If eyes are windows to the soul,
I suppose the mouth is the door.

Institute of Forensic Medicine, University of Cologne says

Dying in a head-down position
is rare
and autopsy may reveal
no morphological findings
which explain the cause of death sufficiently.

Functional changes,
mainly postural changes
of circulation must be considered
to explain the cause of death.

Two cases of death are reported
where death occurred
in a head-down position,
among them an autoerotic accident
with suspension of a man
head-down

in a sack.

oof

The innumerable voices in the crowd
were growing into a murmuring buzz,
but there was a visible silence
between us; though I suppose my ears
may have been ringing.

We had--have? some history I think,
but even anonymity has its way
of being healed by time.

I guess its no one's fault,
but my motto (no regret)
has taken a turn for the worst recently
but maybe for the better.

The glance, though, we each made
from across the auditorium (which was
quickly broken upon discovery),
told me that it was over.

"Sorry to say."

Death's Elegy - 500th Post

All things come to pass, and so do I.
I lament my death. But to what avail?
I dream, and lying prostrate at the altar,
can only fear with inexperience the fallout
of my indecision. Suppose Ligeia correct
and the death of the body is only a result
of the unwillingness of the soul to survive.
Then, is it my decision, my own self-worth
that has suffered in this ill fate?

But if it is only by will (disregarding tragedy)
that we pass through, why lament the coming
of the end of days? The bridge between life and
death is the ultimate unknowing, it is the epitome
of fear and of desire. No question brings us closer
to the enlightenment of the soul because no question
remains as unanswerable. The soul then, upon
answering the unanswerable, releases itself
from the body as the autumn leaves release
themselves from the grips of the tree as they
gasp their last breaths of summer.

We grieve the loss of life even more than we rejoice
in the sustenance of it. Is life such a commodity
that we needn’t celebrate it, yet all at once so sacred
we endlessly mourn its loss? Ceaselessly we preach
a life beyond life, a city of divinity so brilliant; its
very streets are made of gold. Faithfully, we commit
to this concept of ascension, yet insatiably, we curse Death
upon his arrival.

It is true that angels are terrifying. The position around
the throne of divinity can instill nothing less than horror
to the mortal soul that has forgotten such radiance.
The preface to the sight of the angel is always
“do not be afraid.” Its terrifying appearance, unmatched
in our realm, is an intensity that does nothing but serve
us with an image of our own mortality. Like staring
into the sun, we can only face mortality for a short time.
Why?

Only man laments his end to such great extent
because only man considers himself above all else in
creation. Drop, Narcissus, your arrogance into
the pool you reflect in. Leave it to the fish who, wiser
than you, lament not in their demise for they see
in themselves the cycle of all living things. Does
the snake mourn the shedding of his skin; or
the hermit crab his outgrown shell? Nor should man
grieve the freeing of the soul from body. Return it
to the earth, from which we all once came. No longer
should we shield ourselves in darkness from the glory
of the sun, but embrace the mortal light of the angels
which brings us life and which reminds us
of our inevitable death.

"People are always dying.

I've gotten pretty tired of it."

Believe In No Faith

If heaven is a crutch,
the glimmer of hope
at the end of the tunnel,
the pill we gulp
to counter the threats
of grief--

or guilt;
if heaven is our ascendancy
to a city of gold in the clouds--
where each and every soul
on earth goes because we
deserve it, because we were
wonderful people,

I don't think I want to go.

Let all the branches fall
(but they'll never fall)
where are you tonight
when I see you where is
this moment when the
branches never fall
and I am underneath.

CHECK THIS OUT

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Check out other submission conditions and general information here.
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Aubade

Ever sit back
and realize
how often we take

for granted
the fact that we
wake up each morning?

changes in season

I catch the bus at 10:23am
each Monday and Wednesday.
61A inbound.

One point three miles away.

67A inbound--10:30am,
Monday morning--
found shot dead
one man,
standing at bus stop,
twenty-six shots fired.
Twenty-six shots fired.

Twenty-six shots fired.

Wednesday morning,
I'll catch the bus
at 10:23am.
61A inbound.

exam

Been spendin too much time
in the classical.
They're coooool and all man
but...

they just don't jive,
dig?
Gimme something more my

speed
man.
I'm desperate for some

attention. invention.
detention in suspension.
ascension.
ascend. transcend. deny retry
fortify tsetse fly.

I digress.

solitary

The silence is what kills you.
It's not that it's the silence,
silence is golden
or whatever

but it's the repression.
Even if I screamed...





no one would hear.

Where have you gone, leaving
the production line,
slinking into the shadows
behind your machine
and out the emergency exit?
Away for a smoke or a joyride,
hopping on the back of some
pinhead's harley.

He wears a leather jacket
but he doesn't know how to
wear it if you catch.
He wants so badly to be who
he never could be on the football
field, or in the honors club.
That's why he tagged you.

The factory is still running.
What are you trying to escape?

Falling gracefully into silence
(mask of serenity)
sedated

slipping into

sliding back
from

what was it I was trying to say?
Oh yes...

I'll be just a moment.

Oh, forget this.

Perusal

I don't think there's any other way
to go to a museum than by yourself.

My favorite part of any museum is
the makeshift alcoves they set apart
for projectors and film. The way
the black hallway leads you farther
and farther from the light, then
suddenly around the corner into
still more black walls with a lone
bench across infinite floor space
to a projection on the wall.

I saw slideshows of photographs
from the Great Depression, I saw
the dance of the dead, and I saw
the relationship between art and light.

I also saw the blotting out of the sun
and an insatiable desire to fly or float,
but never success.

More importantly, I saw the alienation
of temporary human existence in
hotels and motels and for the first time,
I realized the insane unnaturalness of it all.

Aside from film, I couldn't help but realize
the serenity of the theaters.

There was no one else there.

The museum wasn't crowded, per se, (Thursday
afternoons rarely are) but there were a fair
number of patrons. Oh, people stopped by for
a few moments or so. But when the film didn't
immediately pique their interest, they quickly
shuffled out.
Have we come to that? Paintings are so still,
so passive, that if we don't see something we
like in it right away, we move on. (Is that
right? Should we be so impatient as to assume
that time spent with a still image will garner
no more influence on our souls?¹)

As an effect, it seems that films must react
the same way. Hollywood is required to draw
us in, initially with the trailer, and more
importantly, with the attention-grabbing intro.
Unfortunately art doesn't work that way.
Sometimes to get the picture,
you need to watch the piece in its entirety.
Believe it or not, museums are not "quick-fix
thrill parks".
It makes me sad that we are so caught up
in time that we can't take a few extra
minutes and spend it doing what we actually
came here to do.

¹No. I spent time today with
Van Gogh and Edvard Munch and Mark Rothko
and Claude Monet and Jackson Pollock
to name a few, and if there's one thing
I realized, its that nothing can evoke
more understanding or emotion in a painting
than spending time with it.

madness is like love

I've struggled.
I can't help but wonder
what is me and more importantly,
what is not.
That is to say:
Where does me begin and end,
and where does the not me begin?

Is me just a soul? Is me this body?
Is me the clothes I wear or the words I speak;
the bed I sleep in, the posters on my walls?
Is me my friends? My family? My lovers?
Is me the house I live in, the city I work in,
the nation I pledge to, the religion I have
faith in, the earth I live on?
Is me the air I breathe or the grass I lay on;
or is me the food I eat, the books I read,
the songs I sing or the words I speak?
Is me my thoughts? My actions? My attitude?
My personality--
Is me the rain that falls around me, or
the sunlight that warms me, or the darkness
that blankets me each night?
Is me the buses I ride each day or the sights
I see; is me the art I look at or the music
I listen to or the philosophies I discuss?
Or is me the classes I take? The jobs I apply for?
The things I buy, the things I steal, the things
I wish for and will never have?
Is me my dreams? My goals? My aspirations of life?
Is me the hounded slave, the mash'd fireman?

We argued. But I confess that without your knowledge,
I found myself arguing more with me, than you. I'm sorry
for that--you deserved my full attention.

I stayed, and watched him circle the drain.

I found a stinkbug in my house.
Bastards are everywhere.
I hear by word of mouth
that squashing them is a bad
bad

bad

idea. Well I wasn't about to let him
go out and repopulate Pittsburgh
with his infiltrating offspring.

So I flushed him. I stayed.
I watched him circle the drain.

I did it with a smirk on my face
and yelled at him, "HOW DO YOU LIKE
INSIDE NOW?!" He got the point.

There's a flock of geese
somewhere around Frick Park,
I can hear them from here.

They sound surprisingly angry.

The crickets that live outside my window
don't seem terribly worried, though.

---

The geese have stopped.
Now it's the neighbors that seem angry.

No gunshots yet.

The crickets are still unafraid.

"Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung."

ATTENTION: debate in progress.

So in my Reading Poetry class, the topic of "shaped poems" came up. The argument in our essay read that it added a new dimension to the poetry and helped develop the visual stimulation necessary to fully appreciate the words on the page for that given poem. A number of people in the class, teacher included, seem to disagree, saying its a gimmick that doesn't add value to the poem and seems to distract from the ideas in place.

Seeing as a number of poets, poetry readers, and just plain poetic souls occasionally pass by this blog, I'm curious to hear what anyone who sees this has to say. This is, I believe, the first time I've ever called out to the people for a response, so I guess it's also an experiment on that front, as well. I wonder.

bring me the stars?

I've lost my place in my mind.
Current finances indicate I can
continue living for approximately
two months.
Current curriculum indicates I can not
afford a job.
Current living situation indicates
I can not afford no job.
I will be having an average of

two hundred

pages a week to read.
Bring me the stars and I'll
take you away we'll take us away
you can take me away and
we'll live as the wolves.
The wolves.

Got my textbooks from the
reserve desk today.
Amidst three heavy accounting texts,
and under a copy of

"The Best Poems of the
English Language",

lay a copy of "The Crying of Lot 49."

I'm excited for exactly 40% of my classes
this semester.



If only I could find a place to live...

Dreaming

Oh, the colors.
Almost lime green engulfed in scarlet.
A girl, she has no face,
kisses a man, also defaced,
in secret. In secret? In the open,
under a tree, but unknown to anyone.

I wander upon them and am filled
with emotion, emotions of fear and
confusion, part, I believe,
because I don't recognize them,
but am still overcome.

Winds pick up on sight, and the trees
tear from the ground. The lovers hold
their embrace until she pushes away,
floating away into the sky. He slams
his fist, but its far too late. The
ground bubbles up and consumes him,
dragging down a long rope tied to his
waist. People watch, but no one helps.

I look to the starless sky and soon
black is all I see. A ring floats down
and hovers, it's inscribed with several
virtues. The ring becomes a snake, which
opens its mouth and screams a very human
scream.

The snake, beginning at its tail, eats
itself, consuming the virtues inscribed on
its belly. The last, I remember, is
forgiveness,
and it is there that the snake bites itself
off, killing itself, and vomits its own remains
into the sky.

I gather the snake's head in my hands and look
first to the grave of the man, and then to the
skies. I bury the snake in the soil, and
immediately, a tree grows. The same tree under
which the lovers sat. The lovers are gone.

I sit under the tree, alone.

A girl approaches me.

A soft blue, and people recognize us.

I Reflect on Currents and Pasts

At work yesterday, I
re-edged beds of river rock
on a very upscale house in
a neighborhood called

"The Legends".

While pushing stones away from
the edge,

I sometimes do my best thinking
while pushing stones uphill,

I thought of a number of things:

Humbert Humbert's folly was not
his attraction to Lolita, but
in his failure to distance
himself from her, knowing his
attraction was both illegal and
immoral.

Fallen birds remind me of fallen angels.
Eternally dead but ceaselessly beautiful.

When one looks through windows of
life and instead sees mirrors, one
of two things is in occurance.
---One, you can successfully apply
---everything you learn and see to
---your own life,

---or Two, you are so vain as to think
---that everything you learn and see
---is about your life.

"Caught me making eyes at the other boatman's wives,
And heard me laughing louder at the jokes told by their daughters.
I'd set my course for land, but you well understand,
It takes a steady hand to navigate adulterous waters."

To be perfectly honest,

I'm afraid to talk to you.

fiction is

I live in car crashes.
There's something incredibly
sensual in the chaos
of two vehicles joining
in a violent ballet of
twisting metal and showering
glass, in one swift moment,
and at ninety-two Gs, leaving
the fates of (at least) two
lives in the hands of unforgiving
steel and merciless asphalt.
And physics.

I live in car crashes, I wait for
them. They are final, and lasting.
They define beauty. They define
desire.

I got pictures on my mind

Twenty days later and empty.
Starting over.
Reboot.
I may find myself forgetting
casual consumerism.
To the greatest extent possible.
What's the point if I can find
another path, one of least(er)
resistance?
Hello, the year is 1984 and I
live in Airstrip One.
Where have I gone?
Where have I been?

Where am I going?

"Believe me,
if I started murdering
people,

there'd be none of you left."

Our world is sane
and I am out of my mind.
Out of my mind.
Ot ou me mine.

The sun is in tune.

I've lost my mind.
My soul.
My self.

Bring it back.