go

there is this man who does not know where to go
his wife left him
and his children had already disregarded him

there is this man who does not know anymore how to live
no one cares
about his baldness, his wrinkled skin, his rambling thought
gnarled, whorled,
his arms do not know what to hold
his soul has no anchor
his mind whirls
his hopes all burned
he is ashed
but not gone

people laugh at him and twist their faces at his back
there is still a place for him in the roof of my empathy
he takes shelter here and on this last threshold his fears
at least, are gone momentarily

we shall touch him and we shall watch how he shall quiver

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Miracles CAN and WILL Happen

You aint the only one around here that don't get it!
It can be staring you in the face,
And you still wont get it.
It can be standing on your foot...
And you still wont get it.

I got it.
And that is the reason,
From you I had to go.
And there is no 'why'...
Needed from me I felt to you,
In a note,
Message...
Or call,
I did not care or think enough...
To leave.
That's where I have been!
'A' with 'away' from you.

Just keep saying this to yourself,
'I don't get it and I never will.'

'I don't get it and I never will.'

'I don't get it and I never will.'

And trust me,
As experience has taught me lessons...
Miracles CAN and WILL happen!

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There Are Waves Breaking Foaming Around Me

There are waves breaking foaming around me
hitting with angry power,
while a storm is unleashed on the sea and in my life,
a boat in the distance is twisting as if it is sinking

while it is dangerously recoiling up and down
with stormy winds bashing at it,
it seems as if it is going to disappear under the swelling water
and still You are there to protect that boat and me

and today I want to make You the helmsman of my life,
I ask You to steer me safely to the harbour of rest,
I pray that You will protect me in my ways
and like that boat I am missing on a stormy sea

where only Your almighty hand
can bring me safely to land, to the other side of darkness.

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There Is This Worm

there is this worm
as usual slimy and long and despised
that gets inside your skin
and you cannot just dispel it out from your system
it asks for a home
and you give one of the pores of you skin
it asks for food
and you become all too willing to share a part of your flesh
and it stays there
and you allow it and you begin to talk like friends
and you welcome it
simply because you have been all too alone
now despite this parasitic relationship
between you and this worm
you keep on keeping it
and they are angry at you and always pester you
with their own philosophies and one day they become silent

you tell them: what do i lose? i have long been nothing anyway.
i don't have any. Not even a lock of hair from you.

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