We all
Got angels and demons
On our insides.
And ain't it nice
When the angels get out,
And we does good?
So easier to be proud.
Easier to be humble to.
Those demons, they wreck us;
You know it is true.
No name
no echo
only blood flowing
skin without edges
as you stumble through life
the breach
within a wound
opaque origin
before form
missing beat
when you believe you feel
a hollow
in the bones
uncreated
the body
before the body.
SOUND FOREIGN COMPANION
FAILED WOUND MESSIAH
SPELLS UNBLOOMING NOTE
AMPUTEE BAND SUPERNOVA
EXPLODES FROM UNIVERSE END
ETERNITY BELLOWING THROAT
HEAT SUTRA -- MILLION DEATHS!
CLEAVE BLACK
BEE HIVE ONTOLOGY LIQUID
WET BETWEEN THE GAP
FUTURE PAST WITHIN YOU SPEAKS!
"WAIT. T U R N B A C K!"
ONTOLOGY
Water drips from the hairs on my arms, hands
held high to avoid contamination. I can’t wait
to begin. I guess this Adrenalin rush is what an actor feels
before he strides on stage. A nurse helps me don
my gown. I pull on my gloves. Surgeon, king of my domain.
Minions adjust the mirrored overhead light. I grasp my scalpel.
Fractured images explain the process to juniors. Jokey. Calm.
I’m floating on the easy insouciance of experience. My patient’s
elective surgery’s wasn’t serious. But my satisfied smile morphs into
emergency paddles. A flat line – cardiac arrest. Attempts to revive
him fail. I curse, jolted by this unexpected loss. Nothing to warrant
my sense of guilt. And how might I explain to his devastated family?
The theatre doors burst open. His wife, wild-eyed. Shouting. My
husband came to me in the waiting-room. Out of his body. Saying
you think he’s dead. Doctor, do something… Before we can hustle her
out, my patient’s pulse resumes beating. It doesn’t make sense.
Colour rushes back into his face. Nothing makes sense.
A captive of your ontology,
a tiger in a cage
Doomed to look with borrowed eyes,
your life played out on stage
You pace the floor incessant,
as anger builds within
And hear the distance calling,
feeling trapped, an alien
Will that trumpet ever reach you,
by whose Archangel you’re reborn
Will redemption come to free you
—if Saint Gabriel blows his horn
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
A captive of your ontology,
a tiger in a cage
Doomed to look with borrowed eyes,
your life played out on stage
You pace the floor incessant,
as anger builds within
And hear the distance calling,
feeling trapped, an alien
Will that trumpet ever reach you,
by whose Archangel you’re reborn
Will redemption come to free you,
—if Saint Gabriel blows his horn
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
My dear Ornithorhynchus,
Why do you confuse us?
Neither mammal nor bird
You are a creature absurd.
You are a mammal they say
Yet yellow yolked eggs you lay
And suckle your young
To scale evolution's rung.
Your pelt is so fine
But you root like the swine
In the mud for your fill
With your famous duck-bill!
Your cousins are echidnas
But you've webs on your claws
Of the Order Monotreme
You are an exceptional extreme.
Oh, dear Platypus
You are really thus
A freak of Biology
Of really rare ontology!
~19 Jul 2016~
Logic will never explain the Spirit,
its reasoning is vain
Metaphysics not transcendence,
all thunder—never rain
Ontology dismissing love,
a life of death and pain
Lusting for what we’ll never have
—hating what we can’t explain
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)
If God is something that you think,
It is only a process that you drink;
Wittgenstein's answer of yes and no,
Does only referential justification show.
Societal concepts are never jokes,
But at other people make pokes;
They're straight with direct meaning,
So have an implied, absolute feeling.
David Lehman said Wittgenstein,
Was quoted by dons as sane,
And I just think he restated that,
Language is within society, fact.
God is not physical in any way,
'Cos ontology can't have it's say;
It can't describe the dais God,
Using predicate logic most odd.
But all things are describable,
And sets with no God table,
So we can easily conclude,
That he is just us being rude.
Reference: Wittgensteins Ladder by David Lehman
Is this the school of metaphysics,
The nullifier of ontology?
The diluter of pluralism,
The supporter of monotony?
A description of the virtues,
Depends on the physical existing;
Objects, people, colours and tastes,
Not a divine attributes listing.
What you teach in assembly,
Influences the life of every school child;
A glance, a look, a gesture, a stare,
Beckons mental illness beguiled.
All beliefs should be acceptable,
But humanistic values should centre,
For an understanding environment,
To cherish the individual’s banter.
There’s really not so many ways of life,
All can be categorised to make a few,
So that each family can be understood,
Whether loved, or by the child reacted to.
All too often I just so wanted, needed,
My headmaster to know the poems in my head,
Every night, just so that I could cope with life,
So that he would have good orchestrations.
It only takes a moment to slyly dismiss,
A pupil who’s from atheism’s stance,
But a legislation on school assembly,
Would give many kids a chance.
The first person who grew wheat
would have been called “wheat”
and hence the local chieftain and village folks
would have given a nomenclature
to his discovery,
honoring it with his name
it would have been his name
or something rhyming with it
like “cheat”, “heat” or “eat”
or perhaps “treat”
there was probably someone called “gehu”
in India, who grew this grain
and there is a resembling treatise of words
“gay hun” (I am gay) proclaiming sexual choice
giving it a contemporary feel
of an alternative orientation
were they different people who grew it
at the same time, in the different parts of the world?
was it really Mr. Wheat
Or el trigo, blé or weizen
Spanish, French or German
was the wandering original Mr. Wheat
or cheat or heat or the Russian pshenitsy
who propagated this and we missed his chronicles?
and we missed his chronicle of travels
and basic grassroots experiences
of the genesis of rotis and cakes
of flavor stimulants, of bakes
and of the grass of wheat
for a figure conscious succulent lass
wheat and all its ontology
and the first one’s ecstasy
whosoever it was
had a higher calling
than the current day diminution
The only thought in God’s head is
Being.
Existence
is the choice that Free Will made.
To be and know necessitates “seeing,”
and seeing requires
both light and shade.
The fractal fabric of ontology –
endless Mandela of lights and darks
that likens micro to cosmology,
the music of spheres
to the spin of quarks –
reflects upon itself at every scale
and mirrors
“the world in a grain of sand,”
analyzes the ocean in a pail
and makes us want to learn
and understand,
since,
due to Creation’s consistency,
we are not lost in random irony.
It was inheritance of pain. I should
have known. Incontinent, she was scared
to hug me: the child, after the rape. Shepherding
the lacerations: petrified, a body of lad
floating in a sewage tank; a short circuit in
an incubator, row of infants, life snuffed out in flames;
of being. I want to know ontology, need a
spinal surgery;somebody wants to abort a fetus,
because of mistaken identity, an alien egg
was implanted; racing time,bitter and corrosive,
it happned for the first time; karma, you say.
I don’t agree, you need camel’s milk to clear
your thoughts, like clenched fist against the
darkness; the little child,lad,infants,mortality after
a wrong calculation; the test tubes and petri-dishes,
need despoiling while the soul screams in a
cage;I am ready to jump out of the window,
stories down on the legends, unburdened !
SATISH VERMA
He stood before me trying blindly to exonerate fear
Trying excise God from creation
Telling us that something out of nothing did appear
In a big bang of cosmic explosion
That I am the debris of dead stars
A descendant of archebacteria
Evolved from nothing to acid wars
My beggining beyond all millennia.
Sounds like he was trying to be God making again
Detritus out of chaos from chaos
Disconnected, delusional, putting his faith in a vain
Theory, and badgering us to trust
Without proof that he understood
The ontology of love, the blooming
Egg and fruiting sperm that could
By evolution fill me with this yearning.
I have stood before a rose and bathe in beauty there
Drank from its whispered scent
And visions of a chartered eternity in its light appear
I have heard rivers argument
And soft anthems of the morning trees
And when bow down in temples awed silence
The things that speak of God are these
Order and beauty, love's eternal monuments.
Sold Out
The blogger screams
And I trembling
Naked before the fogless eyes
Dangled like butcher's meat
Stand on the auction block again, the mist of profits screening pain.
Against the gavel rising and falling
Leading bidders for my flesh speak superficial of my loveliness
Orishas mangled in the history of my undoing
Native faith betrayed by a foreign cross
Emigrants hustled in the market of pain.
Tomorrow we all shall reap the howl of coming misery
Ontology broken as a vase on a strand of prophecy
Debacling us in loneliness, nothing left to sell
Itinerants of the global disaster
Earn nothing from the learning of the dying market.
Sold out: is the "it is done" of the cross
Infinite wonder: profit and futures falling
Nature nailing the arthrithic hands
Gladly to the gallows of our grief
I have known nothing built on innocent blood stands
Neutral before the rope of justice
God dangles from his branchless throne.
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