This I recall from the front porch

of my mind.

A life’s passing,

or at least a half-life’s,

for I am not yet dead

and my karmic inertia

not yet halted,

yet enough time has passed

that one circle can be forged

with the hammer of pen

upon the anvil of paper (as they say).

Glean from it,

those who are still young by comparison,

a useful mail for your breast.

Let the edge of my words

be a balanced weapon.

The only such thing I know

exists as an endless stream

in my mind.

The voice of my own god

and these are his words-

the best my mortal hand may convey.

Sometimes it is better to write

with the left hand

That part of the mind

wherein the third eye lies its lies

an illusion of

life-saving reality,

those textures of beings

of that within and of that without

turned within itself

convolution is our understanding

and I am no different.

From my first moments,

and before,

somehow I have clung to the

fragile balsa raft of memory

serving from the past in present

and I flow a pen to follow me

an epithet of humanity

and a creation of many books

and renderings from me

to heal me

to define me

and, ultimately, to combine into


For they all have arisen

in the image of their creator

a fissure of the mind

and a fragment of the person

as Rome’s tongue forked

to set the world aflame.

This town is a walled city

and the pub is the gate

full of devious winter business

and sadistic winter beauties

with the absolute knowledge that

you’ll get your ass kicked.

I shackle delicate ankles

exacting tribute

with a motion of my scepter.

There is so much I want

that life alone cannot give

I want to know

beyond illusion of doubt

beyond context of stillness

and pulsing ripples of sensation

throughout my flesh-

The grave is a portal.