Lost in the Fields

Remember...
when that light shone
inexplicably in your eye
A twinkling promise
of love
life
Forever fading
the orbs of your hope
are lost
Gone back into the fields
rolling seamlessly back
into the timeless
dreams
Echoes like splinters
in fragmented hearts
ringing in empty ears
and hollow whisky glasses
like the ice
so cold
moving across the soul
Inhale the excess
the immovable desire
to run away
back into the fields
into the innocence
the unknowing
the womb
But no, too late now
your straining eyes have seen
so far into the darkness
of you
and her
and the abyss between you
Those old eyes are lost
someplace in the rolling expanse
of the fields
Still watching you run on
with that golden piercing fire
but the only thing you
see
are gaping sockets
painted black with ash
the agonizing regret
of a bright soul
Lost within the Fields.

A. Jaxon

Aristotle's Drinking Party

He sips
the amber liquid,
like fool's gold
amidst the glass and ash,
and the meandering trails
of night's yearning love
for a connection
caught within an escape.
He sits
in contemplation
of his nothingness,
and like the quivering
fingers of smoke
that surround him,
he dissipates into
the stale air
like the afterimage
of a dream.
He is bastard son
to the green hills of Ireland,
and the dark moss
of forgetting
clings thickly to his veins.
He has
the reasoning of Socrates
but the faith of Democritus,
constantly navigating
the hot iron coils
of his questioning spirit.
He is long lost child
to the deep pains of Scotland
but the conquered blood
of the Native
clots like crimson molasses
in his American heart.
He is
the Coyote,
the wise fool,
the wizard clown.
His art
is that of forgetting
what he forces
others to remember,
painting pictures
of innocence
on guilty canvases
and empty walls.
He is
Aristotle's Drinking Party,
and he is forever
defining the Laws of his Nature,
and calculating the
gravitational pull
of his sinking
lonesome soul.

Thought Substance

Bodies of molecules
Constitute bodies of atoms
Bound together in the fornication
Of flesh and spirit

Put your hand through
That wall
It’s the same as you are
Essentially a complex
Pattern of joined particles
Coalescing into the eye’s reality
For an inimitable moment
Of life
Or death
Or a combination
Of thought and action.

Skin brushes against skin
In the frivolous exchange
Of living content
While the eye connects
Image with perception
In a private place where
The atomic illusion of the
External dances with the
Internal electric mass
Of life
Or death
Or an amalgamation
Of tangible and intangible
Realities.

Molecules conduct muscles
That then close the eye
And the mechanism locks
Into the sea of introspection
While the thin blades
Of emotion continue
To converse with outer realms
Of life
Or death
Or a combination
Of reason and faith.

Do thoughts contain atoms?
Does the mind produce
Atomic residue that melds
With the atmosphere of ones
Perception?
Thoughts often transform themselves
Into words spoken on the breath
Of tangible creation,
Often imprinting their matter
Onto the receiving circuit
Thus propagating in their mass
And compounding their existence
Until they become action
Which further shapes
The benign surrounding life
Into a reflection of the initial
Seed.

Bodies of molecules
Constitute bodies of atoms
Bound together in the fornication
Of flesh and spirit

And life
And death
And something in between.

Clear Still Waters

"All America lies at the end of the wilderness road, and our past is not a dead past, but still lives in us. Our forefathers had civilization inside themselves, the wild outside. We live in the civilization they created, but within us the wilderness still lingers. What they dreamed, we live, and what they lived, we dream." T. K. Whipple


Isn't it amazing; our ability to reflect our ambitions upon the land?
The hopes and dreams of those before us sit like lotus flowers
atop the clear still waters of our lives, glistening dewdrops on our fields.
The pages of our history books are written with the blood and tears,
smiles and laughter of many generations, hanging forever in the haze
of yesterday. They are the layers of rock that have molded our mountains,
the winding rivers that have carved the brilliant sunrise of our canyons.
Their ancient cries still echo vibrantly within our modern walls,
intertwining with our lives as does sunlight with shadows.

And so shall our own stories, our own lives and dreams, be reflected
upon the world of our children and their children. We will be the unsaid
names of tomorrow's history books, the silent yet persistent voices
whose words will ring like fading whispers on the ears of those yet unborn.
It is we who will leave our ripples upon the clear still waters of tomorrow,
to shape and mold the realities of that world yet unseen.
Though we are but droplets in the vast ocean of time, our actions
might build the tidal waves of the future, and so as we stand in the
clear still waters of today, let our actions illuminate the night,
so that the darkness of the past is beaten back by the great light
of our realization, that those yet to walk through the trials of this earth
may walk upon a lighter path.

Optimistic Sun

The high ancient cliffs are blossoming
from a velvety spray of pearled blue ocean,
the rough red rocks stretching pillared fingers
into the jeweled eye of the heavens.
Looking west, I see the feathered orb of fire
melting into the glassy abyss of the horizon,
the last tendrils of smoky light reaching forward
and fluttering across my face for one last time.

In the wet swirls of excited air
there are many particles of displaced energy,
filtering through the layered splendor
of the ever-changing atmosphere.
They are searching for a new place to live,
perhaps within the dappled stardust atop the stones
or amongst the windblown trees
with their gnarled purple limbs and emerald leaves,
or maybe in the wind itself, or atop the face
that looks out upon the evanescent brilliance
beneath the newborn moon.

Fading light abounds and dances wildly
with the growing shade of night,
leaving tufts of cloud to reflect the last embers
in the living pools of twilight.
The sunrise and the sunset are very much the same.
They symbolize two polar opposite occurrences
and yet, when caught within the transitory instant
between the world of the waking and the sleeping,
their image becomes unified.
Is birth, therefore, similar to death?

The often-ineffable movement of the earth
becomes poignant in the mysterious hour
when the light rolls beneath the land,
leaving nothing save the intense air of wonder
that pervades the starlit dust of the night sky.
Standing on the tattered edge of the West Coast,
the long-faded reminder of America’s last frontier,
one can see vividly into the ebb and flow of change.

Towers of ghostly majesty now sit
like pharaohs atop what was once
the final breast of the flowering new world,
but light still flickers across the waiting faces
of its vigorous suckling children,
everlasting evidence of tomorrow’s impending sun.

"...a promise that the rock of the world
was founded securely on a fairy's wing."

Headache Reveries

Ughhh, the smoke,
sticky icky beer battered sunrise,
unholy mockery of fun
The ash-laden tabletop
of this burning desire
to ooze into escape,
Breathing in the tendrils of numb,
to become young and dumb and full of cum
Isolated, inebriated,
saturated in liquor-sweat,
beads of amber longing,
Brain-dead, a bed-head
wrapped in black thread...
a pile of human waste,
The bizarre after-taste of heaven,
funneled into the sickening reminder of hell,
He fell into the wishing well,
empty bottles paint pictures on the floor,
reflecting crisp golden sun-beams
onto the back of bloodshot eyes,
straining to close,
Wilted shards of innocence clutch madly
to the unforgiving walls, laughing sadly,
Ticking clocks shatter the well-deserved silence
of the cardboard catacombs,
Sleepers walk with fluorescent eyeballs
hanging limply from their hollow skulls,
The holes in the head ache
with a wake-and-bake desire for one more intake,
One more open door,
rendered whisky helpless on the floor,
smashing dreams,
The nature of the beast is terrifying,
but at least it is fair (says the boy with crazy hair)
Knots tied tightly in the lobes of brain-mush,
a close brush with insanity,
The utter profanity of this so-called humanity
lacks all sense of self and purpose,
Dose and dose you red red rose,
as the moonshine glows and the whisky flows,
Who really knows, oh black charred rose,
from where the need to hunger grows.
The answer is false, waste your time on fantasies,
the truth won't set you free,
This alternate reality has become your actuality,
the totality of your withered life.
Dance around a leafless tree,
oh muse,
and try to be the epitome of serenity,
Sinking ship, swirling in drunken reveries,
break your ties with the dollar-industries,
Climb up the mountain at the valley's heart,
grow fangs and rip your world apart,
Grow fur against which lies deter,
with yellow eyes caress the skies,
And when the beasts inside arise,
hunt them down until each one dies,
Howl at the moon as your world ends,
as your house of cards folds and bends,
And the Castle of Sand at last descends...
into a daydream,
on which nothing depends..

Earth Shakers

Break it apart, crumble it
crack it, smash it to dust.
Let the lust pierce through
and thrust beneath the crust.

Tyrannical lobotomy,
Constitutional sodomy.

Take the life from the words
written by the original quill,
fulfill the undying need to distill
the notes that thrill
from the halls of capital hill.

Become a momentary reflection,
a dissection of spiritual rejection.

Rough warnings written
in ancient dribbled ink
beckon to rethink the link
between the ship and the sink.

Mind/matter manipulation
to result in utter devastation.

The particles build the articles
onto which the atom splits,
the mechanized monster spits
at the very throne on which it sits;
broken, bleeding, blown to bits.

Automated organism
orchestrates the power schism.

Electric winds of change
derange and rearrange,
attempting in vain to save
the hallowed grave of the brave.

Follow the order of the elements
reshape the label of the continents.

Satellite clarity chronicles vulgarity,
sipping the sweet wine of demand
with its iron rod in the crimson hand
standing at the gates to the promise land
with collections of numbers; a mark, a brand.

Unethical assumptions
spawn critical consumptions.

Discuss the model mapping of Olympus
in this destruction we create
an alternate fate riddled with hate;
poisonous retaliation against the state.

Pyramid of pestilence,
let loose your liquid violence.

Take the gilded arrow
from the false prophets tongue
kill the dreams on which you've clung
until your heart is crushed
and your head is hung.

Electro-magnetic fields
wield swords as well as shields.

The mushroom cloud creates a shroud
upon the face of the free and the proud.

The foul taste of the Rat Race
brings fire clouds from outer-space,
monumental earthquakes
blossom as the foundation shakes
and the very third dimension breaks..

...the hour that the beast awakes.