[this is an ‘epic poem’ in the process of being written by both talking plant and finite jester, so check back often and hopefully it will one day live up to it’s ‘epic’ aspirations]

Chapter I

belief can be a matter of fact
as easily as it can become a matter of fiction
life is too short for fateless drifting
you decided to begin this journey on your own
live it without taking space on someone else’s bandwagon
even though you must always let the band play on

i’m afraid that over generalizations are the only way to go
otherwise it all becomes far too much and you are awash
in a system that cannot be categorized

occasionally you need to re-write your source code…
and should you survive the experience
congratulate yourself
you are now a better human

i’m infected by the music which surrounds me
i’m made by the world which i am in
that’s only enough time to get me warmed up
its only enough time to set the tone
but it is enough sometimes
it is sometimes all i can do

all you can do must be enough
each of our moments
come but once and can never be reached again
so accept them for the perfection they contain
how could they be anything else

for mine is an alcohol fueled mentality…
burning diesel baby, burning dinosaur bones
shaving off those inelegant eccentricities
which continue in their quest of distorting me
constantly

nonsense, none the less, consistently bugging me
doing its level best to re-write the frame-work of … {what?}

my own particular mentality?

my own particular groove?

fate dictates what i am
as i dictate the fates
that this body finds itself swirling toward the-

falling down the tube of life
looking at the pretty pictures

and I cannot help but laugh as these

patterns

broken and reconstituted
these reflections of chaos
that life reveals to me

are grokked
are assimilated
age given truth and meaning again

they become alive as stones in the earth
and the woman in your arms,

age laughs
youth laughs
all the great dramas
play out time and time again

lovers love
poets try to turn the fundaments of language into song
and all the true romantics
find the occasional call for sorrow
even when there is a warm body
in their bed

birth is an uncomfortable position
regardless of which one you are going through
literal or metaphoric
they are always hard to enjoy
until you are well beyond them
and no longer able to remember the pain

into these cracked vessels we pour our hearts
and our hopes
wishing them the best that can not be
at play in elysian fields
where the heroes watch

these cracked vessels

overstating their own importance
and yet
never grasping their own grandeur

in elysian fields the heroes laugh
as these cracked vessels
get worked up over the rules
in what is ultimately a game

the most deadly serious game that exists
that makes widowers cry
and turns lovers to bliss

do you dare to stare at the great eye of fate

or wonder what whispers mean heard late at night

do you dare to laugh

or filter it all through unorthodox paradigms

do you dare to live in fields Elysian

or create each moment anew with invented bliss

come closer young vixen i want you to play
to play for a time
but never to stay

putting ideas to work is the best way to kill the fun in life
if we all started thinking about how to put play
in the things we are doing in a dreary work day
so much further we’d get
and i lie like a mouse
i’m forever uncertain
where i put the keys
to my car

and oh the places we travel
human drama will inevitably come to claim us once again
as we go wandering from abstraction

a symphony of blurbs

elegant
discordant
cacophony

and i’m supposed to craft a life
out of this

Somewhere between adolescence
and old age
we lose our innocence

paint me jaded
float me over the water
and let me drown in the sea of air

watch me pine for all these
lost things
which never seemed so terribly
important
when they were still here

watch me add to my stock
of poorly recollected
magic moments

watch me swim
through unforgiving elements
and leave no trace

Listen to me
i have lost my voice

screaming out colors
and tasting the scent of her
as i walk by her seated
lonely
waiting for her destiny
watching for a future that she can only hope for
scared to believe that it could exist
hiding because she knows it could

i tasted those lips once
pressed so firmly against mine
as i breathed in her soul
trying to regain the shattered shards
of the life that i gave to her
knowing that i could not reclaim
that which was once freely given

still
choose the giving
everything you have is worthless
if you alone posses it

leave bits and pieces of your heart
everywhere you go
and just maybe you will learn
what it means to be infinite

my brutal dissection by the gods
has left me in my secular stupor
and brought me to an understanding
that sometimes rivals the buddhas’

life is in the living
life is art
life is
life

a spectacle worth all the pains
of living
even if it ultimately means
nothing

still we can press our own
definitions across the blank
tapestry my mind weaves
each time it tries to understand
too much

fixing errors
keeps evolution out of the mix
perfection isn’t godlike
a perfect god would remain unshattered
and this playground could not exist

there is no need to wrap your mind
around the universe
for the universe has already
wrapped itself around
every mind

it’s willing to take you for the ride
all greatness is born of minds
who allowed the world to bear them
where it would

there’s only the small problem
of all those who have fallen
from such a precarious perch

but to be honest, the fall is a long one
and can be enjoyed
from the proper perspective
even if the end

turns us into a large pile of goo

for what is life
but a falling through reality
we all know that this trip
is a one way thing
some learn how to glide
some to summersault
and the rare few find their wings
but each of us hits the ground
in the end

my bowl is a member of the beat generation
and yet the inspiration still flows
the unending toil of the grocery store employee
endlessly unshopping the cart of unwanted goods
that looked nice enough to put in their carts
yet didn’t make the final cut dictated
by the almighty pocketbook

betwixt rhyme and reason we find self
and many other states of mind
that some find enjoyable
some find uncomfortable
and some barely find

it is the searching which should drive us
and i will not lay my faith in any driver
for the chauffeured amongst us are the weak
and the uninspired
let your soul burn
bring forth the music
and live live live

enter into each moment as though
it were the one…
the golden moment
when all the visions you’ve ever
had of perfection
will become real

don’t shoot, i am unarmed
and for this crime you will be punished
and sent to the big house
forever to be tossing groove salad
at the masses or missives
and all of that

i’m forever trying to simply
make you smile
my life as an attempt to embody
the spirit of levity
a task i undertake
with the utmost severity

and i believe that you can help
if you’ve made it this far
congratulate yourself
surviving can take
alot of energy
and only dreaming
will give it back

for we are all dreaming
the dreamers dream of life
from a dream
and the sleep in our eyes
blur our perceptions
as we dance along merrily
on the bloody bricked road
of the faithless and the fear-ridden

pushing out air
pulling in the dirt
and digesting the effervescence

all these ephemeral bubbles
of modern life
the twisting, turning calamities
that come spiraling out at us
from so many hidden sources

we’ve poisoned the well

we’ve pissed in the bathwater

we’ve all wiped with the wrong hand

if you live in your own filth long enough
you stop noticing the smell
until you slip out for a time
and return with a cleared nose
at which point life
lets you know of its organic nature

continue to chapter II…