POEM: These Days, This Life.

(4 November 2004)

Just began by sitting by the river's edge, this one, the one so mighty-
within this whole of my new world's reality, between here,

and there alive, and persistantly alone,
            yet alive, and completely aware,
    completely captivated in the words
                shaped by your tight lips,
        and seeing the eyes that you seem to show
                    as you speak the horror constructed,
            conveyed, construed, diverted,
                        and made as real as possible,

                                and diverted to the final solution.

Magnificent solemn passing columns of lives,
                            malevolently passing solemnly by,
with some kind of furver, some kind of random kind of furver,
                            seeming to breed this quiet life left,
fueled by some kind of new religion of sorts,
                            and sanctified by some arbitrary collective

    righteousness...
    splashed with some vivid moments of the streets,

                a morbid hatred of self, with a few tints
                of some ancient witch hunts-

        purifying, sanctifying,
                                a righteous belief of some twisted self
                                creating some new kind of indoctrinations -

    in some random faithfull view of an other whole self,
    projected and conveyed to sanctified mothers, and daughters...
    carriers of this torch that keeps the light on the hideous memory.

            Seeking a righteous quest, a hunt, a vindication...
            
                    and, when all it does, purifying- sterilizing life...
                    making all the beautiful colors fade,
                        filling our skies with these
                    dangerous storm clouds, within this ever swirling
                        tornado of disbelief.
            
    This show of detructivity, without compassion, or passion for this life,
    
                living with these ferocious intensities, near this
                    ever closing column of faithfull troops,
                openly showing one side, voice, or even this seeming ability
                    to lose the gift of the attempt to heal

        that everyone within us...
                
                                and around us...
                                        and holding us back.
    
        these retched wrongs are destructively cursing my mind...
            can you believe this-

                care for, sincerity, whole-heartedly,
                        and completely concerned,
            concerned for all of our hearts, and minds...
                            and this world around the absolute all,
        made of the same star stuffs,
                                in these times we find-
    
        Along, wandering in random everywheres,
                in even the random things, through these days,
                        in the streets...
                                in the homes of random everywheres...

    Now seemingly cast in this unexpected role, and ill equipped to act,
    a great man once showed me song, talent, and rhythm...

            when touching a minds eye, and thru these words,
                this brought me by voice,
            and made me seek these very ideas, bring these goals closer,
            
                    this hope for the everything within...

    But now left to rot, to die, to wait for that first solemn rest,
        for this tired soul...
                                                  seemingly denied,

for even in this being that knows the path of peacefull warriors...
and even yet violating that very faith,

    this warrior seeming to be doomed to fight            for peace,

    yet again, and again....
                        and while in this hysterical blindness,
                        still unable to see an angel inside...

  and, and now, when your faith needs company to stoke fires for life,
      within and without,
        these words, these ideas,
            these willing to keep,
                                      are long gone...
  
  left to those, wishing to keep these passions of their life alive...
  
          or something worse... even to die in some random passing
          in some random judgement, we make every day, every minute,
              every solemn passing moment,
          in some random basement, and to left to rot
              like some common random pig,

to die like some shining sample of sinning scum sucking rat,

          in some random river,
              drowning in some random virtual river of random nightmares
          in some controlled fantasy that they concocted, and left-

    to die in the middle of some ravenous pack of wolves... now scratching,
    barking, lurking, hovering around...

                    I am not blind to this door being slammed shut,
                    as my mind is turning loud...

helplessly ill equipped to move, paralyzed to the point
that it seems there is a need to request just to move...
to ask to breath, because the need the change,

                the panned moving away... seems denied.

        closer, even closer to some reality of security...
            somewhere, not watching
                the column of solemnly passing lives,
                    passing their collective judgement....

                solemnly passing by, this is all,
                    is all just what they seem, to do...

and when these wolves bark at my door, for this fear
    does runs deeper than I would like,
as it does run some lives, runs these minds, these hearts,
    and yet there seems nothing that seems...

        ...that seems to work, to be completely alone, and to follow this road
        laid before me... has just given many hurtles to climb...

and I watch the this never ending column, solemnly slip by...

                                                    ~ klaus andrews