Tag Archives: Ernest Hemingway

Starry Night & Absinthe

Starry Night by alex ruiz

I left my body last night,

As many a night,

Starry,

Vaulting through space discovering new truths based on old lies,

New lies based on old truths,

Sophists and sycophants resisting a collective awakening,

As the Oracle of Delphi and I played chess,

Sore looser too,

My end game studied,

Ghamiet Amirjan too much to comprehend,

Entering another dimension,

Mozart asked me for advice,

On how Beethoven would title Ode to Joy?

Van Gogh asked me to chop his ear off,

But I couldn’t find the strength,

As we sat in a field of dreams,

Fantasies of observation,

With more truth concealed in a single stroke,

Than the masterful lies of omissions so common these days,

Or perhaps I just didn’t want to cooperate,

There’s a reason it is called self mutilation,

And I am no sadist,

Or so I would like to believe,

Needless to say he registered his disappointment,

And then proceeded to mystify my understanding,

Of everything in that open field,

Looking up into the night,

Into the past,

To illuminate the future;

 

After we shared some Absinthe,

The brilliant fool loping off his ear,

Handed it to me and suggested that I might use it,

To hear the voices of angels,

Invisible imaginary inventions,

Mankind’s malevolent machinations,

Those inspire words like these,

And paintings like those,

Echoing whiplashes,

Like a beating from the Ether,

Especially on a voyage such as the one that I now was on,

With no guide to direct me,

Save Ernest and my crew,

The Lost Generation, in which I found,

Find,

I must press on unabated,

Traveling between dimensions,

Multiverses of strings,

Explained only by a penetrating look inside,

My fractured mind,

Where at once all and nothing made sense,

For in the hall of mirrors,

I came upon Louis XIV,

He proclaimed famously L’etat c’est moi,

I reminded him that that kind of talk,

In France was at the very least dangerous,

If not outright inflammatory,

Asking me then if I wanted some cake.

He got lucky though,

Rather than losing his head,

He died,

Naturally,

I sat there and watched him succumb to his gangrene,

Sipping on a Van Gogh green fairy,

Vaulted to another dimension,

Everyone seemed like a midget,

Forcing me to wonder if I had landed in Oz,

And would that make me Dorothy or Toto?

Didn’t matter, as I wasn’t there long enough to find out,

Continuing on this out of body experience,

I came to Russia,

1917,

The Czar was there,

Asking me,

Instead of Rasputin what the options were,

I explained they were indeed grim,

Fight or flight,

He chose fight,

And we all know how that ended up.

Next transported to Munich,

1936,

In the middle of Nazi excess,

While Jessie Owens triumphantly raised his hand,

I too chose to be that guy,

Defiant,

Proving that the master race,

Was not master at all,

Instead a fascist puppet,

Owens,

Jubilant extended the first symbol of black power,

I was there when Malcolm was shot,

JFK, MLK and Bobby,

Senseless slaughter that led to endless slaughter,

Wars continued to be waged,

As I was reminded by Eisenhower,

That the complex,

Military industrial,

Was really in control.

Iran,

1979,

I couldn’t believe that such foolhardy decisions were still being made,

I watched as Reagan took the oath of office,

And his pawns were released,

While Oli North was already hard at work,

With another illegal war,

I applauded when Clinton made polar opposites shake hands,

Crying when Rabin was felled by one of his own,

This journey seemed to be all that was wrong,

Or at least parts of it,

I watched in horror,

From the water’s edge,

As planes flew into buildings,

False flags,

And the world was changed forever,

I stood at the cavernous pit,

As Bush assured the world,

That soon the whole world would hear,

Wrath,

I stood rapt,

As Obama took hold of the reigns of a descending power,

And pleaded with him,

While the iron was hot,

To strike down the iniquity of the American way,

Only to be escorted out of his office,

By men in black suits,
Misters Smith and Jones…

Zapped!

 

Finally,

I was cast to the other side of the universe,

Greeted by a triumvirate,

Man, woman and Child,

Who asked,

If now I understood,

Shaking my head no,

All I could do was cry,

Void of hope,

Because even in my dreams,

Even in that out of body experience,

The world,

Remained the same,

And I wondered,

If our resilience,

Could possibly continue…

 

And with that,

They sent me back,

And I wished they hadn’t…

Fortunately,

An earless man,

With a marvelous eye,

Offered a drink,

Pointed,

Up to that night,

In that field,

Reality interpreted and turned to me and said;

“Escape what insults you by revealing what you know.”

SDM

 

Written from photo prompt at Magpie Tales; http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2014/08/mag-234.html … some great writers… Check them out!

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The Future is OURS, If YOU want IT!

Like a prison inmate deprived of food and water,

I feel the solitary confinement of a soul that’s been left in the cold,

For years tormented by those who could never understand,

Who could never see,

The very real dangers to my life daily,

Hidden behind a costume and mask of extroversion,

Drunkeness and late night misadventures (Adventures Ernest reminds me),

Years pass like ages of iron, locked inside the halls of a mind,

Filled with the collected knowledge of humanity,

Burdened by the promise of tomorrow seemingly lost in yesterdays passed,

Until it hit me.

In a moment of lucidity,

I can see the increasing iniquity, of a system,

Which has at its core the folly of elected officials,

Those who present the illusion of choice,

Liberal, Conservative, NDP, Democrat or Republican;

“The greatest trick the devil ever pulled…”

Officials leaving us wanting, waiting,

From the lies apparently told to us for our own protection,

Those lies I helped create and disseminate for more years than I care to admit,

Yet may I project my objection,

To a system led astray,

Greed and money poisining our leaders,

Political, Military, Religious, Economic and even Academic,

For which billions are suffering on both sides,

Of the global maginot line;

Like the secretly reemerged German Army post Treaty of Versailles,

An army illegitimate is forming right before our eyes,

It is robbing us, raping us, enslaving us,

While foolishly, sheepishly,

We vote for leaders electing our collective fate,

But who really puts them there with dinners at 10,000 bucks a plate,

Follow the money my friends,

Follow the lies.

QUESTION EVERYTHING!

Inside my mind I am witness to the erosion of the social contract,

As the leviathan of dollars and cents, yuan, euro’s and KIP,

Though currently preferably American,

Slowly but surely have secured a greater share in the corridors of power,

The illusion of choice combined with the collusion of cabals you will never now,

Disenfranchises you,

Not just at my expense, but all of ours,

And I am here to state;

RECLAIM DEMOCRACY, RECLAIM OUR POWER from the CEO’s,

And their bought and paid for puppets,

Prime Ministers and Presidents,

Nothing more than a rubber stamp for imaginary people,

Who have all our rights but none of our responsiblities,

Corporations whom we allow,

To steal our hard earned money through bailouts, SUBSIDIES,

Loans and effectively zero percent tax rates;

Claim your VOTE back from faceless cash hungry corporations

Trying to sell you shoes,

TV’s, DVD’s, Food, Pens and even the news.

For each of those,

Interconnected in a tangled web they weave,

Have powerful hidden agents,

Writers, think tanks, lobbyists in the marble rotundas,

And your VOTE is supposed to be YOURS,

Not an unlimited cash offering by those,

Whose only repsonilbility is to the bottom line,

And their shareholders

(Ernest tells me to remind those shareholders;

they robbed you three times in the last 100 years).

So from my cell,

Called My Black Dog,

I implore you to consider –

Who’s lobbying for you?

What does your vote really count for?

Are you sure your votes even being counted,

Because I am sure that Phil Knight’s has and I’m not sure why,

I also have participated in the fraud of elections,

First hand,

I have disenfranchised,

I have lied,

I have been the system that I now deplore.

I’ve written a cheque,

I have donated my time, thinking power,

My effort and my money,

But is democracies bottom line balanced –

Billions,

Trillions wasted on war,

Machines of destruction,

Rather than schools and hospitals,

Clean drinking water,

Hope,

The machines of creation.

Imagine that world for a moment.

A world of Good People Period.

Then when ready,

Ask the corporate raiders,

And your SUPPOSED leaders;

What about the kids;

Ask the folks at Enron,Worldcom, Pacific Gas & Electric Co;

Thornburg Mortgage, Chrysler, Mf Global;

Conseco, CIT Group, General Motors, Washington Mutual;

And the source of my greatest disgust,

Lehman Brothers,

Which caused the greatest theft in human history,

The largest immediate movement of capital,

Into the hands of the very few,

Trillions around the world,

Just sitting invisible in machines,

Collecting interest and creating debt,

At the expense of every one of us…

But, all is not lost,

It woke me up,

I found purpose and meaning,

To give back,

In every way I can…

Perhaps you’ll wake up too,

From the nightmare,

To discover a dream,

YOURS!

SDM

(This piece is dedicated to another donor who would like to remain anonymous for a campaign I am running to help twelve families affected by a flash flood of their homes… https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/help-poverty-stricken-lao-flood-victims/x/8130248#home… I can also take interac and paypal payments directly. Contact me for details)

https://www.facebook.com/groups/631813646910495/

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Ernest Says…

“Go on then… one true sentence… it’s not going to write itself!”

He then goes on to chortle at me from the corner,
Muttering something barely audible or understandable,
Likely to do with the emotional suicide I’ve been committing,
Daily for months,
One letter followed by another,
Only to be erased,
Something I promised myself I would never do,
As I seemingly was sinking deeper into the dark melancholy,
My black dog,
The bitch was back,
Along with the horrors that delight her,
And then when coming close to that shotgun,
Again,
I was reminded,
As before,
Why I am here,
What my purpose and mission are,
BEYOND these words…

As I write these words,
Over my shoulder,
My constant companion is now laughing;
“On you go my boy…”

Satisfied I presume by the fact,
That I’ve given in to his endless demand for a drink,
While these words from the Ether,
In my trance like state,
Flowing wilder than the Colorado,
Freer than the Amazon,
And mightier than the Nile,
Ethereal vibrations from elsewhere,
Whence I don’t know,
Coming to this poetic savant,
To forever transform the lives of those,
Who gave me back my own,
To eternally transform the lives of those who give,
So I can give,
My purpose and my meaning,
Without reward or adulation,
Rather the quiet hidden knowledge,
That when no one else cared I did,
Thus,
Did you.

“More, my boy, more…” Ernest snorts.

“Scotch or words?”

“Both you fool, both!” He laughs (as usual)

Though the rest aren’t laughing,
Picasso reminds me how he used to pay his bills,
Before he could pay his bills,
Joyce reminds me that I have the fire of the Emerald Isle inside me,
Pound states;
“How far are you willing to go for your convictions? For them? For yourself?”
“Jail? Death? LIVING?”

Zelda now jealous that love now sits beside me,
Knowing she can not taunt me as she did F.Scott,
Does, (he reminds me),
F. Scott, as he has told me before, reminiscences,
“You are neither East or West Egg, you are GOOD PEOPLE.”

I nod my head in humble thanks.

Toklas and Stein,
Grandmotherly and matronly in their demeanor,
Are sitting in front of me,
Lost in the picturesque view over my shoulder,
Of a coconut palm,
And the approaching clouds,
Wondering what I might do next,
For those who have done so much for me.

“Write, write, write, write, write,” Stein says,
And I obey,
For these words were bought and paid for,
Through a donation,
To people whose lives were changed once,
And are now,
Through these words being changed forever once more.

“GOOD PEOPLE” Fitz is now yelling,
“GOOD PEOPLE” my generation, lost resounds,
Hooting and hollering,
Glasses raised,
And toasts beheld.

Save for Ernest;
“You’re finding it my boy. One true sentence. Keep going!”

And so I do,
Finding myself,
Pushing myself,
To do what I can,
Every day,
With love in my heart,
Gratefulness in my soul,
And graciousness in my spirit…

Ernest says a lot to me,
Feeding my melancholy,
As a doctor a laser to a tumor,
My days with Ernest, he reminds me predates,
Midnight in Paris,
Hemingway and Me started long ago…

Ernest says that Churchill was right;
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

So I do,
Ernest and I,
Hemingway and me,
Touching the lives of so many,
Just as the lost generation continue to touch mine,
I will persist,
Hoping to touch yours,
Knowing those who these words have nourished,
Figuratively and literally,
And I am touched.

Ernest says;

“That’s my boy, onward and upwords.”
He also says;
“It’s not a typo and you should think.”

SDM

(This piece is dedicated to another donor who would like to remain anonymous for a campaign I am running to help twelve families affected by a flash flood of their homes… https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/help-poverty-stricken-lao-flood-victims/x/8130248#home… I can also take interac and paypal payments directly. Contact me for details)

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Human Beings Are Like That

Many people claim to know me,
And yet so few of you have ever understood;

Since the tender age of five,
I have endured, largely in private,
The plague like realities of this ever working mind,
Never resting,
Not for a moment stopping,
As the chemical storm
That is perfected in this warped brain of mine,
Allow for a moment of relief,
Nightly, when I stare at the ceiling;

Deliberating on the pain I have been subjected to,
Smiling as much as possible to mask what was really happening,
As I slipped deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole,
Where there was and is no Carpenter,
There was and for me is a Walrus,
Buddha seemingly calling out to me from the Ether,
Just as Ernest calls me from over my shoulder,
Along with the rest of my delusional posse,
Lost;
Fitzgeralds’, Picasso, Pound, Joyce, Stein, and Toklas,
Useful to be sure,
But nonetheless,
How, at the age of twelve, could you explain?

W O R D S…

My long time salvation,
From an eternal pain that burns in me,
Just as a flame of another,
In a cemetery where fallen men and women,
Patriots all,
Made the ultimate sacrifice for a supposed God,
And a once great country,
A salvation that for me realizes,
I have fallen,
Time and again,
Five, twelve, twenty-one and every two years since then,
Yet somehow endured;
Moreover, coming here; was to be my final release.

W O R D S…

One true sentence Ernest reminds me now…

I left my home and native land,
In my mind,
Chemically stunted by cocktails designed to create robots,
Functionality seemingly more important than vitality,
I left my home and native land,
Proud,
Resolved that I would be as far from my family and friends as possible,
Sheltering them from what I had decided weeks before leaving,
To this land of Elephants, genuine souls that shine,
Communities that thrive on common purpose and effort,
Families that thrive on love and devotion,
I left my home and native land,
To find a place of love,
For my own troubled mind,
Where finally at ease,
I could take my life,
Knowing they would send me off,
As I long to be,
Burned,
Returned to the Universe;

Sparing my family and friends the pain of being near,
Not understanding,
Not knowing,
That every day is a struggle,
Every hour the thought of death stalked me,
Stalks me,
Just as a rabbit a very important date,
I felt late for my own rebirth,
Through a very personal demise,
On my terms,
I left my home and native land,
A date with destiny,
A date with the reaper,
Grim.

The best laid plans of mice and men,
Unraveled before me,
One smile,
Another and another,
Abounding,
Resounding,
Confounding,
As a people with so little,
Could seemingly have so much,
Such wealth that even the richest of you may never know;

A desire to live, not exist, live,
A desire to thrive,
In circumstances many of you reading this will never see,
Let alone be capable of imagining;

The best laid plans of mice and men,
Paved with despair,
That led me so far away from my home and native land,
So I could return triumphant,
Warrior Poet, back home;
That which calls me hourly…

Yet,
I found the universe, the cosmos and the Ether,
(not to mention Ernest)
Calling out to me,
Chosen light,
Protector of mankind,
Engage that smile,
Engage that rage,
That perfect chemical storm,
The power,
That rests inside this mind,
To fight for a new world,
The world I have longed for since Ernest first appeared at five,
Spoken about since I could critically think,
Worked for since I realized that what I was doing,
Was the polar opposite of who I am and what I longed for,
I worked for evil men and evil itself
A truth I could no longer hold,
Let alone the voices that never quieted;

Seeking death,
I found life,
A meaning and a purpose,
That I have long believed will only be realized upon my premature death,
Whether by my hand or that of a bullet;

My soul no longer poisoned by pharmaceutical zombification,
By actions taken, those were intended well,
Were in fact the roads to hell,
But not here,
Not now,
For this has passed,
Due to these people that have freed me,
Saved me,
Embraced me for me,
Treat me like a man,
Seeking to be a better man,
For my heart has never been tarnished,
Only my mind,
Though now free from medicine,
I have found that genuine humanity is my medicine,
I have relief that is more personal in the smile of a child,
Than I ever did from Lithium or the rest.

It is for these reasons,
The comfort I have been granted,
Which few of you would find comfortable at all,
Returned to me my life on my terms,
Returned to me and thus you, my words,
My passion,
My soaring spirit
And a mind free from the tyranny of the poison pills,
That longs to engage humanity,
To help wherever and whenever possible,
To be SENDER,
The one that you have all loved to hate,
And hated to love;

Please understand;
My plea,
My cry,
My devotion to these twelve families,
These human beings,
Who are being left behind,
Understand that without them,
These words,
Would not be written,
My life force would have been gone long ago,
For without them,
There would be,
No more Sender,
And just as there has been a Return to Sender,
Please help me, help them,
To return to a place of safety, a place of comfort,
A place to call home.

We all long for a place to call home!

SDM

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Lost Generation (2)


I no longer wish to cradle you in my arms,
For the body electric is gone,
Reminisces of once held soul mate,
That now seeks life on her own,
Knowing that you had to do what you did,
Without knowing why,
Is precisely why I am moving on,
Why I no longer wish the body electric,
With you,
Abandoned at the moment I most needed you,
When you most needed me,
With reckless disregard,
Self loathing and fear,
I now stand as champion of my own soul,
My own advance,
Creating a new body electric,
Fueled by Tesla, Hemingway and more,
Those voices,
They continue to speak to me,
Smack me, jar and jam me,
In ways you never did,
In ways you never could,
They grow louder each day as I grow ever closer,
To the realization of a new love,
A self love,
So that I may again learn to love another,
The one I now believe I see,
My first love and hopefully my last love,
A paradigm shifted,
By all misunderstood,
These words that I caress just as deftly as I had you,
These words that I twist and turn into beautiful elements,
Of a life worth living,
For in now accepting what and who I am,
And what I did and why I had to support you,
I am free to enhance the calling,
I will answer the clarion call of the giants in my mind,
In the pursuit of happiness and love,
In pursuit of Muse,
She, herself,  calls out for me to listen to the Lost Generation,
Though she misunderstands them and perhaps even me,
Transplant myself back to the age I should have been born,
And that I now live daily in my mind,
Paris, 1923
Over in the corner,
Picasso is holding court with a bevy of ladies,
As always,
A few men try to enter the fray and are shunned away,
As always,
By twirling fingers of fantastic delight,
As always…

Gertrude approaches me first,
Entreating me to sit with her for a glass of red wine;
“As you well know Sir, one of the pleasant things those of us who write or paint do is to have the daily miracle. It does come.”
The words fall from her mouth,
As an entrenched philosophy,
An esoteric Ether that empowers me,
But appear like Victoria or Angel falls,
Monumental in that Stein is always right,
Well,
More often than not.
She continues;
“An audience is always warming but it must never be necessary to your work.”
I ask;
“Do you feel I need an audience?”
“Not at all,” she assures me,
“Just remember, that your words are you, you are your words,
and nobody, anywhere, can change that.”
I deeply inhale my Cuban cigar and find myself looking for the familiar,
Calling out for a scotch,
With that, I hear F. Scott off in a corner;
“Have you proven yet that Gatsby is not the greatest character?”
As I approach I can hear him laughing;
“Surely you are a greater character than Jay?”
“Frankly,” I reply,
“I am not from any Egg, east nor west, but I am certain that Jay is still the greatest…”

F. Scott scoffs at me as a mother a child,
Scolding me for something I have done something in err,
As far as I remember is human, no?

“What is wrong with you boy, it’s up to you, write.”
Pensively I stare into the void between F. Scott and my face,
“You don’t believe it is that easy?”
“Well we’ll never know until you write it will we?”
I nod my head partially frightened but truly elated,
“The world only exists in your eyes.
You can make it as big or as small as you want.”
He says kindly,
“Create the world you want to create and make it BIG…”
F. Scott clearly enjoying his treatise goes on;
“An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation,
the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.”
I fire back without hesitation;
“But I am not in my youth anymore…”
He angrily interrupts;
“Son, you are a writer, you are in your youth evermore.”

Apparently Zelda had had quite enough and as many times before,
As always before,
Takes me by the hand and leads me to an empty space,
Invisible pheromones clashing,
As Muse reenters my mind,
No music is playing except for the soft rush of wind,
Against the storied cobblestones of Paris’ Left Bank;
“He is right you,” she says,
“About?” I inquire.
“His advice to you, is right on.
You are youthful, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Zelda” I say, “Are you hitting on me?”
She replies; “No, well maybe,
yet, have you looked in the mirror?
I have seen twenty year olds that don’t have the baby face you do
and what’s more Jay may, or may not be, the greatest character,
but you have it in you to write that character and the time is now.
What are you waiting for?”

Together we swayed back and forth,
Not as lovers dancing more like a father with his daughter bride,
And Zelda started to hum,
Knowing something was coming I steadied my nerves,
For when she hums,
Zelda hums,
As the Ether beckons,
“Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise,
erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions,
fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions
and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes. ”
She twirls me gently;
“No sour grapes Sender, live, live, live.”
As I reach the pinnacle of the twirl she releases me…

So I drift over to T.S. who sits pensively;
“You come to us, daily,
or rather it is we who come to you,
we know you are searching,
you know you are searching but I wonder…
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out
how far one can go.
How far are you willing to go my boy?”

The voices in my head determined today to make me think,
As always,
Forcing me into intellectual corners that I’d rather not be in,
Boxed,
“As far as is necessary,” I assure him, “further if possible.”
“You look stunned young man…
the best advice I can ever give you consists in this…
If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.
Be poignant. Be selective. Be you and write.”

The sun had long since set,
Paris revealing that majestic splendor of its thousands year old history,
With deafening shadows and perfumed stains of life,
This was the Paris we all loved,
The Paris we lived for,
The Paris that always exists in our minds,
As we all stood there in a faith shaking silence,
Our talent, ability and joie de vive,
We knew it could not last,
But we would fight,
To the death,
Refusing to grow up,
While trying not to get old,
Though our words may live forever,
We know,
We shall not.

NON OMNIS MORIAR…

With a telling glance and a tip of my cap I walk away,
Over to my literary father,
Hemingway with a slap on my back and a firm grip of my hand,
Looked on with child like wonder,
At the sight of Paris on this most perfect Summer dusk,
“Sender, you realize we won’t always be here?”
I laughed,
As I wondered how a figment of my overworked mind could express,
That he knew better than I,
As always,
How long they would or would not be there;
As always,
“I assure you Ernest, you will always be with me…”
“Not as now…and that is why you must know…
We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
I was a failure and so too will you be,
if you can’t finally unleash the  fuming literary beast inside you.”

He continued;
“Every man’s life ends the same way.
It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another. How are you going to live your life?
How are you going to distinguish yourself?”
He repeated this line over and over,
As always
For what seemed like hours,
And Paris slowly transformed into Laos,
And I am brought back to this place and time,
So that I can finally distinguish,
Myself.

The voices,
These voices,
Those sing the praises of a life worth living,
Are my daily reminder,
My daily escape,
And my daily reminder,
That we are all put on this earth to do something,
Not just anything,
Something,
Whether to paint, write, sing, dance, whatever it may be,
And should we refuse to answer that calling,
Our lives,
Will be less than they should be,
Love, Family and the words,
The voices of the Lost Generation,
Are my clarion calls to a brilliant masterpiece,
And I don’t know what I would do without them,
Save,
That I am sure I would go mad.

SDM

Lost Generation (1)

https://senderupwords.wordpress.com/2013/10/09/lost-generation-found-love/

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Lost Generation (Found Love?)

  

If I could cradle you again in my arms,

Like these past weekend,

A lifetime shared in beautiful moments,

Collected,

Feel the body electric between us,

Soul mates now advance,

Or is it depart,

Apart yet together,

Knowing that you feel you have to to do what you’re doing,

Without knowing why,

And refusing to see the truth

I too must now move on,

Progress to the conviction,

That it is no contradiction,

That this can be,

Sing my own body electric,

For you,

For the rest of the world to see,

Let the voices in my head,

And the Ether,

The giants of my craft,

Use me as their conduit that I may produce,

My epic,

These stories,

Unearth for the world,

The universe,

The truths of these demons,

Those come dressed to me in tuxedos and ball gowns,

Entreating me to dance the love hypnotic,

Can you be hypnotized,

Captivated,

Enraptured in these emotions rare,

A virtual green fairy, produced,

Inside my own mind,

Expose that my calling once ignored,

Save for the women of my Muse delight,

Is now the central feature of a life lived?

Am I now complete?
Not without you!

In the pursuit of happiness and love,

For others,

Without acknowledging what I need,

Thinking of the Lost Generation,
Living with them,

Drinking, eating and partying,

My delusions,

I can feel Zelda’s breath on my neck,

As she whispers sweet everything’s in my ear,

As I wish you would, and have,

I can hear Pablo as he twirls his fingers,

Explaining the abstract,

To those that will never get it,

But he will get them,

He persists,

Determined little bastard,

Note to self;

Become a determined little bastard,

Gertrude takes me by the hand,

Walks me to the Seine,

Waves her arms dramatically and says;

“This is the river of your discontent;

Let it ebb and flow,

As true as the words you write,

And you will find,

Find you will,

The answers that you seek,”

 

In the corner F. Scott and Ernest are laughing,

Drawing me near,

With their alcohol blemished wisdom,

Just as my own,

The sage like discord you’d expect from giants,

Of personality, spirit, mind and life itself,

Ernest in earnest,

Says to me;

“Go on Son, the world is your oyster;

It is time for you to find a pearl,

A pearl you must,

Travel far and wide,

Inside your mind and in the world,

Find your voice,

Your voice,”

F. Scott scoffs;

“My boy,

It is time for you,

Time for only you,

Live gloriously,

Fabulously,

Relentlessly,

Find your inner playboy,

And reveal to me that Jay is not the greatest character,

Reveal to me that you are the chosen light,

Reveal it to the world,

They are waiting.”

In unison they declare;

“She is waiting for you… you just need to find her.”

So I smirk,

As I realize that my joy,

Is in these words,

My love is in these words,

Abundant and without end,

Just as my love has always been for you,

Proverbial and literal.

As F. Scott finishes Pound rounds the corner,

Slaps me on the back and says;

“Wisdom they impart,

Is only that, which you may find,

Your fingers dance,

Your mind is a beautiful tangled and intertwined tango,

Easy for you,

Now you must find your flamenco,

Do with these words,

What you will,

Go wise young man;

For you are one of us,

Truly.”

With that,

I am brought back to this world,

To this time,

The present,

Where I must find my way,

Find my way,

To excellence,

Personal greatness,

Where I can find you,

Literal,

That we may both shine,

Basking in the glory of love,

Of life,

Of uncertainty,

And find that I may triumph,

In spite of my black dog,

The curse of depression,

Repressed,

By you, for you, with you,

If you’d let me,

What if man never dreamed of the stars?

Never dreamed of flight?
Of going under the sea?

Of being a family man,

With love and a true life,

What more matters?

To wit,

We all raise and glass and say;

“LIVE…”

SDM

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The Importance of Muse (5)

 

 

 

Every time you arrive,

My neurons blaze at the speed of thought,

Pining to believe that this time,

Here and now,

May be the flash,

Brilliant,

For which my whole life has been lived,

Since that awe-inspiring conception,

When universal matter pooled,

Forming galaxies, stars, planets and we,

We two,

Muse and Writer, Warrior Poet, clashing zealously,

Inspiring and inspired,

As these words flow,

For without you the days are long,

The nights are even longer,

Despondent as I reach out,

Astral projection of my deepest pleas,

Calling out to the Ether,

Begging of my Ladies,

The Sages that alight my path to you,

Fate has brought you once,

Destiny once more,

Serendipity once

And now I marvel,

Are sirens once more upon me?

Or in exponential wisdom,

In multiple dimensions,

Have I finally been led to the place I need to be?

To shine,

To become,

To find,

All I once was,

Billions of years ago,

Cosmic dust,

Collected,

Coalesced,

I and I and I now refuse,

To let go of that dream,

To find the eternal love,

That has vexed me all the days of my days,

Love unyielding and requited that will deliver unto me,

The purpose and implication of my travels,

Voyaging to you,

Here and now,

Muse.

Muse,

As I fall deeper into my intimate wishes,

I watch as your eyes shimmer,

With thoughts secret, residual,

While concentric circles continue to expand,

Our experience,

Our consciousness,

Our extremely hidden and repressed aspirations,

For as woman and man,

We have built our walls,

From past rejections and exceptions,

Judiciously crafted to protect us, not from ourselves,

But from those who seek to deflower our chaste intent,

Having been corrupted,

You and I,

Muse,

We seek redemption and redress,

We seek temptation, gingerly,

Less like Eve,

More like a painter with a blank canvas,

Or a writer a blank page,

Ours to create,

This dream,

Every aspect, thought and every belief,

Lived vividly in each moment,

N O W,

We must release the past,

Both, we,

Unleash ourselves from that which we can not change,

Set us free from our wounds, plentiful,

So that N O W,

Can become an untold then,

Muse,

Can you,

Will you believe?

 

 

Muse,
Once more from on high,

From another time, far far away,

The Ether intoxicates and entices me,

Drunk on an abstract,

Drawn in vivid hues of reality,

Together where do these words lead,

Where shall we go,

Hand in hand,

Rapt attention in each others gaze,

To an awaiting horizon,

Of which we are yet to conceive,

Could not consider,

That is, until, here,

And N O W,

Those blessed moments,

Time standing still,

When together,

Entwined,

Our bodies crave that which we can not grasp,

We can not see,

Nor hear, taste or smell,

Our uncontrolled reactions,

Complex mathematical and scientific veracities,

From chemicals,

Allowing us to feel that which we can not know,

Feel Muse,

With me,

These veracities,

Finally proofing the evasive equation that has haunted me,

Taunted me,

Twisted and torn me,

Yet,

Every time I am enhanced by your arrival,

Presents presented presently,

Temporarily though it may be,

For the N O W,

Here you are,

As the words contend,

Muse,

Will you understand,

Can you,

Muse?

 

Muse,

Time and again,

On this universal plane,

I have braced for impacts,

Long foretold,

Crashing into an awaiting hell,

Where my depression takes over,

A completely different set of chemicals clashing,

Where abandonment sends me into the nearest distraction,

Longing to rid myself of that desperate bitches howl,

Black Dog screaming,

Where even Hemingway will not drink it away with me,

Can not,

Although we try,

Don’t we Ernest?

Muse,
For here you are once more,

As I ponder the past

And posit the future,

Though living in every moment,

N O W,

Adored ambitions,

When in your grip, mental and physical,

There is nothing but you,

The world around me evaporates,

Nothing exists,

Save us,

Where while apart I allow myself the persuasion,

That maybe, just maybe,

This time,

The Ether,

In its infinite expansion and wisdom,

To the left,

May have got it right,

This right,

Now,

Muse!
Muse,

My soul tickled,

My wandering mind,

Deliberates on possibilities of possibilities,

As the special theory of relativity seems obvious,

Considering that time apart seems like eons,

Where together it feels as if mere nanoseconds,

Yet still I abide,

Grateful,

For each instant I am by your side,

Feeling the intense elation,

Of the dance that two souls meeting and greeting have done,

Since time itself began,

Is there anything more wondrous or misunderstood,

Despite futile attempts,

Others and mine,

Especially mine,

For at your side,

There is nothing but you,

Just you,

Muse.

Muse,

Sloughing off the lackluster repetitions of history,

I am here,

As I and I,

Chosen light,

Servant,

Court Jester,

Teacher and more,

To act for you,

As the peaceful unseen force that lifts your lips,

Into that perfect purse,

Aligning both the stars and your soul,

Further still with my own,

Come together two as one,

Where the Ether begs these words,

As recompense for your sparkle,

The twinkle of the window to your soul,

Telling me more than all the words I’ll ever know,

Perhaps even write,

Though for the now,

I am elated,

That again after being jaded,

I have been satisfied,

Satiated by the Ether,

And my ladies,

To honour you,

Who honours I and I and I,

With your presence,

Muse,

Your importance,

Can never and will never be understated or underrated,

Instead celebrated,

In this harmony of words,

Hastily assembled,

As my mind dances,

Faster than my fingers can comply,

Joyously,

With possibilities of possibilities,

N O W,

Muse.

 

SDM

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