I am fascinated by the evergreen tree.
Though it be draped in snow,
It does not lose heart.
A soldier, standing tall.
But now, he has accomplished
The greatest height he'll reach.
His final mission, done.
It is time to move on...

I have adored what I have not seen. I have loved unto deep-seated dejection. I have begged forgiveness. I have been denied; and I have resurrected engulfed in the essence of illumination—only again, to be whelmed by deep-seated dejection; and I love Thee still.

There is a mirror. I fall into it. I embrace myself beyond illusion; and within the walls of abysmal contemplation, I am touched, rejuvenated and given revelation to live through. I have become one within the persons of three, which are but the manifestation of one substance, expressing to me what I cannot fathom, and I love Thee still.

Where does the rain go?
It falls from the sky ever so softly,
But then what?
Will anyone ever know?
Or is it up to me to figure it out?
There are certain things that are better left unknown.
The world needs a little mystery.
If I try to figure everything out, what’s left?
What is left for everyone else?
But that still doesn’t answer my question.
Where does the rain go?

Earth, in all its beauty dressed
Sall covet melodious song.
Where once were rhythms of mirth,
The long nights ne'er be blessed
And I, lone traveller, go on.
If where'er I sit is tainted,
All harmony wilts to dust,
And love was once a fountain here -
A heart steereth course awaited,
For in the old I trust.

That Lunar circle o'er the land
Sall be all light there is.
Where shadows dance 'neath smould'ring hay,
Th'insistent waves rush o'er the sand
And liberty, lone traveller, sall miss.
Such fated temples lovers hath,
Their song abstained by ether,
And love - at peak's height -
With tort'rous souls that twist from wrath
Of beauty in believer.

'That love be neareth death?' to ask
And he sall give one sigh,
For there're greater things to task.

A Pear Orchard (Beaumont, TX)

Beaumont, Texas was a small city on the Gulf of Mexico, one that I didn’t leave until I had become an adult. But mixed with the hunger and fantasies of how the rest of the world looked, by the time I reached them, they all seemed to be magnificent and beautiful places.

Our Garcia Lorca,

Men of darkness twisted in shrouds of smoke
Formed from burning scarlets,
Swelling ink-pots of torment spill-over the brink
Swilling over the floor right up to the obscured perpendiculars
Contaminating canvasses.
And sunset's rural spirits,
Grown from coarse and barren womb of earth,
Dancing and swimming in the cesspits
Of "social" impressions -
These are nothing more than hyenic magpies.
Facades fail readily
Beside the outward functions breaking,
Yet nothing in your limitless universe
Could dare to present itself more appropriate
Than the pair of deviations before you both
Writhing in their restraint:
A mind of a single mustard's seed
Breaks the rocks it falls upon
And flourishes in a blaze,
More southerly, a heart throbs

These pale cheeks are now burning.
Burning with amphetamines:
You've provoked a monsoon of acidic rain,
It gushes, relentlessly, over the freckled rocks of my ageing face.

I drink, drink and drink again,
Numbing myself to this new abandonment,
And lying down
Screaming is the only action that will prevent the sky from falling.

Confounded by the peal of my own hysterical laughter,
And only half-conscious,
I ask the taunting wind:
"Why did Sister leave me?"

"I am alone, because I am surrounded,
Breathing, whilst being suffocated,
Feeling, as I fall through the abyss, down
To a glistening level of knives that will soften the blow of Nothing."

Sister made Everything, Nothing.
Inasmuch, Everything,
Was my Sister.

The wind is still, so very still.
Soil is new to me.
Land of hurt, land of pain
Land of faith, place of pity.
In circumstance I find it strange
That here I feel with heart again.

The stone is cold, so very cold,
Above poor, disturbed graves.
Stolen, melted.
Stolen, melted.
They've paved 'long rail-road way
For feet of blood, festerings old.

Their candles, lamps,
To David's stars,
Are healing beauty from the shadow
Beyond the twisted wire.

The brick is red, so very red.
Mortar of unforgivable sin.
Demonic force
For living-space?
How let Persecution bring here
The roses of spirit and let them in?

The stretch is quiet, so very quiet.
The attentive, wilting faces.
"Women, left.
Men, right".
Bellows of dark, misguided beasts
Disperse the righteous race.

The Angels tears begin to fall,
As I weep and as I ball,
The way they begin to soar,
Makes me wish I was no more,
I try to touch an Angels Pelt,
When suddenly the Angel that had begun to soar suddenly is no more,
For I killed the Angel that had tried to soar with my hand,
I then began to demand why is this happening to me oh why,
Why me oh why I said as I began to cry,
Suddenly as he began to die I felt my heart go Arie,
Then I knew I was relieved from my wicked misplaced deeds.

Magic is it real or is it fake,
It's never worked for me as hard as I have tried to believe,
To fly above the clouds and to soar above the stars,
To travel to Neverland and become friends with Peter Pan,
To sword fight with Captain Hook or wish upon a lamp,
To be under the sea or let my heart desire,
To talk with the animals from every exotic land,
I guess it does exist at least not in my world,
My world is where Madness is in control and the pain comsumes my soul....