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Drake's MP3 Poetry Readings:
The After Dark Field
Book
(2.3mb)
The Most Perfect
Silence (1.5mb)
The Quiet Before The
Show (333k)
The After Dark Field Book Sonnets
by Drake Raft
to Windy Meadows
I have waited for so long,
To live the magic on the stage,
To breathe the music in this song,
Before time turns the page.
A distant change in the weather,
Lightning sets the sky all aglow,
I wish it could last forever,
The quiet before the show.
Night falls; curtains rise with the moon up high,
And then walks again all that did once die:
The After Dark Field Book Sonnets
Copyright (c) Drake Raft & www.jollyroger.com, 1995
All rights reserved.
BeaconWay Press: PO BOX 1087
Chapel Hill, NC 27514
i.
Sitting alone by the window one night,
Brown dried grass sleeping in the late summer,
Heard a symphony playing out of sight;
Neither bows nor brass, a silent drummer.
Perhaps yawning sounds of distant traffic,
Or ghosts lamenting in the heavy air;
Echoing vibrations from the tragic,
A melody of yesterday's despair.
That quiet music made it all seem true,
I drew a cool breath and felt it's all right;
Come tomorrow there are things I must do,
But I believe in silent sounds of night.
When it plays again, the night's symphony,
Perhaps she'll hear it and remember me.
ii.
The phone rang, she said, "hey, there's a blue moon,
Let's picnic in the old cemetery,
We'll start off at dusk, be there by night's noon,
It's far off, hard to find, but by the moon we'll see."
Now I'm not morbid, don't worship Satan,
Any more than Darkness's Prince might worship me,
But of graveyards at night I am a fan,
As I was of her quiet mystery.
Met her down at the old waterfall fort,
She was seventeen, I was twenty three,
They'd taught us to not heed laws of the court,
But a friend's all I wanted her to be.
'Cause I'd been through it all too many times,
I was still burning for yesterday's crimes.
iii.
A reflected moon danced 'cross the water,
The lake 'round the graveyard's peninsula,
She recited a poem her dad taught her,
About the perfect poet's fatal flaw:
"There was a kid who could make it all rhyme,
And everything he touched it turned to gold,
He wrote of love and death and tide and time,
But to find the yellow metal's so cold."
The poem chilled me; the flames faded to coals,
One more piece of art born of suffering,
Threw another log on to warm our souls,
But light to the night more wood would not bring.
Then I saw it! I saw it clear as day!
The thought no words, only sonnets, could say.
iv.
So quick with a smile, agile with a laugh,
Such a wild spirit I never did see,
She split the last oatmeal cookie in half,
Threw her half to the horned owl in the tree.
We leaned up against a big old tombstone,
And upon it I saw chiseled my name!
But it was but shadows of branches blown,
As the dark wind and the trees played their game.
She told stories as the moon climbed up high,
She made them so real, felt I'd been with her,
I watched the flame of our last candle die,
Up my spine crept a cold, tingling shiver.
"Wake me up if you go," she leaned her head on me.
She fell asleep, started snoring lightly.
v.
A cloud crossed the moon-- my God what is this!
Darkness was complete, nothing could be seen,
Stared so hard, but no light could my sight kiss,
As I was enveloped in the black scene!
I panicked. Out! Help! But I couldn't scream,
'Cause I knew that it would be of no use,
For this abyss was of my private dream,
I had earned it by my sordid abuse.
Felt I was drowning, my heart pounding mad,
I gritted my teeth and thought, "All right night,
I know I've walked crooked, and I've been bad,
Take my soul, darkness, and show me the light."
Broke out in a cold sweat, and lost my breath,
As these poems were wrenched from me, to their death:
vi.
Conservative bandit, almost got lost,
Towards the wild sea youth always carouses,
Against the decadent rocks I was tossed,
For they'd deconstructed the light houses.
But I dragged myself from the tumbling surf,
And you know that yourself you've got to save,
These great fuited plains know bountiful turf,
But your own roads, friend, you are free to pave.
There's something beyond the politcal,
The eternal beyond the daily news,
Beyond the proud elite so cynical,
I took to the sea with no time to loose,
One foggy night, to make beacons of romance,
In truth's ragin' ocean, I'll take my chance.
vii.
And everybody broke up this summer,
Have you heard? There's no more reason to be.
Everyone's marching to their own drummer,
Everybody has just got to be free.
Guess you were searching for that perfection,
That they throw up upon the silver screen,
Found you in a bloody pool of rejection,
In the movies that scene is never seen.
Tell me girl, where were you going to go?
When you told me true love didn't exist,
Nineteen years old with nothing left to know,
Guess you'll never tell now, why you slit your wrist.
I'm sorry, but I don't know what I feel,
Your life from the rest of us you did steal.
viii.
You should've looked when darkness descended,
Listened closely, friend, to the silent still,
For there's a beginning when all has ended,
Sure as there's death atop our dearest dream's hill.
If you wish to listen, then let me tell,
Let words fill the emptiness of being,
Without words I'd be in unconscious hell,
For thought there would be no way of seeing.
When you leave the path, order starts to wane,
and instilled illusions begin to fail.
When you are cast away in private pain,
to the whispering wind of these words rig a sail.
After dusk, had I never sought nor looked
in the utter black, I'd have missed this book.
ix.
Technology, you have reached your limit,
You can't amplify the beast anymore,
You've duplicated flesh, replaced the wit,
Created pictures which words were once for.
Blinded by the light, consciousness withers,
We are ruled by feelings, pleasure and pain,
It's dark out there, in the cold I shiver,
Being alone in thought makes one insane.
You hit humanity like a tidal wave,
Distracted the Lord, gave us idolatry,
But there's something that science cannot save,
Nor touch-- the written word's deep mystery.
For technology, you cannot touch this,
It is but what it is; a kiss is but a kiss.
x.
A seventeen-year-old midwestern kid,
I packed my bags; hopped a plane for the East,
I had sold my mind to the highest bid,
What a shock to find I'd been bought by the beast.
They tried to lure me into saying ,
Overwhelmed me in dark reality,
So blind, they think they're equal to their luck,
Out to destroy my truth and destiny.
Seemed so contrived to me-- liberal laws,
No friends around, alone I walked the street,
Tried to rip me apart with mental claws,
They drew first blood; I found it to be sweet.
So here I am, pedant punk, disagree,
While your daughter's reading my poetry.
xi.
In the end they didn't have to ban books,
We returned, once more, to the dark ages,
Where all were manipulated by looks,
And crucified were all silent sages.
You were just trying to find a hand hold,
Something to believe in to raise you up,
But all you could find was brilliant fool's gold,
Didn't seem so sweet to drink from success's cup.
Anyone with sight never feels they belong,
For the superficial order's unfurled.
So you rebelled against all you thought was wrong,
By suicide you took on the whole world.
Me too girl, the night killed a piece of me,
Some call it innocence-- some say it's vanity.
xii.
In the graveyard the spirits came haunting!
Mysterious vapors shunned by society;
Unseen in the midst of flesh's flaunting,
Aye, mate-- I'd never seen them on MTV.
I brought out my pen, my pocket notebook,
Hands possessed; 'wind blew my pen 'cross the page,
As rose from every grave yesterday's spook,
I was seized by each ghost's particular rage!
It was my penance to capture it all,
I'd rampaged paradise-- the fruit I ate,
To gain redemption after the long fall,
Sentenced to capture night in the sonnet.
Where the human meets the void, art shall be,
Where order meets chaos there's poetry:
xiii.
By the valley cliffs we hopped on the train,
The flatbed cars that rolled on by at ten,
They always slowed down for the curved terrain,
Crossing the Ohio, sped up again.
Marie and I, we chased the sun all day,
On by the golden fields of September,
The rushing wind all our secrets did say,
In summer's breeze she glowed like an ember.
Apollo dove under, the train slowed down,
She had fallen asleep on my shoulder,
There would be no east bound train back to town,
But I didn't wake her, I just held her.
If flesh could follow what the mind does see,
Then I 'd be back on that train with Marie.
xiv.
Welcome to the silent jungle, my friends,
Where everything's done in the cloak of night,
Villain's smiles are but a means to an end,
Turn around once and you'll be out of sight.
No one seeks the truth, just get me my A,
We're all just faces in the faceless crowd,
Hit the street looking for someone to play,
Not you-- you bore me; grass has made you proud.
Sent me to this mental institution,
It's a rough time in here if your soul's white,
Don't need your cocaine, I've got religion,
I don't need anything that isn't right.
Mess with this, and it'll rip your mind in two.
You've got your illusion; this owns what's true.
xv.
All around me the red leaves were falling,
Swirling and twirling on down, so was I,
Blowing cold northerly winds were calling,
But with these broken wings I couldn't fly.
Then she walked by, brought a change in the air,
The sky in her eyes, the red in her hair.
In her I can see a summer sun set,
Roses by the road, rainbows when it's wet.
She flies so free, watch her go her own way,
One more guy, doesn't matter what I say.
Oh, I know in my arms she'll never be,
Closest I 'll get are these piano keys.
White ones when I 'm up, black ones when I 'm blue,
I play all of them when thinking of you.
xvi.
Oh my friends, ask not where the poet lies,
The poet lies within each one of you,
The creator of dreams, life's alibis,
Masterpieces of art, in all you do.
There's untold talent in watching the moon,
Or feeling the humor within a joke,
To read a book, appreciate a tune,
To fall in love with fall's burning leave's smoke.
But time is the master of all our rhyme;
He inspires it, and then takes it away;
Night's dreams born on silvery mists sublime,
All fade away, with the dawn of the day.
There's no beauty for which I ever cared,
That wasn't a beauty in which all shared.
xvii.
Walnut walls, golden studs in red leather,
Freshmen prep-girls wearing autumn kilts plaid,
Oh, come outside, there's much finer weather,
It gets in my way-- all for which is paid.
But there's a beauty there, genuine warmth,
It's nice sometimes, to come out of the night,
To catch Hickory's smile, and lose your breath,
Oh girl, for sore eyes you sure are a sight.
And what's this now, is she walkin' towards me?
How's it that she's catchin' me by the eye?
How is it in this crowd me she does see?
I'm just a T-shirt and jeans kind of guy.
"Seen ya around, stranger," she says to me,
"But never thought I'd catch you in Ivy."
xviii.
So you think you want to mess with me tonight?
Want to classify me by your disdain?
You think into my mind you've got insight?
How could you? You've never walked 'gainst the grain.
And all your degrees, they mean nothing here,
Upon the wide open fields of my mind,
You're the visitor in these words, my dear,
And your manners you really ought to mind.
So why don't you get dressed, now that you're rich,
No, there is nothing noble about you,
Deconstruct another, you jealous witch,
None of what you think about me is true.
But blindness is what makes idiots wise,
The ability to see truth in lies.
xix.
This soft secret's blown by the whispering wind,
To be caught by the white sails of your soul,
Listen close, in this tale truths you will find,
That to live we must keep locked in a black hole.
Oh, I have been shipwrecked upon thought's rocks,
Trapped above the water in consciousness,
I believed I held the key to the lock,
That confined man to his meaninglessness.
Born with a belief in thought and logic,
I felt by reason I'd find the good way,
But down reason's road I found the tragic,
Above the destructive element I can't stay:
Back on the sea, safe within a story--
For reasons sink in the great void's glory.
xx.
The greatest turn on is sweet innocence,
There's no seduction like that of the truth,
Quick girl, come-- the Autumn night we could sense,
Right now on the fields 'neath the speckled roof.
Follow me, Hickory, to the golf course,
I can smell the rum, I can taste the fire,
Red hair, Lennon glasses, the brisk wind's force,
The Greek Gods that Cheshire grin would inspire.
To the echo spot by the pond we walked,
Pile of Oak leaves, scent of cotton candy,
Pushed me down, lookin' up we lay and talked,
She'd stolen from Ivy a flask of brandy.
"Kiss me," she said, "I know your name's a fake,"
"But kiss me, kiss me right now, right here, Drake."
xxi.
Hey teach, don't think I'm gonna read your book,
Tired of being your captive audience,
It's messed up, I'd say, my money you took,
And then you tried to rape my common sense.
Tell me teach, why do I need a degree?
They were worth something, perhaps, long ago,
But fadin' fast is your precious society,
Where politics is all you have to know.
But you're tenured to the corporation,
Selling transcripts in nihilistic classes,
I'm forced to buy mental masturbation,
From your gang of pretentious asses.
To evolve we don't need your final solution,
The truth shall prevail in evolution.
xxii.
A fall evening among the whispering leaves,
That spoke the secret of the cool season,
From their branches soon they would have to leave,
Though for changing weather there's no reason.
And her red hair was the color of fall,
Asleep upon my shoulder, unaware,
That like the leaves, we too would someday fall.
Lines would be etched upon her face so fair.
Oh she possessed an innocence so blind,
And the blindness made her most beautiful,
For I could believe I was being kind,
Instead of so selfishly dutiful,
Believing truth prevails in life's contest,
Makes my poems fair and her beauty honest.
xxiii.
Rhyme without reason is but painted void,
Reason sans rhyme is not philosophy,
Though half realities by empty men are buoyed,
For them it is true as it's all they see.
The great scholars are the great agreers,
When the blind lead the blind, the blind do see,
You're dead if you think different from your peers;
Liberal's tyranny of mediocrity.
Institutions wane and empires grows weak,
When blind conformity is deemed as strong,
When children are destroyed if their minds they speak,
When men seek power by tradition's song.
Burn! Burn down the school for which forests fell!
Burn the preacher in his self inspired hell!
xxiv.
I'm the pirate of your mind's seven seas,
I'll plunder your soul for a poem's pleasure,
And all your thoughts in these words I shall seize,
In a sonnet I'll bury your treasure.
Aboard this sloop I am the only law,
Whatever I choose to show that is seen,
If you want to duel I'll duel, let you draw,
Then I'll take you down under the calm green.
So get rid of that borrowed attitude,
It doesn't make a difference way out here,
You know, I find it just a little rude,
For you to keep secrets from Jolly Roger.
Aboard this ship death and darkness hold rank,
Think a slanted thought and you'll walk the plank.
xxv.
Thunder under the hood, trees blur on by,
While the stars above keep up silently,
Her hair blown on back, never needs to try,
She expresses beauty so naturally.
The cool wind rushing in from every side,
Black ribbon of road splits the fields in two,
Wire wheeled MGB, take us for a ride,
'Neath the Carolina night's mystic view.
But girl can I reach you, those bright blue eyes?
Touch the element behind that cool smile,
Too quickly we rush on, 'neath the starred skies,
Wish I could know you-- stop-- hold you awhile.
But I've got to keep my hands on the wheel,
Takes everything you've got, writing what's real.
xxvi.
Poet philosopher, you're a dying breed,
You'll be shot, then hung, if caught on the street,
Got high-tech, Renaissance men they don't need,
Bureaucracies only need to repeat.
You could have it all, if you had the greed,
You could rent your soul, boy, put on a tie,
But you would pay the price; your mind would bleed,
Freedom you cherish would wither and die.
So pull your hat down low, 'gainst the North wind,
It's a lonely walk, following the true,
The abyss gave you passion and a mind,
So run, boy, put in words all that you view.
Outline the beauty with the deep, dark pain,
Write to save yourself from going insane.
xxvii.
She may have had music in her blue eyes,
But there's quiet truth in your dark brown hue,
And where her painted face and hair told lies,
There's a natural beauty about you.
She might have the money and the right look,
But you have yourself, and your smile's in tune,
With beauty, souls we often overlook,
The soul's forever, while beauty leaves soon.
Now I 'm older, I appreciate more,
Than just an ornament to hang around,
The music in a face becomes a bore,
While the soul plays scores of infinite sound.
And so it is you are my first true love,
As I 've looked deeper, and risen above.
xxviii.
Oh, Einstein, couldn't you see tragedy,
In the search for the ultimate order?
While from Hitler's perfection flowed a blood red sea,
Couldn't you tell what would lie at the void's border?
Remember Hamlet's outrageous fortune?
Did you see what they did to Socrates?
And how Ahab's quest led him to ruin?
How consciousness was lost by good Nietzsche?
Did you not expect, the ultimate law,
would show that there is no law to be found?
Oh, Einstein, it's nothing new, quantum's flaw:
At the base of man's monuments there's no ground.
For the highest order is orderless,
Tragedy is there's naught behind greatness.
xxix.
Hey girl, these days of freedom make it hard,
'Cause we're kind of pitted 'gainst each other,
It's so easy to fold, take another card,
Everyone's looking for the perfect lover.
Seems like yesterday we would've made it,
And we could've traded souls forever,
But our generation's become so jaded,
Walls have been built where our souls have been severed.
But feeling pain's not a sign of weakness,
You know the pain, though you cannot admit,
But by those who most feel the black bleakness,
The two threaded tapestry shall be knit.
Let's be but friends so as not to be enemies,
We know what it's like to drown in love's seas.
xxx.
I crossed Washington by the Oak tree,
And walked under the philosophy arch,
I noticed a gargoyle looking at me,
It stiffened me like a collar with starch.
A wide open mouth on a face of pain,
Little monkeys climbing over the head,
Hellish horror the stone sought to explain,
While all the monkeys laughed over the dread.
What man condemned this poor visage to fire?
And in what kind of world did he believe?
To put this next to the majestic spires,
That reach for the empty blue sky to cleave.
Genius architects can't lie, so they hide
among stones gargoyles of man's other side.
xxxi.
Build me a ship to sail the seven seas,
A philosophy to describe all man,
A science to all nature's secrets seize,
Fiercest elements the hull must withstand.
Ah, but there's something no hull can outlast,
Be it of oak, be it iron or steel,
Be it words which into the truth is cast,
The barnacle shall overcome what's real.
The disciples attach themselves, so vain,
Barnacles believing they steer the ship,
Blind to the white sails, the mind's lofty pain,
So thick, with currents hulls begin to slip.
So the religion follows the masses,
Drifting 'cross seas 'til on rocks it crashes.
xxxii.
Studied Plato and his Predecessors,
Though any of them I never did see,
Instead they sent along an old professor,
A grad-student tagged along eagerly.
We learned of the forms, I met Socrates,
I admired the ways of that wise old man,
To learn he knew nothing, I paid my fees,
And realized education was a scam.
"Excuse me here, sir, but if you don't mind,
Nothing could I learn better without you,
A quieter place to sleep I will find,
For my term paper this blank sheet should do."
And that funny course, I never did pass,
But I learned more than the rest of the class.
xxxiii.
I know what you mean when you say you're sad,
Sad to see me now that we've broken off,
Those perfect days playing Frisbee we had,
Our hearts back then we did truly betroth.
Girl, to this day I never felt like that,
Afraid to ever fly that high again,
By your side still kind of wish I was at,
Soft eyes, wild laugh-- I can't say it in pen.
For everything perfect is tragic too,
As perfection which doesn't last is flawed,
And girl it'd kill me to see him with you,
By time memories of mine from me shall be sawed.
Go away girl-- don't want to know 'bout it,
Before I met you I lived without it.
xxxiv.
You set the stage, make up pretentious rules,
To ensure your disciples shall inherit,
Doesn't matter that they're blind, that they're fools,
Doesn't matter that they don't deserve it.
You build institutions of tradition,
Where conformity is what gets you through,
Ceremonies for fake erudition,
As if money can buy the deeper true.
But I guess it's all for entertainment,
We pay professors to tell us we're smart,
Give us virtue so we can run the government,
So we don't have to fight the wars we start.
Lie with a straight face-- you say it's the trick,
No thanks, I walk quietly-- the truth's my big stick.
xxxv.
There's a bird sanctuary on a pond,
Where all the Princeton geese come home to sleep,
They appeared as if summoned by a wand,
We were the shepherds of these feathered sheep.
The cold rain began to descend again,
She tucked her hair into her jacket's hood,
I drew the cord, tied it about her chin,
Geese honking good night to us, there we stood.
The sun peaked through for but a moment or two,
Before it slipped away over the edge,
It was then I knew our love would be true,
As the woods slipped over darkness's ledge.
We slowly turned from the fading pink sky,
Her face came up to mine, I closed my eyes.
xxxvi.
You know I never could figure you out,
There were things you didn't want me to know,
I know you've built walls to shut the pain out,
We fear they can't understand; so we don't show.
I know the magic lasts but a moment,
And a mystery figured out is dead,
My memory of you can not ferment,
As with our safe distance we never bled.
I know we weren't made to fall in love,
Two too skeptical of inherent nature,
Every time my heart flies as high as a dove,
I'm kissed, and torn apart by a vulture.
I guess I just want to see you one more time,
The mystery that gave reason to this rhyme.
xxxvii.
Turn off the technology, radio,
Don't need trees cut down for a newspaper,
In the forest is all I need to know,
I like nature-- wouldn't want to rape her.
And I don't really need a car to drive,
I've walked the miles, and I'll walk a few more,
It's a mystery why so many strive,
When the ocean's tide shall sweep clean the shore.
Don't want your political rhetoric,
Don't need you telling me who I should be,
Get me to the misty mountain's rocky creek,
Take me away to the silvery sea.
With the trees I feel so much less alone,
Than in a crowd where I could never be known.
xxxviii.
After dark, running across the golf course,
The moon rose in the summer night so clear,
Suddenly I was startled by a horse
I thought first-- then I saw it was a deer.
A marble statue, it's head held up high,
Looked around, noticed we were surrounded,
Twenty seven of his friends standing by,
I held my breath, the silence resounded,
Then the leader, he looked into my eyes;
He held me there, smiled, then nodded his head,
Laughing at the sad beauty of man's lies,
Off into the dark, my dearest friends fled.
But his gaze had transferred a light divine,
I 'm a believer in creatures benign.
xxxix.
Does life's meaninglessness make it mean more?
Are actions nothing in contexts of chance?
Or does chance give man something to live for,
Insignificance makes significance.
Because it's all for naught, we can be free,
But to be free, then we are free to choose,
What difference can choice make if naught will be?
All's equal in naught; there's no win nor lose.
So then the naught makes it all mean nothing,
But if this be the case, I will sing,
For I shall be free to act anything,
And into the void I shall myself fling.
If there's no consequence, then we are free,
But what good is free, when but naught will be?
xl.
Old Derek, though you may be far away,
I know all the things at which you would laugh,
And in my head I can hear your voice say,
The cow in the mudhole's taking a bath.
Seems no one else in this world understands,
The subtle joke at the root of it all,
But we wrote papers, we played in three bands,
Together from our youth's years we did fall.
But I know our spirits live forever,
And though each day we have to go to work,
In my heart, with you, we're young as ever,
Golf-ball hunting, me and my friend Derek.
The longer we're apart, the more I care,
With each passing face he becomes more rare.
xli.
Late September brings a chill in the air,
You can catch it at one in the morning,
As the leaves prepare for their final flair,
Without even a gentleman's warning.
Oh the fleeting beauty of a youthful fall,
Brought tears to my inexperienced eyes,
With barely any memories at all,
And my twentieth year not yet gone by.
I suppose the romantic grows old fast,
Nostalgia comes easily to him,
Fascinated by all that doesn't last,
Held in awe by time's predictable whim.
With words time's burden I try to shoulder,
But as I write this, I've become older.
xlii.
Seeking to describe beauty in nature,
He pored over his books for countless hours,
So he'd understand how time does mature,
And unlock the beauty of a flower.
Mathematical equations held truth,
That was absent from the realm of people,
Why the people laughed there could be no proof,
So he let only math in his steeple.
A driving order ruled his steely heart,
To which he felt all nature must comply,
People can lie about love from the start,
But time and gravity they can't defy.
He never found the key to beauty's tomb,
The people stole his notes and made a bomb.
xliii.
Gothic gray stones frozen in winter's air,
They may stand forever in the same place,
But time time erases the moments youth shares,
And each year brings youth with a different face.
Past laughter and humor rise to new heights,
Like wine with time does become more detailed,
Lost loves become memory's most precious sight,
Alongside our white hopes and dreams that failed.
Friendship never again will be so strong,
Together we discovered who we are,
These iron bonds will last all our life long,
As our gestures travel on towards the stars.
Now you know why I watched on from the edge,
For it hurts to lose friends over time's ledge.
xliv.
Rock' n roll took my soul, left a black hole,
And filled my head with all the empty words,
Politicians playing the savior's roll,
Took my cash, left me to the circling birds.
Oh but today's shallow art they're screaming,
It sells to the masses, it sells to me,
A thousand thousand kids begin dreaming,
Up on that stage they'd someday like to be.
And so it was this way with my friend Mark,
Bought a guitar with his college money,
Black Sabbath couldn't save him from the dark,
To lose in this land we'll always be free.
Guess he was naive, trusting what they said,
Last night good Mark shot himself in the head.
xlv.
Shh, sleep on, sleep on, my innocent friend,
Got to face the after dark on my own,
Can't promise I'll make it to the night's end,
Love you, but I've got to do this alone.
Got to separate myself from it all,
Find where I've gone wrong, where I've been cheated,
How much of it was my fault-- the long fall,
And to how much of it was I fated?
Next time girl, want it to be forever,
Ain't got nothing, by myself I stand,
And girl, you may see me again never,
If this truth the void wishes to be banned.
So judge me darkness, tell me what I'm worth,
If I'm nothing then take me from this earth.
xlvi.
A mind can make so many connections,
Before this grand vitality does cease,
It becomes stale, void of new inflections,
Spirits no longer afford matter's lease.
Each sonnet, each word, takes me closer,
To the day that I will no longer write,
Though lost, I 'll not be a tragic loser,
Good sportsmanship is accepting the night.
To free my Ariel, and Caliban,
And not demand of them more than their due,
To smile upon children as I grow wan,
It's enough to have once thought something new.
And there's a peace here, beyond all that's true,
For by truth, we justify the evil we do.
xlvii.
Hey there! How am I supposed to reach you?
When words no longer exist in your mind,
I wonder, do you still wonder what's true?
Or do you just follow your instincts blind?
Thought I saw something there two years ago,
I know you understood the things I said,
But now your sail's down, on by these winds blow,
Guess it's my fault; because of me you bled.
So I let go, watch you fade into black,
Can't ever tell if it's the times or me,
But either way I won't be coming back,
There's consciousness higher than MTV.
All your money, and that sorority,
Guess I just need different reasons to be.
xlviii.
I was studying the workings of a star,
Quantum mechanics, nuclear fusion,
From which is borne all life from afar,
This reality of dreams and illusions.
But there was no magic to the physics,
The cold, hard equations of description,
Couldn't convey the feeling so mystic,
To be living with her in a fiction,
A dream it must have been under the stars,
Her eyes closed, and her wet hair swept on back,
Oh, lost in reasons we fight all our wars,
So just give me a piece that's free from fact.
I no longer care what makes the wind blow,
There are things that a child should never know.
xlix.
In thought to grasp laws of the universe,
Independently of being observed,
To set a feeling down in rhyming verse,
Without knowing poems others engineered.
To humbly probe the depths of human sight,
Preferring nature to admiration,
To walk where no man has walked, in the night,
Passing up speaking for contemplation.
To live alone with thought, and be complete,
To not have to abuse men to succeed,
To live beyond the short-sighted elite,
To reality, the prophet will lead.
Oh Einstein, my words wane next to your thought,
The poet who found truth that words could not.
l.
When the red sun touches the horizon,
Feel the heat radiating from the bricks,
A whiff of cool air; the night has begun,
And you succumb to your fantasy's tricks.
Oh, look towards dusk's deep blue eastern sky,
And dream the dream of a sixteen year old,
Somewhere out beyond, there's a reason why,
Sure as there's a reason we're never told.
The first spring night, that wild call's in the air,
Sitting on a bench, watching strangers pass,
Cars in the distance, quiet as a prayer,
Across the courtyard walks so fine a lass.
By the first warm, windless night I 'm swallowed,
And I taste the things that are not allowed.
li.
Girl, you're gorgeous, but don't it get boring,
Turning all the heads walking down the street,
I see girls see you-- they start comparing
themselves to something so naturally elite.
Girl, I'll tell you, it kind of gets boring,
Wearing my emotions upon my sleeve,
With everybody my mind exploring
Looking for the cracks in what I believe.
Never thought twenty four would be like this,
Thought by now I'd have it all figured out,
But I guess the mystery makes the first kiss,
Never quite knowing what she's all about.
Addicted to the stage, though there's a part of you,
That you know all the people lookin' never knew.
lii.
In evolution, conformity wins,
Because it's shared by the majority,
It's easy to sail with prevailing winds,
To navigate over well-chartered sea.
Original men are never needed,
The adult minds already have their words,
Defining power, how laws are heeded,
A new way they don't need nor can afford.
So the perceptive men are crucified,
Their ideas are relatively crazy,
To stand and say the people are defied,
By lying truths in the context hazy.
There's an element in man that must know
a truth, so the dead prophet he follows.
liii.
So many tears we shared over nothing,
For we feared that nothing would soon prevail,
I was afraid of losing everything,
But now it's OK that you have to sail.
It's hard to tell what's real from what's an act,
But we told the truth, even when we lied,
Pretending that forever was a fact,
As we played out our charade side by side.
The truth is that you're a beautiful girl,
But the truth in your face brings a man down,
With love the logical world did unfurl,
In beauty's truth all other truths do drown.
Alone, I am left with nothing to know,
With you I lost my truths; now you too go.
liv.
The black bleakness cuts to the bone at night,
When you're so far, far, far away from home.
Drawn out, tired, everyday you've got to fight,
All alone you must bring forth a new poem.
My eyelids grow heavy, I'm getting cold,
Dull headache descends, the void takes its toll,
But I must yet stare in, 'til all is told,
'Til the light's drained, extinguished is the coal.
Guess it's crazy, to have to walk alone,
But what I saw I always had to say,
Such a short time we've got to make it known,
Such a long time we've got down there to lay.
You look long enough, boy, into the void,
It looks back into you and you're destroyed.
lv.
When all the forces have been unified,
And all philosophies have been explored,
When the final solution has been applied,
I in all this perfection shall be bored.
So I'll drop you a line of rhyming verse,
Watch the critics try to file it away,
They will load each word into its own hearse,
Taking out of context everything I say.
For in their minds my words lose their meaning,
As they use me to justify some cause,
I say I don't believe in anything,
Saying nothing, these words transcend all laws.
But as I did not create these words I use,
I guess it's fair my thoughts should see abuse.
lvi.
Late October eve, Indian summer,
And the sun sits on level with your eye,
Blinded by the light, you can still see her,
So calm, so still, a cricket's sawing sigh.
Red, orange leaves, and yellow in our star,
Green grass, blue skies, in her eyes indigo,
A beckoning violet from mountains so far,
As the sun sets over autumn's rainbow.
When with someone the question disappears,
The search over, the moments last forever,
Oh, true love we learn so quickly to fear,
Watching eternity recede into never.
But against the pain, don't build a perfect wall,
Leave a window for the rainbow of fall.
lvii.
I've got four million CD's to choose from,
Ten thousand channels for me to tune in,
A hundred professors selling wisdom,
Don't need it, with my own mind I begin.
I know how, thanks, to read a classic book,
I don't need you telling me what it means,
Never much respected blind, kniving crooks,
They let my fathers die-- liberal deans.
You don't care about the mind that is me,
Which is OK; I don't care about you,
But I am not making you brown nose me,
While you'll flunk me if I don't do it to you.
You can have your racist diversity,
Just give me my F and set my soul free.
lviii.
Why worry about all the details?
When nobody understands the basics?
Why decorate a page with gaudy frills?
If nothing's ever said of the classics?
Physics is trading the forests for trees,
Four years of book-keeping, five more in Grad school,
Everyone stares at the board and copies,
To believe one understands takes a fool.
But men with the conforming elements,
Forge ahead, believing that they know,
They preach to you, that they're close to what's meant,
What the essence is behind this brief show.
While lesser minds corrupt in institutions,
Maverick minds follow their intuition.
lix.
Past the point of return, slipping so fast,
Into the dismal depths of depression,
It's nothing new-- the high never does last,
Think by now I would've learned my lesson.
But I yet reach for my own destruction,
Towards the perfect dreams my mind does present,
Lend a hand to evolution's erection,
Closer to death as each emotion's spent.
And oh boy, it's gonna be a bad storm,
Constant thunder's white noise within my head,
Too many connections, gone is any one form,
It's time for me to join the living dead.
The meaning wanes, I've been buried alive,
I exist, but gone is reason to strive.
lx.
These poems are not for critics-- they're for youth,
Don't read this if a teacher tells you to,
But read it if in words you find a truth,
That kindles that precious, perceptive view.
Oh, for all words were born upon feeling,
Without sentiment words are meaningless,
So beware, my friends, of pedants stealing,
Your right to write, leaving you dreamingless.
Without feeling, they have not the insight,
Into the present's loves and tragedies,
Mediocrity is the genius's plight,
Against him, it owns the majorities.
So don't study me friend, study yourself,
Lest your mind grow dusty upon the shelf.
lxi.
Artists envy the audience's eye;
For it has the final claim upon art,
Creators see the extravagant lie,
Where observers find a truth for their heart.
Does reason lead poetry's lines to rhyme?
Or does rhyme float above the deep reason?
In reading one feels both at the same time;
A rainbow and snow in the same season.
I wish I could again enjoy a book,
And be blind to the pain between the lines;
Skipping stones on the surface of a brook,
With a child's belief in something divine.
But more than you, I envy these few words,
For after we're gone, they will still be heard.
lxii.
It keeps me young, staring into the void,
I seek dissolution and shun pretense,
All external order must be destroyed,
I only want to feel what I can sense.
In decadence there is an honesty,
You can memmorize order but not feeling,
From society's subtle lies I'm free,
Art flows from me-- I'm not the one stealing.
There is nothing that compares to the high,
The high that is inspired fleeing the dark,
You must believe you're gonna truly die,
To gain the magnificent rainbowed arc.
I know forever nobody can fly,
But these poems let the Sysiphus in me try.
lxiii.
The profit of knowledge is ironic,
The poet prophet is a paradox,
At once both the venerator and cynic,
At once setting free and binding with locks.
We're taught that it's virtue to have the truth,
God wishes us to look down upon lies,
But the truth, the truth is good evil's proof,
To be honest is to oneself despise.
Kurtz's insight was a reward of life,
The realization of truth-- the horror,
It marked the beginning of Marlow's strife,
Corrupting insight into man's true core.
Truth walks among angels, burns in hell's fire,
Truth's dangerous when told by a liar.
lxiv.
Your beauty I can't reach nor touch tonight,
And so I focus upon this paper,
To bring your eyes and hair into light;
Rescue you from my mind's cloudy vapor.
Golden hair, down to the small of your back,
A smile so perfect, made for a goddess,
The curves and movements, nothing do they lack;
Yet in your laugh there's all that is modest.
The girl who found the channel to my heart,
The moment my eyes fell upon her face,
A fallen angel, with heaven did part,
To embroider my days in ruffled lace.
I would burn this paper, and break my pen,
If I could but hold her close once again.
lxv.
Early this morning you got on a train;
I tried not to cry, it started to rain.
Though you left me, I will try to be strong,
I 'll think 'bout you while they're playing this song.
I know I 'll never stop dreaming of you;
You will be with me, whatever I do.
When I feel down, I 'll look up to the sky;
Hear the melody I stole from your eyes.
You told me you needed to feel you were free,
You left my heart locked, you ran with the key;
And so I sit here, with nothing to do,
But sing the music that reminds me of you.
I stole this melody, from your blue eyes;
On the rainy gray day you said good bye.
lxvi.
Without beauty, how easy to abstain,
From the pleasures that beauty is heir to,
To promote virtue, with no chance of stain,
To be pure, there's nothing else he can do.
He rises above as a holy man,
His saintlihood garners sinner's respect,
The flames of fear and shame he knows to fan,
Making the different look like defects.
So the different are to be condemned,
In this way the ugly find their power,
Fueling reasons for men to be contemned,
Reaping the grim treasures of hate's dower.
We made him, he who plays upon our fears,
When he cried as a child, we ignored his tears.
lxvii.
My body's the ship, my mind is the sail,
My spirit keeps on blowing me along,
Over the ocean blue, imagination's dale.
Just a kid riding the wind's whispering song,
Driving my bug, wearing a bandanna,
My hair flowing back, pedal to the floor,
Dreaming beyond that blinking antenna,
I was sixteen, knocking on heaven's door.
On that summer eve my mind connected,
And my soul was borne upon the night's air,
With a freedom I became infected,
And ever since I haven't been back there.
Still don't know what this wind's blowing me toward,
But I know it keeps blowing me forward.
lxviii.
If you walk down by Princeton Inn college,
Say hello to the Grad Tower for me,
I watched it for two years, over the hedge,
December's sun sets held Divinity,
If you go on by McCarter Theater,
Listen carefully to the singer's words,
It's youth who causes the earth to teeter,
So take it to your heart, all you've heard.
And if you walk through the institute woods,
Be sure to ask the geniuses for me,
If in their ideas they see any good,
And what time's done with who I used to be.
If you run into me, don't say hello,
I may say something you don't want to know.
lxix.
You once saw something in me girl-- it's gone,
There was music, a sense, in the words I'd say,
But that was long ago, and we've moved on,
To killing each-other everyday.
Almost forgot I've been through this before,
There's a truth I value above people,
It's the power behind all of my lore,
I worship alone in this abstract steeple.
The contradictions you will never see,
Though you sometimes feel the insanity,
But because I can laugh at tragedy,
You know you don't really matter to me.
Beauty's in the beholder's eye-- it's strange,
That I am different because you have changed.
lxx.
When we met I saw a truth in your eyes,
I watched as the world kicked you in the head,
When down it's easy to buy into lies,
The eighteen year old I once met is dead.
Don't fear or hate me, just 'cause I'm different,
And I won't hate you just 'cause you're the same,
It's not by choice that by cruel wind we're bent,
No one controls the dice in this cruel game.
And I know my words shall never reach you,
I guess I must just write them for the wind,
And as it blows these big black clouds on through,
May it blow all my poems to someone kind.
Honesty is a lonely place to be,
But it's lonelier to pretend to agree.
lxxi.
One can not prepare for both peace and war
Simultaneously. I can't believe
that peace is what atomic bombs are for,
And those who believe it themselves deceive.
For the bombs were built by great men of pride,
Grown men celebrated while children burned,
But many more, I have heard, would have died,
So we are saved by that by which we're spurned.
From war we make peace, in peace we find war,
It's in our nature, the will to explode,
Creative destruction sleeps in man's core,
The bomb waits, Noah's flood has not yet flowed.
The bomb increased our power to destroy,
But our souls the same vices yet employ.
lxxii.
I've got no reason to listen to you,
Your old T-shirt says authority sucks,
And now that you're it, I see that it's true,
Giving us condoms, wishing us good luck.
No, I'm not gonna let you write my role,
From depression's throne, you look down on romance,
I can get plenty high without a bowl,
In pure words with her I have learned to dance.
Oh, cut me down some more, miserable witch,
You're a phenomena of easy times,
Not gonna lie with you in that liberal ditch,
Somebody's got to write the unknown rhymes.
Burn it! Destroy all weakness that constrains!
As truth the institution only feigns.
lxxiii.
He said we'd value reason over poems,
We'd follow logic instead of pleasure,
We would catalogue heaven's starry domes,
Make sure words never mingled with measure.
Philosopher kings would bring us the truth,
We would have no need for the birds of song,
From the poet we would stand aloof,
Art's imitation, imitation's wrong.
Oh, but Plato, I read this in a book,
A dialogue between people unreal,
Long and hard, for Socrates I did look,
But all I found was what you made me feel.
A naive poet you are, my Greek son,
To believe your truth is the only one.
lxxiv.
I can know you better without you here,
To remind me of the ways you have changed,
You've grown up, and adapted to the fear,
You don't feel that you yourself have been estranged.
Don't think that you're the first to think me a fool,
For being martyred for but a trifle,
But what is a life worth without this rule--
Open honesty I shall not stifle.
It isn't something you can trade nor sell,
One misplaced note ruins the entire sound,
You can stand me up at the gates of hell,
But I won't back down, no I 'll stand my ground.
My friend, if you truly loved the baby,
You wouldn't cut it in half-- there'd be no maybe.
lxxv.
So quick to accept some recognition,
For unselfish good performed on our own,
So eager to join in a tradition,
Where modesty on a stage can be shown.
There's paradox in medals of honor,
For the honor has already been done,
Presentation's to the medal's donor,
To include him in wars already won.
The allure of secret societies,
And all the empty beliefs we cling to,
I guess these mirages we choose to see,
For there is nothing else solid to do.
And so we build our castles upon air,
The king's tragedy's to learn nothing's there.
lxxvi.
By Rocky, listen to the whisper arch,
Hear the echoes from the winters before,
Turned my collar to the wind, throat was parched,
My legs were aching and my back was sore.
But still I ran through the cold blowing snow,
Without love, without hope, with but a heart,
No curiosity, nothing to know,
Blank white out, couldn't find a place to start.
But still I ran through the slush, the hour rush,
Bleak gray fog pervaded all of Princeton,
I was slipping, drowning in this vast hush,
With no where to go, nothing to get done.
But I ran, and ran, I outran the gray,
To give this to the whisper arch to say.
lxxvii.
An ode to the four towers of Princeton,
There's a Fine tower reaching for the Gods,
While along the ground the physics must run.
McCarter tower, where people applaud
the youth strutting their hour upon the stage,
But yesterday, the alumns were up there,
Sweet scent of magnolias carried rage.
Over the greens, the graduate tower,
A pillar of isolated knowledge,
Studying Fitzgerald, Shakespeare's dead youth,
While the living poets turn from college,
Look deep into her brown eyes for the truth.
The highest tower's in Rocky's court yard,
For with the freshmen lives the living bard.
lxxviii.
All the greatest things must be tragedies,
For what is great but that which can survive,
But that which has come forth from the vast seas,
But the genes that have prevailed, stayed alive.
To stay alive one must use energy,
The higher the tower, the more power,
The more order, the more entropy,
That one may be sweet, the rest grow sour,
And so the winners, they define the God,
And say that God has created the winners,
But good youth perceives the winners are flawed,
Entropy makes winners greater sinners.
By this duality we have evolved,
About this paradox we still revolve.
lxxix.
What is it I missed, they all must wonder,
To be so close and yet, so far away,
To have felt the wind, and heard the thunder,
Though never seen a lightning bolt split the grey.
To have written volumes and volumes of words,
No where is there a thought worth remembering,
The music they feel, they can not make heard,
Sisyphus's meaningless labouring.
My consciousness in this dance must be lead,
By yours, and while it is I 'll write the poem,
Till someone new comes, hears the things I said,
And transcends them to touch the heaven's dome.
I'll say hello as I plummet on down,
Oh, I shall hide my melted wings, and drown.
lxxx.
Man shall not live by melody alone,
He shall have thoughts and ideas, said in words,
And he shall engrave these treasures in stone,
He shall defend these treasures by his sword.
Which is why but melody's innocent,
For it does not pretend to have reason,
There is no man who can say what is meant,
By Beethoven's pastoral, changing seasons.
These masterpieces form the nucleus,
Of cultures and natural selection,
The emulators become all of us,
We see by the genius's vision.
Oh, don't memorize how to touch the keys,
Do what you feel; strike wherever you please.
lxxxi.
Show them the Parthenon, they'll level it,
And call the broken rubble modern art,
Gaudy and pretentious they see sonnets,
Free verse rings true to the modern heart.
Forget pondering 'bout philosophy,
They've reduced dead white males to a fashion,
Deconstruction and relativity,
These are today's culture leach's passions.
Theories founded on that which they refute,
Critics try to tell you how to compose,
I thank them for trying to make me mute,
Without them this pain wouldn't become prose.
I 've seen them do the starving artist in,
I won't lose; their game I don't want to win.
lxxxii.
There's a ghost in the garage, Bethany,
You know I'd never go there alone,
Lately the scare-crow's been acting funny,
And Rufus dug up an odd looking bone.
On the porch, I don't recognize that pumpkin,
While raking leaves I had these strange pangs,
I looked up-- it gave me a big buck toothed grin,
Next time I looked it was like baring fangs.
There's a message on the machine from Grandma,
I was glad to hear she was doing fine,
But I liked her better when she lived with Grandpa,
On this side of the tracks, above the county line.
Though I've watched TV, this is the strangest I've seen,
I guess it must be getting close to Halloween.
lxxxiii.
It's a paradox that the greatest mind,
Of Socrates was not compatible,
with life-- reason to lie he could not find,
Sentenced to permanent sabbatical.
So the good poet must offer a lie,
Like Plato offered in his dialogues,
He had Socrates, removed, wonder why,
While he himself became a pedagogue.
Plato was a poet, a creator,
Naturally he wanted competition banned,
So he lied and said his truths were greater,
Gave his prophecies to be taught to men.
In the same breath he rhymed and banned poets,
So the coward's the same as the stoic.
lxxxiv.
When they kill you in the name of freedom,
Then don't you know it's time to burn them down,
It's a democracy, not a kingdom,
There is no such thing as the tyrant's crown.
So just who do you think you are, sick witch?
What makes you think I must be loyal to you?
Just because you lease your mind out to the rich,
Doesn't mean you can tell me what to do.
But you're a pawn in today's tyranny,
You're a beggar-- can't be a chooser too,
You're a fake in a university,
I went there and learned these facts to be true.
It's but political, get out the knife,
Got to kill if you want to keep your life.
lxxxv.
It's so much more than just true love with you,
I felt true love in our first autumn kiss,
But now that I look back, behold past's view,
It's the friendship I found with you I miss.
For compared to friends, true loves are common,
They come and go with the wink of an eye,
But true friends are not so easily won,
They must walk upright, while loves sometimes lie.
But friendship lacking love's void of romance,
And love without friendship's a losing race,
I guess I lucked out in this game of chance,
To have found both within your pretty face.
Though miles and mountains keep us apart,
Neither distance nor time can thwart my heart.
lxxxvi.
Marie, I wonder if you think of me,
As much as I 've been thinking upon you,
Nothing I 'd like better than you to see,
But I 've got exams and homework to do.
But nowhere in quantum can I find truth,
Nor the feeling I find talking to you,
Only in your brown eyes do I find proof,
And inspiration for the things I do.
And so for the moment I turn away,
But it's only so I can turn again,
Of these things that to you I 'd like to say,
I 'll set my thoughts down for you with my pen.
At this moment I wonder what you do,
Are you thinking of me, or someone new?
lxxxvii.
All you adults getting naked up there,
On the silver screen-- don't entertain me,
All the blood, guts, and nudity you share,
With the children in the land of the free.
So you think I'm a just an animal?
Do you know that which you are creating?
We're more than consumers shopping your mall,
Gettin' bored watching you masterbating.
When you're done with us, what shall we have left?
After your reign, what shall drive the economy?
Of our souls and meaning we'll be bereft,
To massacre each other we'll be free.
The context is gone for deconstruction,
You've done your job-- now mine is construction.
lxxxviii.
Hold me back girl, don't want to ruin it,
Don't want to make us fall over the edge,
Cause I 've learned there's a natural limit,
That governs how much you're allowed to pledge,
Don't want to hurt you, I want to be sure,
That my heart once again belongs to me,
Buildings crumble upon foundations impure,
I want something different for you and me.
For there's a sincerity about you,
That I admire, would like to have myself,
It seems you're so fundamentally true,
And yet, there's too, that mysterious stealth.
Never been so deep so quick with a girl,
I fear to touch it, and see it unfurl.
lxxxix.
I fear all the small minds in high places,
That through blind conformity rose above
Others who thought and looked beyond the faces,
Those who did not fit in a pre-made groove.
I know a boy who took easy classes,
He made all A's and they said he was smart,
You know the different folk he bashes,
Good books grow evil when used by bad hearts.
Words are warped in a mind's tiny context,
In fits of paranoia he strikes out,
He feels strength when debasing words are flexed,
The people follow his murderous shout.
But movements are more than a single man,
He's but the spark, the people are his fan.
xc.
Esoteric mystery, sixth of June,
Warm smell of marigolds, a worn path's dust,
Over Pine's spire, the rising full moon,
High on the innocence of teen-age lust.
Thursday of dead week, before reunions,
Haunted by deserted dreams of the past,
Can you hear ghost music from the dark rooms?
When you were young you believed it would last.
Youngpixie girl, walking with her father,
Arm around her, he points to the door,
"If I could do it again, I 'd go further,"
He looks at her, chooses the thought to ignore.
Oh, here we learned all truths are bitter sweet,
That eternity too is something fleet.
xci.
You're in the jungle, boy, of Princeton U,
For one hundred grand we'll show you the way,
The Great Books are all gone, they were the few,
Outnumbered by what the tenured priests say.
We're here for revenge, to set it all right,
With those crimes you've comitted 'gainst women,
Got our economists the rules to write,
You're not diverse enough to hold a pen.
An individual, you'll never do,
We need the mindless for beauracracy,
You've got a defect, you think there's a true,
There's not, but for what we need you to see.
We're here to promote peace, equality,
Sorry, you must die-- we can't let you be.
xcii.
Man, the great political animal,
Must spend a life believing in his lies,
From the cradle to his last funeral,
He fabricates a reason each day to rise.
And yet too these reasons are the truth,
As beautiful as the November rain,
Aroma of the pink blossoms of youth,
As real as heartbreak, the first lost love's pain.
The body gives the mind reason for reason.
Though ideals are sacrificed for beauty,
It's not really sacrifice-- changing seasons,
It's the rule of nature's reality.
Whatever shall happen shall happen-- I know,
Whether or not you choose to think it so.
xciii.
Eternal vigilance: Liberty's price,
The hand of power is our enemy,
A despot wielding virtue as a vice,
Democracy becomes a tyranny.
She exists on the premise of liberal thought,
In this country founded upon free speech,
These ideals for which yesterday's men fought,
These God-given rights she herself does breech.
Oh, it is not her fault, for she can't see,
The paradox of tragic irony,
To be the poet queen of the free,
One must possess humble responsibility.
Democracy rises from tyranny,
Tyranny gives birth to democracy.
xciv.
What do we do with the old love sonnets?
Do we save them for Grand Children to find?
Will they nag us, like yesterday's regrets?
Or grow dusty with memories in our mind?
Oh, either way, it's a losing battle,
One more sign of time's relentless arrow,
The finest verse, and meaningless prattle,
Both disappear and leave me with sorrow.
But heart-ache, and oh, beautiful sorrow,
They fill me with hope, give me a reason,
That I, I may yet find her tomorrow,
Change has brought me round to the green season.
The words are lost and so is my ink pen,
Ah! But look, the paper's a leaf again.
xcv.
Girl, you're gettin' good at cryin' and moanin',
You practice so much every single day,
I must keep you around to hear your groanin',
It's bringing me down, everything you say.
What I don't understand is why you blame me,
Told you a thousand times, you're free to go,
The lighter side I've tried to help you see,
But you're dedicated to the morbid show.
Did you ever stop to think and wonder,
That what's killing you is pot's phoniness?
Though it's not my fault you blindly blunder,
You'll hate me 'cause to me your secrets you confess.
So go away girl, my mind's bad for you,
You drown in it-- stay in your shallow view.
xcvi.
Thou shall not steal nor commit adultery,
Then why have some more while others less,
If all men were created equally?
What they believe's different from what they confess.
Superficial order they interpret,
Find ten thousand ways to justify cause,
Adults learn the childhood truths to forget,
They hide their secret-- they don't believe in laws.
But the law of nature which drives them on,
To breed as our forefathers did so well,
They own survivng genes, all others are gone,
To win evolution wins life, not hell.
So the elite use the ten commandments to steal,
In their dark minds they separate ideal and real.
xcvii.
Salinger's verve she does not understand,
By law then, he can not be a writer,
As by Plato, all the poets were banned,
'Cause he couldn't explain their light brighter.
So often a great man lies behind his words,
Lies are safer than truths think animals,
He bans rhyme, rules with logic's double edged sword,
Icy order's instilled by the devil.
Republics can't be ruled by philosopher kings,
Philosopher kings will never exist,
Love of knowledge and power are different things,
Knowledge is used for power, when they're mixed.
It's tyrant's instinct that all should be banned,
That one fears that one does not understand.
xcviii.
Who would have ever thought that the oppressed,
Bleeding hearts would have risen to power,
Yesterday's outcasts become today's best,
Old ideals by present actions do sour.
For what man can resist the temptation,
To follow the call of natural law,
To set aside words of contemplation,
To find perfection in what he called flaw.
Blessed are those who know it's all a game,
They discern the truth from what is spoken,
Blessed are the heartless, who feel no shame,
When rules they made by themselves are broken.
Damned are the sensitive, and those who see,
Paradox in to be or not to be.
xcix.
I wish I could find the words to reach you,
But I 'm older, and I 'm not so certain,
That there is anything that words can do,
To reach behind your mind's iron curtain.
For I see I can't say what I believe,
Whenever I am conversing with you,
And you think that my poems do too much grieve,
I can't share this with you, why I feel rue.
Mountains are highest, seen from the valley,
You can't write if you have nowhere to climb,
Heaven's found at the end of the dark alley,
Fighting the futility of fleeting time.
But I feel my words pushing you away,
A bit further with everything I say.
c.
To see it all is not an advantage,
For then you are unlikely to conform,
To what the masses arbitrate is sage,
You see the capriciousness of the norm.
But the minds of men make few connections,
For they use the same words without the thought,
Once I was fooled-- thought they saw abstractions,
The abstract by conformity isn't bought.
There is no way to imitate a laugh,
To sing words that one does not understand,
Or to follow ideals with a blind lies wrath.
Conformity won't make a stick a wand.
To see it all will send you to your grave,
But you'll go knowing there's nothing to save.
ci.
You wondered how it could ever happen,
How the words we read came from once banned pens,
Beliefs we heed came from crucified men,
You wonder how, and it happens again.
The Prophet dies and the vultures descend,
Empty men fill themselves with the power,
Very same men who killed Him in the end,
Marry the dead, inherit the dower.
But he forgave, for they never felt more,
Than what the bestial feels for its prey,
Cold machines use pieces of prophet's lore,
To kill the living prophet of today.
It's not in a book, no, it's living hate,
No amount of wonder can change this fate.
cii.
They must make superficial distinctions,
Because deeper their perceptions can't see,
Finding faults in color and religion,
Godless beasts without humanity.
Watch out! They speak of culture and science,
But their rhetoric contributes neither,
If they had beauty, they'd prefer silence,
Over killing the world's weak with ether.
And what is weak, but the man who can't find,
A restraint when he looks into his soul,
A melody when he looks in his mind,
To keep him from falling in his black hole.
The strongest are the ones who can turn away,
From glory and fame, to the calm, dull day.
ciii.
Some day you'll read me, wonder what you saw,
In my poems that Southern November night,
Words of mysticism, without a flaw,
Upon forgotten feelings, words shed light.
Something in those lines transcended the page,
Joined a magic element in your soul,
They all combined and there was born a rage,
Out of the infinitely deep black hole.
A melody where there'd been none before,
A sculpture where there had been only stone,
A tale where yesterday there'd been no lore,
You knew your feelings weren't felt alone.
But alas, those feelings were long ago,
In some one new my poems take root and grow.
civ.
The insecurity we inherit,
From our parent's flauntings in the face of fear,
As children we don't want a part of it,
Truth, fairness, and justice we hold too dear.
For we awaken, to a world unfair,
We scream to our parents to stop lying,
But they feed us on faith, insist on prayer,
It makes no sense, though neither does dying.
There is no meaning, and yet we must live,
So we play along with our parent's game,
And to live in this world, our lives we give,
With our lies the children we kill and maim.
The only pure faith is faith in oneself,
Not borrowed from men, or books on a shelf.
cv.
About just having felt the magic spark,
I write these words with beauty's thought of you,
Last night well on into the morning's dark,
Our long gazes kindled a flame anew.
Your soft brown eyes have found a way inside,
Every thought is punctuated with you,
From love's fate to fall there's nowhere to hide,
You're the queen of my dreams and all I do.
Brown eyes with blond hair is a thing so rare,
But without you here it is too rare to bear,
My heart's lost in hopes of moments we'll share,
About all else today, I can not care.
Unsure how you feel, in secret I 'll write,
Hoping our paths will cross again one night.
cvi.
One morn I heard the perfect wind blowing,
The rustle of ten thousand leaves woke me,
I felt it was time I must be going,
I walked outside and the feeling left me.
A bright autumn day, but how many times,
Had I followed the beckoning wind!
Captured it in my mouth, and made it rhyme,
Only to find there was nothing to find.
The wind it blows right around this great big globe,
Only to return to whence it began,
Exactly like me when I myself probe,
The greater the dream, the bigger circle I ran.
But at each moment the tangent's a straight line,
So I rig my sail, reach for the divine.
cvii.
You can't play a flute, nor a piano,
What makes you think you can play upon me?
The answers to my questions, you don't know,
Yet you act like you wrote my mystery.
You can't tell wind which direction to blow,
And yet you try to manipulate me,
You've never been to heaven, or below,
So what makes you think you see what I see?
You never cared 'bout contemplating,
How can you be sure what I am thinking?
You just weigh me down when I am floating,
Yet you think you can save me from sinking.
In your empty world all the lies are true,
Your soul's wafer thin, I see right through you.
cviii.
Didn't like poetry, didn't like books,
But she read them, it was the thing to do,
She liked new shoes, and getting all the looks,
How could I love something that wasn't true?
Oh babe, you left me a long time ago,
Each time I saw you enjoy your vanity,
Who I really am, you never could know,
Cause beyond your own face you'll never see.
Same old story, her visage's glory,
Blinded me to the emptiness within,
But beauty is truth, and truth is beauty,
Hence sin must be good, and all good must sin.
Funny, it was your vanity I loved,
And away from you by it I was shoved.
cix.
You can bury your head deep in Shakespeare,
Hope his magic will rub off on your mind,
There's a hidden element in a seer,
That makes genius impossible to find.
Art comes to life and gives lucid meaning,
Immersed in the rivers flowing through your head,
Only as good as your private dreaming,
Shades and nuances remain dry and dead.
It is the artist who imitates life,
Life means something different to everyone,
The better the art, the closer to life,
All points of view contribute to its sum.
So if you try to write, break all the rules,
In creativity rules are for fools.
cx.
She broke my heart, the music started playing,
Lying, cheating, stealing, that's all she did,
I guess in these parts I won't be staying,
Of the things that once brought me down I 'm rid.
Why it took so long, I will never know,
It was based purely on her made up face,
I once feared so to think she'd ever go,
Now I 've let her run, never liked the race.
Oh, but it still hurts me deep down inside,
I turn the music up, but it can't drown,
The feeling that to myself I have lied,
She's flying free tonight, it's me that's down.
There's something deep in me yet to be faced,
Before her pretty face can be erased.
cxi.
The day was grey, dusk fell and broke the cloud,
A blue patch in pink, I saw my way out,
Toni Iommi was playing so loud,
I screamed but I couldn't hear myself shout.
Here came Satan, barreling 'round the bend,
He was singing, bringing down the darkest night,
He smiled at me, tipped his hat, said, "hey friend,
I 'll be back for you, go ahead and write."
He sped on by, the dust got in my eyes,
But I had seen the hole up in the sky,
There had to be a way to beat this guy,
With a pen I know it's useless to try.
For all written words end up with your foe,
And straight to Beezlebub's purpose they go.
cxii.
With one hand one God, one hand on the bomb,
Physicists became the reigning poets,
Of Black holes, our origin, time's womb,
But by elegant math could we know it.
Books giving a brief history of time,
How the universe began, how we became,
Cleanly explained, with no mention of rhyme,
A removed, peaceful description so tame.
For lest we forget our own conception,
Forces that drew our formers together,
The envy and fear at love's inception,
Words of hope and belief, the heart's lever.
In math you lose the soul's reality,
There's no Schrodinger's equation for me.
cxiii.
I know a man who got a diploma,
And confused it with an education,
And then he went on to study the law,
So he could offer an explanation.
Of why he is rich, and why you are poor,
Why he is sane, and how you are crazy,
How you've become defiled while he's still pure,
How hard he's worked while you've been but lazy.
For you've got nothing, and no food to eat,
You took Socrates and Van Gough to heart,
So you've joined the lonely maverick elite,
The living poet, creator of art.
Rejection filled decades of frustration,
Is the price of highest education.
cxiv.
At the Cottage Club we turned at the gate,
Like we had seven thousand times before,
Paused for a brief moment outside to wait,
To bid my farewell to this closing door.
What is anything that you say or know,
When you put it over eternity?
The final quotient's equal to zero,
When you divide life by infinity.
And yet in those walls I knew forever!
What a cruel trick did youth play upon me,
To make me think that things would change never,
Cruel is all laughter, friendship and beauty.
At life's paradox we can cry or laugh,
It's nothing, yet it's all we'll ever have.
cxvi.
The sky never told me how to write poems.
So why do you insist on doing so?
For there's more poetry in the starry domes,
Than we'll ever see from down here below.
There's a mystery in all our actions,
That mocks our scholarly contemplations,
The ones who accept answers with satisfaction,
Are the ones who lack imagination.
So what right do you have as a teacher,
To tell me the way I must create?
When all art is an intrinsic feature,
No amount of study can change one's fate.
But I guess all these things you might not see,
Without them you'll never truly know me.
cxvii.
When the clouds blow across the autumn moon,
Do you still deny that there exist ghosts?
When a fog crosses the sun at high noon,
To say there are no spooks, do you still boast?
When you answer the phone before it rings,
Do you still scoff at my superstition?
And if your vivid dream tomorrow brings,
Would you pass it off as intuition?
If I told you you were being followed,
Would you start looking over your shoulder?
In the dark, do you fear being swallowed?
There now, did you just feel it get colder?
There are more things in this heaven and earth
Then we'll ever know by our sense's dearth.
cxviii.
You say that the things I saw brought you down,
Oh, but beauty's in the beholder's eye,
It is the things you see that make you frown,
It's only your conscience that makes you cry.
Girl, it's not me you're trying to escape,
It's the void that surrounds all our dreaming,
But because I perceive the darkness gape,
It's at me that you direct your screaming.
But there's no turning back after that night,
The night which we fell in each other's arms,
To fall in love's to lose all wrong and right,
For love's high we trade all youth's perfect forms.
But you don't need perception I see,
Pretty, all you have to do is agree.
cxix.
Men of principle will philosophize,
That because we're just men we should be fair,
In absolutes where only God is wise,
We must refrain from passing judgement there.
They set their thoughts in book's written pages,
Because no one knows, we are all equal,
And up rise the leaching pedant sages,
You know that tragedy is their sequel.
They wield the book as a bloody weapon,
Take phrases out of context to oppress,
All the time thinking that they love God's sons,
Our intentions our actions confess.
But my eyes see that the liars prosper,
While the lie's burden honest men endure.
cxx.
Words are best when they do what but words can do,
When on the silver screen it can't be shown,
When music is too empty to be true,
When by but her face her thoughts can't be known.
But to use words to describe surfaces,
Shimmering spectacles of graphic sex,
Poem's words are corrupted in these places,
These temptations to where the weak mind trecks.
For who would take their words back in the cave,
Once elightened to the realm of noble thought?
To whore oneself, and be the mass's slave,
When with words a higher truth could be sought.
They see no difference between random and art,
White noise is nature; music's in my heart.
cxxi.
If life isn't fair from the beginning,
Is it fair to lie if you're not winning?
If you see that the preacher is sinning,
Should you join the villains and keep grinning?
You know it would be easy to fit in,
If you didn't have that crazed notion of justice,
If in little lies you didn't see sin,
If you preached different from what you practice.
But with a soul you've got a lot to lose,
It's easiest to live your life half blind,
Without insight's doubt it's easy to choose,
Without a mind reasons are easy to find.
But there's nothing but the beautfiful true,
So cast away all thought, feelings shall do.
cxxii.
Babe, you know you keep me moving along,
One look in your eyes, I know what to say,
Babe, you know you keep me singing my song,
You smile and I know the right notes to play.
'Cause I don't see much more in this cold world,
Than hills rolling off into purple hues,
Yellow sunflowers into blue skies swirled,
Morning's golden harvest sprinkled with dew.
You know it's from you that springs my belief,
in my words, because you believe in me,
Out of the old oak grows the living leaf,
Out of the green leaf grows the grand old tree.
She said we're happy as we'll ever be,
And then she turned, she walked away from me.
cxxiii.
They say we're made of quarks, leptons, and force,
We have properties of mass, energy,
Well so does a tree, and so does a horse,
It is but man who's made of poetry.
They believe in grand unification,
That the goal is to explain all as one,
Well I say death is our shared destination,
So in death all unification's done.
In both words and science the poet lies,
Descriptions reflecting order within,
But only the fool believes he is wise,
For saints could never be born without sin.
Blind animals preaching divinity,
Won't find words nor equations for me.
cxxiv.
You get old and find a place to fit in,
Yesterday's rebellious ideals congeal,
Somehow you justified a way to sin,
You can only think where you used to feel.
Meet the new boss, same as the old boss,
Lear, you blow and rage, beating down the youth,
They've got nothing, life is not a great loss
For youth, if it can not be lived with truth,
For the young man's riding against the wind,
And your breath, you know it's growing stale,
One fine morning you wake up and you find,
That coming for your ship is the white whale.
The things you once chased now turn upon you,
What you did to them, Moby does to you.
cxxv.
What difference does it make if we describe?
The laws that govern heavenly motion,
But that it can be used to oppress tribes,
Life forms of a less noble devotion.
If we were but in it for the thrill,
Then to ourselves we would keep our insights,
But if not praised by others then we're nill,
So we make spectacles of inner lights.
We've always worshipped the best description,
It is but a description of the self,
Clearest mirrors give the best reflections.
And in mere reflection, we find belief.
But all the words, they don't really matter,
Next to the rain's steady pitter-patter.
cxxvi.
I traded my dreams to see her brown eyes,
Early one sunny Saturday morning,
A sleepless night of asking myself why,
Feelings that dawned on me without warning.
What had I been trying to say to her?
What had she been trying to say to me?
I guess the feelings gave us both a scare,
Fearing that this would end no differently:
That we were headed down that one way road,
That had hurt us to walk down once before,
Love may fade away, or love may explode,
Either way, soon our love shall be no more.
I fear these things, and these things I must say,
Just as her nature takes my breath away.
cxxvii.
When we met I saw a truth in your eyes,
Then I watched the world kick you in the head,
When you're down it's easy to buy into lies,
The eighteen year old I once met is dead.
Don't fear or hate me, just 'cause I'm different,
And I won't hate you just because you're the same,
It's not by choice that by cruel wind we're bent,
No one controls the dice in this cruel game.
And I know my words shall never reach you,
I guess I must just write them for the wind,
As it blows these long dark storm clouds on through,
May it blow my poems along to someone kind.
Honesty's a lonely place to be,
But it's lonlier to pretend to agree.
cxxix.
Won't you take me one more time to the extreme,
Show me a smile in which I can believe,
Make me an illusion, give me a dream,
Bring to life this summer solstice's eve.
I've been broken down so many times,
But it always gets me back to the ground,
Learned that flying too high, too long's a crime,
You've got to walk the miles for your soul to be found.
But now yesterday's pain is receding,
As youth's full moon's tide has begun to ebb,
Show me there's more than feeding and breeding,
Something after the grave, before the crib.
Science and logic mean nothing to me,
Without your mystical reality.
cxxx.
How can you tell a youth he cannot write?
Tell him to pick up his books and to go?
To tell him that he's not creating right?
When what true art is nobody can know?
Oh, you cold, heartless witch, so full of fear,
Of the truth within a nineteen year old,
It wasn't his fault he was born a seer,
It isn't his fault you are growing old.
A crime against nature that you should teach
creativity when you're talentless,
You are who you are because you're a leach,
You can't see your sins, you'll never confess.
I forgive the blind, for running in to me,
To avoid collision, it's up to me.
cxxxi.
Riding two on a bike on red brick walks,
And I kissed her on the back of her head,
I don't remember about what we talked,
But the feeling remains from what was said.
A tender dusk, she asked me why I smiled,
But what was so funny I couldn't say,
The air tasted fresh, I felt like a child,
Along Chapel Hill's red bricks we found a way.
Cause she puts me at ease, and makes me feel,
So many things I lost away back there,
Where nobody talked, nobody seemed real,
About finer things no one seemed to care.
On my bike there'll always be room for two,
Just as long as the second one is you.
cxxxii.
I called you back, because I thought maybe words,
Could let you know the way I feel 'bout you,
But the words we draw sometimes become swords,
We hurt those to whom we want to be true.
And I don't understand the way it works,
When anything I say, the opposite's true,
Words I feel come forth, but the meaning shirks,
The words don't transmit the intended view.
And without confidence in expression,
We turn away from words, towards silence,
Afraid to reach out, to make confession,
About vulnerable hearts we build a fence.
It's hard to let someone new in, to share,
When you fear they might not always be there.
cxxxiii.
She called me out in the hall to stab me,
In the back, where my classmates couldn't see,
Looked me in the eye, said I couldn't be,
A writer, for my style's immaturity.
She said I wrote of too many ideas,
I asked her which ideas I should remove,
She asked me nicely, to get my books please,
Into remedial writing to move.
Bitter spite behind her calm temperament,
The big nurse from over the cuckoo's nest,
I smiled and thanked her for her compliment,
I was flattered to learn I was the best.
Went back in, sat down, enjoyed the circus,
As she whipped their minds into nothingness.
cxxxiv.
Last night I read some old sonnets of mine,
And I think I know how you must have felt,
To see the lost feelings frozen in rhyme,
Wonder if to us the same fate would be dealt.
But I know it's not just any one thing,
At one time we can only know one thought,
And though the truth in words we try to sing,
The true truth only melody has got.
But when the sun dives low, I think of her,
And late at night, alone, it's her I miss,
Cause in her eyes I have seen something there,
When I kiss her, there is a depth I kiss.
You know everyone has their mysetry,
I guess mine's that I say less than I see.
cxxxv.
I'm out of here girl, you're bringin' me down,
No need to be romantic anymore,
That short skirt, every night goin' down town,
I ask myself what are we talkin' for.
'Cause we can love, but still you're gonna flirt,
It's not your fault-- these days you've got no choice,
If I let you in too far it would hurt,
I keep my thougts to myself, save my voice.
You want me so badly to love your soul,
I can't do it if you don't do it first,
It's not easy girl, findin' the right role,
When with such keen perception you are cursed.
Right now I can't answer to anyone,
You can't slow down, girl, when you're on the run.
cxxxvi.
The old guard is trying to beat me down,
Though I respect them, it will do no good,
Upon their work time's tide begins to frown,
Their free verse does half of what a poem should.
For years now rhyme's been viewed as pretentious,
What better word is there for a critic,
Instead of creative, they're contentious,
Yet they claim the flame of the artist's wick.
From the midst of chaos best springs order,
Deconstruction gives art a chance to rise,
Reason and rhyme define a bold border,
Standards for calibration of the eyes.
I know to pass judgement would be a sin,
I 'll be quiet, and let the best poem win.
cxxxvii.
She assigns books written by all her friends!
Where is Melville? Where is Shakespeare? Where is Twain?
Literature for her is a means to an ends,
Sans thought, sans feeling, sans ideas, sans pain.
Her endorsement is on the back cover!
Her political game has no place here,
In thought my fathers were far above her!
But she prospers while dead lie the seers.
Oh, there is anger burning in my veins,
Oh, this poor world has been turned upside-down,
Political puppets judging our brains,
Be vigilant! Let not the poet drown.
Yet somehow I cannot justify cause,
For I feel that I'm breaking the same laws.
cxxxviii.
I listened to that tape you once made me,
I know there was a time when you believed,
That there was something good in my poetry,
The other night I feel you felt deceived.
That my poetry was a game to me,
Cause I was smiling, you were feeling down,
By words you made your feelings known to me,
I read your poems, and the words made me frown.
So I had to share the feeling with you,
About the forgotten, we needed to talk,
I feel it's worth it, with you to be true,
To walk where with others we fear to walk.
But you know that I can't help feeling bad,
To think you think my poems make the world sad.
cxxxix.
I 'm sorry I ever entered your world,
Gave to you my depressing poetry,
I 'm sorry you blamed me for what's unfurled,
Sorry you blame me for your misery.
But you may as well, 'cause I 'm different,
You might as well condemn me to fiery hell,
Your anger at the world upon me vent,
Use my name for the reason we all fell.
The prophets they'll kill as they killed before,
Cause he wanted peace to last forever,
He made politicians resemble whores,
Threat of truth, his life they had to sever.
Politicians and prophets are best friends,
They feed each-other, and worms in the end.
cxl.
Now suppose we have a hole in a slate,
A photon from a source passes on through,
And it darkens a grain on a film plate,
To say it went through the hole would be true.
Several photons pass through, we wait a bit,
And quite a simple pattern we do see,
A bright spot directly behind the slit,
Fading away as you move outwardly.
We choose to add an additional slit,
The photon seems to have a decision,
It must choose one of them through which to fit,
For photons are not allowed to fission.
But now there are fringes, common to waves!
In this manner, can particles behave?
cxli.
What's seen is an interference pattern,
Which is common to every type of wave,
On the vast ocean or from a lantern,
This is the way every wave does behave.
Though you think particles blacken the spot,
Between the source and plate light is a wave,
As to its whereabouts we can say not,
Such is the way reality behaves.
These ghostly facts are true of all matter,
Electrons and protons and you and me,
We're but empty waves that somehow matter,
Striving to comprehend reality.
Wavy winds blow, our consciousness is lit.
It makes up our mind, our minds make up it.
cxlii.
"The question is to be or not to be,
Whether it is nobler within the mind,
To believe in indeterminacy,
Or refute that God plays dice in the wind.
Are there many worlds, or only just this one?
And is Schrodinger's cat alive or dead?
Of p and x, can we only know one?
And of Wigner's good friend, what can be said?"
He smiled and said, "no question, no answer,
This above all, science holds to be true,
Love is in the mind of the romancer,
And the kind of love determines the view."
He looked up to the sky, a sky few see,
A sky filled with a child's curiosity.
cxliii.
It is in man's nature to seek meaning,
In the realm of his fellow peer's vision,
All men's endeavors and vital dreaming,
Inhabits the frame work of tradition.
When prophetic soul's are held in borders ,
The pressure inspires those souls to arise,
The offspring becomes their complex order,
A masterpiece to the witness's eyes.
He speaks of feelings and God and honor,
Leads a revolution for the true and just,
Abhorred by the ones holding the power,
Loved by the ones feeling the oppressed lust.
Thousand lives given for equality,
That two thousand eyes never get to see.
cxliv.
The time has come for you to fly the nest,
I 'll miss you, so much with you I did grow,
Of all the memories, you're in the best,
Take them with you wherever you may go.
I 'll stay here, I have some writing to do,
Before I can voyage beyond today.
I hear the wind calling me to be true,
I feel the world's waiting for what I say.
So I guess this is our final good bye,
When you return I 'll no longer be here,
Oh, why can't we just love, and never cry?
Let us dry from our cheeks each-other's tear.
I won't forget you, though I grow older,
Yesterday is just over my shoulder.
cxlv.
Out running one night, I stopped by Holder,
A crystal memory hung in the sky,
I breathed in those cold stars of October,
I feel tiny lights whenever I sigh,
And think of that day, not so long ago,
Where each season was fresh, full of surprise,
My aspirations were facts I could know,
Mortality was cloaked in youth's disguise.
Oh yes, my mind wanders back to Holder,
For it was much more than just a dream there,
There in that courtyard once I did hold her,
I met her running in the cold fall air.
To this day the chance in that night lives on,
She's still here though that fall's leaves are long gone.
cxlvi.
The scenery grows barren down the road,
Caught between home and your destination,
Alone you shoulder your memory's load,
Alone with yesterday's fascination.
You're missing that oak tree you once did pass,
It's roots cracked the sidewalk where flowers grew,
But those flowers have all wilted, alas!
You'll turn to stone thinking on nothing new,
So look up to the sky, pick up your pace!
It's hard to dream when the future holds fear,
But if you look back on yesterday's face,
You know you will never get out of here.
Run boy! The rising wind's getting colder,
Run boy! Don't look back over your shoulder.
cxlvii.
I 'll make it-- I 'm rounding the final bend,
I see light at the end of this tunnel,
So many nights I feared it wouldn't end,
Now I 'm sad to see yesterday crumble.
Didn't know who I was, nor where I stood,
Afraid to do that which I might regret,
In everything there was both bad and good.
Pretty purple haze now, as the sun sets,
I think back to the start, so far away,
Oh, to know I 'm not me anymore,
The wide-eyed boy who saw all this to say;
He can't be found upon this brave new shore.
This virgin land is so beautifully strange,
And oh, you know how good it feels to change.
cxlviii.
Every artist poet is but a thief,
Stealing openly from all his subjects,
Taking credit for all of their beliefs,
Seeking sweet revenge for genius neglect.
So go right ahead and deconstruct me,
I 'd just as soon be put upon a throne,
Fans and critics use the art equally,
For both are cannibals of the soul's bone.
Since I 'm a thief, and you're a cannibal,
Then perhaps we can forgive each other,
Everything I write I take from you all,
And of your critiques I am the father.
As these words live within both you and me,
Then let the blame too be shared equally.
cxlix.
Fell asleep in a dream, awoke to this,
A cool windy wet grey November day,
Through the woods my face the damp leaves did kiss,
I realized this beauty my poems could say.
Broke into a run, jumping over logs,
Rode my second wind to the silver lake,
There I bent down and lifted the cold fog,
Gold shafts streamed through, the forest did awake,
The black oak trees, the squirrels planting more,
The sweet smell of the brown and yellow floor,
Been knocking forever on heaven's door,
Finally opened to hear this poet's lore.
Touch me and you'll see that nothing's there,
For I am him, the poet from nowhere.
cl.
I thought of you guys, and drew a deep breath;
I miss those days walking the winter beach;
Late college night thoughts laced with Love and Death;
The reality of youth we did teach.
Bob, Jim, Paul, Bill, I 'll keep you all with me,
For the morning dreams of life shape the day;
Through each-other's eyes we'll forever see,
Before I speak I 'll think of what you'd say.
As time's knife splits us along separate paths,
I greet my fate smiling, standing with friends,
Tomorrow's void will house echoing laughs,
Though they grow fainter, they will never end.
But more than friends faces, drowned in time's sea,
I miss youth's spark that once glowed within me.
cli.
Telling lies and stabbing me in the back,
What care I? I know that it's all not true,
It's because you feel that beauty you lack,
That makes you the dishonest route pursue.
You've got nothing on me, I 'm innocent,
They might believe your lies for a second,
Their sight distorted, their minds may be bent,
But by the truth the youth shall be beckoned.
You loved me friend, and I rejected you,
Which was the pretext for our history,
You hate me because I saw right through you,
They shall know-- they'll know that's the true story.
For the truth I can not apologize,
You never said you're sorry for your lies.
clii.
It rained on the day I was accepted,
My feelings went numb; my soul put on pause,
Addicted to being rejected,
Without anger, my mind was void of cause.
I lifted a pen, held it to paper,
But the wind wouldn't blow my hand along,
Burned out, I was no longer a shaper;
But a medium for depression's song.
I must lay my dried out dreams in the rain,
Be patient, fertilize them, watch them grow,
My art makes music from the wet grey pain,
And so I drown a little, for the show.
When the end becomes, there ends meaning's race,
It's not the kill, it's the thrill of the chase.
cliii.
Why do I see three spatial dimensions,
Does something intrinsic lie underneath?
Or is it but an invention's invention?
Like all facts founded on flesh's beliefs.
Can math define the entire universe,
With no equations for laughter and love?
It's but a cold, grey beauty, with no verse,
That's too solid to describe what's above.
But math led us to the fourth dimension,
Dislodged us from the cosmos's center,
Of quantum fields words can make no mention,
Without math, time's secrets one can't enter.
But with words and math, walking hand in hand,
We approach the day we will understand.
cliv.
Every little bit of fall is magic,
Even though you're so far away from me,
I know you feel each dying leaf's tragic,
While still believing the crisp air's beauty.
Just one year ago we walked hand in hand,
My red boot laces matching all the trees,
Through the woods to where the water meets land,
There we paused each day to watch the lake freeze.
Now the season's upon us once again,
Once again you are with me on our walks,
But instead of your hand I hold this pen,
And watch the wind, listening to it talk.
Our own autumns shall come in a short while,
Witnessing it with you makes life worthwhile.
clv.
In your eyes there is an independence,
That the leaders of society lack,
Leaders are slaves to what the common sense,
A train can only go where there lies a track.
But all you see are fickle boundaries,
That men lay down to hold on to power,
They drown in these imaginary seas,
And the salt of the deep wilts youth's flower.
The rambling spirit in you knows no homes,
Down the road you see mirages of cause,
The prophets make no sense, you choose to roam,
You found there's justice where there are no laws.
I know it's hard to walk this earth with eyes,
But it hurts more to compromise with lies.
clvi.
I 'd be a fool to attempt to hold on,
To anything that isn't permanent,
As I know from here I will soon be gone,
I 'm leaving before time charges me rent.
For men whose dreams are born into the past,
Are weighted down by yesterday's sorrows,
Believing they can make perfection last,
Regret taints their remaining tomorrows.
So I have learned to not become attached,
It becomes easier with each good bye,
I bid farewell before the feeling's hatched,
Still so young, and I have begun to die.
To fall in love again sure would be nice,
For what compares to a fools paradise?
clvii.
On the way to the institute forest,
I stopped on by the graduate tower,
I climbed the spiral staircase without rest,
Up high I saw a sight full of power:
The magnificent colors of the east,
The Maples and Ashes were all on fire,
To live forever at the very least,
Was an inspiration stronger than desire.
My lungs savored the air so fresh and pure,
A propeller airplane buzzed to my right,
Up there where a soul could of truths be sure,
As high up and free as a child's first kite.
The sun got low, the wind began to rise,
The day prepared to go, I blinked my eyes.
clviii.
Sad poems can't compare with crying guitars,
And I know words don't mean very much,
Superficial beauty makes today's stars,
These worshipped qualities, I don't have such.
But I know there's a final curtain call,
Even for the stars caught up in the blaze,
And though I know I 'll never have it all,
I 'll have myself to the end of my days.
For I only smile when I feel to laugh,
And I only rhyme where I see reason,
You can't get lost when blazing your own path,
With my own heart I commit no treason.
Oh, I know silence prevails in the end,
I 've come to accept him as my best friend.
clix.
To say Hamlet is this, or Hamlet's that,
Is but to make an unscrupulous bet,
For his character wears more than one hat,
One can only say Hamlet is Hamlet.
So often people have it figured out,
They have ambition, feel a direction,
Of justices and truths they sing and shout,
Striving to build eternal erections,
Acting actions with sanctimonious pride,
They flaunt goodwill upon this stage,
So sure they've chosen the right side,
Confined within their own minds they are sage.
To make sense out of life so easily,
Just goes to show how little one does see.
clx.
Can't you see what you're paving the way for?
Replacing substance with a selfish lie,
Don't you know that you're opening hell's door?
By your ideals our liberty shall die.
Wicked witch, teaching creativity,
Rewarding only what you understand,
It is a sign this culture's lost at sea,
That by you my poetry can be banned.
They tell me that you are educated,
Then how is it that this truth you don't see,
That when creativity is rated
by pedagogues, it is a tyranny.
When weak kill strong preaching equality,
They're but setting the stage for tyranny.
clxi.
To be honest at last, I don't belong,
Soon I 'll be leaving here, it won't be long,
I 'm just waiting 'till my chance comes along,
I 'm tired of this tune, I need a new song.
Finding a place has never been easy,
For lost souls who never know where they are,
There's no meaning for those who truly see,
For they see forever, as far as far.
I hate this game, I 've just got to break free,
I 've been beaten down, trodden, on this land,
Now I finally see a way to be me,
In the great wide open, I 'll make my stand.
You cut me down and lied, but I survived.
I just wish I 'd left before I 'd arrived.
clxii.
Though no one may ever read what I write,
To write wasted verse I have no choice,
For dreams of you awaken me at night,
And I ease the loneliness with this voice.
I saw love's secret in my moon shadow,
Flowers were growing in the sidewalk's cracks,
That's how I knew to go to your window,
It was spring, only you did my life lack.
I wrote a short story, gave it to you,
You accepted what magazines reject,
But only through you do I know it's true,
For romance is the proof of art's effect.
As long as I 'm unknown, I will be sure,
That I 'm free to write for you, and be pure.
clxiii.
Going back, going back to Nassau Hall,
I walked through this archway but yesterday,
I remember it strewn with leaves one fall,
To that blue eyed girl three words I did say.
And up these steps I carried all my dreams,
Five days to class, two nights up to the street,
I could be sure then, so real it still seems,
These ghosts of all the people I did meet.
I wish I 'd stolen the clapper back then,
And thrown it into Carnegie lake,
It's rung years away, left me with this pen,
To face a world where all youth time does take.
But I 'll be going back to old Nassau,
To search archways for a friend I once saw.
clxiv.
Laughter of friends, and familiar faces,
These good things too fade so quickly away,
Just as the dreams dressed in virgin laces,
Became lost in the sunrise of today.
And you know too well the end is coming,
Because night's always been followed by dawn,
Once my hopes had a chance of becoming,
But like last spring's buds, they too are all gone.
Then at the end, with but a moment left,
I met Bootsy and made one final friend,
Without her my memory would be bereft,
I see her smile when I think on the end.
I've left the people and trees of Princeton,
But with my spirit, Bootsy isn't done.
clxv.
Listening to child's questions of meaning,
Each day he set out to perform his task,
To make sense of our musical dreaming,
To look up to the sky, wonder, and ask.
Upon nature's secrets none can intrude,
Your efforts have brought us a step nearer,
Though the answers continue to elude,
The world is today a little clearer.
Without a pen, it would have been tragic,
For we'd exist without your inscriptions,
With pens you eternalized your magic,
Giving us your inspired descriptions.
And through your books of physics and Black Holes,
You shall inspire wonder in future souls.
clxvi.
God plays with dice to father the weather,
Chance prevailed so that you and me may be
Fortune brought Princeton and I together,
And there I met friends for eternity.
May the truth of youth forever be young,
For the awakening years guide the way,
As we march on to the songs we once sung,
We stand vigilant by what we did say.
Magic as youth's I 'll never meet again,
It defies the powers of description,
And though I now humbly pick up my pen,
True life resides within no inscription.
Oh, I could tell many a good story,
But words are void of yesterday's glory.
clxvii.
Hey boy, you've got a light in your dark eyes,
Reminds me of a man I once knew well,
When he was young, time he thought he'd defy,
Time took his youth, gave him stories to tell.
But I don't want to bore you with details,
I 'll let the lines on my face tell it all,
Oh, boy, next to time all our young dreams fail,
All monuments man erects soon will fall.
But what use has your youth got for my truth?
I 'd give it all to be unwise again,
From the cold current of time, stand aloof,
Believe once again in weilding a pen.
But it feels good to rest, to dream, to sleep,
For these aged bones, time's hill is too steep.
clxviii.
Oh girl, if I said to you I loved you,
Would you turn from me, walk the other way?
Oh girl, if I told you I needed you,
Would you leave me alone to face the day?
I remember feeling oh so lonely,
A silver lining nowhere could I see,
Then came you girl, and oh so suddenly,
The clouds lifted, and I saw beyond me.
The horizon on the sun is winning,
Oh girl, just these three short words I must say,
So tell me, is this a new beginning,
Or is it the end of a happy day?
I can't wait any longer, I must know,
Is it forever, girl, or must you go?
clxix.
I see a thought and I run to touch it,
Before It can retreat into my mind,
Then only in my dreams can I watch it,
While conscious, that same thought I 'll never find.
I grab the thought, to set it down in ink,
But some of it escapes, the chase begins,
I concentrate and attempt not to think,
The trick is to let the thought think it wins,
And wait quietly, patiently, until,
It comes running on by me once again,
Without a sound I move in for the kill,
And nail it to the paper with my pen.
But every time I capture thoughts in pen,
Upon the paper it has changed again.
clxx.
I awoke to the dripping of water,
Pulled my shade and the sun flooded my room,
I saw the valentine I had got her,
Icicles melting, my heart sprang from gloom.
I ran outside, across the white golf course,
Patches of green were rising to the top,
No socks nor shoes, I felt the cold snow's force,
On a green in the middle I did stop.
Where there'd been deer, there was only cold air,
It was too soon yet for spring to begin,
The wind bit my back, but I couldn't care,
For my heart was warm, and the sun would win.
She had asked me to go to tonight's dance,
What's a little weather next to that chance?
clxxi.
Some say it's providence, some call it chance,
Some say it's freewill, others call it fate,
Some profess it's a predetermined dance,
Where the odds against were given the weight.
What difference does it make if life's foregone?
Or if our volition has an effect?
Inspite of any beliefs, time rolls on,
The past no noble idea can affect.
All that matters is that we think we choose,
To create the lines we speak in this show,
And by words that we can avoid to lose,
Nothing's good or bad but thinking makes it so.
Chance or fate, it makes no difference to me,
Given either one, I 'll still strive to be.
clxxii.
To lose myself within the perfect serve,
Green fuzz against an immaculate blue,
Through the long hot rally, to keep my nerve,
Prove to the crowd my forehand holds true,
Then we engage in a cross court battle,
I don't dare to be the first to break it,
My legs grow heavy, begin to rattle,
Short bounce, I approach the net and take it.
I pop a volley in the corner deep,
But he guessed right, and he's been standing there,
I run down a lob, up a hill so steep,
It's got top spin, and I haven't a prayer.
But to lose a few games is no disgrace,
To win is to feel the wind in my face.
clxxiii.
With a little bit of perspiration,
All my dreams and memories can be mine,
For a poem's as free as inspiration,
And my soul resides within every line.
All that I humbly ask from any place,
Is that it give to me something to miss,
A magic day framed in winter's white lace,
Or a red haired girl who I once did kiss.
On a guitar, yesterday should be sought,
For in a poem, words get in the way,
Poetry's words may speak well of my thoughts,
But my feelings only music can say.
But musical talent left me alone,
And so I condemn my feelings to stone.
clxxiv.
Wish I could give you the perfect fall day,
With a clear blue sky and a cool north wind,
Then I'd bring some clouds in-- a touch of gray,
Without thunder nor rain they'd pass by kind.
The sky'd return to Carolina blue,
All 'round everything's perfectly vivid,
The cawing crows return from where they flew,
When green did spring from everything livid.
Oh, I wish I could make it tangible,
All the ineffable beauty of sight,
Wish I could catch all imaginable,
But it is only words that I can write.
But the air's crisp, my spirit's sharp again,
For October's mystique I raise my pen.
clxxv.
While there are still golden rays, there are ways,
Down summer dusty country boulevards,
Vision of the girl in cutoff jeans stays,
I try to capture her walk in these words.
The shimmering mirages up the road,
Borne upon the splintering tarred pavement,
A fuse running short, the earth shall explode,
And then what can it matter what was meant?
It's no trick to know this and persevere,
What else is there to do while we're waiting?
For the inevitable to premier,
Free from fear of choice, fear of fating.
But she's smiling as she passes me by,
Golden hair catching the dusk-- I know why.
clxxvi.
Every word of mine is plagiarized;
In people's hearts I 've seen them all before,
In their minds these thoughts have all been realized,
To defend a few men have gone to war.
Yet I struggle for a new direction;
Ignoring lessons of the proven past;
With words I build eternal erections,
Hoping forever my spirit will last.
But books are filled with dreams of men gone by;
I wonder if they felt futility,
Or if it's enough after your last sigh,
To have your remnants stored in a library.
Though there's no permanence in wielding pens,
I accept my fate to join the shelved men.
clxxvii.
I 've seen loneliness, creep up with a knife;
When there was no one to whom I could run;
Where an hour lasted an entire life,
Felt my solitude would never be done.
Surrounded by strange and empty faces;
There was nobody to laugh at my jokes,
I watched the dealer slip himself aces;
Bit my tongue, they were all in on the hoax.
Could not turn off the light, nor go to bed,
I sprinted along the night's empty streets;
To escape from my heart, filled with grey lead,
But loneliness ran as fast as my feet.
Oh I hope that tomorrow, brings my way,
A new face to whom all this I can say.
clxxviii.
Meet me at midnight on the printed page,
Come lawyers, come critics, come everyone,
Get out of the audience, up on stage,
With words it's time to have a little fun.
Like Ellis and Tartt, wanna be a star,
You expect them to think you earned your life,
But they know, my friend, who you really are,
The nihlism you write won't buy a faithful wife.
You think you're true, but your words are profane,
For the truth they never attempt to speak,
They warp and twist other humans to pain,
Behind the pretense you're so scared and weak.
Otherwise why would you devote your life,
To capitalizing on other's strife?
clxxix.
There's a paradox at the base of laws;
That they are made against half our nature,
We feel it to be evolution's flaw;
And seek to place constraints upon rapture.
Once ideas are institutionalized,
Natural selection quickly begins;
New interpretations are soon realized,
To help the interpreters have offspring,
Those that heed laws of guilt, shame, and duty,
Work all their lives for a two car garage;
Dying for a land of the brave and free,
While the free write the poems of the mirage.
Life evolved under tragedy's token;
Every rule made, is made to be broken.
clxxx.
Some beasts born with a curiosity;
Turn towards math for descriptions of nature,
Some having a taste for philosophy,
At a university seek stature.
Some beasts born with the talent to capture;
Paint upon the easel, mounting their prey,
Authors use a thousand words for pictures;
To become famous and secure rich pay.
Some beasts born with no beauty within them;
They manipulate the beholder's eye,
Political truths from fear's weakness stems;
With no truth from God it's easy to lie.
Choose to be and you'll see there's no way out;
To not be frees us forever from doubt.
clxxxi.
It's already gone before it started;
And perhaps our love is better that way.
Warmer than some from which I have parted;
A perfect memory of you will stay.
I 'm sure you know the lonely story well;
Golden evenings in the park turned to lead;
Promises of forever somehow fell;
Buried beneath time's snow, forever dead.
But I know you will find a lucky guy,
With him your love will blossom and mature.
From time to time I 'll think of you and sigh,
Our future behind us, untouched and pure.
For what lifts you up, when you're feeling sad,
More than dreams of that which you've never had.
clxxxii.
Economists don't create tangible wealth,
They're of the entertainment industry,
Great, educated men of kniving stealth,
In their show they know to never agree.
And don't be surprised if I don't believe,
Your vile myths about the national debt,
Somebody somewhere I feel does deceive,
To say I owe money I haven't spent yet.
Tomorrow's money's worth less than today's,
As tomorrow's money cannot be spent,
But we borrow it; today's bills it pays,
Let children worry 'bout tommorow's rent.
They borrow and spend to survive today,
Start a war and the debt with our lives pay.
clxxxiii.
When I hit the rock bottom of depression,
I can see nothing worth thinking about.
Senses thwarted by fogs of repression,
I awaken from dreams, laden with doubt.
Can't find a hand hold in reality;
Yesterday's music collapsed to white noise;
Without belief, I fear to chose to be,
The world is cruel to those of unsure poise.
For the whims of men, I can see no cause,
Within their society I can't live,
To fit, I ' have to put my soul on pause,
And to them, the use of my mind I 'd give.
If this depression be my eyesight's fee,
It's a small price to pay for being me.
clxxxiv.
The way the corners of your mouth turn down,
Cannot be so easily put aside,
In the moon's crescent lies your pretty frown,
From thoughts of you there is nowhere to hide.
With these words I hope I can pay you back,
For I can't help feeling I am in debt;
You have a beauty that most all do lack,
Next to it meter and rhyme are inept.
Soon some one will find the smile in your soul;
I regret in love I already fell;
To keep my honor is my foremost goal;
I 'll remain secret, know I wish you well.
To take credit for this wouldn't be true,
For this sonnet's lines were written by you.
clxxxv.
When there's a virus, living within love,
You can't stop sick feelings from coming on;
Pain in your breast sends you praying above;
Dark circles under your eyes with day's dawn.
At times you feel better, full of sunshine,
But it's not long 'till the wind blows in clouds,
Spreading plague across all that was divine;
Yesterday's memories all dressed in shrouds.
Calm once again, you are gripped with a heave;
You double forward, grabbing at the pain;
Your mouth opens, in two your soul is cleaved;
Diseased love washes away with the rain.
Of this youthful virus, time's rain's the cure,
May your next true love forever endure.
clxxxvi.
Why I write is because I know not why,
And in it I find the beauty of life.
Within this matter a consciousness lies;
Melodies from an invisible fife.
Fleeting dreams are born somewhere in the night;
Night becomes day, leading me to the grave;
Because it hurts to watch the fading light,
With words I try this awareness to save.
Not my awareness, for I own it not,
But an awareness of those yet unborn;
By whom the unanswerable will be sought;
Reading me, alone they won't be forlorn.
Each word replaced a tear I would have cried,
They're for you, when my mystery has died.
clxxxvii.
I do not wish to speak with you today;
I wish to talk to you a year ago.
Within I have saved you of yesterday;
She's the girl I wish to forever know.
Now she's gone; she's reached for the golden ring.
I wish her well and hope she finds her heart;
In her brave new world my eyes see nothing,
And so it's in the script that we must part.
Each word takes me further from what I mean;
Like the grey cool day I must be silent,
And search this empty earth for worthwhile dreams,
I have nothing, but my soul's not for rent.
Someday perhaps, our paths will cross again,
After all roads have been walked by this pen.
clxxxviii.
I 'm young and I don't want to fall in love,
For I 've already done it once before.
Love's labor I devote to what's above,
For beyond my passions I know there's more.
Oh, I realize we're all products of sex;
Each word is spoken to further our genes;
Cursing our lofty ideals with a hex;
From original sin life is not clean.
But above this stage on which we read lines;
There's the mystery of why we ponder,
Why we feel to bother to rise and shine,
In a world that's indifferent to wonder.
Man's reason holds the key to something more,
But the universe seems to lack a door.
clxxxix.
Oh once there were these visions in my mind;
Even the echoes are fading away;
The beauty is taken by time unkind,
But this dying dream inspires me to say:
I believed in sun sets while in your arms,
And the full moon became a reality,
I learned winter's the season which is warm,
But then you said you needed to be free.
While my heart breaks, the visions awaken,
Seven years ago is but yesterday,
From my soul I wish you were forsaken,
But I 've learned it's not up to me to say.
How does your beauty continue to be?
Or is it just some trick inside of me.
cxc.
In but a few years we'll have forgotten,
The November day we walked through the woods.
From the purple skies fell leaves of autumn;
I would walk back there through time, if I could.
On a dune we played king of the mountain,
Remember how we both won at the top?
Time saved us from drowning in youth's fountain,
I wish I could grasp it, and make it stop.
But these days flow by me, the past grows small.
All is for naught, but from naught I was born,
Who am I to deny that naught makes all?
With precious words, one way time I won't scorn.
If my days with you were but quantum fluff,
Then I 'd say nothing was more than enough.
cxci.
All these words and no one to use them on,
Will I exist when no one hears me fall?
Of what use to me is tomorrow's dawn,
When there's no hope for me that you will call?
I saw a field on which to plant a dream,
But the farmers all thought it was a weed,
And to you too, my dream a weed did seem,
Another rainbow the blind didn't need.
I know these words may fall short of your ears,
They lie at the edge of the universe,
But they're better equipped to span the years,
Than our perceptions of this stay so terse.
Here I write, isolated on my own,
But in being lonely, I am not alone.
cxcii.
Burning fires rage behind some men's eyes;
They control a most vivid consciousness.
In this strange dimension the poet lies,
Creating meaning out of nothingness.
Civilization worships past glory,
Inhaling the order into their minds,
Making classics of yesterday's stories,
Towards today's poets, they turn away blind.
And so the magic ones are crucified,
As to today's order they pose a threat,
The nature of truth is but classic lies,
Borrowing word's meanings, we live in debt.
When time comes to collect on our dreaming,
Tragic are those who thought they owned meaning.
cxciii.
Dear Wendy, last night you visited me,
Awakening feelings I 'd felt before,
So long since your auburn hair I did see,
But for nights where you walked in my mind's door.
I wonder where you're running, how you've changed,
If our nick-names still mean something to you,
Or have those tender evenings been estranged,
And replaced by sweet nothings that are new.
The years went by and only I got older,
Lines on my face while you're still seventeen,
And though I 'm happy, it's become colder,
When you said you loved me, what did you mean?
Oh Wendy, I know you're forever gone,
Only in this old man, do you live on.
cxciv.
Oh, there is an anger, burning within,
Pressure's building in this furnace inside,
More powerful than temptation to sin,
Is my gut feeling that your beauty lied.
You excused wantonness with ignorance,
A pretended innocence you flaunted,
Leading others to think they had a chance,
While ignoring the boy who was daunted.
But I can't complain, for it is fair game,
To pit your faces beauty 'gainst my art,
Both deceive, both are equally to blame,
For inspiring beautiful lies in the heart,
If truth be beauty, then in truth's lieu,
We'll be forgiven for lies that are true.
cxcv.
I 've had days of gold, where I flew freely;
My mind thought not of the ride in the hearse,
But in days of lead, grey clouds blew dreary,
To be caught between is the best and worst;
The best because inspiration abounds,
Each day I feel dreams leading me higher,
Marching to rhythms of orchestras' sounds,
I could run forever and never tire.
But the middle's the worst when you're coming down,
The lost yesterday leaves you with heart break,
Light departs from day, humor clears the clown,
Everything you gained, time saw fit to take.
My dreams were beautiful when I had less,
Inspired by the abyss's nothingness.
cxcvi.
This poem will have nothing to do with words,
Most can be found in a dictionary,
I wouldn't waste your time with what you've heard,
This poem is a feeling deep inside me.
Beware of the stranger giving you hope;
For speech evolved to propagate life,
He may use it to free you from the rope,
But there is another use for a knife.
If I 'm so scared by the world being blind,
Why do I struggle so hard to be?
Oh I would fear a fate that is to find,
All my good will was selfish vanity.
I wish you well, hope you find your own way,
And ask you to disregard what we say.
cxcvii.
Is Salinger's secret goldfish divine?
An existence for existence itself,
For no other eyes does he write a line,
He won't be used, for he's not on the shelf.
But if divinity not seen is divine,
Then there's a perfection in nothingness,
To end one's own life would not be a crime,
Living for perfection is meaningless,
But to take your life for perfection's sake.
You perform action, and you choose to be,
This action to be, life itself does take,
And you see that to be is not to be.
Comic and tragic is this paradox,
Finally free, we're buried in a box.
cxcviii.
When I had an esteemed chance to fit in,
From the waves of pressure I swam away,
Beyond where they broke, out to the shark's fin,
Relentless waves make sand of all men say.
Where is a man, if not within his mind?
What happens to him if he sells that space?
Though he still sees, to his his dreams he's now blind,
Is happiness behind that smiling face?
If failed dreams start nagging, drown them in booze.
Though a mind of their own, some may not miss,
For with nothing, you've got nothing to lose,
Look about, you'll see ignorance is bliss.
Bliss we've forever before and after,
Life's short time where we hear children's laughter.
cxcix.
My thoughts are rooted in people I 've known,
Beyond them I know no reality,
I know who I am, because they have shown,
me their own feelings, when I chose to be.
I thank these people, who've played on my soul,
And strutted upon the stage of my dreams,
Their good company helped to fill the hole,
Which grows as we come apart at the seams.
For every day, it makes a bit less sense,
The absolutes that youth holds to be true,
Too many subtle connections, and hence,
I can't justify anything I do.
Sometimes I am relieved to say, my friend,
That good time's bringing this show to an end.
cc.
I 'm riding high on a wave of culture,
I 'm at the right place, and it's the right time,
I 'm here to put my claim on the future,
I feel a beauty in meter and rhyme.
But it's more than a feeling inside me,
It's that mysterious movement of men,
In the chaos, a new order they see,
And youthful spirits rebel once again.
But tragedy takes up half of the stage,
I should leave this wave, and swim for the docks,
For I 've heard these waves break and foam with rage,
Dashing the greatest men upon the rocks.
I try to rise above phenomena,
But my life is leased under nature's law.
cci.
Oh can you feel? Can you feel us losing,
touch with a higher form of consciousness?
This freedom I found myself abusing,
I can have it all, but it's meaningless.
But beware, for when man loses meaning,
That is when rhyming religions arise,
The pedant says it's meaningless dreaming,
I wonder what he will say when he dies?
'Cause there's a piece of people I perceive,
That indulgence shall never satisfy,
There are those who'd rather die than deceive,
So a brave new order they ratify.
Never confuse a poet with his poems,
One is stagnant while the other yet roams.
ccii.
You, stopped at the light, where are you going?
I can hear your favorite tape playing,
So young and so much you see worth knowing,
Believing all your hormones are saying.
The rock'n'roll prophets keep rebelling,
Stripping culture down to the bare bone,
The less they say, the louder they're yelling.
What can we deconstruct when nothing's known?
But we've always been the empty people,
Locked in this ephemeral consciousness,
Making men Gods, and concert halls steeples,
If it's not all for not, it's all for less.
Just give me green grass, and leaves on a tree,
Let the winds of culture blow on by me.
cciii.
Oh once there were these visions in my mind,
Even the echoes are fading away,
The beauty is taken by time unkind,
But this dying dream inspires me to say:
I believed in sun sets while in your arms,
And the full moon became a reality,
I learned winter's the season which is warm,
But then you said you needed to be free.
While my heart breaks, the visions awaken,
Seven years ago is but yesterday,
From my soul I wish you were forsaken,
But I 've learned it's not up to me to say.
How does your beauty Continue to be?
Or is it just something inside of me.
cciv.
There's nothing left here to rebel against,
Yesterday's sixties did it all for me,
By institutions my mind wasn't fenced,
And now there's nowhere for me to break free.
Dillon and the Beatles have their mansions,
In exchange we can order MTV,
Come sit back and enjoy the recession,
Rebellion's included in cable's fee.
I 'd say society's on the decline;
If I thought it had a place to fall from.
The rockers insist it's pretty fine,
You may as well go die for their freedom.
When cause for lost generations is found,
They get married six feet under ground.
ccv.
To my father, who watched over my course,
Straightened me when the winds blew me astray,
In times of emptiness he was the force,
That gave me a reason to rise each day.
He believed in knowledge, and in pursuit
Of the subtle truths that lie in nature.
He perceived that college, could a mind suit
With ideas to mold a greater future.
Oh! How far the world's from this ideal!
It's all just a game with no truth nor law,
Could not my father see that it's not real?
That no good in this world's without its flaw.
He closed the book, put it back on the shelf,
"Never confuse the world, son, with yourself."
ccvi.
The greater part of us stands ignored,
The ocean deep, the dark side of the moon,
Hidden in its sheath we keep our soul's sword,
On our sleeve we wear our chosen word's tune.
So we only ever see what we seem,
The machine of these thoughts you'll never know,
Only on the surface does the lake gleam,
But the blue silence reaches far below.
So think of these things, before you opine,
And believe that you have me figured out,
For I myself can not myself divine,
The furthest stars are closer than my heart.
Look at me, friend, what do you see?
This poetry that really isn't me.
ccvii.
It 's tradition that tradition grows weak,
Poet's words are used by those in power,
To obtain for themselves all they do seek,
The words grow weaker with each passing hour.
The people watch themselves unite in sin,
All that's left of innocence is the word,
You know for you too the fall does begin,
The moment you repeat the lies you've heard.
Corrupted old words all must collapse,
Like weathered planks of an abandoned barn,
Dreams of forever eventually lapse,
A tradition of decay is time's yarn.
But it's no-one's fault, we're slaves of the past,
Time forgives flesh, as only time can last.
ccviii.
I ask you my friend, to not be deceived,
Into thinking these thoughts are feelings;
All feelings long ago were received,
To find my core these words I am peeling.
Somewhere within, buried down deep by time,
Is a simple truth I once saw so clear;
From it rose these fleeting phrases of rhyme,
Echoes of the past, I write what I hear;
With the hopes that someday I shall return,
To where the present was enough for me;
Where each day was free from having to earn;
An excuse for me to write, breathe, and be.
Someday for sure I will write my way back,
To again possess the youth I now lack.
ccix.
Do you wonder at what motivates you?
Compelling you to dive in with the group?
Perhaps you feel too, desire to be true,
And pain when reason leads you in a loop.
My hands reach to fondle books on a shelf,
The abstract ideals I seek to explain,
Only succeeding in fooling myself,
Behind this fluff made of words, I am plain.
Forgive me for this inadequacy;
Seeing only emptiness is my fault,
But in a world of change, leaves fall from trees,
Feeling empty prepares me for the vault.
To spend life filing fleeting thoughts away,
All along knowing, there's nothing to say.
ccx.
Not out of spite, nor revenge, but because,
There are simple truths in which I believe,
Natural as nature, fate's final clause,
That but by noble reason man does conceive.
The mind's been overthrown by soulless beasts,
Breeding a people void of consciousness,
Though the sun yet still rises in the East,
No longer can it relieve the darkness.
For this morning the mist, it would not clear,
The leaves changed color, though it was yet spring,
Those with perception know the lonely fear,
That this eclipse of reality does bring.
Is it the time, place, or only me?
Didn't create it-- it's but what I see.
ccxi.
The time has come to let the poet lie;
To kill within an inborn tragedy;
That drives one to define and then defy
Rules to further one's waning potency.
To admit my fears, to accept my death,
My voyage has brought me round full circle;
With fleeting words, my invisible breath,
I attempt to preserve this miracle.
Who prepared this fate which I never chose?
Humbled by my rhyme, I don't understand,
That from nothing these hands and dreams arose,
Only to return to fertilize the land.
Vanity lies in all rhyme and beauty;
When we let the poet lie, we'll be free.
ccxii.
I witnessed fall today, the leaves all changed,
I drove through time, up along the east coast,
It was October, though the tree's leaves ranged,
From dark green to branches of rustling ghosts.
Before Virginia, I saw the first hints,
A lone orange tree with a yellow friend,
Hidden in every tree were deep red glints,
In a second, summer came to an end.
And through the foliage raged a brilliant fire,
Yesterday's regrets were all burned away,
In my heart there grew a brand new desire,
When I saw her next, I knew what I 'd say:
Though some leaves change early, and others late,
To endure forever is my love's fate.
ccxiii.
When I was young, I used to look forward,
To a camping adventure in the woods,
With dad's knife I 'd fashion a wooden sword,
Prayed a week for the weather to be good.
Then I got older, a girl looked my way,
Still remember the soft sweaters she wore,
She said she liked to listen to me say,
All the things that other kids did ignore.
Back then it was more than enough to talk,
But I grew to see her in a new way,
Knowledge burdens me wherever I walk,
And the magic forest has died away.
She left this lonely tramp to rise'n roam,
I 've roamed back, but I 've never found home.
ccxiv.
Never cared much for poetic fashions,
For fashion is but a crutch for the dull,
Who stand removed from the call of passion,
And yet they say my words aren't full.
They turn me away saying poems don't rhyme;
That today's structure is unstructured verse,
But I know on my side I 've got time,
For art is eternal while fashions are terse.
Don't worry, I don't feel so neglected,
For I 've grown to fear what the critics think,
And I write my poems to be rejected,
Waiting for the rain in which fashion sinks.
Who is God enough to say I am wrong?
When all I do is sing my own heart's song.
ccxv.
I left the street and headed back to Forbes,
I was condemned to study in my room,
I looked up at the brilliant silver orb,
And thought how physics had ruined the moon.
There used to be such power in a star,
It brought tears to my eyes as a small child,
A little speck so brilliant, yet so far,
Science tames, blunting the edge of the wild.
Does knowing the moon's not made of green cheese,
Make a landscape bathed in its light more pure?
Does knowing what makes water droplets freeze,
Add to a December ice storm's allure?
Throw physics to the dogs, I 'll none of it,
I much prefer a pretty girl with wit.
ccxvi.
There was a girl with dark hair and dark eyes,
I didn't think I would ever meet her,
I first saw her prettiness from afar,
From my box seat I admired her allure.
Dead week one night, just before reunions,
We sat together under an empty tent,
So familiar, a previous union,
We shared our thoughts with barely a comment.
She told me she liked the empty dance floor,
Filled with waltzing ghosts from yester-years past.
I guess that's what these reunions are for,
To bring back to life that which would not last.
I like it too this way, I did agree,
Magic in the air, and just you and me.
ccxvii.
I was lost and tired, alone in the dark,
The music was noise, my senses were numb,
The rain threatened to extinguish my spark,
Without you Milt, I wouldn't have become.
You took me in out of the cold night air,
And became an audience who believed,
Where others passed by, you saw something there,
That stormy night, this poet was conceived.
You saved me from the most evil teachers,
Who break down what they don't understand,
Erasing individual features,
Sculpting one to fit a role that they planned.
You told me to trust my talent is wise;
In art, only your feelings can advise.
ccxviii.
I 'm just a guy who never had a friend,
Who didn't steel from him when he turned 'round,
But then with you my heart began to mend,
I see true friendship in your eyes I 've found.
It's OK, you know, whatever you do,
Cause I know in the end I 'll be with you,
Each other's eyes we will always see through,
But I don't need to, you'll always be true.
Never liked a girl like I do like you,
Always felt someone's leading someone on,
I 've fallen a lot, but each time I grew,
Love recedes, but my brown-eyed friend lives on.
Who'd have ever thought we'd make it this far?
Two kids running westward under the stars.
ccxix.
The time has arrived, to exchange good-byes.
A tear on your cheek, a tear in my eye.
How I wish I could find the words to say,
To slow this evening down, to make it stay.
The seasons keep changing, I don't know why,
We want to rearrange them, I try and try.
I wish I could find, a musical rhyme,
That would save this moment and capture time.
You brought out these words, from deep within me,
Showed me so much, I could never see.
I know that I've found, forever in you,
Forever never ends, forever I'll be true.
Tomorrow tomorrow will be today,
Hold me close, don't let go of yesterday.
ccxx.
When I feel I am holding forever,
Those are the moments when poems are written,
A mysterious force transcends clever,
Other moments by envy are smitten.
Deep within the words, I forget myself,
And let flow that which I 've been holding back,
I search all my mind for the hidden shelf,
Where thoughts plan their ambush in a dream attack.
I know not from where all these words arise,
Or why this force lives in the universe,
What makes poems good I can only surmise,
It's enough for me to just write this verse.
And if reading this helps to ease the pain,
Then I know my efforts were not in vain.
ccxxi.
Looking down from the top of his mountain,
He saw them all playing in the fountain,
It wasn't so long that he was down there,
But paranoid, he feared it wasn't fair.
With a burning heart he made his bold stand,
Tuned his mind and soul, started up the band,
Within a mystery started to shine,
Light came from him, the melody was mine.
The people saw it, envied their new king,
There he found out they didn't know a thing,
The king's tragedy's never to be free,
Oh, I know the people, the stranger's me.
I thought at the top I 'd finally be free,
But I'm owned by a stranger, the stranger's me.
ccxxii.
I saw a girl's face three nights in a row,
But each day the dream would fade from my head,
I was sad to see her so quickly go,
Wondered what possibly I could've said.
I tried to capture the moment in rhyme,
To keep the dream from fading in the day,
With words I try to capture magic time,
But it rolls on, no matter what I say.
She brought out these words from deep within me,
I would have never thought of on my own,
I wrote a poem for her green eyes to see,
She took my words in, and left me alone.
Although the world often leads me astray,
My pen's my friend, my poems are here to stay.
ccxxiii.
I thank you for all my inspiration,
My sweet lost loves and yesterday's young friends,
A universe in our short relations,
Before we parted for our private ends.
And in return for the life you gave me,
I give to all the lonely hearts this poem,
So often it seems we alone do see,
How hard it is never to return home.
And where else would I rather be right now,
Than the yesterdays where we offered proof,
That Princeton was a most beautiful show.
I remember-- I remember our youth.
The feelings fade as we're swept out to sea,
And time, time erases what's left of me.
ccxxiv.
You won by claimin' the times are changin',
And now you're the one calling all the shots,
Well time's never done with rearrangin',
The present king come tomorrow is not.
You believed your rebellion was divine,
It was making the world a better place,
And now that you're up top, everything's fine,
But I know you're worried behind that face.
The ambiguity is eating at you,
For you once believed ideas were empty,
Now for your ideas old beliefs hold true,
And you walk your own plank into the sea.
You've double crossed yourself on the far side,
Here from tragedy, there's nowhere to hide.
ccxxv.
To live through the New Jersey slush and snow,
It's worth it, to see the blossoming spring,
For though in March it looks like snow won't go,
The May flowers April showers do bring.
Prospect's bushes explode into blue flame,
The old tree beside Walker blossoms pink,
Daffodils put architecture to shame,
But her two lips are about what I think.
The grass in Rocky springs an emerald green,
The sounds of tennis are heard once again,
Come dusk, in the court yard we shall convene,
Over by the lilacs I 'm meeting Jen.
Of all the things spring brings to old Nassau,
Each year I looked forward to my heart's thaw.
ccxxvi.
I thank you for contemplating the light,
The light of the evening's star studded dome,
For shedding on it an internal light,
An eternal light, a light of your own.
I thank you for teaching me to be free,
To be free and allow my heart to roam,
Roam to the edge of curiosity,
On curiosity's wind, free I 'm blown.
I thank you for telling me to believe,
To believe in my own intuition,
Only through it do we ever receive,
Do we ever behold our true vision.
But beyond this, and all that can be known,
Thank you for making Princeton feel like home.
ccxxvii.
Time is not a solid reality,
It is but a mode by which we learn to think,
It only possesses validity,
Because of the events we seek to link.
A moving clock is known to tick slower,
At the speed of light all the ticks do cease,
A massful object has a speed that's lower,
Past the speed of light, nothing can increase.
Oh, there's no speed greater than that of light,
And we never see time run in reverse,
This one-way direction we seek to fight,
For our time on this earth is far too terse.
Oh, to know what the show is all about,
Before curiosity's light goes out.
ccxxviii.
I met a girl who called herself Bootsy,
Back at the time she was only eight or nine,
And though she was so much younger than me,
Her pure spirit became a love of mine.
Within this crazy realm filled with people,
Lunatics and kings both will rise and fall,
Bootsy's spirit alone knows no steeple,
For she's the innocence within us all.
When the days are dreary, dark clouds hang low,
My pen lies dormant, my heart's full of lead,
To save my spirit from sinking below,
I just think back on what Bootsy once said.
She put her hand on my shoulder, said don't worry,
If anything ever was, it always will be.
ccxxix.
I thank you for contemplating the light,
The light of the evening's star studded dome,
For shedding on it an internal light,
An eternal light, a light of your own.
I thank you for teaching me to be free,
To be free and allow my heart to roam,
Roam to the edge of curiosity,
On curiosity's wind, free I 'm blown.
I thank you for telling me to believe,
To believe in my own intuition,
Only through it do we ever receive,
Do we ever behold our true vision.
But beyond this, and all that can be known,
Thank you for making Princeton feel like home.
ccxxx.
Time is not a solid reality,
It is but a mode by which we learn to think,
It only possesses validity,
Because of the events we seek to link.
A moving clock is known to tick slower,
At the speed of light all the ticks do cease,
A massful object has a speed that's lower,
Past the speed of light, nothing can increase.
Oh, there's no speed greater than that of light,
And we never see time run in reverse,
This one-way direction we seek to fight,
For our time on this earth is far too terse.
Oh, to know what the show is all about,
Before curiosity's light goes out.
ccxxxi.
I see him memorizing his Latin verbs,
Treating philosophy as something dead,
Believing depth's obtained by smoking herb,
Regurgitating what the professor said.
And he believes in man's ability,
To obtain justice by the way of thought,
Believer in ivy-leauge nobility,
That he deserves what others have not got.
But he doesn't know what to do with me,
Into his law books I don't seem to fit,
My eyes he won't meet, my eyes he can't see,
There's no fact nor formula for wit.
Animal instinct he has to conform,
To what the poets before me have formed.
ccxxxii.
Every second we're born into this world,
A new reality with every breath,
So what can it matter, what has unfurled,
When birth gives birth to life and death brings death to death.
But to be a piece of this mystery,
For a moment to equal the expanse,
What can it matter things we'll never see,
As long as we're lost together in this trance.
Midnight thunder fragments our dearest hopes,
The pain drives deeper than the pounding fear,
What can it matter, depression's tight ropes,
When the morning after is crystal clear.
For a second I wish you happy birthday,
But I celebrate your life everyday.
ccxxxiii.
So Holden called everyone a phony,
Don't you know JD's a millionaire,
Who rolled the Devil's dice to make us see,
A Catcher in the Rye when nothing's there.
No worse than you or me, talent divine,
Naive enough to believe in himself,
A naive genius that did define,
A brave new world not yet found on the shelf.
Now it's on the shelf, the world beats forward,
And Salinger is running from Holden,
Holden's grown horns and a tail, reaching toward,
The empty air within all rings golden.
Catcher in the Rye's half a tragedy,
JD Salinger's the greatest phony.
ccxxxiv.
Beauty's in the beholder's eye,
And don't you know that ugliness is too?
You know the liar does become his lie,
The hater hates himself, not what he views.
Perceived imperfections are the beholder's,
He'll be rid of them when he rids himself,
Of hate's burden, borne upon his shoulder,
When he can alone, within himself, dwelve.
When the tyrant can see life within a leaf,
When the engineer sees progress in grass,
When poets write poems of silent belief,
After this strange interlude has passed.
The infinite wonder we live without,
Sacrificed for trifles we sing and shout.
ccxxxv.
It gets in your veins, each girl that you know,
And there's nothing you can do to forget,
You reach out for them as you sink below,
But holes don't float, and you're further in debt.
You're wishing you could again know romance,
But the visions in your mind, they won't leave,
Cause you know where you go after the dance,
In heaven without hell you can't believe.
We call it the fall, because it's the end,
Of poetry and the freedom of God,
Beauty, evil and innocence all blend,
A truth can not be found that is not flawed.
But for a moment her face reminded me,
Of that which I would never again be.
ccxxxvi.
If it weren't for your bawds, strumpet themes,
Your undressing of art, baring of flesh,
Catching the pervert's eye with naked dreams,
Then you would own but invisible breath.
An idea of an idea you have not,
I guess you've got to play with what you've got,
But you shouldn't have killed my father's thought,
'Cause only doom through criticism's bought.
For the children own the truth, they will know,
The great men from the political fools,
Loyal to the truth they shall overthrow,
Pedant tyrants who have taken root in schools.
You can deny everything but the truth,
Youth wants truth, time is on the side of youth.
ccxxxvii.
I 'm a graduate of the field and street,
My headmaster's my yearning, breaking heart,
The subjects are everybody I meet,
It's all just life to me, I know no art.
The first soft touch of spring is in the air,
You know all the girls are jogging in shorts,
My heart jumps with every one, looking fair,
But there's one so fine, she's a different sort.
Threw her tennis ball back over the fence,
She smiled a thank you, and it was enough,
To catch a fleeting glimpse in this dark, dense,
Forest that surrounds our Golden dream's fluff.
Tonight's pink and purple dusk she's haunting,
Things we'll never touch we're always wanting.
ccxxxviii.
Did you ever go running in spring rain?
Was it at night, under lonely street lights?
Did you feel that it wasn't all in vane?
If you let it be, it would be all right.
You loved her enough-- it didn't matter,
If she loved you back, if she loved your song,
Did you feel your heart could never shatter?
In death did you find the infinitely strong?
You ran to her room that night, brought her out,
Into the rain, you knew she'd never see,
It was OK-- that's not what it's about,
Sight is the reason I 'll never be free.
The vital sight wanes as youth's end draws near,
I live more in hope, and less upon fear.
ccxxxix.
And the good men, they shall all be faithful,
To the good women, who shall honor them,
The good children, they shall all be grateful,
Morality will be a precious gem.
And the dishonest men shall be deposed,
The vile, vicious women shall all be shunned,
The truth shall prevail over what was posed,
And the golden day will again be won.
But for a moment, 'til a madman grasps,
The prophet's words in pursuit of power,
By blind leadership, yesterday's words lapse
in meaning,-- death rules man's darkest hour.
Chaos to order to chaos again,
From tree to paper, back to tree again.
ccxl.
My only knowledge is I know nothing
Intrinsic beyond the rules of this game,
of evolution and sordid breeding,
Which has of late cast me into this shame.
That I yet crawl upon this earth and breathe,
While a far superior mind's below,
Within the flowers I can see but death,
Since good Pierre retired to after the show.
The last friend of true conviction now gone,
Lies squandered while the living poets lie,
The thousand-thousand slimy things live on,
And the mirror tells me that so do I.
To find solace, I must go, be alone,
A man's a saint but when he's on his own.
ccxli.
Technology took us to the dark ages,
Beasts scream on radio waves, blood on the screen,
And we've forgotten how to turn pages,
Reacting to the superficial sheen.
Oh, long ago, the true poets did reign,
Culture was founded upon words and thoughts,
With no honor, the states have gone insane,
Presidents playing to the common lots,
With their musical-video campaigns,
Oh, I 'm losing my mind in the music,
Only Shakespeare's words can make me feel sane,
He's been banned and replaced by baseless flicks.
Rising out of this bestial oblivion,
Religion, blown upon revolution.
ccxlii.
What should it matter to me, this short life?
Whose conception nor end I did not choose,
Because my hands are tied, why should I feel strife?
I lost long ago all I had to lose.
Let life go to those who feel direction,
To the wind, to the trees, to the green grass,
They're empty under my mind's inspection,
But belief in God makes them the Gods, alas!
My consciousness is a most useless thing,
Without a purpose in which to believe,
I wish I felt to try, to try to sing,
But I don't know a song which doesn't deceive.
My mind is turning itself inside-out,
To be is not to be-- all truth is doubt.
ccxliii.
Oh, I know the sun will come up again,
As it did, so short a time ago,
I have faith, though I can't tell how or when,
I 'll know enough to make the South wind blow.
But what a feeling, to follow your dream,
To follow the wild call of the frontier,
A frontier within you, internal theme,
To believe, to believe that you're a seer.
But oh, the dark clouds look like they won't break,
And I miss her, and all I left behind,
So many have gone insane for art's sake,
All alone sometimes meaning's tough to find.
I must face the demon within alone,
Though it kills me, the truth, it must be known.
ccxliv.
The foundations of a pedant's power,
But the remnants of yesterday's fashion,
She played unfair to rise to her tower,
Forever tainted for my father's bashing.
True power lies with the vitality,
The vitality in Princeton's youth's truth,
Where there lives love, there lies reality,
A young thought needs but to be young for proof.
Now I see! We'll start a society,
To honor all those who are today the young,
For come tomorrow we will not be free,
Enslaved by the music we once sung.
The rarer action's in virtue than vice,
To forgive that which is but quantum dice.
ccxlv.
So beautifully strange to see her again,
She'd told me she'd forgotten how I looked,
I 'd forgotten her mysterious blend,
Deep eyes and quick smile on which I am hooked.
There's an air about her vitality,
Natural as waves rolling on the sea,
In her I can feel a reality,
In her I found a brand new piece of me.
It seems a rare thing, to come across her,
Cause you know I 've never done it before,
Somebody who's real, somebody who's there,
Oh, but there's yet a long voyage to shore.
Never thought a girl would be true,
Never knew there was you, now I do.
ccxlvi.
Paradox of action in entropy,
Where to act is to be, to die, to not be,
The paradox is that we want to be,
While nature's first want is for entropy.
Order relies on other's disorder,
The laws we make are but laws that made us,
Leaders need the people's source for power,
The few are polished, the majority rusts.
Phenomena: men with insight write rules,
Men of instinct interpret them to survive,
Along with the good rise the evil fools,
Who know to break the rules to stay alive.
Rock'n roll's iron grip shall soon relent,
A new rebellion shall man's anger vent.
ccxlvii.
Without you Milt, I wouldn't have made it,
For the forces were all beating me down,
Talentless, hopeless, with nowhere to fit,
I could have never seen myself on my own.
But late one night you called me to your home,
The wind-blown spring showers soaking me wet,
You lead me to a chair, read me a poem,
That did mix with my mind and now has set,
Showed me how to hold infinity in my palm.
Oh, to see the world, in a grain of sand,
Feel infinity in phantasmal dust,
Oh, to hold eternity in your hand.
Take paradox to heart; it's all you've got,
Youth and eternity are both for naught.
ccxlviii.
Night froze what the afternoon sun melted,
My black shoes crunched the ice, scarf 'round my mouth,
Walked to her room, the north wind belted
me-- the wind that had blown all the starlings south.
Roses in my hand, I knocked on her door,
She answered the door, putting an earing in,
Black dress over which yellow hair did pour,
Head tilted a bit, a beautiful grin.
We walked to the dance, about her my arm,
I couldn't help turning to her profile,
She turned upon me brown eyes filled with charm,
But I knew to wait to kiss her fine smile.
The band packed up, left us there on the floor,
'Twas the first last dance of ten thousand more.
ccxlix.
You once saw something in me girl-- it's gone,
There was music, a sense, in the words I'd say,
But that was long ago, and we've moved on,
To killing each-other everyday.
Almost forgot I've been through this before,
There's a truth I value above people,
It's the power behind all of my lore,
I worship alone in this abstract steeple.
The contradictions you will never see,
Though you sometimes feel the insanity,
But because I can laugh at tradgedy,
You know you don't really matter to me.
Beauty's in the beholder's eye-- it's strange,
That I am different because you have changed.
ccl.
But she believes in me, and what I write,
And that is enough, you know it's all right,
To know that I 'll be holding her some night,
Her face streaked by the damp breath of a blue moon's-light.
Cause just when I thought I 'd nowhere to go,
She laughed at me, and said I was wrong,
She felt there was some melody I know,
That could be found nowhere in the world's song.
That smile on her face, quiet confidence,
She made me believe that there is a pure,
When with her, all my senses can relent,
Walking beside her is where I am sure.
And I really hope that it works this time,
'Cause I am running out of words that rhyme.
ccli.
Oh, I see now, it's a capricious game,
Where smiles can be traded for an ideal,
Conformity for creativity's flame,
Superficial phrases for what you feel.
English is the study of brown-nosing,
And so is law, and philosophy,
Even science, in all its grand posing,
Is for the selfish sake of progeny.
If I 'm a cynic, then cynics are true,
And cynics know this vile game's but good sport,
A sport in which there are no rules in view,
This is the truth that power must distort.
As it's not their fault they wear medallions,
It's not my fault I wear rebellion.
cclii.
With her I disagree, so she hates me,
I won't conform to her creativity,
The sacrifice for others is easy,
To lose they've got no originality.
So them her aging mind can comprehend,
As it fits the molds of setting concrete,
Creativity's not down this dead end!
Yet they'll be the Princeton Poet's elite!
She smiles upon her dead, wicked children,
While a Cinderalla waits for her prince,
Waiting's the burden of the maverick pen,
And out-lasting me shall be what I print.
Oh, we live in a funny society,
When the poet lies, only then they see.
ccliii.
Before darkness descends, there's a moment,
The western sky takes on a deep purple hue,
I take one look, my breath from me is sent,
Up to join the early stars so few.
I know I 'm man enough to walk alone,
I could count myself king of infinite space,
If it weren't for these feelings that have grown,
These dreams that turned to nightmares of her face.
For my love itself was chaste yesterday,
Now I cannot wash the blood from my hands,
Together with her, the beast we did flay,
The bones are covered by time's shifting sands.
Then darkness descends, the moment is lost,
There's ice on her eye-lashes, from the frost.
ccliv.
I can't remember the trees changing,
And the daffodils have all disappeared,
Leaving but green stems rapidly fading,
With each year I say, "It's the quickest year."
The golf course has become a brilliant green.
Her skin is bronzed, her hair is golden yellow,
I squint into the ocean's sparkling sheen,
And see even its vastness is shallow.
The definition's returning to me,
With each day's effort shouldering this load,
Accustomed to the dark, my eyes can see,
It won't be long until I explode.
These words are the eternal piece of me,
My fight against ephemerality.
cclv.
A society of litigation,
An exchange of words equal to a car,
We borrow from the future; create inflation,
With our atom bomb they are who they are.
Now they don't talk so loud, nor seem so proud,
You know any engineer can build bombs,
And the little people speak just as loud,
With the power to send you to your tomb.
So what do you say? What is true justice?
How is it that Harvard and Yale know best?
Why must we have a degree to practice?
That for which Socrates showed there's no test?
Though there's no base, we must still feel to try,
As you fabricate, let the poet lie.
cclvi.
I walked Led Zepplin's stairway to Heaven,
Checked in at the Hotel California,
Shared a suite with vacationing Satan,
Who had come to talk to God about law.
The duality is the guiding force,
Without which we'd be lacking direction,
Without Satan's temptation to coerce,
There wouldn't be any evolution.
For between this rise and fall there comes all,
All of men's struggles are driven by sin,
Nobility too, is but the wild's call,
Through envy he triumphs, by greed he wins.
Even the rock'n roll prophets of peace,
Their vocal beauty's but gives them a piece.
cclvii.
She took my hand, led me into the woods,
An April evening, speckled with bright green,
Walked up, over a hill, and there it stood,
Resting tree-house, upon four trees did lean.
She ran ahead, was first up the ladder,
Laughing, and claiming it to be her throne,
Ah! Thinking back only makes me sadder,
Moment of innocence forever gone.
I joined her, up upon the wood platform,
I could see ninety-three million miles,
To the red sun,-- a chill replaced the warm,
I kissed her on her head, and saw her smile.
"Let's make this our secret place," she squeezed my hand,
She kissed me; from the tree house I was banned.
cclviii.
I sing for myself, I let the time pass,
Through my fingers, cause I don't have to care,
I 've seen myself in man's looking glass,
The only place for me to fit is nowhere.
'Cause the things you call progress, I can't see
Them making the good earth a better place,
No, your fashions seem but arbitrary,
Your trophies the sterile ends of the race.
Why should I try to find reasons to die,
For ten thousand young men and their enemies,
It's enough to just look at the blue sky,
Reflected all around in the wide open seas.
Man but knows himself through other men,
Your existence lends reason to my pen.
cclix.
So you pump yourself full of heroin,
Mr. Brownstone makes you scream on the stage,
Running on empty, you must keep going,
Giving the public spectacular rage.
You've got a contract on the MTV,
Everybody everywhere knows your name,
Your precious anger is lost in fames' sea,
Where can you go now that you've won the game?
Now that you're the system, what's rebellion?
To wear long hair for your record cover?
As youth recedes, you hold on to bullion,
But the days that it was yours are over.
When you hit the rock-bottom of culture,
A bloody, ordered war is in the near future.
cclx.
Their fancy, flimsy games of words are nice,
And grow for the moment, a fresh April green,
But in time's cold wind they shall turn to ice,
Come tomorrow, no longer will be seen.
But the classics shall endure time's swinging scythe,
The works that include the fundamental,
Reflecting uniqueness of a man's life,
Existence in the realm of the mental.
For ideas are all, and all is an idea,
Words without ideas are void of meaning,
And ideas without feeling can not see,
Hand in hand, they make all of our dreaming.
But to tell me that my words think too much,
Only shows that you've never felt as such.
cclxi.
Girl, you know I don't want to fall with you,
Want to be young forever, by your side,
To just sit, and share the autumn day's view,
Oh, why is innocence always defied?
Cause we kissed one night-- then we went too far,
Holding hands was never again enough,
Every little thing hurts, makes you seem far,
Babe, loving you has been getting too tough.
I don't know how much more I can take it,
I want it all, and I know it's too much,
But that's love, and you know I can't fake it,
When I get this way, I 've got to have your touch.
But girl, hold me back, and keep me away,
'Cause I 'm looking to love in a new way.
cclxii.
Oh, if it is not for truth, then it's not,
Education. It is but a whore's game,
Where the highest bidder wins the harlot,
Sophists teach Socrates tinted with shame.
What use has a true man for this base hoax?
Where our smiles and words hide our true intents,
Making wise men bawds, the honest men jokes,
With humbleness and modesty for rent.
They have the bold nerve to philosophize,
And then grade me on what can not be known,
Oh! Remember Socrates, he was wise,
For his honesty he was overthrown.
Honesty is a most dangerous thought,
Among shrewd fools who don't own what they've got.
cclxiii.
If you look in it you will soon grow blind,
If you listen too close, you'll become deaf,
If you seek too long, yourself you won't find,
If you describe me, you will lose your breath.
To stand behind your own art you never dared.
I 'm warning you, do not offer critique,
Oh, think twice friend, you really should be scared,
You know your words will only make you weak.
But maybe you're brave, maybe you're not scared,
Maybe you've seen the void and that's why you dared.
Maybe like me you see that it's no loss,
To murder an innocent albatross.
The wedding guest, he stoppeth one of three,
Without his sin, he would not know poetry.
cclxiv.
Walking in the rain, no one understood,
What it meant sometimes to see but nothing,
You can run, you can hide, it does no good,
You feel like crying, but they're all laughing.
You find a friend in the midst of nowhere,
Someone who can understand what you see,
You think back to the rainy night you shared,
You know deep down that it'll always be.
The times are still tough, the seas are still rough,
But you have learned that you are not alone,
And though it's no more, it still is enough,
Cause the memory will always be known.
When November rain soaks me to the skin,
It warms me knowing out there sleeps my kin.
cclxv.
My heart starts breaking, I can't help waking,
A million miles before the dawn,
This world's quaking, I feel it forsaking
Me from you-- I woke up, knew you were gone.
Cause we haven't been seeing eye to eye,
Cause your world, it never needed my mind,
I agree, it's better my mind should die,
Cause thinking only ever made me blind.
And oh girl, I wish I could be you,
But I 'm cursed with the fate of being true,
I 'd be better off with a narrow view,
When you see it all, there's nothing to do.
I 'm sorry I had to push you away,
There were things you wouldn't let me say.
cclxvi.
So they want a theory of everything,
Well they're looking in all the wrong places,
To quarks and baryons, the wrong big bang,
While our origin lies in girl's faces.
You know that it's the ultimate beauty,
Therefore too, it is the ultimate sin,
So we pretend that it we do not see,
Our parents don't tell us where they've been.
Look at the culture that rises in between!
Our original sin, and then our last,
Fickle, capricious, blowin' in the wind,
A future as meaningless as the past.
But you're a believer, I 'll let you go,
There's nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so.
cclxvii.
So you're cashing in on Einstein's theory,
Building better bombs, working out details,
Mining in the fashionable quarry,
You are but walking down existing trails.
You talk of God like you played golf with him,
You speak of forces no one can see,
And in the face of all seeming whim,
You voice purpose, that we were meant to be.
Oh, but this voice is from a physicist,
Who says he's interested in knowledge,
But to tell us all he can not resist,
Self-promotion's what is taught in college.
The truth is fine, if you can let it be,
Danger's in forcing everyone to see.
cclxviii.
All these inconsequential small battles,
We fight every day with parents and friends,
Petty gossip, insignificant prattle,
None of it changes our ultimate end.
Yet we find reasons to form groups and cliques,
Fraternitize with some, exclude others,
We have our churches, synagogues, and Greeks,
Some we deem as sisters, other's brothers.
Indoctrination, we grow numb to it,
The children hesitate at the border,
Some die resisting, others succumb to it,
Some blaze the way for a brand new order.
Littler fleas upon the little fleas,
Their mass adds up and war is made of these.
cclxix.
To be or not to be is not our choice,
The question's a beautiful illusion,
Lending significance to our void voice,
Feelings give potency to our disillusion.
For there were times I was so full of love,
Feelings cast on the world a rosey hue,
But all must fall who try to fly above,
There were days when pain was the only view.
But now I feel neither the highs nor lows,
My feelings become thoughts, and thoughts wisdom,
I 've learned that all feelings so soon do go,
Why die for an ephemeral kingdom?
There's the pointless point, death comes regardless,
Towards death and inception we stand choiceless.
cclxx.
You told me you didn't get my message,
Well I 've been taken for a fool before,
By other fools who think that they are sage,
Who think that I am naive to their lore.
But I have no patience for pretty lies,
Though they come with pretty hair and a smile,
You know the deeper you look in my eyes,
Only makes you more guilty in this trial.
No, I have had enough of your flauntings,
Pretended innocence, I know what you want,
Go find another to do your haunting,
Make sure he's a fool; the wise you'll but daunt.
So you thought you had me, surprise, surprise,
I don't feel like listening to your lies.
cclxxi.
I know it's tough kid, it's tough out alone,
When the frat parties are all too empty,
You feel things that by no one else is known,
It's tough having to swallow what you see.
Cause a piece of you dies, when no one's there,
You become numb to music of the night,
No mystery's left in her auburn hair,
Without a foot-hold, without any light,
Without a dream or vision, without sight,
Perceptiveness is a long, lonely plight,
Paranoid nightmares, full of untouched fright,
You know everyone's out to get you tonight.
They're there, friend, I can see their faces too,
They can't understand, and they're coming for you.
cclxxii.
I went by to put a note on your car,
But you and your blue car, they weren't there,
Our actions are louder than our words are,
It hurt inside to hear you didn't care.
I didn't think that your brown eyes could lie,
I guess I was naive, now I know better,
You are free now, girl, you are free to fly,
Your private life I don't want to fetter.
You know I 'll miss the girl I used to kiss,
In the country house we shared for one night,
Her last arrow was untrue, and it missed,
Me. I know who you are, I 've seen the light.
Dejected, I rode my bike slowly on home,
Stopped on the bridge, gave the river the poem.
cclxxiii.
Oh, the tower of Babel Princeton is,
Diversity in breeding and language,
Was supposed to bring us closer to bliss,
We would touch heaven, men would become sage.
But for the poor children it's not working,
Girls grow old lonely, romantics are shunned,
Everywhere there's grim confusion lurking,
Factions arise were people are forced to blend.
And who is steering at the crazy helm?
Is it me or you? Is it everyone?
Steering ourselves into Chaos's realm,
Into this deep night with no hope of dawn.
What scares me most is men with answers,
Who rise from chaos, make us say their prayers.
cclxxiv.
Chemical reactions with direction,
In a world of increasing entropy,
Ingrained are instincts to build erections,
Which need increasing entropy to be.
We feed upon this entropy increase,
As we put order into our systems,
But entropy's increase can never cease,
It grows with every action and wisdom.
So the writer with his words can not win,
Nor the physicist with his equations,
The composers are all decomposin',
Order but quickens the annihilation.
There's nothing wrong, tragedy's not a flaw,
It's the nature of paradox's law.
cclxxv.
Can I capture tragedy in a poem?
Or is it too grand a movement for this?
A writer struggles to become well known,
Inspired by the beauties he wants to kiss.
At first rejection, he drinks, tries harder,
Drunk, he forgets, his mind is young again,
Not afraid to go over the border,
The inspiration flows out through his pen.
He exists, in struggle being's defined,
Finished masterpiece earns him a king's throne,
She blossoms for him, he will never find
drive again, purpose fulfilled, fully grown.
They say this fall, this sin, leads to tragedy,
Yet too, it leads to everything that be.
cclxxvi.
You tried your darndest to make me profane,
To make me speak the words you understand,
Killed the greats, tempted me, prayed for my pain,
You conspired, tried to have me from life banned.
It's a business based on liberal luck,
They deconstructed all truths except money,
So tempt the masses and make one more buck,
Commit the crime and skip the time, honey.
Words were corrupted by flesh's beauty,
It's art to slash women upon the screen,
Now look who's running the university,
Nude emperors of superficial sheen.
Here's the news, saint PC executive,
What lies shall die, sick witch, what rhymes shall live.
cclxxvii.
Should anyone take pride in anything?
When all is founded upon but fortune?
Those in power make us feel shame's sharp sting,
While them, to their own rules they are immune.
Oh, it is but for power to feel pride,
Words have no meaning but for power's use,
In love and lust all words are first applied,
Young believe in them, as do the obtuse.
Words at their conception are innocent,
For they have not yet had a chance to fall,
They'll be there when the feeling will have went,
Behind a dead pretense of words lives all.
Time persists, actions prove words untrue,
Poets in love redefine them anew.
cclxxviii.
Oh, so soft and vivid is tonight's dusk!
Oh! Forever these purple clouds shall hang,
As shall the magnolia blossom's musk,
And the good night the mourning doves just sang.
Now I feel that these actors were fated,
By biological scripts, by quantum's
Fortune-- significance of free will's abated.
To useless logic I 'm comfortably numb.
All spoken words, actions, where are they now?
Where's goes sculpture's sculpting? Writer's writing?
Out of past actions we sculptures did grow,
Now adult, we fade in the benighting.
But all action's recorded in evolution,
As offspring are closer to perfection.
cclxxix.
The paradox of man's phenomena,
Premise: All men were created equal,
We are but men and can not reach God's Law,
On this earth we should walk about humble.
But then, if we're but men, we cannot know,
What is right, what is wrong, for God's the judge,
Only he can choose whom to send below,
We must forgive those who sin and begrudge.
So we lie, cheat, steel, we're but men,
It's a sin to pass judgement on ourselves,
Prophets, saviours, nailed to the trees again,
You could be next, so look out for yourself.
Perhaps you'll be nailing them to the cross,
Without a soul it will never be lost.
cclxxx.
What good can be infinite reasoning?
When no man can escape his simple heart?
How can man improve with book's seasoning?
When with intrinsic love he cannot part?
I 've become enlightened to Paradox,
Professors who are more equal than me,
Hiding in their offices, I pick their locks,
They won't acknowledge emptiness I see.
An emptiness which pervades their proud realm,
To be great's to find quarrel in a straw,
Down their tunnel vision they steer the helm,
Ignorance breeds certainty in the law.
A little learning's a dangerous thing,
An amplified wrath of the heart it brings.
cclxxxi.
Her voice was a wild tonic in the rain,
Wet eyelashes, streak of hair on her cheek,
We looked out over the fields of grain,
Once her face came a bit close, I grew weak.
A warm summer sprinkle, Tory and me,
Oh, but I can't tell you the way she smiled,
There is too much that I can't make you see,
Nature's true beauty by words is defiled.
Last time I saw her was four years ago,
I happened upon her picture today,
Life of that rainy day through me did flow,
But it's gone, gone no matter what I say.
My feelings do drown, but with words I strive,
To reach the past and keep myself alive.
cclxxxii.
Oh, babe, I held you when you were crying,
Time apart changed us beyond recognition,
I 'm flying free, but there's no denying,
Pictures of you in my mind's vision.
We awoke to a winter wonderland,
Last January, when you pulled up the shade,
White wet snow on black trees, you grabbed my hand,
It's a cold memory when feelings fade.
I pause, look within, honestly wonder,
Is all love fated fated to fade before we?
But puddle's remain from the night's thunder,
Is it my nature to want to be free?
Thought it was forever, so many times,
Against my mind, all thoughts in love are crimes.
cclxxxiii.
I look around, see, mediocrity,
Mediocrity in power must lie,
Propaganda to make the people see,
That kings are rightfully the ones on high.
Today's good music is but naked lust,
Meterless, rhymeless, meaningless verse,
No wonder the children's senses do rust,
'Neath the more equal pig's in power's curse.
Away from my college you non-poets!
Who with bass language rape the mass's minds,
I avenge my father, I can't forget,
How he was a victim of the learned blind.
Oh! Culture dies and the great poet lies,
'Neath the earth, while the cursed witches do rise.
cclxxxiv.
I 've grown not to take death personally,
When she loses faith or her feelings fade,
As it comes to all, it must come to me,
I would never have met you had she stayed.
By fading fall I don't feel rejected,
By yesterday I don't feel forgotten,
By time's precious flow I am protected,
From past's decay which makes the heart rotten.
My ultimate death, I do not fear it,
As I did not fear these word's conception,
I know not music if I can't hear it,
I can not fear a brave new inception.
Yet I cling to this world, for I would miss,
That one brown-eyed girl's January Kiss.
cclxxxv.
The beasts who fair best, what is their secret?
Are they the strongest and the most honest?
Or is their strength but overdue debt?
Do they win because they fix the contest?
Should we define strong by that which survives?
Is rape strong because it passes one's genes?
Are the strong the ones who sacrifice lives?
So as to make for a world they deem clean?
Is the lying man the prevailing truth?
Are the empty men the ones who control?
Are the blind men the ones who need no proof?
Do spiritual men live without a soul?
Shallow men are the one's who can see deep,
The elite who don't want the child's life to keep.
cclxxxvi.
With the midnight train I became aware,
This ocean of time slipping through my hands,
So much is blank that in my mind was there,
Though I 'm blind now, I know colors were grand.
Another Christmas break in Ohio,
The tree's out front, my mind is turned ahead,
Thoughts of her come, but feelings I don't know,
Yesterday, something more I could have said.
Who can recall magic youth's lost contexts,
where we were certain love was forever?
Now you fall in love knowing there' a next,
Love, from true meaning of love is severed.
Though far away, I still like you Bootsy,
Maybe love's letting the other be free.
cclxxxvii.
Freedom means nothing without your freedom,
Democracy's nothing without your say,
If they don't listen, then you don't need them,
Let be that each human soul sees the day--
Freedom to dance upon a spring meadow,
To turn 'gainst the grain and find one's own way,
Free to find the truth, youth's freedom to show,
The world a new order-- pave a new way.
In this freedom rises the tragic men,
Borne upon a glimpse of glory in youth,
In freedom they're free to control again,
Free to state their view as absolute truth.
My friends, save this good man from tragedy,
For he's lost the unseen flower's beauty.
cclxxxviii.
Men of power walk on by the unseen flower,
All beauty is in the beholder's eye,
Those who can see none lack beauty's dower,
The cold steel men blind to wondering why.
Without soul, they can see none in others,
Spend their lives seeking external order,
A pure world, void of diverse brothers,
Borne in this world of stratified border.
And when he's done weeding out the impure,
Is that when the happiness shall begin?
When we deem certain humans as manure,
And kill them, will we put an end to sin?
The rocks are perfect, and so is the sea,
The more that man strives, the less he can be.
cclxxxix.
Beware of the professor, the scholar,
The philosopher and the physicist,
Economists who study the dollar,
Beware when these men begin to insist.
For the true philosopher knows nothing,
The true physicist knows only wonder,
It's the weak who grow certain of something,
Moral certitude leads us to blunder.
For we are but an airy nothingness,
Men of rules are blind to reality,
They are liars, those who do not confess,
There's more in heaven and earth than they see.
These men of small dreams, pedagogues on stilts,
They destroy life and have cold order built.
ccxc.
I look and I see, my enemy's me,
My proud ambitions drive me to obtain,
A thousand thousand things my eyes see,
To win in this competition insane,
Over other beings, over their souls,
Locked in this survival of the fittest,
Where survival is the true judge of goals,
Where the dishonest men too past the tests.
Oh! What is honesty when you have truth?
On your side. It is so easy to win,
But at what? You're forever nature's proof,
Life's impossible without the first sin.
Every man's enemy is within him,
Intrinsic driving force of selfish whim.
ccxci.
When I feel I am holding forever,
Those are the moments when poems are written,
A mysterious wave transcends clever,
Other moments by envy are smitten,
There are no markers, my course is unplanned,
It's just me sailing on the open sea,
I leave all my obstacles behind on land,
Though I sail, my destination finds me.
I must ramble when I hear the calling;
The calling of a vivid memory,
I know off of time's edge I am falling,
As my ship sails on to eternity.
But for the moment I 'm safe on the shore,
Anchored to the girl who I write this for.
ccxcii.
But the empty witch does not feel enough,
Nor see enough in the romantic realm,
So she fills pages with sexual fluff,
And the poor children are overwhelmed,
By MTV, all today's art must tempt,
Music sells by its sexual appeal,
Oh, from this force I know I 'm not exempt,
But there is something more to love I feel.
For when primitive animals learn words,
Words form meaningless thought without a soul,
They praise a Lord, then quickly grab a sword,
Quote a dead poet, bodies fill a hole.
Knowledge follows the naked temptation,
In war we clothe all of our frustrations.
ccxciii.
Oh, my girlfriends have all forgotten me,
See, they are content with their new boyfriends,
Good, loyal men of diligence, duty,
Have replaced my extreme chaotic blend.
I have learned love has no place in logic,
That it is an argument of passion,
Fickle passions failing me, but the tragic,
Reflected in man's ephemeral fashion.
Oh but yet there are still glints in their eyes,
Of these ideals too relative for me,
At my tender age I have grown wise,
And my wisdom has set my feeling free.
Look at them, so beautifully innocent,
Next to youth's love, Wisdom is ignorant.
ccxciv.
Now my friend Derek, to bury my charms,
For all my poems were but a magic wand,
As much good there's in words, so too there's harm,
I used mine for that of which I was fond.
To win a girl's heart, to make her believe,
In the hypnotic magic of a poem,
From mere words on paper, one does receive,
A focused feeling that before did roam.
But alas, my words have become jaded,
And worn by the use of several minds,
The meaning and the feeling have faded,
The dried-out words whisked away by the youth's winds.
And fly free, fly free away from control,
I break my wand, and I regain my soul.
ccxcv.
I suppose it's magic that makes you say,
The things that defy all learning and thought,
When I kissed your cheek, you turned, said hey, hey,
Was that because your girlfriend here is not.
I could only smile, for that was so far,
So far from the feelings I had inside,
She's in the past, headed out for the stars,
You I kissed, the girl walking by my side.
You held your own hand, and said you were cold,
You weren't ready to return my kiss,
To not feel bad I 'll never be that old,
I just met you, but it's you who I miss.
I 've befriended time, for I know he takes,
Two separate paths and from them one he makes.
ccxcvi.
Oh babe, it's late, but I can't fall asleep,
Cause you're out somewhere, and I need your touch,
On the edge of frantic, thoughts of you keep
Me. Never been possessed by a girl this much.
The books in my room are all meaningless,
The stars are cold tonight, void of feeling,
To myself I guess it's time to confess,
I 'm losing you-- you left me here kneeling.
It's a tidal wave of void and vacuum,
Smothering me like a blanket of snow,
It's beyond heart ache, emptier than gloom,
Knocked me on my back, your absences blow.
If you call me, I 'm afraid I can't comply,
'Cause it hurt so bad I've got to let it die.
ccxcvii.
So long I dreamed of her, and her alone,
Never would I be able to touch her,
But fate's different idea blind time has shown,
The nights in her arms pass by in a blurr.
And now that she likes me she's not so great,
Every day she falls shorter of my dreams,
There's a vile part of me no girl can sate.
For a girl brings death to my wildest schemes,
Oh yes, I kissed Daisy, and there I found,
That no longer did my mind romp like God's,
As she blossomed for me, my soul did sound,
I can see no beauty that isn't flawed.
Showed me heaven, then made a beast of me,
Childhood dreams are love's exorbitant fee.
ccxcviii.
Long, skinny shadows on the browned golf course,
Winter brown that pervades the earth and sky,
Of my saddened pangs, Amy was the source,
I liked her, but she could never know why.
No girl I ever knew could understand,
The intrinsic, sickly horror of love,
From that realm of consciousness they are banned,
So evil are the innocent above.
Evil because they're blind, blind because they're
Innocent. Innocent as the ocean,
Rolling with no concept of why or where,
An ocean where many good men did drown.
Amy my angel, save me from myself,
Hate me, scorn me, leave me upon the shelf.
ccxcix.
That isn't music in those arch ways,
They're not performing from within their souls,
Repeating words which meant something yesterday,
Musical beaureaucrats, political goals.
This campus isn't at all for what I hoped,
Just a tradition everyone wants to touch,
Connections for future deals to be roped,
About thinking nobody cares too much.
And yet, what gets me is the righteous pride,
That people have come to Princeton to buy,
For the honest man stands defied,
When the pretentious philosophize why.
It makes a man mad, their high arrogance,
Bred upon the pedant's phony pretense.
ccc.
"Take me down to the Paradise City,"
The top down-- the volume cranked all the way,
"Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty,"
Ha! You are the sonneteers of our day!
I learned this craft from you-- you messed-up guys,
You and the great dead who made their thoughts rhyme,
Some say you're white trash-- but I say you're wise,
To create music that shall withstand time.
For you've touched the billions by your deep pain,
You stare in the darkness, find ecstacy
Never a note nor a feeling you feign,
You die on stage for the illusion we see.
You've taken me places I've never been,
Eternity by your words shall be seen.
ccci.
Sinister face of father's enemy,
Winner of the esteemed Pulitzer prize,
Who travels from country to country,
Fondling sin with words behind learned disguise.
Oh it's neither beautiful nor true,
What she tries to pass off as art,
Without rhyme nor meter's scan to pursue,
Her words are but mis-thrown darts,
What makes her is she's politically correct,
Riding the crest of a political wave,
But waves break, no more will they stand erect,
Nothing she's ever written shall time save.
She is as much like my father, the seer,
As I myself am to the bard Shakespeare.
cccii.
You've got some chameleon in you, my friend,
Blending in with other's identities,
When you needed me, a helping hand you'd lend,
But then you'd blow me off, give me the freeze.
But I guess you don't believe in deep love,
It's finery's blocked from your narrow view,
Do you consider it heaven above,
To join the ones who rejected you?
So don't let your heart bleed on my doorstep,
I'm no saint, but I don't pretend to be,
I can't save you from falling down the steps,
Of your brave new white world's insanity.
It's a bit hard to cry, it's hard to care,
When you've lost something that was never there.
ccciii.
So sleepy on a cool October eve,
When you realize it's now a memmory,
Into the soul's quilt, a fabric to weave,
To save that you wish could always be.
For there is no distance as great as time,
And there is no permanence as immense,
Nothing more powerful to inspire rhyme.
It makes breath brief, and we shall be gone hence.
But let it be, for I have this vision,
A recurring dream of eternity,
Running 'cross the fields, towards the sinking sun,
Us, together, before infinity.
When you travel it's not the place nor part,
But if you lived inside of someone's heart.
ccciv.
Men who lack humanity can see none,
in fellow men who they categorize,
According to the superficial tones,
The ones who lose in this world are the wise.
The cold, shallow perfect beasts rape the earth,
A new order they profess they carry,
But it's only plague that makes such a dearth,
Of men, as humanity they burry.
This lack of perception is a vile plague,
Which endangers all who stop to wonder,
Breeding certainty in the face of vague,
Will but certainly lead to vast blunder.
So come for me, tell the world I 'm evil,
If you're good, I look forward to the Devil.
cccv.
Money is but a common tradition,
Agreed to by the men in high places,
As is the value of erudition,
And the relative worth of four Aces.
But paper blown upon the wind of thought,
And with it they think they can buy a soul,
They try to buy that which can not be bought,
Yet they believe Princeton can fill the hole.
That by going there one can be cultured,
That by culture the world will be better,
That with books the future will be secured,
That justice can be spelled with mere letters.
Oh! It's but paper that paper can buy,
You only need to read and ask why.
cccvi.
Such a vile, corrupt world we inhabit,
Where today's money's worth less tomorrow,
It is because of mankind's cursed habit,
Insatiable appetites only grow.
You held her hand that night, it was enough,
Then you found heaven going up her shirt,
At last your efforts she didn't rebuff,
You're in love and it hurt to see her flirt.
Anger ran through your veins, you called her names,
You wanted to hurt her like she hurt you,
You fall and the world is never the same,
Worthless are now the things you used to do.
Her kiss is worth nothing, nor her caress,
Words born upon love become meaningless.
cccvii.
Wood paneling in Campus's basement,
Smokey room, dim lights--- the smell of stale beer,
Girl with red hair, a smile to me she leant,
I walked over and kissed her on her ear.
"Let's get out of this place, go outside,
A friend told me there's a good sky tonight,
I asked her her name, and I think she lied,
But it didn't matter, she looked alright.
We walked, holding hands, through the whisper arches,
Out to the golf course and she kissed my chin,
The universe was deep, the sky was grand,
She kissed me again, and I kissed her grin.
Well we just kissed until the east grew blue,
Perhaps that long red hair belonged to you.
cccviii.
I know I 'm alone in most all my thoughts,
But I know you read this and feel it too,
Poetry the lonely poet is not,
It becomes poetry when it lives in you.
So take me to the pilot of the soul,
It's because you're not here that I write this,
But by language do we ever feel whole,
But by language we give the soul a kiss.
I don't want to change this universe,
From action I must forever refrain,
So it means nothing, all this fleeting verse,
I only ever meant to entertain.
As you from all your sins would pardoned be,
Let all your indulgences set me free.
cccix.
There is nothing wrong with licentious sex,
Just screw everyone, don't you feel guilty,
God's guilt is a figment which man erects,
To control you and make you feel duty.
But adultry's as natural as your lust,
Shoot up your precious drugs, drink your good wine,
OK with me, we must do what we must,
Just smoke your grass if you're not feeling fine.
So the meaning of words begins to fade,
To love all equally is to love none,
Oh, in reality you should've stayed,
In the mirror your reflection is gone.
So do what you do, there's nothing to fear,
If it doesn't scare you to disappear.
cccx.
Are you man enough to look temptation,
In the face, laugh, and turn the other way?
Would you sacrifice beauty's inspiration,
For the knowledge that you didn't betray?
If Wendy came to you with cheshire's grin,
Held your hand, and said that she was in love,
Would loving her back be a mortal sin?
By turning away, would you rise above?
For what can be above her auburn hair?
The fine freckles that speckle her fine nose?
Oh, is it fair that one must turn from fair?
I 'm not strong, it was Wendy that I chose.
There's no music left in the Jay Bird's Song,
The days are empty and the nights are long.
cccxi.
The earth's complete to he who is complete,
The earth's broken to he who is broken,
This warm greeting's to those who warmly greet,
Rhyme's for those by whom rhyme is spoken.
Walt Whitman whispered this to me one night,
I was sleeping and he shook me awake,
"Son of mine, you've got it, the inner light,
It's something that no one can ever take.
But with it comes responsibility,
Always be sure that you say what you mean,
Don't sell your words, from the truth never flee,
This 'bove all, make sure your heart's never seen."
He winked at me, and evaporated,
By nature's good poet I was fated.
cccxii.
And so we beat on in this living sleep,
But I, I stand beside myself, look back,
To the settling shadows I couldn't keep,
A rainy dusk, the sky solid grey wrack.
I 'm there, approaching the graduate tower,
Running back home from the institute woods,
Breathing mists, 'bout streetlights hang pink showers,
Came to the hill, ran as fast as I could,
My legs were immortal, I became wind,
Gravity pushed me up to the mailbox,
To the hill's top where the finnish I 'd find,
My arms went numb, breathless, shoes filled with rocks.
Nothing matters when you feel that second wind,
When you're running where no one's ever been.
cccxiii.
Oh, the mess that we have made of our roles,
Girls want to be equal and pretty too,
To be equal in political goals?
Why do women want to be liars too?
Men and women are free to contemplate,
Beyond the stifling university,
Where we go to brown nose, secure a fate,
This constraining order I here flee.
For I love all the natural women,
The ones that are quick with a laugh, a smile,
The virtuous that make me lift this pen,
Brown eyed girl who I 've not seen in awhile.
There is no divine form of opression,
That is free from other truth's repression.
cccxiv.
I 'm dying as I write these phrases down,
The phantasmal realms are becoming real,
The beautiful abstract begins to drown,
It goes, and curiosity I can't feel.
Help me Muse, help me, help me make it through,
Everything I stood for became empty,
Oh, I believed this actor's lines were true,
When all of his young hormones made him be.
But as the heart fades, what do we become?
An old congressman who fell in a rut?
A collection of memories? A dead sum?
Oh, too too quickly from life we are cut.
But I pick up the pen, bang out these poems,
Wherever I stop to think, I am home.
cccxv.
Hey kid, leave a rose tonight at her door,
Throw rocks against her window, wake her up,
Embark on adventure, it's what spring's for,
The two of you, bare foot, the moon comes up.
And you know she's smiling because of you,
So hold her hand, you know she wants you to,
Take her to McCosh's roof, there's a view,
Slumbering Gothic Princeton, laced with dew.
Talk to her of the silent night's wonder,
You know time's sweeping tide freaks her out too,
But don't fear the distant lightning's thunder,
It's me writing things I know to be true.
Turn to her, and look into her eyes, blue,
Lean with her, gently, she'll blossom for you.
cccxvi.
I just want to be honest with you, girl,
I want you to know 'bout inspiration,
How in front of me the visages whirl,
For it there can be no explanation.
And I write these sonnets for you, Wendy,
You adorn the words, make them worth breathing,
But oh Wendy, I just want you to see,
That quick as it comes, it will be leaving.
You should know I 'm too old to fool myself,
The last thing I want to do is fool you,
Don't want to be read and put on a shelf,
I just need a friend, someone to be true.
Why does it hurt to get close, fall in love?
I just need a friend to keep me above.
cccxvii.
Out of the ocean, down from the green trees,
From words came culture, from culture came war,
Cunning comprehension, vitalities,
Survival is what man's aspect's for.
'Cause some molecules felt a direction,
Incriminated some, lauded others,
Ancient emperors built the first erections,
And Cain was driven to kill his brothers.
Through plague and genocide we have risen,
On whimsical winds are blown the Gods Greek,
By fortune, what can it mean to be chosen?
Yet we praise the strong and turn from the weak.
Physics but reflects how we did evolve,
About our mind it's constrained to revolve.
cccxviii.
So why the forced smile, why the nervous twitch?
I'm only seventeen, and you're fifty,
A poor white Ohio boy, while you're rich,
It's pissin' me off-- those looks so shifty.
Ah yes, I think I sense some hidden hate,
Something about me you don't understand,
To learn new tricks you know that it's too late,
So rather than try, you just have me banned.
Sexist, racist, feminist mental runts,
Coastin' through corruption on a sixties high,
I see the truth-- the liars my mind hunts,
Come down and get me, witch, it's time to die.
You don't know what it's like being alone,
A minority, writing the truth on his own.
cccxix.
You know I had to-- I had to fly free,
There was something more, girl, I had to see,
Now I am wondering what I could say,
To bring you back, to make you look my way.
Besides for you, my sleep has been dreamless,
With a carnation I stood by the wall,
You looked so wonderful in that black dress,
And your head on his shoulder said it all.
I know I 'll never get another chance,
My pink carnation matched the one in your hair,
Oh, I would ask you to dance the last dance,
But I 'm afraid that you no longer care.
You're a part of me I 'll never forget,
I have my freedom, I 'm free to regret.
cccxx.
Hey you! Got something for you to figure out!
Why don't you come here, tell me who I am,
Write a paper on it, have a march, shout,
On why white male poets we should all damn.
You know I'm getting tired of all your crap,
Nihlism passed off as academic,
The deeper truth from my words it does sap,
My words are infected in this epidemic.
There's a dark side to the sixties, you see,
You guys were all young and pretty naive,
To think you could improve reality;
You left your children with nothing to believe.
You destroyed families, communities,
Abandoned the children to the wild seas.
cccxxi.
When we met I saw a truth in your eyes,
I watched as the world kicked you in the head,
When down it's easy to buy into lies,
The eighteen year old I once met is dead.
Don't fear or hate me, just 'cause I'm different,
And I won't hate you just 'cause you're the same,
It's not by choice that by cruel wind we're bent,
No one controlls the dice in this cruel game.
And I know my words shall never reach you,
I guess I must just write them for the wind,
And as it blows these big black clouds on through,
May it blow all my poems to someone kind.
Honesty is a lonely place to be,
But it's lonelier to pretend to agree.
cccxxii.
Time for you to fade away, PC witch,
I've just got to get you out of my head,
Your voice's like a knife, screaming high pitch,
It's an insult to art, the things you said.
And I don't feel like being your hired whore,
On getting honors, think I'm gonna pass,
Killed the greatest books-- wrote ten thousand more,
To sell to the captive audience of your class.
You were of the text book generation,
Made education into a corporation,
Gave con-men material for masterbation,
It's time to burn your ugly creation.
So ugly you tried to fit in with your mind,
But your poems are even worse than your behind.
cccxxiii.
All the girls I 've known, the places I 've been,
Where are all the passionate feelings now?
I grow older, spring's blossoms, less they mean,
For they only erease yesterday's show.
So what use to me can it be to know,
A name of a girl who I knew just last night,
Why plant new dreams, and hope for them to grow,
When tomorrow's tomorrow knows no light,
I wish it were different, I wish that man,
Could use his noble thoughts for something good,
But progeny is all poetry's plan,
This voice in my head, telling me I should.
Don't ask me why I try, I never know,
I 've never met the man who wrote this show.
cccxxiv.
What I feel most moved to write-- that is banned,
Yet write any other way I cannot,
It's the abstract ideas that move this hand,
I can't sell out, I 'm loyal to my thought.
Pound me until I grow numb, I endure,
Ignore my songs until I disappear,
Dash my hopes, tell me I have no allure,
Knife me with laughter, 'til you draw a tear.
I was a bridled beast, trying to write,
To the workshop rules, the critical fools,
But then I looked up one December night,
Orion said he'd help me in this duel.
There are no questions when the music's true,
I heard the music; wrote it down for you.
cccxxv.
"Oh come all ye faithful," through the cold air,
Walking by my old elementary school,
I stopped, my hands in my pockets, stood there,
Eyes closed, listened to children of the yule.
I walked in, I leaned inside the doorway,
There was Bootsy singing in the front row,
Her eyes met mine, she smiled, up up away,
I was lifted, my dark feelings did go.
In silver bells she performed her solo,
I became lost; in lyrics we forget,
It is enough, just once a year to know,
That Bootsy smiles, over my youth's sun set.
Finished, she joined the children on the floor,
I winked at her and headed out the door.
cccxxvi.
I knew Wendy one night, last November,
Black dress, closed eyes in the winter moon light,
Feelings that this memory does render,
I slipped her dress off, kissed her shoulders white.
Half afraid that the porcelain would crack,
Lying in the moonlight, we came undone,
Lifted her hair, kissed the small of her back,
A tiny gasp, over me she did fawn,
I danced down where the white met lacey black,
Oh, she breathed with me, I kissed a heaven,
She said my name, dug her nails in my back,
Thus I knew that her soul I had leavened.
I became one with Wendy, her eyes closed,
Fine mouth pursed, the universe fell and rose.
cccxxvii.
After that night that I fell with Wendy,
I went numb, and the wonder ceased to be,
Where wonder once romped, but void could I see,
Looked deep in the mirror, couldn't find me.
A night in heaven, thirteen months in hell,
Why is the world structured in this cursed way?
We know divine only because we fell,
We dream of forever because we fray.
Petite mortes drive the living to cry out,
But these feelings, will Wendy ever know?
Inside of her, I could scream, I could shout,
Through her the empty awareness won't flow.
Do you know, do you know of what I speak,
That makes her beautiful, that makes me weak?
cccxxviii.
I put my hand on her; she knows I know,
I feel through her ten million years on back,
The passion from the people now below,
Whence rose man from time, the world's barren fact?
There rose hate and peace, there rose love and war,
In these phenomena we did evolve,
These phenomena are but what we are,
We orbit them, about us they revolve.
Polarized extremes give rise to order,
By war we define peace, by peace we war,
Children behind innocence's border,
Sex made them, to save them we create lore.
Behold! We exist, the vast mind is all,
Created by, creating rise and fall.
cccxxix.
Why was I ever dissatisfied with,
This world I played no role in creating?
Why was I ever anything but blithe?
Why waste my precious time in berating?
It's because in me there's a bit of God,
And the God in me is still creating,
As some beliefs we hate, others we laud,
Feeling capable of ourselves fating.
I wish I were blessed with but half a mind,
For half a mind performs better than well,
Without thought reasons are easy to find,
Reasons are naught, nor is heaven and hell.
There is but this drive in the grand unknown,
A will amidst the capriciously blown.
cccxxx.
You know me, but you know not who I am,
And this world does believe me to be dead,
Killed by my own hand, but my soul's not damned,
For I was killed by another instead.
Thought if I did forgive, I could escape,
Live as a lonely saint, in the abstract,
My pure heart no external wind would shape!
And never would I lie to men nor act.
The utter void is the young artist's friend,
Its ultimate beauty drives him to create,
Pushed in the abyss, I found my private end,
Becoming nothing, I mastered my fate.
To rise above this cruel world before we die,
To but exist while the rest laugh and cry.
cccxxxi.
But in escaping men meaning one escapes,
For I lost all passion in the abstract,
And in solitude how the great void gapes!
Then the distant songs of men do attract.
The call to arms, the drive to signify,
The perpetual motion towards the sky,
To love in illusion; to the sun fly!
To believe we'll erect forever high.
For in death we shall admit to the void,
After life we've eternity to forgive,
The call of the wild we cannot avoid,
As long as trapped in this cursed flesh we live.
Though all words be written by blood and sin,
I again pick up my pen and begin.
cccxxxii.
Tonight my ghost chooses not to slumber!
This snow white spirit yet stalks the grim night!
Though the cold body rests six feet under,
I yet walk after dark to set it right.
The arkness brought on by technology
which caters to superficial features,
All religion's become idolatry,
But Hark! Do you not fear the near future?
Civilization's born of chaos
when man reaches for his golden white Gods.
Though by war generations are lost,
Strongest seeds are preserved in revolution's pods.
To create one must destroy creation!
Burn this earth and create a new nation!
cccxxxiii.
Oh! You have a soul, do you feel the hole?
When the universe has gone out of joint,
When logic says it's all but dice's roll,
When all clear thought to meaninglessness points?
Do you see after dark? Do you feel time's tide?
Do you know the lust by which we are born?
Then you'll know I cannot run and hide
from these forces within me by which I'm torn.
For everything good is of the Devil,
The insignificance you can't avoid,
So choose Heaven or Hell, good or evil,
Dream anything you want while in this void.
But if you ever fly, dream you're something more,
Tragedy sends the poet knocking down your door.
cccxxxiv.
Have you ever loved a girl for a year?
And then in the dark heard her scream your name,
Before that first kiss, did you feel the fear,
But to have her blossom, burst into flame?
How many times, boy, did she walk on by,
Only to end up in your arms that night,
Always so quiet, you, she wondered why,
You never let anyone see the light.
Remember way back: first time you saw her;
She looked so fine, away out of your league,
In those faded jeans, T-shirt, standing there,
Never did you dream that her you'd intrigue.
She takes a step forward, stands on her toes,
Eternity begins as your eyes close.
cccxxxv.
A man is that that he is all alone,
Which is why it don't matter if I 'm known,
Cause no one can ever know how I 've grown,
Strangers see what on the surface is shown.
These poems I find rummaging through my soul,
I collect them to fill the gaping hole,
Where I once had a child's sight that time stole,
I 've been crying where life used to seem drole,
And yet you know that no man's an island,
I 've forgotten what it feels to be touched,
Why'd I myself from humanity ban?
I killed myself for fear of being crushed.
A hand, a hand, I need a hand to hold,
Alone, I don't want to face growing old.
cccxxxvi.
A word holds no essence, nor does a poem,
Nor a man nor a country nor the earth,
Nor the galaxies of the star filled dome,
Combine them all, and there is still a dearth,
Of meaning, of reasons why we ask why,
Essenceless art springs from my finger tips,
This essenceless the world tries to deny,
As they find reasons to wield their burred whips.
Walking over me 'cause I make no stand,
I 'm paying my dues, I 'm taking my test,
To be time and again from culture banned,
To know essencelessness, I have been blessed.
There's an eternity in grains of sand,
Next to which all the poetry is bland.
cccxxxvii.
"Let's go sliding in McCarter theater,
Soft spring dusk, she called across the court yard,
Said that at eleven I could meet her,
It was Tam, whose fine mouth made me a bard,
Her request had cast me in paradise,
The filling leaves breathed the warm, mystic air,
I knew then these feelings never came twice,
Ten, I left, didn't tell my room mates where.
Winding staircase, a ladder to the roof,
I burst forth upon the spring of my youth,
Tiny lights, blossom's aroma gave proof,
That the spring was in me, I was the truth.
To meet Tamatha I got up to go,
So ended the quiet before the show.
cccxxxviii.
On that great day the clock starts unwinding,
You've become, the rest is unbecoming,
The rest is spent searching, never finding,
The day you first heard the soft spring humming.
What a humming! A boundless symphony,
Running parallel with reason, you were God,
Language acquired meaning, you felt to be,
Youth's dream, as all illusions, was a fraud.
For the next the morning, the world was all strange,
You couldn't like what you saw in your soul,
You realized the pain of the downward change,
Direction's but falling in a black hole.
It's fate, to be erased by entropy,
The second law life's spent trying to flee.
cccxxxix.
Feel time oscillating, it is a wave,
Propagating at c relative to,
The three dimensions we consciously brave,
Energy's in the fourth, expanding through,
Spatial dimensions at the speed of time.
How can photons, a bouncing ball, be me,
We evolved to distinguish things by name,
It's but as capricious as our eyes see.
Matter is a wave on the quantum scale,
We describe it with math, we think we know,
But knowledge eludes ahab-- this white whale,
So it is this empty chase makes life's show.
Physics seems less likely with every day,
What makes us, math nor words, just feelings say.
cccxl.
I have no idea where this is taking me,
Don't know these parts to well, never been here,
I 'm remembering things I never did see,
I 'm inland, but I 'm breathing fresh sea air.
It's a still night, and the winds are raging,
Not a drop to drink, but look, it's raining,
Time's river flows by, but I 'm not aging,
The future's receding, the past's gaining.
Dancing 'neath the sky, one hand waving free,
Oh! the infinite meadows of my mind,
In darkness and silence I hear and see,
Where I lose myself, it is there I find.
Here; the place where the rhyme and meter end,
I begin; time beyond this poem me sends.
cccxli.
What does it mean to miss, to feel a loss,
of the things you always knew time would take?
Even through thick skin my heart feels the frost,
The first and last kiss; these moments make heart break.
What of these feelings? Why do they arise?
Except to make me set things down in ink,
To replace real with fake, the poet lies,
Yet what is truth, but whatever we think?
And so missed feelings, I see they're my friend,
Because she left me, my soul feels purpose,
Poetry comes to me best on the mend,
To lack perfection, to dream of a rose.
Your feelings burst forth, of sorrow you're drained,
These moments are the art, the rest is feigned.
cccxlii.
August, this strident culture has honed me,
Twain, Hemmingway, Salinger broke it down,
Dillon opened Doors so the Stones could be,
Art became visions in which words did drown.
Each time they were banned, and each time they rose,
To the height of God, redefining sin,
The freedom of youth, they'd strike a bold pose,
Where one stopped stripping, the next did begin.
But now that they're naked, nothing is deep,
The skin's poetry is the shallowest,
Skin-deep beauty's power makes passions leap,
Airy words fall flat next to flesh's zest.
Flesh's beauty's at the end of the fall,
Nowhere's left, but to rise above it all.
cccxliii.
Writing is not hard, I have no choice,
But to put down these passing emotions,
It is my instinct to record my voice,
Beaver damnation, divine devotion.
Oh it hurts, but it's not the words themselves,
It's my soul's sense of life, spurring me on,
By our dreamed struggles we define ourselves,
Without night's opposition, there is no dawn.
Wise men grow inward, there they find their truth,
To endure twelve years of criticism,
And pound out their heart's art, proof after proof,
Focusing this brilliant stigmatism.
Ask not why I breathe my musical breath,
Ask not why we prefer life over death.
cccxliv.
I guess they thwarted me for the better,
Who was I to command supreme control?
When I found that nothing could me fetter,
Flew to the sun, wings melted, lost my soul.
Oh, my good enemies, we're all the same,
We're freaks of nature, but wildly tossed dice,
Dealt our hands, make a stand, play the game,
We play hard 'cause no one gets to play twice.
So you kicked me a few times, it felt good,
I guess you're the true reason I made it,
Vengeance showed me that there were things I should,
What's love, but that by which we fear to be hated?
To forgive is to forgive all these words,
That lied in meaning, that hurt us as swords.
cccxlv.
It is all but a fabricless vision!
An airy nothingness born upon thought,
We give feelings where our minds collision,
This fantastic show is born upon naught.
I know this, and yet what does this for me?
I am still a beast who must sleep and feed,
What good is this abstract thought that can see?
When it's approval from you that I need.
The artist stands in a strange, lonely place,
Hating that by which he wishes he's loved,
To tell a truth, yet to maintain a grace,
To be rejected, detest, then behoove.
Art, thou art my thought, and thought, thou art naught,
Between naught and thought, precious feeling's sought.
cccxlvi.
To learn myself; can't seem to remember,
What I wrote last night, it but passed through me,
On its way out, it fanned my heart's ember,
On its way, passing to eternity.
These spirits that possess me, I can't know,
them at will-- I wait for them to touch me,
As in that first kiss, she taught me to flow,
The pristine, untouched, who holds the gold key.
Spend grey, desolate days awaiting her,
By my golden muse I endure life's dips,
Because I miss her, I dream up this lure,
This poetry flows from my fingertips.
Magic rubbed off onto my fingertips,
That cold December night I touched her lips.
cccxlvii.
Oh, we try to describe chance with science,
And then complain when the frayed ends don't meet,
Of real and logic, to make alliance,
This seems to be an impossible feat.
To wrap love within a neat formula,
To explain man's wars with pretty symbols,
We can know the distance to nebula,
But nebulous man can't fit in thimbles.
Yet the men who made the bomb get the claim,
Of being closer to fundamental truth,
But fashion's and fads are science's game,
And it wins; the bomb is power's proof.
How can they formulate good entropy,
By describing tendency not to be?
cccxlviii.
This is for you, caught in the paradox,
You know if you go crazy I 'll be there,
I will go with you where no one else walks,
The sleepless nights worrying I will share.
Hold my words, my hand, my heart, hold my soul,
When everything else slips through your fingers,
His promise; her smile; into the black hole,
Symphonies fade away where thoughts linger.
Perhaps you don't worry, perhaps you're sure,
Then I sing a song for you, a dark song,
Be you chaste, be you innocent and pure,
I rejoice the hell to which you belong.
Be you my enemy, be you my friend,
Good paradox provides us the same end.
cccxlix.
So green is the green of a Princeton Spring,
Fluorescent fields chasing down the sun set,
Pink twilight reflected from clouds; birds sing,
Clouds open; rainbow watches us get wet.
Two bright bold rainbows against purple skies,
Warm rain, evening's glimmering sprinkle,
Distant who-who-ing of the owl so wise,
Prophet of death, and fair Venus twinkles.
Music coming from the reunion tents,
'Cross the golf course, away by PIC,
A grand chorus of voices, the old gents,
Singing themselves fifty years through history.
I breath the night, absorb it in my lungs,
It becomes me, nostalgia to be sung.
cccl.
Oceans of anger are now receding,
The burden of consciousness falls away,
No longer is perfection's dream leading,
Me to be perfect, to perfectly say,
This condition I found myself born in,
The beauty in her, as she turned to me,
Under a blood-red sky, conceived in sin,
Reflecting her beautiful smile blindly.
For the sky, nature's beauty does not know,
Beauty is within the beholder's eye,
And as sin leaves me, beauty too does go,
So does the wonder, the essence of why.
A recluse on nature's heath, let it be,
From evolution's party, set me free.
cccli.
Her softest expression caught in street light,
Wistful brown eyes, perceptive smiling mouth,
So warm for a first of December night,
Wispy clouds blew by-- sky winds from the south.
She has become something special to me,
In the way things were special yesterday,
When in a girl's face I saw but beauty,
And I could believe in the words I 'd say.
Oh but I became lost, drowned in the void,
It's hell to see but evil in a rose,
But there's something 'bout her, by which I 'm buoyed,
There's an essence to her, more than a pose.
She touched me, I knew it would be alright,
My life was saved again on that starless night.
ccclii.
This is for all you who think rhyme constrains,
I 've only ever been constrained by you,
Who told me that meaning meter restrains,
Told me my poems can't offer a full view.
A full view of what? What is there to see?
That can't be set in coal, ivory and gold,
From man's darkest side to his noblest plea,
In meter and rhyme all well can be told.
Don't make the rules if you can't play the game,
Cause you know it's an unfair way to win,
Outragous fortune will make some men lame,
Cain found too late jealousy is a sin.
Just cause you never felt any romance,
Don't mean you should ban rhyme and meter's dance.
cccliii.
I've walked the highways, I've sailed seven seas,
Finally found what it takes to be a man,
Lay youth to rest, search for perfection seize,
Beside you now, girl, make a humble stand.
There's something so mirthful deep within you,
Somersaulting spririt, somewhere out there,
Summer's gone, with the sultry nights I'm through,
Somehow I know deep down you'll always care.
Remember how we tried to find a new word?
To state the feeling, so much more than lust,
Love was a word too many time's we'd heard,
In each-other, not language, do we trust.
The circle's complete-- I both smile and weep,
By your side, for eternity, to sleep.
cccliv.
Rhyme and meter give my mind an anchor,
In this universe which perception spans,
A gauge by which to focus my wild lore,
A form and rule to which to hone my plans.
It provides a structure, yet I form it,
Two six-point snow flakes are never the same,
It's but a vessel to be filled by wit,
All different, though sharing the sonnet's name.
Not long enough to bore, yet there's movement,
Brevity's the soul of wit, small's agile,
With every word a great impact is lent,
Like her fine beauty, it too is fragile.
And look! Look, the wind has done it again!
It's blown across this blank paper my pen.
ccclv.
You want me to make your technology,
But my literature you try to bump off,
Nobody reads now that there's the TV,
Leaving teachers free to whack themselves off.
'Cause there's no more judge for the things they write,
But for opinions of political friends,
Words are nothing without the people's sight,
Words for you are but a means to an end.
You're but intrested in petty power,
Ignored, inferior souls out for revenge,
The fruits of knowledge have all gone sour,
The truth which you have shunned I here avenge.
You use your words for lies and destruction,
I use mine but for beauty's seduction.
ccclvi.
I charge thee with murder, technology,
You killed your oldest son, the printed page,
'Gainst consciousness it's a conspiracy,
Blinded the mind's eye, let rise the fake sage.
I charge thee with murder, you silly girl,
You arose because people stopped reading,
Otherwise such an inferior runt,
Could not pretend literature she's leading.
I charge thee with murder, false minorities,
Criticize, then mimmick, the dead white male,
United by ignorance you're majorities,
He created the language you impale.
I sentence you all to be forgotten,
As in time politics becomes rotten.
ccclvii.
I never cheated on you, I can say,
Now and then I receive pangs of regret,
For I never sought beyond where you lay,
There was someone else I was meant to have met.
For now you're off, you have gone your own way,
All my heart's investments crumble to nill,
"Now you're free," were the last words you did say,
Sisyphus is free to keep climbin' the hill.
But I stand here erect, while you do lie,
I live in the better world, for I know,
That my soul to live right at least did try,
While you're satisfied to be fated below.
Oh, the permanent virtue of restraint,
Where acted action can forever taint.
ccclviii.
All those feminists kind of screwed it up,
Now you've got to have kids and a job too,
And you know I think it's kind of messed up,
To say that men are only good to screw.
How the heck did we get here, I wonder,
For history's never seen times like these,
We're greater than the lightning and thunder,
By science nature's secret's we did seize.
And we freed ourselves from plowing the land,
Our nine to five jobs are but for illusion,
With science all meaning was quickly banned,
Past words fade and augments the confusion.
Now that we are all free to love and run,
The meaning has vanished; sex isn't fun.
ccclix.
Physics pervades the beauty of nature,
But it can't touch the mechanics of poems,
Strings and fields can not describe our rapture,
And love can not be found on a genome.
And yet I am drawn by the cold theories,
Because I 've learned the fallacies of love,
In love one flounders in passion's rough sea,
Flying free of flesh, physics floats above.
Oh! Let physics be religion for me,
For it is holier than words and poems,
Words can be twisted, from meaning set free,
While physics is frozen in the starred domes.
But don't be fooled by this holy pretence,
Physics, not poems, makes the bombs of defense.
ccclx.
Freedom for me is a day with Marie,
Reading next to her in the Duke forest,
Sun in her soft brown eyes, she looked at me,
I breathed in the dream, my heart laid to rest.
She said to me I was always smiling,
I guess around her it held to be true,
But the spoken words and private sighing,
Were both but reflections of her eye's hue.
And I wonder how she feels about me,
If I 'm for her just a very good friend,
Or with this friendship there walks mystery,
In her dreams am I around the next bend?
Que sera sera, so let it be,
The dream is all, let me dream of Marie.
ccclxi.
Face touched by warm breaths of air, snow-bound day,
With the winter wind I thought I could cope,
But that was years ago, I stand betrayed,
By yesterday's dreams and my youthful hope.
For the grey crossed the blue, covered the sun,
Big, heavy white flakes have been falling straight,
If I cut my losses, I would be done,
For to begin anew, it is too late.
Oh no, I am not heading back to land,
For the deep blue is equal all around,
And from youth by time either way I 'm banned,
To be is to dream, not to care if you sound.
These are my hands, to my will they are slave,
Without, my will would have nothing to save.
ccclxii.
I was just an innocent high school kid,
In love with Shakespeare, F. Scott Fitzgerald,
At Princeton my mind they tried to get rid,
In this video culture gone ribald.
They cut my verse down, said it was evil,
They mocked my romaniticism, belief in truth,
They told me sonnets were of the Devil,
Only oppressed from evil stood aloof.
So thank you-- everyone who knocked me down,
Political perverts killed poetry,
In all your tears your holely beliefs drown,
Truth alone shall survive eternity
'Cause all I really need's the people's ear,
If I'm good enough, there's nothing to fear.
ccclxiii.
Oh but Wendy, it is my last regret,
To think upon that short summer gone by,
But you were too sure, and you cast your bet,
You were filled with answers, where I asked why.
And that cold certitude, it chilled me so,
Humanity lies in bewilderment,
Why we are here nobody ever knows,
Yet there are reasons youth to war is sent.
And it is those men who scare me the most,
The ones who find argument in a straw,
Oh, but we must follow our father's ghost,
Avenging the sinners who broke the law.
Wendy, let's set each-other free from blame,
In being different, we are all the same.
ccclxiv.
Oh, I write a late-night sonnet for you,
To you I can't run out of things to say,
Yet I could be silent, and still be true,
For our eyes do see things in the same way.
Pretty in your movements, wild in your heart,
A subtle sense, a hint of perfection,
You possess that care-free effortless art,
That's never been afraid of rejection.
Girl, I see in you so much I admire,
It brings the quiet piece of me to life,
There's a warmth there, a spark, a tiny fire,
Resonant music, so beautifully blithe.
I know time this young feeling shall withstand,
This feeling lives because you understand.
ccclxv.
Call me Ishmael, call me ere I drown,
What are these poems but great white Moby Dick?
And when it dives, Ahab follows it down,
Ah Ahab! How does fare your lifeless stick?
Moby stole my Pride when I was a youth,
Seeking vengeance, I 'll endure in this art,
The whale's not evil, it's me that's uncouth,
I'd turn away, if it wasn't my heart.
The dream in me drives me out into sea,
I navigate these words, looking for him,
He's the meaning behind all that we see,
Free remains life's ungraspable phantom.
This affliction draws us out, makes us men,
We learn of death by the end of our pen.
ccclxvi.
I have published my poems in young girl's hearts,
I have printed my verse in old men's minds,
Between these lines people have heard their parts,
Something different in art everyone finds.
But trying to hold more than just one hand,
Becomes too big a burden for one man,
His strength drains, as he makes the artist's stand.
When you try to say it all, words grow wan.
So I stick to the few things I know best,
The magic in an eighteen year old's kiss,
My hand on her neck, driving towards the west,
We only ever know that which we miss.
Snow's on the ground, but I can't be too cold,
For what I write stays young while I grow old.
ccclxvii.
A warm November Carolina Night,
Let Marie be the last girl I write for,
For she has the eyes with the truest sight,
That sees the life in life; doesn't want more.
What's a king's treasure next to her instinct?
That comes from within and cannot be bought?
Which grows from a gentle mind that is linked,
To this desert earth's deepest wells of thought.
Her movements combine in my mind's colleague,
She grins at me, where others walk on by,
A cool oasis amidst the mirage,
How I would hate to see those brown eyes cry,
For more than anything, she is a friend,
Let the winds blow and seas rage, I won't bend.
ccclxviii.
I am prepared my friend, to let you go,
And let you change beyond recognition,
Oh, yesterday's visions still hurt me so,
Can't part you from my heart's intuition.
Change breaks our souls as it does rearrange,
Romantic memories with the common,
The next time I see you you'll look so strange,
Though your eyes still be blue, the magic's gone.
But a sudden pang comes at that angle,
I perceive that you're still my white angel,
I guess a piece of me still does dangle,
Grasping roots in time's cliff, off which I fell.
Babe, let the ballast go, and rise above,
Where with someone new you can fall in love.
ccclxix.
You know I saw you in the library,
A feeling swept through me-- you inspire rage,
Girl, I don't know you, but I 've got to see
you tonight, C'mon let's write a new page.
Hey, its OK, the laws we should defy,
When the moon comes up then instinct shall do,
The way you looked, I know it doesn't lie,
Neither will I when I try to please you.
Just one night, one moment we'll belong,
And in the morning we shall bid good-bye,
For where nothing lasts, one night's infinitely long,
Meet me in the shadows when the moon's up high.
C'mon girl, this poem isn't near the peak,
You'll feel the moment before you grow weak.
ccclxx.
I 'm not a radical, I 'm classical,
And it fills all the teachers full of dread,
I can flip 'round all they deem logical,
Make it look like the opposite they said.
I 'm not sorry I 'm young and confident,
To so boldly challenge your hard-earned view,
To make you from your classroom have me sent,
Make you tell a nineteen-year old he's not true.
I saw fear in your eyes, only I could,
When you told me I was untalented,
Feeling threatened, you performed as one should,
And I swallowed it, the poison you fed.
With your good acid I became immune,
Now you and your critics rust in ruin.
ccclxxi.
With your hands and bricks, you sculpt, build, and slave,
Monuments instinctually defined,
While in the classroom, we preach and we rave,
Through this process we believe we're refined.
When really it's all just part of the game,
All you professors who tried me to change,
I guess I don't expect you to feel shame,
For it's your job to try and rearrange.
But then you're a character, nothing more,
And I, I am the observer removed,
Though you think my thoughts I dauntedly store,
I reserve judgement, by time I 'll be proved.
You think yourself yourself with words can save,
But you are only digging your own grave.
ccclxxii.
I don't open your letters anymore,
Never did listen much to what you'd say,
For you refused to believe that there's more,
Than pretty clothes and guys looking your way.
Oh I know you pretended to look down,
Upon all the vanity you clinged to,
In your tears many times I 've watched you drown,
When your so-called friends saw right on through you.
With you I had to play a phony part,
Now return to your world, let me be clean,
Let me be free again to speak my heart,
Your beautiful eyes can't see what I mean.
My words, they tried to live within your head,
Without context to take root, they're now dead.
ccclxxiii.
Oh but Wendy, there comes that first moment,
Of silence that we share in place of words,
So many different ways this can ferment,
It can become wine, vinegar, or curds.
When we touch again, we will be different,
Forces in our realms will have molded us,
In unique directions we will be bent,
As all flowers wilt, so all truths must fust.
Girl, I 've got to leave you, the tide recedes,
With it my feelings are swept out to sea,
Somewhere I was cut, and still my heart bleeds,
The girl you once were shall never again be.
With all my lust, and beauty's thirst,
I 'm a paragon of the very worst.
ccclxxiv.
"Virtue can not be taught," Socrates once said,
I guess we went to Princeton to learn vice,
Precepts with lawyers, the same books we read,
Twisting words, mastering deceit's device.
And now we've arrived, on the other side,
They are making ninety thousand a year,
I stand here, alone with my starving pride,
As the final confrontation draws near.
Yesterday's friends are coming for my neck,
Guess it's the price paid for standing alone,
They have the same offenses at their beck,
Yet they drive nails to the cross, through my bone.
Socrates! Jesus! You guys understand,
Honesty's abhorred 'cross this wretched land.
ccclxxv.
How empty must they be to be critics!
To leach off of another man's romance,
Art's not written to give jobs to cynics,
The sad and stifled, lacking love's good chance.
What mad pride can drive them to knock me down?
Where would they be without my daring dream?
They have nothing but that which I have shown,
Men crucify men but to reep their theme.
Oh, this is a paradox, you critic,
That people can hate in Jesus's name,
Reading the paper, I fear I 'll get sick,
Watching you heathens playing this grim game.
But I 'm the captain of this poet's rhyme,
You're blown away where I tack 'gainst time.
ccclxxvi.
I was a boy who believed in romance,
December night, pulled your blouse from your pants,
But then I just held you, we didn't dance,
Young, we had forever to make our stance.
But at Princeton the perverts shot me down,
Professors thrust bass fabric in my face,
Under them, my generation has grown,
Blind to the innocent, magic embrace.
You hath made me mad, repressed feminist,
Telling me all romance is but for sex,
Thinking so makes it so, never been kissed,
Why drag me down 'cause of your ugly hex?
I wonder, no man ever looked at you,
How would you know what a poet can do?
ccclxxvii.
So much magic in last night's memory,
Looking out the window at morning's stars,
She's gotten deep inside of me, Marie,
I wish tonight she wasn't so far.
A new feeling growing inside, I hope,
She knows how good it was in her arms,
That I am tied to her without a rope,
Though she's so far, her brown eyes keep me warm.
Oh, but these words fall short of my feelings,
I know I 've got more than just words to give,
A night with you, under the starred ceiling,
In that country house one night we did live.
I fear I 'm afraid of all that does rust,
But in her eyes I 've seen something to trust.
ccclxxviii.
I do not want to change anybody,
I don't want to profess to anyone,
No, I don't want to be a parodoy,
Don't look at me, I 'm not the chosen one.
For this realm of man's perceptions scares me,
Behind the hero's truth lies deception,
Knowing that nothing's all good prepares me,
For the ultimate blind crucifixion.
For I 've watched good men toss ideas about,
In which I know they can't really believe,
And yet these ideas wipe generations out,
Leaving life to the ones who do deceive.
So get back! Stay well, far away from me,
I 'm not going to let you kill what you can't see.
ccclxxix.
The first snowfall came in January,
We threw snowballs at the lit dorm windows,
By street lights hung orbs of glowing flurries,
Stuck to her lashes, melted on her nose.
Tonight Princeton had its nude Olympics,
For the sophomores up in Holder courtyard,
Far off yelling voices, crazy antics,
The opposite direction we walked toward.
And we made snow angels, down by the lake,
Walked out on the floating dock, cracked the ice,
The memory is but a tiny flake,
A crystal that shall never occur twice.
Rosey cheeks, black coat, scarf, blond hair, blue eyes,
You were beautiful then, and I was wise.
ccclxxx.
I 've been found out again, this trade of mine,
Pointing out the contradictons I see,
At first they admire an eyesight so fine,
But then they see the contradiction's me.
These things I say, I assure you I feel,
No feeling's permanent, no one is me,
A feeling's but a small piece of what's real,
I 'm sorry to diappoint you Wendy,
The feelings I had were the best I knew,
It was from your beauty that they all grew,
But you paint your face so it isn't true,
Beauty's subtle lies in both me and you.
I 'll understand if you look down on me,
Perhaps my poem's were too loud a symphony.
ccclxxxi.
Guns and Roses, my most learned professor,
By you I have studied both love and war,
You are my generation's confessor,
It is above you that I'm aiming for.
Feel! These words flow where melody can't reach,
A still-life afternoon, blue sky and sun,
Of her eye's silence only words can teach,
The placid still water deepest does run.
But your show's fantastic, it drowns me out,
Breathless, my heart pounding, it gets me stoned,
No one can hear these sonnets that I shout,
Ariel's gift by G 'n R is owned.
You own fury's stage and the bright spot light,
But I own the silent secret of night.
ccclxxxii.
Smoking guns and scarlet pristine roses,
If only with words I could get that high,
Those faces in album cover poses,
Your wings are melting, you're going to die.
And I 'll cry for you, the whole way on home,
Led by you, culture's gone too far astray,
Only with bloodshed will it cease to roam,
Unless Axl, you're paving a new way.
Assaulting the senses, purging the soul,
Primal screams of anger, drugs lay us down,
Oh, I 'd like to believe in rock'n roll,
But I 've seen too many children drown.
That's not to say it's any worse than war,
It's nothing different from what was before.
ccclxxxiii.
Sent me to school with the promise of truth,
It was something education could teach,
That fact offers the conspiracy's proof,
That what one knows can stem from what they preach.
No, I don't want to play a role in that,
Don't want any knowledge money can buy,
I don't exist to make the sophists fat,
Nobody can teach you to wonder why.
This education is not worth a thing,
Maybe to you, but it's prison to me,
It but serves to mute all those who can sing,
It's out to blind those who can truly see.
'Cause they only teach but that that is known,
That on by time's winds have already blown.
ccclxxxiv.
I do not need no critical acclaim,
For I have been a white knight in girl's dreams,
Money means nothing to me, nor does fame,
Just give me a pen, nostalgia's themes.
Oh, it is a magic moment in life,
To be on my own, like that rolling stone,
There's inspiration in frustration's strife,
No direction known, a complete unknown,
Prey I 'll be hard enough in the future,
To not drink from fortune's fountain,
That with fame childhood dreams shall remain pure,
That my soul this Frankenstein will not stain.
Admiration's want makes it all matter,
But it's ice-cold touch makes the soul shatter.
ccclxxxv.
She looked wonderful last night, wearing black,
It was hard when her face came close to mine,
It was hard for me to hold myself back,
I 'm scared it'll change if I cross the line.
For there's something special in having her,
As a friend, I 've never had it before,
Not like this, it's so naturally sure,
I feel she's the one I 've been looking for.
But I 've learned there's no need to out guess time,
For you can't fake it, what will be will be,
But she's in my heart, and she makes me rhyme,
So I spend the day thinking 'bout Marie.
No, with her I do not mind taking it slow,
Why rush on by the best moments you know?
ccclxxxvi.
But beware, I am the knight of Shakespeare,
And I 've come to avenge the gallant bard,
All you deconstructionists, feel the fear,
I have come for this changing of the guard.
I 'm feeling tragic, so you'd better look out,
'Cause you took everything I had to lose,
All that you offer I can do without,
To sacrifice bull for the real I choose.
Ha Ha! You are trying to figure me out,
Armed with your shrink's insight into your mind,
In mental fencing a foil you're without,
Without which, my heart you will never find.
So read deeper, deeper, all the way down,
In this ocean of thought, may pedants drown.
ccclxxxvii.
As you get to know me, I disappear,
All the magic in my poems dissipates,
What I mean no longer is very clear,
No longer do my stark words satiate.
Like the present you opened Christmas morn,
So captivating during that first day,
Within your heart, brave new feelings were born,
Seeing animation in words I 'd say.
You're getting that restless look in your eyes,
And I know it won't be very long,
Before you see my truth's riddled with lies,
But the seduction of a siren's song.
Thus it is, all beauty's ephemeral,
So to pass it on into love we fall.
ccclxxx.
Don't need somebody who I have to kiss,
A girl for whom I must open the door,
Don't want anyone I 'm going to miss,
If suddenly they choose me to ignore.
Don't want a girl who likes playing those games,
Of pretending darkness she doesn't see,
I don't want anymore brilliant flames,
Warm the heart, warp the mind, only to flee.
Oh no, all I really want is a friend,
Someone who has a story to share with me,
The insight that a deep soul can lend,
Somebody who can know that they know me.
Just need someone next to whom I can stand,
Someone who's in my heart, not in my hand.
ccclxxxix.
When you look at me, do you see beauty?
I know it's all faded, gone with the wind,
That once blew the new seasons on through me,
You can look, but no beauty will you find.
So I finally tell you the way it is,
The way it's always been, my last secret,
I never felt anything like your kiss,
It is your beauty, it is my regret.
Oh, I can't hide it anymore from you,
Just a guy plagued by insecurity,
Gettin' too hard to give you this false view,
Can't hide anymore behind dreams you see.
Yet somehow you're still looking up to me,
Babe, you're seeing a man I 'll never be.
cccxc.
The road less traveled becomes the known route,
We study what the creative minds thought,
By studying we believe we follow suit,
What genius had, the scholar has got not.
Though we leach on to what Einstein once said,
We'll never understand his virgin thought,
Curiosity's chase in books is dead,
It exists beyond, where new truths are sought.
So look to the sky, the sky you will find,
Classical questions remain unanswered,
There's but the mystery of the whisperin' wind,
The answer's question has yet to be heard.
The wind-- you feel it, but you'll never touch,
Life's ungraspable phantom is such.
cccxci.
Take this poem to a crisp, yellow fall field,
And read these words to the crystal blue sky,
Give my thanks to the harvest which did yield,
A friend-- someone with whom to wonder why.
'Cause every fall I fall for you again,
Burning leaves echoing my sentiments,
For love we plant seeds, takes both sun and rain,
I toil and trouble for the Autumn's scents.
Through the cold winter void we kindled faith,
We both cried our fair share of spring showers,
The arid ground the summer sun did chafe,
But I've again found peace in the year's final hours.
For fall is when all we plant finds its end,
Though life wanes, she's beside me-- my best friend.
cccxcii.
Billy Bud, foretopman, better look out,
You possess the paradox to the hilt,
A handsome innocence you own throughout,
Evil doings were done to have you built.
The highest form of mankind rose through war,
Weeding out, leaving the weak in the cold,
What are an ordered mind and body for?
In faces fair, the sinner's story's told.
And so Billy Bud you're a tragedy,
As is any noble thought in man's realm,
No matter how far you sail out to sea,
There sits uncle Cain, steering at the helm.
Mankind with envy's sin shall never part,
For when he goes to church, he takes his heart.
cccxciii.
There's a spirit, my muse, watching over,
Watching over everyday I perform,
When winter winds blow, he provides cover,
Keeping my path dry when there's a storm.
My poems are all homage paid to this friend,
When the earth is dark he sends down star light,
On his illumination I depend,
To endure depression's infinite night.
By him I persevere, I am assured,
That he won't abandon me to the dogs,
As long as I respect the written word,
And steer clear of the sirens in fame's bogs.
Do not need your drugs to make me bolder,
Don't want to kiss her, just want to hold her.
cccxciv.
Long after you've walked the paths of Princeton,
Through the snow, against the wind, past Nassau,
When time over youth's consciousness has won,
Summer grass shall still stand silent in awe.
Four o'clock in the middle of July,
You're just like the green blade that's never seen,
Helping to make a giant field of Rye,
Recognized on your own you've never been.
All in all you're another brick in the wall,
And these winds, they still blow over your head,
Tiny tiny spires and Gargoyles is all,
Then we're married to eternity, dead.
Even the tombstones; they're for the living,
The dead are the only truly forgiving.
cccxcv.
So where do you go when you just don't care?
Trapped inside the vacuum of your feelings,
Yesterday you cried, now there's nothing there,
Though she left, it didn't send you reeling.
Oh, so what can you do, when you just don't care?
Can't find a motive for any more words,
Saying it's not fair never made it fair,
I 'm beyond good and evil, blood stained swords.
Oh what can I fear, now that I don't care,
People yelling reasons I can't believe,
No, I can't join the evil in a prayer,
I 'm functionless, not able to deceive.
You might think that I 'm crazy and untrue,
That's OK my friend, I was once like you.
cccxcvi.
You've got that eighteen-year old look in your eyes,
That sees eternity in a moment,
I remember that I was once that wise,
But I 've heard too many words that weren't meant.
Oh, I love you, but those words I can't say,
Cause I know you've still got to make your stand,
Alone, you've got to do things your own way,
You know I 'm the stranger in this strange land.
So perceptive, you second-guess your friends,
Who hug you and hate you in the same breath,
It always just seems a means to an ends,
Struggling to keep sane between love and death.
I love you, my friend, I wish you the best,
You understand the weight by which I 'm pressed.
cccxcvii.
What is it you want girl? Someone to love?
And don't you know I want the same thing too?
Someone who never thinks that they're above,
these killing fields to which we're committed to.
How do you think I felt being ignored,
For the one who would crucify you,
In this poet's game I cannot afford,
Playing the game played by all the untrue.
So if truth shall make me a lonely man,
Then a lonely man I will always be,
But less lonely than if I had to ban,
From my heart everything that I do see.
And I am no better, nor am I worse,
I'm but the one who sets the truth in verse.
cccxcviii.
All good poetry is born upon change,
A movement extending beyond a word,
Reflecting the way nature rearranged
me last night. In a dream your voice was heard.
You were a million miles away from me,
You looked at me like a perfect stranger,
My heart broke at what my mind's eye did see,
Don't you know dreams are the master changer?
And you were walking with another guy,
His arm around you, your arm around him,
Esoteric laughs while I wondered why,
The hurt of bright love makes us want it dim.
Dreams are there to warn us of disaster,
'Til we're older, and safe from lust's master.
cccxcix.
Great spirits encounter opposition,
Violent, from the mediocre minds,
Who must heed their status quo position,
Their way in new frontiers they cannot find.
So to maintain the world for their children,
They refrain from encouraging the new,
They have them read the deceased canon's pens,
Pens that yesterday into culture grew.
But the children are individuals,
What their eyes show them is reality,
Out of context are all the old rituals,
So we find better mediocrity.
It is no longer me as the ink dries,
And waits to run in the tears of your eyes.
cd.
For awhile I'd smile with you golden girl,
Then retreat back into the boundless night,
The whole world about your visage did whirl,
For the moments when I could hold you tight.
The tiny yellow buds on the spruce trees,
Fill the spring air with a green and gold haze,
In life I find it is death that does tease,
Me with memories of our yesterdays.
A night by the resounding surf, clear sky,
I walked down to the ocean while you slept,
No amount of wondering, asking why,
Could keep the waves from sweeping what they swept.
Could liberate the secrets the sea kept,
Could dry the ocean spray the wild surf wept.
cdi.
"Death to romanticism," T.S. yelled,
Death to rhyme, meter, death to poetry,
And so all the greatest minds were felled,
To make room for blithe mediocrity.
A tiny mind, a pedagogue on stilts,
Who had read, perhaps, too many thick books,
Those who can't create must make flowers wilt,
Take pride in being ugly, without looks.
You wrote for no meaning: it's what you got,
Without structure your words all washed away,
Oh, I agree that true art describes naught,
Though also, friend, it must everything say.
For without meaning, music is but sound,
There's no beauty like that of the profound.
cdii.
Because of weakness and fear you hate me,
You'd think a man would try to make himself better,
Rather than trying to blind those who can see,
Afraid of freedom, you try to fetter
Me by saying I am the deviant,
You with your crew-cut, your copied rhetoric,
You try to stop me, but you know you can't,
The truth shall win by the laws historic.
Why do you want so bad to bring me down?
Why all the venom to cause me dark strife?
Why would you get off on seeing me frown?
If you took it, what would you do with my life?
I know they're going to walk on by my poems,
In the same way the walk by the starred domes.
cdiii.
The red sun peeks over the Atlantic,
Vaults into the aquiline, crystal sky,
Apollo's chariot moves all too quick,
He'll dive in the pacific before you know why.
Put this knowledge aside and seize the day,
Ride the foaming green waves, crashing on shore,
From the pier, trust instinct to keep you away,
Close your eyes, jump, for this moment ignore
dangers of diving in the blue too deep,
The risks of following your vital dreams,
No element of this earth do we keep,
Failure's erased by waves with all that gleams.
So take the chance, the chance is all you have,
Where nothing lasts, there's nothing worth to save.
cdiv.
Look out over the first mowed field of spring,
See her by the white war memorial,
Wet air magnifies-- her to you it brings,
Far away smile-- distant silence says it all.
Damp passion blown in the light wind,
The dust tries to escape before the rain,
Following the road, through forests it winds,
Tumbling forth upon the green, grassy plane.
Above, the billowing grey clouds wander,
A cold blast, an angels kiss on your face,
She opens her umbrella, way yonder,
To escape heaven's wetness, you don't race.
'Cause you know if it's right she'll wait for you,
You will find her yet, come the morning dew.
cdv.
That Socrates's a man's beside the point,
But it's all that the feminists will see,
As with sophistry they themselves anoint,
Missing the grandeur of reality.
Because they cannot comprehend his fix,
Of perceiving the capriciousness of men's,
Endeavors, they become pedant critics,
With fickle politics guiding their pens.
They can't see the infinite in nothing,
They know their gender and color of skin,
And of yesterday's crucified they sing,
While engaging in Socrate's feared sin.
Run from racist teacherrs training lawyers,
To deconstruct Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer.
cdvi.
I read a book called, "IN SEARCH OF THE TRUTH,"
Written by a philosophy PHD,
A thousand pages of ideas and proofs,
Technical terms that served to exclude me.
For if I could comprehend their ideas,
Then their field would be without a value,
Oh, I see the wise man fabricates seas,
Of context where we drown looking for the true.
When truth is nobody knows anything,
Nothing's good or bad but thinking makes it so,
The rock of the world's founded on a fairy's wing,
Yet we discern an above and below.
Honest truth is a threat to the power,
Which is why medals go to those who cower.
cdvii.
Men's studies, women's studies, beating drums,
I see the clowns in this circus of words,
Calling themselves poets, thinking we're dumb,
And we must be, to follow them in herds.
Oh, but do they compare to old Shakespeare?
If they can't see beauty, then it's not my fault,
Cause with him they don't even want to share,
They censor classics and themselves exalt.
But like the million meaningless thoughts,
That the deconstructionists study hard,
All modern art shall in our lifetimes rot,
To make way for the classical bards.
In the Met there hangs a panel of blue,
Art is more than what anyone can do.
cdviii.
I let go, let myself fall in the void,
And I trusted in it whole heartedly,
For nothing's by whom the poet's employed,
We rose from it, and it shall be our destiny.
To cast away all falsehoods, not pretend,
We're always seeking the purest feeling,
Which is why into the norm we can't blend,
We earn our truths, while we feel they're stealing.
But then girl, we feel guilty for the pride,
That makes us want the world to love us best,
But from this fall there is nowhwere to hide:
We're but human-- no different from the rest.
So I'm at your service, to entertain,
To share the mystical magic of pain.
cdix.
All thinking men spend their lives in search,
Of the Holy Grail, where the poet lies,
The locale of our consciousness's perch,
The force that looks out the window of our eyes.
Aye, and yet my friend, no man has touched it,
Though we feel it living within our head,
In there lies the universe infinite,
The airy thoughts behind all that is said.
And tonight, especially I 'm saddened,
By this intangible essence of love,
To be in love's to be certain, pretend,
Fool yourself into believing in above.
Ah! These abstractions are but a defense,
Against the unknown, these words build a fence.
cdx.
A fork in the road, it happened so fast,
You make a choice, and you cannot return,
begin anew, nor ever change the past,
Once you taste knowledge, you'll forever yearn.
Time, you know it's sweeping me away too,
And oh, I have been drowned too many times,
I 've lied with many, believing it's true,
The words remain, but meaning leaves the rhyme.
Quiet awe-filled respect of yesterday,
Evaporated when I blinked my eyes,
The older I get, the less that I say,
For the more I speak, the faster I die.
It's not my fault I 've nothing to believe,
I tried once, but I was only reprieved.
cdxi.
Oh! Law is another phenomena,
Ambiguous and complex as beauty,
Which can look perfect, and be filled with flaw,
Which men can rape, or marry with duty.
Even the fairest visage of justice,
Is illusion in outrageous fortune,
But for the needs of life, it does suffice,
To distinguish the insane from the lunes.
I wonder how much leaders perceive,
And where they draw the line in their lying,
Can we ever responsibly deceive?
Can we lie to children when they're dying?
Or do they just believe that they are true?
Like trees, not aware of what branches do?
cdxii.
The Catcher is born, the Catcher walks on by,
But still children are falling off the rye,
For this is the way we evolved, to try,
Salinger's hope is but another lie.
But the lies, they'll always do for the truth,
Everyone I see is believing them,
Our heart's instinctual passion offers proof,
Reasons to laud some and others condemn.
So we evolve, tangled in fickle words,
That change meaning as quick as our young lust,
Without civilization fly free birds,
Oh, an animal must do what it must.
For man has made God look and think like him,
Once again, the law is as good as whim.
cdxiii.
You think you're so cool with your connections,
Such a genius with your philosophy,
It's so removed it gets no objections,
I say it doesn't mean a thing to me.
There are so many stupid disciplines,
Each with an ass-kissing hieracrchy,
I challenge you all; let us see what wins,
Let's see what floats in time's merciless sea.
All your papers and political bull,
Were written for the eyes of some elite,
But the elite critic's an elite fool,
In reality he cannot compete.
So he creates a fake world of his own,
Leaving me to sing reality's song all alone.
cdxiv.
Night owl, experimental physicist,
With the frontiers of nature in his hands,
Some wires conduct, other wires resist,
These are the tools leading him to new lands.
Tower of instruments probe an atom,
He's the first to coordinate them,
He sees a depth that we cannot fathom,
The riches of curiosities' gem.
For larger than all the electronics,
Beyond the oscilloscope, TTL's,
There's the pursuit of the complete physics,
Unraveling of nature's magical spells.
All the hardware arises from passion,
As the quest for knowledge becomes action.
cdxv.
Have you seen the laughing wave function?
Ah! But laughter physics cannot explain,
For it ignores the spiritual passion,
Reducing love to chemicals in the brain.
The equations of physics constrained me,
To realms where these feelings could not be said,
Out the window, spring blossoms I see,
On the board I see a description dead.
All these symbols and numbers ignore me,
My poetry the scientists don't need,
Oh, we are all victims of entropy,
Regardless of the descriptions we heed.
Long before we described what we see,
Poems and physics inscribed us in reality.
cdxvi.
The mysterious stranger walks on by,
Beautiful in that enigmatic way,
Don't know who she is, but she gets me high,
On this warm, windy grey cloudy spring day.
She walks like no other, a kitty's smile,
The queen of this campus's pink brick paths,
Her cut off jeans put my heart on trial,
I wonder how she looks when she laughs.
She walks on, and I 'm afraid to follow,
Afraid to lose quiet inspiration,
Oh, to but sit, and let time's river flow,
Remain dry, safe within my fascination.
Because I can't touch, because I can't kiss,
The mysterious stranger lives on in this.
cdxvii.
Oh my girl, I don't know what I've done here,
But I see on your face I've put a frown,
And when those puppy-dog eyes shed a tear,
It brings that precious piece of me way down.
I've never felt so tender towards someone,
You've got that secret something in your laugh,
I'd rather hear it than watch the tears run,
But it's too late to take back my cursed wrath.
But girl! You were the first to make me cry!
It's because you hurt me that I built a wall,
And girl, you know that I never did lie,
In love just as far as you I did fall.
But when you feel sad, girl, I feel the rue,
Maybe it means that I could love you true.
cdxviii.
So when are you going to surrender,
That fine beauty to a dashing young Prince?
Getting late girl, already September,
The time sure has rushed on by ever since
you were sixteen with nothing but future;
That's youth's magic: that all is yet a dream,
While a past is gained as we do mature,
Past that weighs us down-- slows us in time's stream.
Years accelerate-- you don't change so much;
It is by the change that the time we know,
The less the change, the faster time does rush,
The current but quickens the faster you row.
But hold me close girl, we're yet to be born,
In your eyes I see the blue of a brand new morn.
cdxix.
A private performer; I write my soul,
Write words which to you I could never speak,
Only on paper can I play my role,
Upon the stage I tremble; my knees go weak.
For there's not much use in telling you things,
You always take them so personally,
You get offended though no malice my voice brings,
Up close the great mountain we cannot see.
When we played no part in each-other's lives,
From far off my words did but entertain,
But now close 'gainst each-other, we connive,
In this game you call love, and I call pain.
Our souls are the same-- we're on the same court,
But we're opponents in this brutal sport.
cdxx.
So tell me girl, how deep you want to go,
Want me to talk about your tragedy?
You choose, anything that you want to know,
Look into these sonnets and you shall see.
There's a dark side to all your innocence,
If you want, I'll make you understand that,
Look between the lines and beyond the fence,
It's dark, but I'll shed light on where it's at.
But then you might see nothing in these lines,
I could explain that-- your eyes are closed tight,
Dream on, dream on, of pretty, pretty rhymes,
But don't ever feign knowledge of the night.
You think you can judge me? It isn't true.
What you see in me is how I judge you.
cdxxi.
There's a moment when spring takes a deep breath,
And the May sun explodes into summer,
There's winter's final night of silent death,
Then the air vibrates with the cricket's hammer.
Tonight I 'm standing upon the threshold,
Awaiting my final Epiphany,
Between youthful hope, knowledge of the old,
No, I cannot see across the vast sea.
But I know the taste in the air tonight,
And I can vouch for every belief,
I know that all of my actions were right,
As from meaninglessness there's no relief.
But because there's none, then we all have won,
Both light and hell's fire are found in the sun.
cdxxii.
You told me I 'm more sensitive than you,
Looking at me with your puppy dog eyes,
Oh girl, but if I did the things you do,
Then you would be the one, my friend, who cries.
Who's stronger, the hider of all the world's pain,
Or the men who get the tears in their eyes,
The men who admit they get wet in the rain.
He who says he isn't sensitive lies.
For if they tell the truth then they are a tree,
A blind beast who lacks discourse of reason,
To put friends where they wouldn't want to be,
Then say they wouldn't care-- I say it's treason.
If on decency we cannot agree,
Then you have every right to let me be.
cdxxiii.
Oh, look at the blood upon all mankind,
You never see the pain, only the prose,
The evolving frontier is never kind,
All the kindness is but a ruthless pose.
For all power must project a goodness,
A virtue, a celebration of life,
And I guess that it is truly goodness,
For indeed power is free from the strife.
And if there's a God who sees all of this,
Then by God it must all be very good,
The blood and bile in an innocent kiss,
If truth is beauty then beauty is crude.
Oh, the believer must have a small mind,
It takes two thoughts 'til contradiction you find.
cdxxiv.
You told me that you told me you were mean,
As if it justified the way you ignored me,
And you say that you can't see what I mean,
Girl, you don't want to make me make you see.
I know you're every bit as sensitive ,
Cause girl I 've been through this ten times before,
She pretends she doesn't need what I give,
But come tomorrow she's begging for more.
And why should I show you any sonnets,
Without sensitivity you can't understand,
Oh, your mind for these words throws out its net,
But the fine words slip right on through your hands.
The blue moon's rising, time to go and hide,
Girl, go ahead and make love to your pride.
cdxxv.
Hey Cindy, there's so much I want to say,
There's a price to pay for falling in love,
Yesterday's debts I still have yet to pay,
'Til my heart's free I must stay here, above.
Hey, I know you know what I'm talkin' 'bout,
In that realm where emotions take control,
We see red, we're driven the pain to shout,
As love's darkest demons torment our soul.
Hey, I know you think I see too much pain,
You wouldn't think it unless you did too,
To love you it's not easy to refrain,
But at the moment it's what I must do.
Girl, it's funny, you are a lot like me,
But from myself I'm trying to be free.
cdxxvi.
If I can't have it the way I want it,
Then oh babe, I do not want it at all,
If me into a moment you can't fit,
I 'm not going to pretend it don't gall.
I 'm not going to pretend I can't be hurt,
And then try to get you back tomorrow,
No, I 'm not going to play in the dirt,
I 'm happy with my sonnets and sorrow.
Oh, yes, I miss the girl I thought you were,
Soft, wistful blue eyes, so quick with a smile,
But I can't pretend that she will be there,
When I have yet to sail so many miles.
If you find a true heart, bind it with steel
To your own-- someone who feels what you feel.
cdxxvii.
"People think that we're having an affair,"
She said to me after a bit of wine,
A blue flowered dress, only fair could wear,
Black silken hair, she was looking so fine.
I'd been dreamin' of her for a year now,
She had one of those profiles that could kill,
This last party, then her good youth would flow,
Out. Time evaporates fine beauty's skill.
Oh! What was I thinking to turn away!
To go to the chapel for the candles,
Youth's wasted on young, give it to the grey!
Still see her pretty feet, in white sandals.
But on! Away from her, towards my duty!
I 'll be true, even if it's only to me.
cdxxviii.
Oh my poems were but magic charms that charmed,
I bade people think I was romantic,
Where the poet lies, innocent stands harmed,
The poet is worse than the pedantic.
Where I believed I was superior!
I was indignant towards the good critic,
Misled girls! You should know what poems are for!
I am my worst enemy, the cynic!
Bury me! This world is better without,
False rhapsodies that yesterday I meant,
Oh! Look at me now, still I but shout!
Language, to hell all language should be sent!
'Neath the earth I sentence my soul to roam,
To the graveyard! To return all our poems!
cdxxix.
You'll kill me, but a child will know my truth,
He'll come for you in the name of justice,
His young feelings shall provide ample proof,
To terminate your controlling practice.
As I 'm dead, I 'll never have the good chance,
To fall below all my lofty ideals,
For in this world I 'll never take a stance,
And use words to control how people feel.
No, you have saved me from my tragedy,
Bestowing upon me this early death,
I 'm a failure, evolutionary,
I 'm blessed, all my words were but wasted breath.
But the truth of youth shall soon grow older,
Just as in the winter, it grows colder.
cdxxx.
You're born again when you meet someone new,
Reflected in the mirrors of their eyes,
Yesterday's useless words form something true,
To express what depression denies.
Oh, too well acquainted with the anger,
That drives us down that lonely one way road,
Truth we oft see as the lesser danger,
Though it is the truth which makes us explode.
For every word uttered is for control,
Every action is performed for deceit,
The contradictions that once irked the soul,
Wish I could again laugh at what I can't defeat.
Sorry I woke you-- but in your smile's beauty,
Thought I caught a glimpse of who I used to be.
cdxxxi.
I can feel the order fading away,
It doesn't matter if you stay or go,
I see with truth myself I have betrayed,
Yesterday's certainties I no longer know.
There are no violent passions telling me,
I should control you, I should make you mine,
The feelings wane, sweeping away potency,
I no longer hear the call of the divine.
But my eyes still see, and my mind beats on,
Free from pain, free from heat-ache, free from love,
I am the man in whom the man is gone,
When judgements anchor's cast away, we rise above.
Mired in good and evil is how we live,
'Till we see it's but illusion, and forgive.
cdxxxii.
So Sycorax, you beat the paradox,
In the crazy illusion you have won,
The honest lies in his eternal box,
A thousand thousand slimy things live on.
If I did as you, my soul would have died,
So action goes to the insensitive
Action begets life for your petty pride,
Soulless in blind significance survive.
While those who see, don't know if they should be,
With ten thousand vulgarities on hand,
Oh, to be great is to live life blindly,
To stumble on a cause and make a stand.
Oh, Sycorax, I forgive your domain,
Let us laugh as all our certainties wane.
cdxxxiii.
I am the captain, these words are my ship,
To carry me to my destination,
It might sink, my mind may begin to slip,
But I must keep up the navigation.
For I live in debt to a silent dream,
Faith which buoyed through tempestuous seas,
When everyone was against, it did seem,
When the only one to turn to was me.
Ahoy captains! I saw your passing ships,
You passed silently on by one deep night,
Long ago there was magic on her lips,
But alas, yesterday's sails are out of sight.
But yet the old dream propels me to write,
For girl your smile yet knows yesterday's light.
cdxxxiv.
I walked to the window to see the wind,
Watch the spring rustle through the newborn leaves,
But a different sight my eyes did find,
A girl's golden hair through which the wind weaves.
And what was she studying, in this world,
Where we're always told to improve our minds?
Where by time all books pages are unfurled,
Where we're driven against, to make pages bind.
And poetry is dead, so I have heard,
It must be something else that lives in me,
That inspired me to share a word,
With the beauty outside the window I see.
But I'm in this cage, and the window's barred,
For when you're down, romance is a bit hard.
cdxxxv.
At society's edge I hesitate,
Not sure the teachers all say what they mean,
Others accept it, on my soul it grates,
To memorize what other men have seen.
The best grades go to the good book keeper,
Study, memorize, then regurgitate,
Poetry that some dead critic once liked,
Banality, cool calm control, I hate!
But the conformers migrate to Harvard,
With these words they rule evolution,
But all words came from the poet muse bard,
I am birth, I am the revolution.
Because I hesitated, looked within,
Law I lost, but poetry I did win.
cdxxxvi.
Found myself back in the sepulchral city,
I remember mist, shuddering wonder,
Vast ignorance, equaling infinity,
People are deaf to resounding thunder.
Preparing to filch money from each-other,
Dreaming insignificant, silly dreams,
They trespassed upon my thought's, my brother's,
Blind, and so certain of the way things seem.
Their knowledge is an irritating pretence,
I knew they could not know the things I know,
In safety, behind ignorance's fence,
We reach higher, we sink further below.
With their outrageous flauntings of folly,
In the face of a danger they can't see.
cdxxxvii.
"Let me be young! She said, and turned away,
Let me be young, and dream of perfection,
I've already heard all you have to say,
And please don't take this as a rejection.
For I loved you once, more than anyone,
But there was this pain, more than I could take,
And anyway, now it's over and done,
I'm tired of your thinking I am fake."
Ah yes! Though I'm old, I cannot yet lie,
And I've no use for a false perfection,
And you wonder why I do not cry?
You never knew me, it's not my rejection.
I knew a girl, but she's not the woman I see,
Four years younger and older than me
cdxxxviii.
I wonder why girl, you blame it on me,
For I did not create the winter night,
Nor did I make you see the things you see,
One man can never change another's sight.
And you tell me I stole your happiness,
It was you who opened up, let me in,
Your deep, dark secrets I cannot confess,
I wasn't the one who forced you in sin.
What you fear the most is that I can see,
That I don't have to wait for an answer,
I look and what is I do see to be,
And then, when I immagine, it is there.
Girl, you know the things I see are all true,
But it's dangerous-- you're better off without my view.
cdxxxix.
Holden, you better hold on to the field,
The culture you created's backfiring,
With obscenities JD did wield,
The Catcher's been the one who's been lying.
All the children reading your holy book,
Were once fooled, but now they are all dying,
You caught the kids on your messiah's hook,
In that mansion you've got to be crying.
Cause you know living off words is a sin,
Especially when they formed a phony prayer,
Oh, to forgive you, where should I begin?
To forgive he who pulled from me my chair?
You gave me confidence it would be there,
You never told me that art doesn't care.
cdxl.
These words can't tell of sleepless nights of fear,
Fear my pen would run out of ink halfway,
Or writing in circles, I'd end back here,
What I meant I would never get to say.
Oh yeah, those nights silently slipped on by,
The waves of feelings, I feel them recede,
Sweeping youth out into eternity,
Next to which youth is but a tiny seed.
A seed from which all rhyming lines do grow,
I remember thinking in absolutes,
Only in my youth did I ever know,
Of white ideals no logic could refute.
Once good logic has taken you beyond,
You'll never make it back to Walden's pond.
cdxli.
Knowing what's behind a girl's lovely face,
Knowing what's behind all the words I say,
The soul begins to continually brace,
Against action, searching for the pure way.
But you know there's no pure way out of here,
You leave this earth by the door you came in,
The door of love, fate, hope, and death's dark fear,
Without which there is no virtue nor sin.
We're not born until we begin to die,
Forever grounded the moment we fly,
Expressing truths with the same words we lie,
Giving children answers when no one knows why.
To see, but to see, to see all of this,
It gets hard to lose myself in a kiss.
cdxlii.
I never thought that you were pathetic,
For feeling all the pain in this cruel world,
And I never believed that you were sick,
For seeing the sunflowers and sky swirled.
No, I never put you down when you cried,
I never closed my door when you came 'round,
I was always proud to have you by my side,
A symphony's lingering silent sound.
So girl, can you tell me what has happened,
How you can tell me I'm insecure,
Now that the tables turned, you're not my friend,
Guess you had to grow up and become sure.
But are you so sure who is the stronger?
The one who kills it, or hurts the longe?
cdxliii.
Crossing Springdale golf course in early June,
Walking back from the woods, saw a strange light.
Heard a chorus carrying yesterday's tune,
Rising through the warm air as decendeth the night.
A crisp melody from the blazing tent,
Finding no obstacles in nature's silence,
Towards the rippling laughter my path was bent,
I found a perch upon a fence,
Oh! The power felt in four years of youth!
Yesterday's music transcended fifty years,
The grand gentlemen found the noble truth,
Here, in the spires, the gargoyles. In their peers.
One passed on by, he smiled an winked at me,
"This," he waved his hands, "This is poetry."
cdxliv.
I feel the end's near, oh, the end is here,
Hear the lonely crying, hear me sighing,
The notes are fading, but so is the fear,
My great fear of yesterday's dreams dying.
I pass by Father time, he winks and smiles,
He knows I 've realized the tricks of his trade,
How long it took to learn his benign style!
The past is immortal, it never fades.
Quiet my friend, don't tell youth this secret,
Let the crying musicians play the blues,
Let the poet write of lost love's regrets,
Because believers believe, it is true.
Let us follow our dreams beyond the show,
Oh, let the music in, and let it go.
cdxlv.
We've come full circle, my babe with blue eyes,
I 've played all my parts from my heart with you,
And it's time for both of us to see what lies
beyond our love; we're too young to be true.
Your prettiness has not begun to peak,
And I have a few stories yet to tell,
Lately we've been making each-other weak,
Breaking one another's magical spells.
We know it's true, there's nothing we can do,
But to do new beyond each other's view,
Oh, we are the people with whom we grew,
You're a part of me, and I 'm a part of you.
So go sail the seven seas, I hope you do,
I 'll build these word castles, waiting for you.
cdxlvi.
As you recede, memmories come haunting,
Mysterious shadows dodging through the night,
And running, I catch myself wanting,
The greatness of yesterday's height.
What was it I saw so deep in those eyes?
It was that those eyes saw deep into me,
Or so I thought, but again it's but lies,
Born from what in the night you'd let me see.
Oh yes, I did my little princess well,
And introduced her to this cold, cruel world,
Is it any wonder I'm burnin' in hell?
Is it any wonder reason's unfurled?
It don't matter if I don't get it right,
'Cause there's nothing there, but dreams in the night.
cdxlvii.
To walk the streets instead of the alley,
To try to return to yesterday's void,
To go one beyond the grand finally,
These are the things we can never avoid.
And so I became what I have become,
My fears and tears I 've seen in all your eyes,
Of old dreams gone by I am but a sum,
For it was through them I watched the sun rise.
And now with ten thousand words behind me,
The rainbow's colors combine to make white,
You'd think I 'd be better able to see,
But white means no more than the black of night.
It's in between we feel these words to say,
As I fade, between black and white they stay.
cdxlviii.
Pretty girl, now what are we gonna do?
We've proven we can walk independent,
Standing alone it's easier to be true,
But I've found out there's no one else I want.
I've flown high with you-- you've driven me mad,
Guess it was tragic 'cause it was true love,
Romantics walk half their life lonely and sad,
Thus I was 'til over love's edge me you did shove.
Unstoppable cannonball-- pretty girl,
'Round my heart I'd built an indestructible wall,
Then we collided-- the world did unfurl,
You halted, and my heart earthward did fall.
I love you-- guess it's time to be buried,
Hey girl, whuddayah say we get married?
cdxlix.
I suspend judgements, I don't own these words,
They're yours, living when immersed in your mind,
As you own the conception of your Lord's,
The truth, friend, only you yourself shall find.
Come next September, set out with a spade,
And dig down deep into this book of poems,
Tantalus's memories never fade,
Torture us with past's intangible bones.
Break the earth, dig deeper, all the way down,
Until you hear metal against metal,
In the black pit where the poet did drown,
Lift out the coffin, crumbling rose petals.
Iron goes to rust, but thought's retained in words,
It yet can pierce your heart-- this dead poet's swords.
cdl.
For I am the strong and I am the mind,
Afraid of myself, I buried myself,
So the evil could not these pages find,
And put me upon their brave empire's shelf.
But now I see that all men are wicked,
The meek and weak are as wicked as the strong,
They drew first blood as my white soul was kicked,
Silencing me to blare their empty song.
But they can not touch to what they are blind;
My phantom walks, talks, and shall never lie,
Nor rest until my order is defined,
When my poetry lives, then I shall die.
So the lonely dead arise to live again,
To share their soul's truths by the immortal pen.
cdli.
So strange that our enemies give purpose
To our lives, cause us to excel, to transcend,
We reach higher out of fear we could lose,
So our enemies are really our friends,
In that by them we become who we are,
Through struggle we realize our potential,
We wouldn't have ever made it this far.
If it weren't for adversity's call.
What's modern poetry? An inside joke?
Among the brain-dead, and the elfish minds?
Without meaning, why should words be spoken?
The sun is up, but they won't pull the blinds.
So come for me, come for me my true love,
So we are chased by all we ever hunt.
cdlii.
The poet within turns his eyes above,
Feelings aspiring to spirits in heaven,
So it his perfect dreams youth loves,
It's the young mind that demands perfection.
Consciousness evolved to help humanity,
Instincts ingrained in us perceive reason,
As we struggled to find a way to be,
To find permanence in fleeting seasons.
The virgin mind believes in absolutes,
Never having been forced to tell a lie,
The perceived false structure it did refute:
Nature's tendency, to live and let die.
So we may live, let the perfect dream die,
Good bye youth-- forgive-- let the poet lie.
cdliii.
Well I felt that the world needed this verse,
Nowhere else could the present's thoughts be found,
The eight thirty summer sun is so terse,
I knew I could catch it, hold it in sound.
For after all, it must all be for art,
Beyond good and evil, short of the why,
All the actors, we never wrote our parts,
Oh, the bittersweet truth of beautiful lies.
Time has become my God, for he forgives all,
There's enough justice in just being,
The movement; it progresses beyond all,
And the being sets down what it's seeing.
I said it all, and yet nothing my friend,
The end's at the start, the start's at the end.
cdliv.
Understand your not wanting to see me,
And too, I can understand the new look,
Can understand your wanting to be free,
Free from the past, free from all that I took.
Oh, it's over now, it's time I admit,
But I'm a slow thinker, the last to know,
In this puzzle the pieces never fit,
It was years ago it began to go.
And it hurts to hear you laugh at the hurt,
When you're just as close as I to the edge,
But I can understand why you yet flirt,
To more deeply lost love's dark dagger wedge.
But one thing I don't understand's the hate,
Guess I must still be haunting your clean slate.
cdlv.
So set me free, girl, go run with the wind,
I must walk the next few miles all alone,
For there's an old spirit I've got to find,
Do not fight this wind , let yourself be blown.
So two years later, and two years wiser,
Oh, we're not the people we were back then,
And all love's rules, none of them apply here,
The girl I once loved exists but in pen.
If I had the time, I could tell a story,
Of the deep brown eyes, and a snow-white soul,
But alas, it would end in tragedy,
Again the innocence I loved, time stole.
It's the way you're made, to find another to kiss,
While I was made to be the one to miss.
cdlvi.
Opened the door upon a crystal heath,
Frozen glass, one morning in December,
Each branch, each twig locked in its icy sheathe,
Along with all that I could remember.
The wind was not, the sky was solid snow,
The squirrels asleep, the flowers all gone,
I was the soul sound this silence did know.
And then I saw him, a leaf hanging on,
Oh, that leaf had seen us kiss in the rain,
Enshrined in ice, a piece of last summer
Green gone, only the skeleton remained,
With my finger's light touch, it did shatter.
Been walking all day, have all night to go,
My tracks are disappearing in the snow.
cdlvii.
I felt the red horizon calling me,
One dusk in the burning leaves' autumn air,
Before this sailor lay a fleeting sea,
The time was now or never, then and there.
So I left what was expected behind,
And trusted in my feelings to lead me,
I knew there was meaning for me to find,
In letting the sonnet set my heart free.
It took me to lands never imagined,
And introduced me to faces so fine,
But there is a fall in every legend,
Of mortal man reaching for the divine.
And so the dream's been touched, the poem is done,
My heart's been set free, the poet is gone.
cdlviii.
Endings come when there's nothing more to say,
The constellations fade with the day's dawn,
My heart and these words part their separate ways,
The force that drove me to write is now gone.
Monuments may crumble, and stars may fall,
The truest of loves may begin to wane,
Beauty's spark dims, yesterday's friends won't call,
But where the feelings fade, these words remain.
I scaled this rock, leaving behind my rhyme,
With good youth these lines are my final dance,
Youth's mountain never again shall I climb,
As I crest over the peak, back I glance,
Yes, the leaves changed, the wind's blowing colder,
Oh, but what a view, over my shoulder.
cdlix.
Don't know how much more is left within me,
Don't know how much longer I can pretend,
For I know forever no one does see,
I know all dreamers wake up in the end.
The matured knowledge blunts my feeling's edge,
Leaving but cold steel beauty in a rose,
It's the way we're made, to fall off the ledge,
Leaving a void in which the new youth grows.
And all the old, you know they were once young,
Just as all you young will so soon grow old,
Into this consciousness we are all flung,
The reason why, no one's ever been told.
Without reason I am, and I shall be,
Let the unanswerable set me free.
cdlxi.
My heart would weep so, to watch it slip by,
But now what difference could the passing make?
You realize that there's nowhere pure to fly,
It's OK if your melted wings time takes.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will, fated to naught,
Why do we fight good one way time that sends
us up beyond where all man's battles are fought.
Impotent, the good air is free against
the indifferent scythe that harvests all,
Six feet of earth makes a king's final fence,
On our backs, we no longer fear to fall.
'Bout our lying end, we can all agree,
Where we agree, there lies truth, let it be.
cdlxii.
Be strong my friend, be strong as the seasons,
That can take change and death and spring again,
I know your big brown eyes see no reasons,
But to see is reason enough my friend.
Carry on, carry on, run with the wind,
Turn to the magic within, close your eyes,
Alone you'll fathom the depths of your mind,
Somewhere deep down you know the poet lies.
Dream, dream of all you were afraid to dream,
You've carried the world over your shoulder,
And you know enough to ignore gold's gleam,
You're stronger than me, and ten times bolder.
So go now, venture forth into the sea,
But be careful, friend, it almost drowned me.
cdlxiii.
Girl, I miss you, hope you're happier there,
On the other side, in a dreamless sleep,
Still got forever, forever to share,
Left early-- no matter-- nothing we keep.
Loved you-- that deep first love-- I always will,
Owned a mystery words could never tell,
Warmest hearts are most sensitive to chill,
Heaven's heights are best felt from depths of hell.
Take me now, time, beyond the city lights,
Take me to fair darkness, her that I love,
We're all equal in the abyss's sight,
To the void there's no below nor above.
Take me back, to her, before I was born,
Where all's yet but fantasy before morn.
cdlxiv.
After dark, once again, deep inside here,
Wasn't a soul for miles and miles but me,
Couldn't feel enough to cry a salty tear,
Meaning's drought; I was drowning in guilt's sea.
I loosened my grip-- then I saw a shape;
There was form in the abyss- mystery!
Absence of meaning, yawning hole did gape--
But yet I was-- I was reality!
Jumped in, ran with the ghosts of the dark hour,
Stalked the land with creatures of the deep night,
Exorcised by the void's complete power,
Never again will poetry I write.
When you can't see, that is when you should look,
In a graveyard one night, I found this book.
cdlxv.
When you're done saying what you have to say,
Then don't you know that it is time to burn,
At the end of the line, fadin' away,
Depression's right there-- there's nowhere to turn.
What a path you blazed in your futile escape!
Illusions were made, dreams you created,
Now you're at the edge and the void does gape,
You looked in it too long, became jaded.
There's no gold at the end of the rainbow,
Born to believe there is, but there's but death,
And though I know now all there is to know,
I see to speak it was a waste of breath.
No beginning nor end, the struggle's all,
Once it's gone there's nothing to do but fall.
cdlxvi.
Look! The Eastern horizon! Could it be?
What force could inspire that crazy blue glow?
The sun? Thought it sank for eternity,
Thought light of day we'd never again know.
Hey there, shhh, I forgot you fell asleep,
So pretty there, I'll let you sleep some more,
Tell you someday about what I saw creep
across the spooky land while you did snore.
My back's so sore against this tombstone cold,
But there's a smile on my face-- now I know,
Though I'll miss blue-moon nights as I grow old,
Forever young shall stay these poem's show.
Now written they're not mine-- they're yours to keep,
I've earned my freedom-- the freedom to sleep.
cdlxvii.
Hey, hey, I'm out of here, the sun's rising,
With a South wind blowin', I'm on my way,
Often we talk on, without realizing,
That really there is nothing left to say.
If you need to find me, turn back the page,
Though my body's gone, my soul's in the book,
It's far beyond me now-- the hope and rage,
All I pulled from it the void again took.
But here's a secret-- order increases,
Compared to our parents we're more evolved,
For we are a product of their choices,
So you see there's a reason that we loved.
Though my private soul returns to the void,
What we share in common won't be destroyed.
cdlxviii.
The North October wind blew by today,
Carolina blue, the temperature dove,
Had to put the top up, the sky went gray,
Fell in love as by fallow fields we drove.
Girl, it's over now, the poems are behind,
Only want you, the fall field's silent peace,
I've learned simple things mean more to my mind,
I open my hands-- all here I release.
Oh, wonderful Autumn, lay me to rest,
The brilliant silence, colors all changing,
I've had my say, I've completed my quest,
I've become, there's no more re-arranging.
Let fallen leaves fill the air with incense,
An ode to the human experience.
cdlxix.
Jack frost danced 'cross the golden fields of wheat,
It was so cold, Windy, in that graveyard!
It's the frost that makes the Autumn complete,
It's by death that beauty comes to the bard.
For what's more lovely than the human soul,
That's driven to lament the loss of life,
That ponders and ponders, and never's whole,
That in all noble beauty perceives strife.
Ah, Windy, that's what it is within you,
A sadness so noble to be happy,
Oh girl, you are of the beautiful few,
Who's abstruse aura can fully trap me.
I know you know me, right on through you see,
Drake Raft's gone, the poems are no longer me.
cdlxx.
So take this map of places I have been;
The fields I've walked and the oceans I've crossed,
All that I have felt, and all that I've seen,
Perhaps it'll help-- if you're the type who gets lost.
But the tides keep shifting, the shore changes,
And all shall be a bit different for you,
But there is that which time never rearranges:
There's that highest reality-- the true.
For though men walk blind, and there's no reason,
Don't ever think that you have to follow,
If you feel with your soul you've committed treason,
Turn to the night when all else is hollow.
By this map find an old cemetery,
That forgotten childhood faith unbury.
cdlxxi.
So here I take a bow before the void,
I know you're all out there, though I can't see,
But with the applause darkness is destroyed,
Sounds the house is filled to capacity.
I'm up here alone, sighing and smiling,
The show over, I again become me,
On stage the laughing kisses the crying,
I'll miss both masks dearly as I'm set free.
So I thank you all for lifting this book,
Without you these sonnets could never be,
For we only exist when others look,
And I am but that which you choose to see.
Brief I must be, so let this couplet tell,
Of my best wishes, and a fond farewell.
Good Night.
Brilliant sunrise; the curtains slowly fall,
You awake to find that the dream was all.
74
Drake Raft
73
The After Dark Field Book Sonnets
AGRHRGR! THE CREW SOUNDS OFF!Date: Fri, 6 Aug 1999 09:50:51 -0700 From: kwelch DRAKE, who are you? why are you so freakin' cool? and how did this whole Jolly Roger business get started? I think it's just beautiful, I never can seem to find that kind of gumption in people my age (I'm assuming you're somewhere 20ish?) Anyhow, well done captain! :)Kerri Date: Thu, 12 Aug 1999 16:07:56 -0700 Hello, I came to your site quite by accident! It is a wonderful site to say the very least! Poetry touches my inner most being and oh how I wish I could express the thoughts, feelings, and events that lie deep with in me via poetry! I thought you might find it interesting to learn that your site has been visited by some one with the surname of Starbuck. I don't know how I can prove to you that this is the truth, but it is, so will just trust that you will believe me. My husband and I love the ocean. He very much likes Light Houses. We have vacationed in NC several times and it is our great hope to move there in the not too distant future. We plan to be in NC in Nov. This depends on our having the closing on our home by then. The purpose of our Nov. trip will be to find employment and housing. The area we at the moment plan to locate to is a small town called Farmville. It is about 8 miles south of Greenville. We feel this is far enough inland to reduce risk of violent weather and yet is an easy drive to the ocean. Again I will say how much I've enjoyed your web site and that I will visit frequently. Kathy Date: Wed, 4 Aug 1999 12:28:29 -0700 In the course of some on-line research, i stumbled across your Nantuckets site, and, being a former year-round resident (at the time i lived there, the favorite t-shirt among we locals was "I'm not a tourist. I live Here") i felt i had to respond. Thanks for the thundering words, which awakened echoes in my soul. I was a permanent resident, and i remember the long winters when the harbor froze and the planes couldn't fly, and we'd gather on the cliffs to watch the Coast Guard cutters try to break through the ice pack to deliver much needed staples. I recall the long winter nights, closing out the "Hood" as we called it then. (There was a particularly interesting waitress named Lucy, at the time, who put up with our "celebrations" with immense patience and good cheer). Also the "Box", when we were in a more garrulous mood, or a pool-playing mood. I was the manager at a pizza joint just down the road from the Box. Don't know if it's still there, used to be called "Foood for Here and There", owned by a decent man named Mark, whose last name i cannot remember. (This was 21 years ago). There was a character named Russ Carlson, whose jeep was the vehicle for many midnight carousings out to Sankaty and back. An ex-sailor named John Ferrara also owned a jeep, and i have fond memories of burying it in the dunes one afternoon, trying to impress a summer girl. If you still live there, and you happen to know either of these two men, please tell them Sundance said hello. I worked for several years at the Cottage Hospital also, whose policy was to complement their nursing staff with interns during the summer. The resident nurses at the time, I remember, were generally a wild bunch. Hardest working people you ever saw during their shifts, but afterwards........well, fond memories there, too. Just thought i'd say thanks, from a former year-round resident. I've done and seen too much to ever wish for those days again, but still, I'm glad i was there for those several years. I make my living as a writer and photographer now, and my time on the Island has kept me supplied with many memories to draw on. Thanks again p.s. I hope Nantucket has not turned into the Vineyard yet. Date: Fri, 13 Aug 1999 22:18:22 EDT Ahoy Mates, glad to be aboard and bound for dangerous waters. I'm tired of politically correct currents and silent majority seas! Keep an even keel and show no quarter! Argrhrghrrgh! I'm ready to steer into a gale of torrential truth. I only hope to stay seaworthy. I'll try me best. Deadhead.. From: PEQUOD Awash ten long years now on Derrida ridden seas - what joy for a broad to find such raffish young scholars. Give me Dante, or give me death! Date: Sun, 9 Feb 1997 14:45:40 GMT Hello there Elliot.. You may be wondering who the hell i am.. well i met you two summers ago in Linda's bar on Franklin St. I was the English nanny, friends with the spanish girl Pillar. Well anyway i read your book that you sold me..The Drake Raft Field Trip (The Tragedy of Drake Raft). I was really engrossed by it when i took it babysitting with me and their dogs decided they wanted it for lunch.. So now i am left at the part where they were gonna have a concert?? What the hell happened at the end.. please tell me.. I hope that you are still using this Email. from Hazel Butler. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! I've seen liberals do the same thing to Shakespeare! Of course we'll send ye a new on! The Drake Raft Field Trip can be bought at http://jollyroger.com/drft.html Date: Fri, 6 Dec 1996 10:34:00 -0700 Captain, or maybe I should say Elliot, Ahoy how ye be good matie? I tried to send this mail once, but apparently I have screwed up and will have to send it again. I have just finished reading your news letter for this month. It says you're a ghost. Well I will tell you Captain or maybe I should say Elliot, I know your pen, and the true answer to the mystery of the Jolly Roger. I haven't spoken until now out of love for your work. The fact still stands that by any name you hold a pretty pen. I have read "The Drake Raft Field trip" and loved it. I tip my hat to ye, to speak the truth can be a hard thing to do. At the same time running a ship can be a hard thing to do as well. I dabble both in html and in writing poetry, and I lend my fingers or my pen to your service. I currently am going to order my own copy of the D.R.F.T. and your sonnets, I would like to support the good ship as much a possible. If there was a time when I wanted to send the good ship a picture, a little art work, how would I go about it? Take care of yourself Elliot, may the Lord protect you and keep you. At the good ships service, THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: At yer service, matie, and God bless ye too. From: goleson@-------- To: becket@jollyroger.com Subject: Ahoy! As I read your Declaration of Independence From Slackers, I thought of this Heinlein quotation that might strike your fancy: "Throughout history, poverty is the normal condition of man. Advances which permit this norm to be exceeded - here and there, now and then - are the work of an extremely small minority, frequently despised, often condemned, and almost always opposed by all right-thinking people. Whenever this tiny minority is kept from creating, or (as sometimes happens) is driven out of a society, the people then slip back into abject poverty. This is known as bad luck." Enjoy! THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy! America's about protecting the individual so that all might benefit. America rocks. From: Jonas Made Thank you! I have just seen the future of literature laid out before me, and it is beeeeautiful! The problems you describe are just as endemic in Britain - desperate... I have formed a small literary group here in Durham which coincidentally conforms to the JR constitution; we will be bringing out an anthology sometime in 97 so if you're interested in reviewing it (I would be honoured) let me know. Inspiring, truly inspiring! THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! The UK rocks too! From: Grebo Greetings there! I'm a physics major at Sam Houston State University and I must admit I just fell in love with the sonnets. Is there any chance that they are all published somewhere somehow? (If there's info in the site on this don't get mad at me, I just got too excited and didn't bother to read anything else.) Also, I am the secretary for our chapter of the Society of Physics Students and thus mainly in charge of coming up with new t-shirt designs (being the most creative one helps too) and I was wondering if there was any way (If my chapter agrees to it) for us to print one of the sonnets (with all pertinent information as well) on some shirts. We are a non-profit organization and we use the money from t-shirt sales to help pay for food, gas, and hotels at zone meetings and also for our annual scholarship given to a qualifying member. Thanks! --Eric Oh, if you're interested at all, I would be more than happy to send you copies of the designs of the shirts that I created in either text or Word Perfect format. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! Feel free to use the sonnets, as long as ye send us some shirts. You can buy Drake's collected sonnets at http://jollyroger.com/loot.html To: "'-Raft, Drake'" Ahoy, Red Avenger! Billy Bones reportin' fer dooty, sir. The latest issue of the Jolly Roger was, as usual, excellent. You fellows do have a knack for pouring out your soul. I re-read "A Nantucket Ghost Story" when you re-sent it back in October, and that, combined with some of the sonnets in the last JR, got me to thinking a lot about my younger days (I'm only 34, but I'm happily married now with two children, a cat, and a house in Atlanta, so there's been some water under the bridge since those days!). I was reminded of a little ploy I used to use when I was living in Virginia, amongst the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, and I went out on the occasional date. There was a special spot along the road near my house where, after dinner or a movie, I would park, we would get out of the car, and look out over the valley near my town. There were no lights for miles around ,and there would be the dark pastures and woods before us, and above us a black field of stars spread out across the Southern sky. I didn't necessarily have any romantic designs (although there were a few girls whom I wouldn't have minded cuddling up a little closer to!)...I just wanted someone with whom I could share the moment. I guess it was a test of sorts; I wanted to see how the girl reacted to this sort of sight. What was I looking for? Perhaps a commonality of feeling, a sense that she, too, understood that we are more than the sum of our parts, that there is wonder and beauty around us ( and within us) if we only take the time to look and don't allow the cares of this world or the nihilistic intelligentsia to take it from us. I guess I was looking for the same thing you were looking for in the graveyard. A few years later, I found the girl who understood my longing perfectly, because she felt it too, and we've been married for ten years now. --Billy Bones THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Cool story-- I'm sure you guys will continue to have fun and things. It's always a pleasure to hear from ye, Billy Bones. From: Debby Jerez <djerez@ I'd appreciate it greatly if ye'd ship me a copy of the bit about perfect silence. My e-mail is djerez@brill---------- I was intrigued with those insightful words, and I've a mate or two that'd enjoy them just as I did. Thank-you for yer time good sir. -Lilbrat(a homesick deckswab) THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! Here's Silence-- by Drake Raft I know where the most perfect silence is, THE CREW REPORTS FOR DUTYDate: Mon, 6 Jul 1998 11:13:48 -0400 (EDT) I love ya man!!! Ever since I can remember I have had this great love affair with reading. The first book that I can remember reading that left on impression was "Great Expectations." (My random memory) I am really glad to have found people who have a sense of passion about reading and writing. Now I am on this mission at my university to establish a reading and discussion session between Junior High, High School, and College students. I received this inspiration from you guys and just wanted to say thank you. CJ THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy there! And we receive our inspiration from ye! Date: Fri, 10 Jul 1998 13:17:59 -0400 (EDT) O Cap'n me Cap'n, Great poem, Drake!! Just read yer message from 7/1. I were in the 82nd Airborne meself. 'BOUT TIME A POEM OR TWO STARTED TELLIN' 'BOUT PRIDE IN YER LAND!!! Hey - do ANY of those who hate the blessed U.S. of A. stop to realize that we are the ONLY country to protect their right to insult us like they do? ANYWAY, I been meanin' to ask ye - does the good ship JollyRoger have need of a Chaplain? I be an evangelist when I be 'on the beach' , and I'll be all for any of the mateys who need some comfort or advice from the Good Lord or His Good Book. Give 'em me address if ye will. Keep up the good fight - a country that can't take pride in its literature WON'T take pride in much else about itself, either !! Yers Truly, Bilge Rat THE CAPTAINS RESPONDS: Ahoy there mate! It's always an honor to have members of the armed services aboard, and we're also blessed to have a Chaplain in ye. I will definitely post your message, along with yer email, in our next issue. It's because of ye that our ship has a destination. From: Jeremiah X McEnerney/NVSPHQ/NAVSUP Drake, with all that salty lingo, I'm ready to head back to sea! Thought you might enjoy the following verse which every plebe at the Naval Academy has to memorize during plebe summer. Go Navy! Tx/Jerry How long have you been in the Navy? "All me bloomin' life! Me mother was a mermaid, me father was King Neptune. I was born on the crest of a wave, and rocked in the cradle of the deep. Sea weed and barnacles are me clothes, every hair in me head is hemp, every bone in me body is a spar, and when I spits, I spits tar. I'm hard, I is, I am, I are." THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Thanks for the line, mate! I know the feeling-- I've been on this ship since the dawn of time. Date: Wed, 22 Apr 1998 21:38:32 -0400 (EDT) I like your web page. Your story reminded me of a similar experience. A few years back I was working for the Army Corps. of Engineers at the Field research Facility in Duck. During the fall, I decided to read Moby Dick for the first time -- it was a knock out. The beginning was slow for me, but soon I was reading it during every moment I could steal. I will never forget the morning I finished Melville's yarn ... Part of my job at the research pier included taking daily weather measurements. I was still a little hazy in the mind (a wee bit before sunrise) so I don't recall all the details of my half mile treck to the pier's end, but I remember the end of the walk like it happened yesterday... a large whale was swimming at the end of the pier. It was the first time I ever saw one in the wild. This was one of those moments in life where you realize there is a bigger picture. A lot of folks don't understand what I mean. Regards, W. Terry Lease THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhrgr there sailor! I understand what ye mean! Avast! Date: Thu, 9 Jul 1998 15:12:22 -0400 (EDT) I just got my email up and running again after an awful experience with trying to upgrade to win98. i read your poem that was posted in the jolly roger E newsletter and had to let you know that i haven't read such a grand original poem since ... jeez! maybe college (for me that was a while ago). i was an English major, so i had exposure to a lot of good original works. this was a true touch to the little patriot that still wanders around inside me. if you don't mind, i'd like to send it off to my dad. thanx! Blessed*Be* tristan THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Thank ye, thank ye. Please feel free to send it off to everyone! If it weren't for ye out there, we wouldn't be here! At yer service! Date: Mon, 20 Jul 1998 16:48:09 -0400 (EDT) On Mon, 20 Jul 1998, Pamela Benich wrote: In The Name of Freedom, is truly a beautiful poem. Can one purchase a copy? THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhgrh! It's as free as the wind!
becket-- you are the absolute voice of truth; you speak straight to my soul. i've been sitting here for the past couple hours just in awe of your work. being only a freshman in high school, i'm often encouraged by both friends and adults to just slack off because it's not worth the trouble, but you have been the inspiration and verification that i needed that it's going to be up to me to find what's inside of me. thanks a lot. belinda bidlack, an already struggling artist From: Mary Cohutt I know what the perfect silence is.......silent words that touch.....tears that fall unnoticed... a softening heart... Thank you for your words From: Adam Jones Mr Raft and fellow JR mariners: For some weeks now fellow JR deckhand Seymour Jacklin and I have been conducting a campaign against 'poet' Murray Lachlan Young. For your sake I hope you have not yet come across him as I am sure his rabid, vapid, drug fueled rantings would drive you into apoplexy. Murray was recently signed to EMI for around 1m pounds sterling, and, I believe, appears occasionally on MTV in the States reading his abominations between programs. He is being promoted as a poet and sees himself as one. To think that a man who is clearly an idiot is lining himself up with Whitman and Pound makes me nauseous. Unfortunately some of his poetry is now on the net, and the following URL will refer you to one of his better (but still dreadful) offerings. URL will refer you to one of his better (but still dreadful) offerings. http://www.bbc.co.uk/bookworm/juggler.htm. So far the reaction to MLY has run along the following lines: In a number of media interviews Young has painted a picture of serious poets - the majority of whom, naturally, do not like him - as stuffy reactionaries opposing the man who heralds the renaissance of poetry. However poetry requires a certain amount of intellectual rigour and crafting; I doubt that even Young himself would consider claiming his 'poetry' contains a modicum of either. (from my web pages). Although you must be very busy, Seymour and I would be very happy to see opposition to 'the bimbo of poetry' championed by the great JR crew. Failing that, a few words would be very much appreciated as an indication to the crazed supporters of this fraud that the poetry world isn't going to lie down and let MLY urinate all over it. The saddest thing is that some elements of the press seem to think MLY represents the future of English poetry and are pushing him as 'the modern Byron'. Thanks - regards to the great floating bastion of literature and all who sail with her... Adam.Jones@durham.ac.uk http://www.dur.ac.uk/~d61m4w/ From: Greg and Jan Millsaps Elliot, I thoroughly enjoyed your massive website. I am a North Carolinian and can appreciate your love for our Outer Banks and Blue Ridge mountains. I am an avid backpacker and surfer so I enjoy these extremes as well! This site is definitely a wake up call to an apathetic and snoozing generation. I think the neo-conservative/classical liberal/libertarian type views are gaining a hold on the hearts and imaginations of our generation (I consider myself part of the so-called "Gen X" even though I just turned 30). I found the articles in "Hatteras" intriguing. Do you have a creative writing type of journal? If so I would love to submit some poems and/or short stories for consideration. Thanks again for the hard work you folks have put into this site... I know this level of eloquent insight doesn't come cheaply! Please email me back when you get time. - Greg Date: Fri, 24 Oct 1997 12:06:32 -0500 Avast,maties and yo ho ho! This is the infamous Bloody eye billy. This the best ship Ive seen from Canary to James town. What inspired the pirate theme and do you have a a musical like the Pirates of Penzance? If you do E-mail the lyrics to me at VPHSL@7. Ahoy, throw the liberals to the sharks and sail on the seven cyberseas! My favorite book is Le Miserables but only after treasure island! Shiver me timbers, Its a mutiny Ive got to skin a few wharf rats! From: SARAH SCHAEFFER Ahoy!. Thank you for the letter. It was awesome. I cannot tell you how relieved I am at yer words! In an effort to love me fellow man I was becoming liberal minded. I was gettin' pulled down in mire of creature worship. Ah thank you man, you saved me from a fate worse than death. I think I accidentally sent your message back to you. I'm new at steering me rutter on the internet seas. Not since I've read George Macdonald, have I seen anything so thought provoking. I don't know what I'm going to do with ya you bonnie man. I was thinking that there is some one you'd like to meet. He 's a pastor over here in Seattle Washington (USA). He's 26 and endeavors to make the Book of all books relevant to our generation. I call us the orphaned generation. Left in front of the one eyed babysitter while our parents went to accumulate all the material possessions they rallied against in the 60's. Anyway his name is Mark Driscoll, and he teaches near the University District. He's real intelligent and has a knack with words. They also have a discussion philosophical group on campus. The web site is Marshillchurch@aol.com I think you'd really enjoy yerself. His friend Lief reminds me of the Red Avenger. He has a talk show to reach out to the orphaned generation. He gets down to the brass tacks too, cuts right to it. Anyway, thanks again for your frank reply to the Postmodern porno graphic 'slackers' who's 'words don't mean anything.' I would say one thing thou. It's real easy to get into the rut of railing against the jerks and forget to promote the good. I'm not worried though. You've got a good head on your shoulders and I thought all you needed is the merest whisper of a suggestion. I look forward to your next hail. If there's anything I can do for ya just whistle. Ayla the Jem piping off. From: Kristen This is amazing I never knew of your site till I stumbled upon it this day. I am amazed and can not think of a greater place to find out the Truth! I am definitely going to make sure my friends read this. I am a junior in high school and fear the plot of liberals against me when I go to enter college. I have already confronted extreme liberals in my current school, and I was given an undeserved lower grade because of it (but I got him back by telling the Truth in front of the class every time he said something stupid, I mean liberal. I would love to receive your newsletter or be notified if this site is updated. I am sorry, but I do not know my e-mail, but as soon as I know I will write again (we just rerouted our entire computer) Well, I'll be looking for more later and thank you for the wonderful site! Kirstin From: Nat Carswell I love this!! I have found my home on the world-wide web. My name is John Carswell, and I am an eighteen year old high school senior at an all-male Catholic high school in Louisville, KY. The cooling sting of the sea-breeze, the gentle roar of the Atlantic shore... the possibility of the high seas!!! This is madness!!! I have grown up with the ocean a part of my soul!! No man-made music is sweeter to me than the jollity of the Jamaican steel drum. All of these things I associate with literature, the poetry of Shakespeare, with my own endeavours into the world of beautiful, painful truth, which is the Word!!! I will be in contact with ye; rest assured of that! The Dread Pirate Carswell Date: Mon, 8 Dec 1997 23:49:57 -0500 Doolies (the lowest form of cadet life) at the U.S.Air Force Academy must memorize this cogent bit of philosophy written by one of England's foremost thinkers. It bears repeating in this good company: "War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feelings which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature, and has little chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself. " Sailor From: barbara macauley <bjcm1@ Thanks for your letter. I am a grandmother, who received WEBTV from my 15 -year-old grandson last July for my 70th birthday. I am having great fun with it, and found your website thereon. My husband and I retired here to Chapel Hill in l982 to be near our only son. Then he moved to Switzerland, London, New York, and lives in Connecticut at present. DON'T ever try to follow your children...as they might MOVE. Anyway, we are still here in Chapel Hill...and probably will stay here now. I don't have any interest in starting a literary cafe, although this town might be ripe for one. This is a very strange and diverse place.. as you know. We are among the few Republicans in these parts... and the liberal professors abound. But it is kind of fun to be different! Sincerely, Barbara (The Blonde) Macauley. From: Renee Gilbert <gilbre01@ Hello. I was browsing through your webpage while looking for things for my paper. It was good enough for me to bookmark it. I'm an English major at Indiana Univeristy. It is absolutely amazing how much red tape and hassles I have gone through while attending this stupid university. The thing that really burned me up was the fact that if one were to transfer between campuses of the SAME university, the credits won't even transfer!!! I was knocked a whole grade level because of it. Most of the profs are bland. The reason why they have the "My way of no way" mind frame is laziness. They don't want to take the time to even explore what anybody has to say. I have one more year and I'm burned out. I even feel regret for even attending university, but that stupid degree is needed. Enough of my whining. For aboard your ship, I find myself beyond it all. Renee From: Philip A. Brown Thank you for putting a kick-ass site on the web. It's great to find people I can actually discuss my studies with. This is what makes learning such a great experience. From: Kurt It is nice to see that literature is not dead. Finding anything of bookmarking Killdevilhill, I find it much easier. Thanks for helping keep books alive. From: The Boryan's <maach@ Dear becket, I just simply love your web page. There are a lot of fun things to do. I like that greeting card w\ the lighthouse and the sonnet. That was a brilliant idea. I haven't had time to explore your entire site, but I have bookmarked it and plan to return many times. I appreciate the work you must put in to send people (including myself) the sonnet of the day. That was also a neat idea. I can appreciate your site even more, because I have been to every one of those lighthouses you mentioned and have pictured, and have stayed on the Outer Banks many times. We usually stay in Duck. Well have fun keeping your site up. Yea drop me a line if you get time at aboryan@hotmail.com Date: Wed, 27 Aug 97 20:22:56 UT Red Avenger: Have just had time to finally read your welcome aboard letter. Loved it - even though I am not generation x (I'm 55) and have far too many degrees (PHD, 2 MAs, 3 BAs) and am a retired USN Captain who is really Captain of a "real" pirate ship (101 year old, 121' barquentine called "Barba Negra - The Spirit of Savvannah") Unfortunately I am neither a poet nor a particularly good writer - but I do appreciate your work. (And I do like Beavis and Butthead and Rush, too.) Whilst I will probably contribute nothing to the work of the ship - I would very much like to be able to use what is produced to open the minds of the various crew members I have in real life. We use "Barba Negra" as a training ship to help teach 11-18 years olds how to actually be people (contrary to popular perception - it takes real work to accomplish this task). Some of our kids are "normal" - others are "at risk" (whatever that means). All are kids who need to learn values and character stuff like trustworthiness and self reliance and teamwork, etc. (all things no longer taught much anyplace else for the reasons elucidated in your welcome aboard letter. So... if you don't mind, our little pirate ship will sail along abeam or astern your frigate (by the way - no self respecting pirate would ever have a frigate - too slow and cumbersome - a Corvette or Brigantine or Barquentine or some such would be far more adept at harassing the enemy and scoring victories, etc.) (And - they are far cheaper to operate - a frigate is almost the epitome of establishmentarianism - expensive, bulky, etc., etc.) Keep up the good work - I'll visit when I can & hope to hear from you as you can. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: ARGRGRHRGR! 'Tis always great to have a genuine Navy Captain aboard the Good Ship-- there're a couple others. We have considered trading our frigate in for a swifter, more dextrous craft, but half the time we're running over the enemy's frigates with our Oak keel of reason, so we figured we might as well keep her. Date: Mon, 11 Aug 1997 11:54:56 +0000 Hi-- Okay, I don't know who you guys are, I've only breezed through most of the pages in this web site in, like, the past five minutes (so, did that letter to Rolling Stone actually get published?) but I just have to tell you something!! I just read the first bit of the excerpt you have from the Drake Raft Field trip thing, and it's actually really good!! Let me explain how exciting this is to me--I NEVER think anything is good that was written after, say, 1950 or so. I am sick and I mean SICK of gratuitous, insincere, disgusting references to whatever bodily fluids will get people published. Like, the swishy butt in "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues," and basically every story Walter Kirn ever wrote, and for God's sake, I just read something by modern "acclaimed" author Jessica Treadway that talks about breast milk! NONE of this was actually an integral part of any, like, PLOT, either. But this story you guys have posted, it's pretty sincere, and you've got the language of our generation down pretty accurately, and it was a lovely experience for me, to read it. I've always had this fantasy that there would be modern books that match the quality of all the classics I love to read--is that what you guys are about? Please don't put me on a mailing list or anything; I don't have any money to buy anything, I am just some grad school spit-out trying to squeak by & find a permanent job but maybe one day, after I figure out how to get my own novels published you guys can say hey! We knew her when! She was going around looking for Fitzgerald in a hay stack-- but meanwhile, I just wanted to say, good job, and I really mean that, And I haven't seen anything quite so brilliant in anything I've read that was written so recently. Sincerely, THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Welcome aboard the renaissance generation. From: kcmasong@ To: drake@jollyroger.com Subject: Greetings to the Captain Ahoy! Captain Drake! Twice I've received emails from your Frigate and its about time to express my gratitude (or at least hear something from one of your sailors). I just want you to know that I appreciate reading your essays, but most especially your poems ("The Most Perfect Silence," and "cvii," that is). The potentials of the WWW had indeed been expoited to the full by your cause. These times, there is a need for a bulwark of conservatism to stand guard against external forces set out to mar the Truth which we all, philosophers, literati, and the general wise men, safeguard and vindicate. Continue in the cause conscious that there's someone following the way. Set the sails and off we go! Kenneth "Four Eyes" Masong THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: In this community of eternal souls, there are as many behind us as there are infront of us. From: "B. Lewis Noles" Drake, I just wanted to say that I am quite impressed with the www.jollyroger.com website. It has been awhile since I last visited the site, and I can see it is much improved. I first ran across your site soon after started developing my web page devoted to the "great books." You folks are definitely hoisting a big canon. It looks like your giving the "the ivyed halls of 'isms'" a run for their money. Keep up the good work, Lewis THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: At yer service matie. And may ye enjoy walking the halls of Western Canon University every bit as much. From: Jade hi! you guys have an great site, with some really awesome writing. I've rediscovered the great books and found great new stuff to read(before, i was beginning to think anything modern would be liberal and "politically correct"and have nothing worth reading). The Jolly Roger has been a constant inspiration to me as try to keep my head above the water here at princeton(the high school, not the university). may your ship always follow a true course and be blessed with favourable
winds, -Mona THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: And may you always be aboard our ship. From: DTBLVB@ Thank you for the welcome!! You have put a smile upon my face and a stirring in my heart. It has been in the past several years that I've begun delving into truely great literature. Frankly, I like exciting that part of my brain that has been dormant for so long!! Thank you for being radical in a traditional sort of way. Blessings. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: They keep on trying to turn back the clock to the sixties and seventies, whereas I envsion a future of tradition. Avast! The Crew Reports For Duty Date: Sat, 19 Dec 1998 11:37:52 EST Gentlemen: I have spent the last 2 weeks (my private time allowing) reading your "literature" posted on your WWW site. Fair-to-middling applies to some of the long verse. Albeit, the recurring themes carry it to the end. Becket's stuff has the most impact when it comes to the descant and treatise. Raft's narratives are fine and close to perfect. All in all, the writing is passionate. Gutsy reach, my fellows. Gutsy reach. As for the rambling, banner-waving and antheming, well, such are leapings of the flames of a young man's ideology. Strive to do it with eloquence. In the end I realize you guys are a triumvirate of ditto-heads. That's fine and good. As are most of Limbaugh's points of light. Any great thinker would agree. Nothing refreshing, however, does the puddingy fellow seem to come up with that hasn't been said before by my own Dad. I already know what the problems are. Tell me HOW to make it better. Duh. As for the feminism horrors -- well, like you guys said, it's hard to find too many women who even consider themselves a feminist these days. For the most part, women need a lord and master onto whose raiment to cling. Someone to shepherd them through this life and tell them when to fetch their tea. And that goes back to my mother-in-law's line "if you act as a pancake, you shall be eaten as one." The Captain Responds: Ahoy there mate! Thanks for the kind words! From:
Joseph_A_Starbuck/DET_C/MAG-42/FOURTH_MAW@marforres.usmc.mil You are a genius. Amidst the hail of incoming rounds from all directions, you have found a safe foxhole whereby thoughts can be directed to the internal, and then transmitted in SOS to God's Kingdom. It's obvious you made the connection; it shows in your work. Don't know how you did it, or how you found the time to do it, but you accomplished it still. I'm Starbuck, and ironically my name is, too - your website piqued my curiosity. My father and brother suffered fates similar to Starbuck, albeit in the hands of today's world. In search of the meaning behind all this, I found God, His Son, my identity and purpose. I found him at home! Indeed, "home is where the heart is!" Now that this has been gently placed in your hands, you may ponder over it until you too discover its glorious miracle, by today's definition. You are in my prayers. Your pain runs deep, but the oak have grown is glorious and beautiful! You are blessed! Joe THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy there matey! Yer in our prayers too! Avast! Date: Mon, 1 Feb 1999 16:56:09 -0500 (EST) ...who has always seen the white whale. Keep the magic going, or we're all goin' nowhere fast. The revolution of ideas has never really died, it has simply been "pinin' for the fjords". Best, Gin. To: becket@jollyroger.com Ahoy dear friends, Oh, how tired we grow of the one dimensional soulless mediocrity that is peddled by the mainstream media. I hope the crew inspires the the bright ones of our generation to seek vengeance on the liberal establishment (but not with the weapons of this world) nay, but with those of the written word and the spirit. Peace be with you! To: drake@jollyroger.com I really really hope you can respond to this. I don't want to sound... sketched, but I think I'm swimming in dark waters. I read your letter to Rolling Stone, and it could not have come at a more perfect time. You leave me feeling inarticulate and uncertain and I love you for that. Just when I was beginning to think that Samuel Beckett's "Endgame" was the only literary index to reality, when I was ready to swallow another overgenerous helping of mediocrity by surfing the web looking for Derridian anti-pages, I happen on your ship. I just felt my heart swell, you know? I thought I'd never feel that for a written word again, thought I'd never see my human side as anything other than an absurd distortion of a scavenger's instinct, seeking emotional gratification to feed the void inside of me. You've reminded me of my quest and even hinted that I might find... can it be?? friends of like mind! BLESS YOU! BUT WHAT THE HELL DO I DO NOW??? I apologize for sounding desperate, but I am terrified, alone, OUT TO SEA BUT HOMEWARD BOUND THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy then mate! We'll see ye back in port! Avast! From: becket@jollyroger.com Way to go, Maties! It's about time some present-day young folk busted out and became somebody. You may never FATHOM the depth of my disgust for the X-Generation slacker-bunch who coucheds at endless, commercial-riddled MTV with their "hot-pockets" from Mom's microwave. You may never fully comprehend my sickness with the whole, pointless push of them. Why are they here? What have they ever felt? If they do feel, how would we know? -- they never write about it. And surely they don't seem to read. Shelley is turning over in his Mediterranean grave. MTV. That's the norm. Oh yeah, and commercials. Ugh! Keelhaul 'em. Make them kiss the gunner's daughter. Aye?! Or better yet, toss them overboard as feed for the tigers... the long ones. Arrrrgggggghh. Now there ye be. Date: Mon, 7 Dec 1998 21:12:49 -0500 (EST) I enjoyed reading your work. You write with great strength and will. I would love to read more of them. Angel THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: And we'd love to write more! From: Diana Prewett <------------@hotmail.com> Hey handsome! Thank you very much for allowing me to use your poetry in my classroom. I know my students will enjoy it. They complain that most poetry is boring, and they don't understand why they have to read it. I feel that if they have the opportunity to read current poetry in modern English, it will help further their education. Please let me know if you have a book of poetry out, I would LOVE to buy a few copies-- I searched Amazon, but I couldn't find anything. I am writing from Clovis, California. I haven't been teaching long, just since August 1998. I know this is a lot to ask, but could you please give me an autobiography of yourself? I would like my students to get a sense of who you are as a person. I don't want to just introduce you as "some guy who posts his stuff on the Net." Thanks! Diana THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhrghr Lassie! Yer coming close to the mystery of The Jolly Roger there, mate, and there are some things I have promised never to tell! But I am much flattered by yer choice of my poetry, and I shall strive to serve yer students as best I can. I haven't had any time to publish my poetry, as I've been too busy writing it and posting it on the net. Avast! From: Bronwen <-------@fas.harvard.edu> thank you for sending me your "Poetry for a Pristine Girl." i'm a girl, actually; i joined the Jollyroger because you guys stand for things i believe in. i'm a freshman at Harvard, and coincidentally i am in the process of writing a newspaper article about very much the same issues your poem deals with. i've been sort of stuck -- having trouble putting to words what i feel. your poem couldn't have come at a better time. it's inspired me. so many young women today are missing out on beautiful things -- things that are rightfully theirs by virtue of their femininity and their humanity. lately i've been looking around at my peers -- aggressive, career-hungry girls to whom sexual modesty isn't given a first thought let alone a second -- and i've begun to wonder what it is they're searching for. most of them won't find true happiness in the waters they've chosen to navigate. so many of them don't know -- because nobody's there to tell them -- that their femininity offers them some of the supremest joys God has given our species. motherhood, caring for your children, loving a husband the way he was meant to be loved are not forms of slavery as so many women believe. they are wonderful, noble, beautiful things. i'm too young to know this first-hand, but my instincts tell me this, and i've also watched my mother stay at home to raise four kids even when it would've have been better money-wise had there been fewer of us or had she worked. God has specific plans for our sex, and in an incredibly brazen and ungrateful fashion we've taken those plans, torn them up, and thrown them back at Him. like i said, i'm at Harvard right now. i've got some of my own plans to be a journalist, to make some sort of name for myself, but i also dream of a day when i'll get married and have kids. hopefully i will have it in me, if i ever have to choose, not to let my career plans interfere with that dream. anyway, thanks again for your poem. you guys are great. keep up the good work. --a happy passenger aboard yer ship THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy mate! 'Tis so true that no amount of money can ever replace the filial bond established between a mother and a child, and it is this bond which is society's fundamental lecture hall for teaching everything there is to know about honor, love, duty, respect, and fidelity. Is there any greater, more ennobling, and more profound occupation than motherhood? Date: Sun, 14 Feb 1999 22:00:40 -0500 What beautiful words, Mr. Becket. It's a good thing that one way love set you free, to set your sails on other, uncharted waters. But let me ask you this...better yet, let Mr. Frost ask it: "Sometimes I have my doubts of words altogether, and I ask myself what is the place of them. They are worse than nothing unless they do something; unless they amount to deeds, as in ultimatums or battle-cries. They must be flat and final like the show-down in poker, from which there is no appeal. My definition of poetry (if I were forced to give one) would be this: words that become deeds." Fair winds, Jerry THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy there mate, and thanks for the education! One of the greatest things about this ship is its crew's wondrous erudition! Ye'll find that we used yer quote in a passage at http://carolinanavy.com. Date: Sun, 14 Feb 1999 07:21:11 -0800 (PST) I stand and applaud not just on poetic talent alone, but poetic courage as well. The ability to touch and go on subjects that are often left leaving the reader with a wishy washy sense of dramatics is rare now a days. I often wonder what leads a writer to their subjects and how much is truth and what lays in fiction....but I felt soul bearing in the words and so I raise my glass. Kristin Date: Sun, 14 Feb 1999 14:24:28 PST i just wanted to tell you that i really appreciated the poem by "becket knottingham" on february 14. i've always felt the hands behind this whole thing were a believer's, now i know. in Jesus, laurie Date: Mon, 15 Feb 1999 15:01:07 -0500 I just happened to stumble upon this site while looking for literary criticisms of Kafka's The Metamorphosis, and I must say that I love it. I plan on being a literature professor after graduation. I always felt as if no other living soul felt the same way about literature that I did, but now I do not have to feel so odd. I have never seen a site like this before. It is amazing!! BEAUTIFUL POEM ... THANKS FOR SHARING IT WITH ME. Date: Fri, 19 Feb 1999 04:37:51 -0400 Becket, I was touched by your "Poetry for a Pristine Girl." I too, love God with all of my heart . . . . and have also hurt him very badly by allowing myself to be seduced by mortals from the "other" side. I know what it is to yearn for physical beauty, only to find an empty shell within. I am an architecture student, and oddly, I have found this phenomenon to be the case in the realm of building design as well. Many a liberal professor I've known, have, ironically, harped on the crisis of Postmodern buildings (one that is used often as an example: Michael Graves ANYTHING, but chiefly his Portland office building. Beautiful??(perhaps SEXY is more descriptive) facade, but nothing more than Dilbert cubicles within. These professors harp, and then generally tend to go back and contradict themselves in practice (or lack of practice). You sailors ARE definately on to something. Oh, and Becket, would you ever consider a BROWN-eyed girl? No pools of blue to be drowning in here . . . . just an Honest-To-Gosh romantic, North Carolina Smoky Mountain girl, who is trying to become a better human being. (and I'm also doing a little facade renovation on the side!) Love and a pirate's Arghrgh, Angie Date: Fri, 19 Feb 1999 23:06:27 EST This is FANTASTIC!!! I want to read more of it but I am trying to finish up my graduate degree right now! As a strong advocate of "real" literature let me applaud what you've done here. Your site is a wonderful service to literature and the web community. I have a strong undergraduate background in the liberal arts, and I miss having someone to discuss all of the great literature and philosophical works that I once adored with on a daily basis. Now - maybe I have found a place where I won't feel strange about spouting Emerson or Thoreau. Thank you so much! You've helped me to rediscover why I love learning. Date: Wed, 03 Mar 1999 13:27:09 -0500 AMAZING!! Whilst sailing the Web Sea, in search of truth and justice, I happened upon this post of ryhmme and reason. A the smile of my face grew, I found a new home! The joy in my heart to find a treasure of intelligent prose and conservative statutes, oh I can hardly bare it. Praise be to God, the maker of noses, for shared beliefs and open minds! I have marked my sea charts, with a mark of righteousness, to guide my ship back to this most pleasant port. Well done and well said!!! Mike Gole aka, Richard James, Soldier of God Date: Sun, 7 Mar 1999 01:25:41 EST GASP!! Ah, yes, I can hear it from here--all the way in Michigan. A liberal English Lit/Journalism degree-holder (emphasis on Shakespearean studies) is writing a letter to the conservative revolutionaries of starbuckclassicalpoetry.com. What is the world coming to, dear Beckett? I have actually been searching for your site for a long time. I am quite happy that I have found it. It is amazingly well-done. What a relief to find a site that is devoted to the Great Works. Our obvious political differences aside, my compliments do not sway. I have been searching for a site where I can peruse others' thoughts regarding Literature--most notably, Shakespeare and Twain, my personal favorites. I have found it with your site. Keep up the good work-- Date: Mon, 15 Mar 1999 16:25:11 +0200 Dear Becket, To whoever wrote on what they learnt at Toni Morrison's fiction class - Thank you, thank you, thank you - you exactly echoed my description of some academics - simple wankers. Laziness, self-indulgence & smugness to the Nth degree. I'm writing from Cape Town; am doing English Honours at the University of Cape Town and am seriously considering dropping it - hence my joy at seeing other sickened reactions to various classes. Kate THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy there mate! Don't let school get in the way of yer education! From: Jack Cuzzi <----------@yahoo.com> Becket, I just read "Poetry for a Pristine Girl". I can't believe it. You've articulated that which I've felt & experienced for many years. Phrase upon phrase found me shaking my head in disbelief (rather, welcomed belief!) - that there was another who thought,felt,struggled in similar ways. Thank you. I stumbled upon the Jolly Roger while working on my Master's thesis/project in Educ Tech (Writing in Webbed Environments).Along with hearing & meeting Ray Bradbury, and reading C.S. Lewis' Abolition of Man alongside That Hideous Strength, I found some antidotes to the Post-Modern poisons forced down my throat. Thanks for the fresh air, courage, reclamations of romance, faith, feminity, truth, language, literature, and Life. I am indeed, thank - full. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Thanks for the kind words, mate! Me poems would all be for naught if I didn't have profound souls to share them with.
Dear Becket - Have enjoyed your poem (`Poetry for a Pristine Girl') immensely and would like nothing better than to publish it in our online magazine, Creekwalker. We've posted `The Two Nantuckets' by Drake while our `Drake Raft's Great Adventure' by Taylor Stinson is on your Hatteras site. As Drake once wrote, The Jolly Roger and Tawnybark are sailing a parallel course on opposite shores. We continue to find your site a veritable magnetic north for sensible literature, ethical thought and social commentary in these turbulent times. Creekwalker Magazine can be found at: http://www.tawnybark.com/creekwalker/index.html THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Agrhrgrhgrh! Everyone voyage on over to Creekwalker Magazine! Captain's Orders! Avast! To: drake@jollyroger.com drake-- i am overwhelmed by your writing!!! i have just discovered Nantuckets.com, and just finished reading (for the tenth time) your "Two Nantuckets". you express my feelings exactly--even though my summer visits to the island have been few and far between the past ten years. I, too, have been having an intense love affair with the Lady--she has woven a spell around me that nothing can penetrate. i have known Her for all of my 36 years, but have never had the opportunity to spend more than summers, and an occasional few weeks in the winter (my favorite time). i echo yr. sentiments and feel fortunate to have happened upon a "kindred spirit". the visceral feelings i have for Her, transcend the superficial layers that clog Her surface. The germ of wheat lies buried deeply and safely protected. i long to dig deep into Her body and become one with that feeling again. i am planning a winter visit--i must leave this hell hole called nyc. perhaps, then, i will be able to walk with Her, shrouded in fog that holds the key to all of our musings.....blessed be kezia THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhrgrh! Wish we were all on Nantucket now! Perhaps ye would meet me for a some grog and a few tall seafaring tales-- as tall as the good ship Jolly Roger herself-- at the Brotherhood of Thieves. From: Susann Pearson Of all the stuff I've read, I love your little stories. They are local colour at it's best. Very good. You lean naturally toward the narrative. You find your comfort there. Interesting where writers find their literary home. Yours is in the telling of a story. The narrative, my boy. I like the Portrait of Windy "thingy." It was most refreshing and lets your linen fly in the breeze. We got to see it for the unravished thing it was too. What a breath of fresh air. Write on. S. From: Susann Pearson Very well, shipmate. Like Windy in my ability to bewitch the brother company perhaps... But I take no pride in it. Nor entertain feminine frivolity. Nor make a casual affair out of any engagement. I was a captain of my galleon long before puberty put your knickers in a twist. And I sailed this wickid main long before you tenderfeet put to sea. Had my sealegs before you guys weaned yourselves off of Dramamine. Ahoy, indeed. I was salty when you chaps were still in grade school. My writing practice has known no respite. I have been at it since I was thirteen and my prow is keen. She sails like the devil and fetches anything she looks at, gentlemen. This I can tell ye with a gusto. Am thoroughy impressed with what you et al have done on the Net. A bracing BRAVO from Washington DC. The figurative brigantine is all the rage. Let it beckon the slacker punks to the written page. Let it make of them readers of great literature. And you and I can keep writing it in the mean time... Write on. and Fair winds and following seas, S. From: "C. Lyle" I can't believe that I sat here and read this whole thing (The Drake Raft Field Trip). It's almost 3:00 am and I don't usually read this much this late. I would normally copy it and read it later, but I just couldn't stop reading. I know I will be thinking about this for days to come. The story comes at you from all angles, and has an incredible mixture of ideas. I love where you seem to be going with this. I can't wait to read the rest of the story. and it had that fresh smell
to it-- you know, that one fresh springy smell that doesn't really smell like
anything except for itself. You know the kind I mean, and if you don't,
you're missing out , so first chance you have, go out sometime right after an
afternoon June thunderstorm, and breathe deeply, and then you'll know what I
mean. Yes, I know what you mean. It revives your soul and makes you want to live forever. Crissala From: Denise Wagner Becket: Highlander sends her most hearty Christmas greetings to you and all your crew. May this Christmas find you home and happy with the ones that you love most. May the winds blow and may there be sunny skies, and may always find your port in the storm. During this semester I have read your poems and Drake's and was moved to tears by what I read. Thank God someone in this world has the courage to write what both of you do, and I would sometime in the future hope to read some of Eliot's poems. May God bless all of you, and have a happy and safe Christmas and New Year Holiday season. Until I hear from you again, May the Good Lord bless of all of ye. As for me I will be finishing up my finals on December 17, 1998, so you won't be hearing from me for awhile. But that doesn't mean I won't be thinking about you. Now as for me I have some gift wrapping to do, and my best tartan to press off. I hope you hear my bagpipes playing.... Love to all, HIGHLANDER Date: Tue, 29 Jun 1999 15:30:04 EDT Becket, Thank you for what has been the best reading I've had this summer. Thank you. As a mother trying to raise a daughter in this society, and trying to tell her that she doesn't have to do drugs, she doesn't have to have sex, she doesn't need an abortion to fit in with the "in" crowd...this page gave me the spiritual lift I needed. Thank you, because there are times I'm the only one still telling a daughter that it's just fine to be a mother... Lynda J. Cox Date: Sat, 19 Jun 1999 23:35:24 -0700 Dear Becket, How do I put this? Your writings put a smile to my face. Not the generic smile used for the many picture taken of me, but the slow creeping ray of light across my face when I come across something truly wonderful. This crew and site serves I think the greatest function of the WWW: show some of us that *we are not that weird.* I am not that weird for wrinkling a disgusted brow at MTV and what passes for culture among my peers. I am not a misfit for preferring the classics to the latest issue of Seventeen. And for this I thank you all. I am headed to a small Christian university in an honors program that proudly offers the Western Canon. From there I will continue to wander your fine site. :) Again, thanks for the reassurance that there is some group out there who is sane. Claire Date: Sun, 20 Jun 1999 10:03:57 -0700 (PDT) This poem made me want to go home.....you are learning the southern woman well...well done. Young woman, southerner, and Christian Date: Sat, 19 Jun 1999 12:02:20 PDT Dear Becket, great poem you wrote! I always enjoy your insightful and delightfully human perspective. What a talent do you plan on writing any books or getting it published? I'd definitely buy it. A Fellow Poet, Zach From: CAPTAIN R Dear Becket, I just read The starbuckclassicalpoetry.com Classical Poetry Port page, and the photo of "Misty" brought tears and a pain to my heart. It's not sexism that makes me say that the world of the Pequod is not for women, at least not for women like Misty. God does not think it wrong for men to leave women in the port with hearthfires burning and a light in the window. Don't expect nor ask them to ship aboard the whaler. He created them different, no matter what the feminists say. (1 Pet 3:7) Husbands, likewise, dwell with them with understanding, giving honor to the wife, as to the weaker vessel, and as being heirs together of the grace of life, that your prayers may not be hindered. CAPTAIN R P.S. Where do I find a copy of "Wrath of the Jolly Roger"? From: CAPTAIN R Dear Becket, The women who take offense when you open a door for them will be incensed by your poem. The other 90% will sense the romance (perhaps very latent) with which God designed them. Just a few comments from me elicited by a couple lines in your poem: Without faith, we ARE dead -- spiritually dead. But, until we are redeemed, we are never better off physically dead. There are only two places for us after we leave this realm according to Jesus: Heaven and hell. The billboard which says, "You think it's hot here?" could have said, "You think you've got it bad here and now?" Jesus said that hell is so bad that you DO NOT WANT TO GO THERE! It would be better to enter Heaven mutilated than to enter hell whole. If plucking out your eye, or cutting off your foot or hand, would keep you from the sin which leads to death (spiritual death, the second death, the lake of fire), then that would be better than keeping all your parts and going to hell. (Matt 5:29-30; 18:8-9; Mark 9:43-48) Jesus tried many times in many different ways to tell His listeners about the terrible consequence of unredeemed sin. Which is why, when one of my aunts defended Dr. Jack Kevorkian as being a humanitarian who relieved human suffering in a way that we offer unquestioningly to our pets, I pointed out to my aunt that she was assuming that the people so killed were being sent to a condition better than the one in which they find themselves. If you believe Jesus at John 3:3 and 3:5 (and I do), then Kevorkian only would be doing a favor to born-again people. Many people sometimes WISH that they were (physically) dead. For Christians who know where they are going, one might ask, "Who wouldn't rather be in Heaven than suffering here?" But, for unsaved people to wish themselves dead is the epitome of ignorance, foolishness, and deception. The guy who blows his brains out is saying, "Jesus, I don't believe You." Eternity is a very long time to regret that remark. My other comment has to do with postmodern liberalism knowing your sword. In the full armor of God (Ephesians 6:11-17), the only offensive weapon is the sword. The sword is the Word of God. Jesus is the Word (beginning of the Book of John). And in the Book of Revelation, the Son of Man has a two-edged sword coming out of his mouth (Rev. 1:16), and He tells the church at Pergamos to repent or He will come fight them with the sword of His mouth (Rev. 2:16); and, when the armies of saints finally ride forth from Heaven (Rev. 19:13-21), the rider on the white horse is called the "Word of God", and He strikes the nations of the earth "with the sword that proceeds from His mouth." (Heb 4:12): "For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart." Don't doubt for an instant the power of that sword. CAPTAIN R Date: Thu, 20 May 1999 20:08:45 -0500 What a surprise to find rebellious literary folk! I am delighted to know there are people your age who beligerently love the classics. That they can teach us morals I couldn't agree with more. Heaven knows the campuses could use some! From: Gregory Pischea I just signed on board and wish I had more time to read and hear everything on "OUR" web site. I will return from shore leave soon and will catch up on my required reading. Short bio... Im a retired United States Marine Corps flight officer who also spent time in a upper class classroom teaching high school American History. Currently, I'm working on two book, with the first almost ready for my publisher. The second is in outline form and involves a prison ship bound for Australia in the early 1800's. I'm a big fan of Lord Nelson, Hornblower and anything about the day long gone at sea. I have over 2 thousand books in my library... Thanks for having me on board... From: christina kearneky Hello Becket, I haven't received any mail from you lately so I figured you have been busy creating new stuff for your site or I have been removed from the mailing list. Of course I hope this is not the case. By the way, I wanted to brag about my successful semester; so nice that one of my papers for composition is being submitted to a journal (wish me luck)! You and your friends left a mighty impression on me and all the others who frequent your site--keep impressing us and stay in touch. Love and God Bless Christina From: Glenn Wilson < > You guys should have sent you byline to Chris Matthews of CNBC's Hardball instead of Rolling Stone. Chris, in his most animated self is bewildered by the new trench coat mafia syndrome, stating "when I went to school I listened to music and read stuff and the jocks were the alpha wolves but I didn't go out and kill anyone." One look at Grungservatives and their discordant philosophy would drive him mad. It's the image-young fogies, where he's attempting to be a hip old dude. Let me sing the song a little longer...Take an American Indian in full battle regalia-US jungle camoflauge pants, ammo clips for his mac-10 on his belt loops, a full breast plate made of dear bones, and full war paint while he's helping a little old white lady cross the road. Terrorist or the original Boy Scout? Grung and Golf clubs, Grung and philosophy, Grung and brains...you've got the establishment bewildered? I love you stuff, and so for the all the bilge swine at the Jolly Roger a poem with an agenda. In her is the end of breeding. by Ezra Pound your swab, Black Jack Shallac From: Chris Clemence Becket, With your permission, I'd like to post your poem, entitled POETRY FOR A PRISTINE GIRL, on my web site. I found it to be thoroughly enjoyable. You did a masterful job at expressing many of the thoughts and feelings I've had on the subject. Thank you for your consideration, and keep up the good work. Chris Clemence Please feel free to inspect my site. The URL is: http://www.geocities.com/CollegePark/Dorm/2388 ***THE CREW SPEAKS OUT*** From: "Chris R. Johns" Ahoy, Greetings from the bluegrass state where the closest thing we have to an ocean is the local LJS. There is a movement that is currently sweeping the history departments here at the University of Kentucky that I thought you should know about. To complete my university requirement, I took HIS 108 (US history through 1865). The biggest shock awaited me. As the class unfolded, my favorite president, Thomas Jefferson, was trashed. Forget the fact that he was an instrumental founding father who penned some of the greatest documents in history. Forget the fact he led the nation with a sound heart and mind. Forget the fact he doubled the nation's size. All the professor wanted to talk about was his affair with his slave and his hypocritical views on slavery. Aaaaarrrrgggghhh... He slipped into tirades where he dragged Jefferson through the mud and stated that all historians were starting to think along the same lines. Say it ain't so maties. Can they do this? Chris "Poop Deck Pappy" Johns THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Yeah, I guess they can do that, 'cause Jefferson and the Founding Fathers provided them with the freedom of speech, even though Jefferson & Friends certainly never advocated supporting embittered desecrators of our Western heritage with taxes. You can bet they're spinning in their graves. But too, the founding fathers knew that this would happen. And thus the founding fathers included within the United States Constitution amendments which guarentee us the freedoms that allow us to ridicule that which is ridiculous, laugh at that which is risible, and defend that which is sacred. Jefferson said that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, for he foresaw the corruption of his ideals. Jefferson perceived that God granted man freedom in granting him life, and this fundamental precept instilled within him the faith that in a free society a divine order would prevail, where the righteous and honest would ultimately triumph over all forms of ignorance, tyranny, or corruption. And so it is that in the United Sates we're free to read, respect, and honor Jefferson; we're free to enjoy his exalting words. We're free to allow his writings to meld with our souls and inspire us to become independent, moral thinkers, to follow that never-ending thought I call freedom. And we're free to talk about him and build a literary warship upon which we're free to revel in the richness of the American heritage. Thomas Jefferson once said that he could not live without books, and neither can a moral democracy. Check out the Thomas Jefferson and American Revolution Campfire Chats, which we here dedicate to ye, the fearless readers of The Jolly Roger, on this Independence Day, so that ye might enjoy yer intellectual freedom: http://killdevilhill.com/jeffersonchat/wwwboard.html http://killdevilhill.com/revolutionchat/wwwboard.html
From: Wda99@ Dear Becket, Being new to the WWW, I just found the jolllyroger. As a retired engineer, with no writing talent, I was inspired by your writing. You have great writing talent as well as a very logical mind, which an engineer can appreciate. Keep up the great writing. I will spread the word on the jollyroger in my small world. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy there! Beauty's in the beholder's eye. From: Tealeh@ Mr. Knottingham, Are the poems in the killdevilhill gallery yours? They are excellent-I want to know where I can purchase them. A fellow poet-warrior, jp THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Thank ye! Becket's poems are all free at the moment, and ye can view them at http://killdevilhill.com/gallery.html But ye can purchase Drake's sonnets at http://jollyroger.com/beaconway/poetryofdrake.html From: WRalph@ elliot- i am loving your book. every un-PC joke my brother and i ever made is in there - the far side lab guy, lesbegay magazine and feminist literature (clittorally speaking is perfect) and the chinese assistant who speaks no english etc etc. i love the kids' reactions to everything, like response of pretending to be homeless to increase sensitivity. i guess they're what older people call refreshing but it's just that they are what we all think and no one says. there is some author, and of course i can't remember who it is right now, whom i love just because he/she always knows exactly what is going on in people's heads. em forster maybe. i'll remember later. all the college stuff is totally true to life - the secret societies, the social life, the theater people, and i love the fact that drake got kicked out of class b/c his poems rhymed. every little nuance actually exists. the people are reminding me of friends of mine. it's great. i hope this jolly roger mission of yours succeeds. if i weren't here, i'd help. write back. weatherly THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Thank ye for the kind review matie! The Drake Raft Field Trip can be ordered at http://jollyroger.com/rogerlodge.html A1Books ( http://www.a1books.com ) is your Mega Discount Online Bookstore. With over 500,000 titles and the best prices around, A1Books is one of the'Net's fastest growing bookstores'. We pledge everyday to fulfill our motto to "make knowledge affordable" and strive hard to be better than the biggest and cheaper than the cheapest. Check out our great selection and rock bottom prices at http://www.a1books.com Students !!! Check out the best prices on the Textbooks for Fall 1997. From: MSLYNCH@ Ahoy mates! What an inspiring bit of prose you managed to put together for fathers day, God love ya! Where are all the sane people in the world? Someone let them know we've found a safe haven! Great job! Thanks, THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy there parents who're trying to introduce yer children to the Great Books. Check out TREASURE ISLAND at http://jollyroger.com/treasureisland.html From: John Flugel You guys kick major butt! I am a 15 year old book worm, who defitnely loves this Jolly Roger thing. I like to write, but no one understands my writings. It is an absolute shame that not even the evaluators of knowledge think of me as a simply GOOD writer, they put me in a class of absolute illiterates who do not know what a paragraph is. I am no Shakesphere nor am I close, but for one thing, I have what it takes to become a good writer, and that is dedication, and soul, I probrally cannot spell decently, but I know I am good, I have had my deep, spaced moments with the pen and paper, I know what it feels like to read a good story, or poem, or a simple lovely phrase. But no it is not about what I as an individual believe in, but what the ignorant bunch called the "public" believes in. One shall see I will revenge on those who doubt me, I will rise above the common, and join the philosephers (SP) of the era, where nobleism was worshipped, and self-love was but a thought only thought about by the dreamers the second before they met a good friend of us, who goes by the name of DEATH. I Love you and those around me John Flugel THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhrgrhr there! Keep on reading, writing, and thinking, keep an even keel, steer clear of drugs, MTV sirens, and other aspects of the postmodern fog, and watch yer port side! This generation shall author a literary renaissance, and we need ye to keep yer wit's pistols primed! From: Sprowl@ To the Jolly Roger & Crew; As a Gen X'r and a father of two small children, (and a student at a Midwestern university that has liberal tendencies), I must say that you are indeed a much needed breath of fresh air. I am fond of the Classics, and I find your email & web site an oasis in the midst of liberal desolation. I have experienced the contemporary required "writings" in some of my college classes, including the extreme feminists whom I am greatly puzzled by (I am amazed by the accusations that I, as a white, European-descendant, a product of Western-culture/civilization, and of course, as a man, could possibly be responsible for all those social injustices & ills...?) So, I am compelled to write that your Father's Day sonnet is indeed refreshing! I plan to encourage my two boys to read the great Classics that are so ostracized by the PC crowd. Great literature should flourish, and not be censored by the "thought police". Surely, if academia had their way, my children would never read CS Lewis, or even Twain. Such a thing is unimaginable. In closing, I implore you to keep up the good work. There are In closing, I implore you to keep up the good work. There are many of us out here who read and enjoy the Jolly Roger's good work. As a fellow conservative, Christian, and lover of good literature, I conclude by bidding you to keep the faith! David Sprowl THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy there Mr. Sprowl. Thank ye for the kind words. When yer kids start reading C.S. Lewis and Mark Twain, have them stop on by the C.S. Lewis Campfire Chat and Mark Twain Campfire Chats. No man nor mountain shall come between us and The Great Books. C.S. LEWIS CAMPFIRE CHAT http://killdevilhill.com/c.s.lewischat/wwwboard.html MARK TWAIN CAMPFIRE CHAT http://killdevilhill.com/marktwainchat/wwwboard.html From: Barret Dolph S. Barret Dolph THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhrgrh! The world, like the future, is ours! Keep up the good work! Check out the J.R. Tolkien, Jane Austen, and the Classics Campfire Chats: http://killdevilhill.com/tolkienchat/wwwboard.html
From: Herman Melville I spent several years in graduate school for literature and also grew heartily sick of Michel Foucault and multicultural fiction that stank and women who insisted I couldn't "understand" Virginia Woolf because of the genitals with which I was cursed. Any place where you can open a book and read a line like "There is no text," and nobody bats an eyelash, that's madness without a method to't. Sail on, brave pirates. Some day we will live in a world where a book will be judged not by the color of its author, but by the quality of its contents (apologies to MLK). THE CAPTAIN REPONDS: Argrhrghr! And so it is that we're seeking to unite people with a literature based on the Truth, rather than to divide them with a literature based on skin color and gender. And check out our Virginia Woolf Campfire Chat, where yer free to disucss her as an author, rather than as a feminist. http://www.killdevilhill.com/virginiawoolfchat/wwwboard.html *****KILLDEVILHILL.COM JOLLYROGER.COM******* THE CREW SPEAKS OUT From: stephanie stout Dear Elliot... Though you probably don't remember me as I'm sure you receive much mail every day from JR fans across the world, I wanted to drop you a line after reading the most current edition of JR. Fantastic work, and I marvel at your passion once again as I did the first time I read a JR issue. I do, however, have a small bone to pick. Although I'm sure when you are referring to feminists you are referring to far left liberals who wish to destroy men and traditional family values, I would like to argue that there are "feminists" who are right wing. There are some women who celebrate motherhood, hips, and a child's sloppy kiss. Women who treasure their family and would do anything to protect it. Women who love the feel of a child's hand in theirs. Women who adore a good friendship with others. Women who weep with those who can't get past the glass ceiling simply because they are a woman. Women who believe they have a voice and aren't afraid to share it. Women who beam with pride when their daughters get a lead role, become valedictorian, get their college degree, become leaders. Women who wait for the day their children will rise up and call them blessed. These women are the true feminists. These women are the one's who have tried to protect their families from the "other feminists." With Mother's Day around the corner, let us be reminded to applaud those women who have exemplified the true meaning of feminism. Those who have reared their children, made more PBJ sandwiches than they can count, picked up endless toys, worked hard in their jobs as mother or accountant or writer or astrophysicist--these women are heroes. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhrgrhgrh! Every day is mother's day aboard THE JOLLY ROGER! Great letter & well stated! I completely agree that women are awesome. I totally think that women should be provided with an equal opportunity, as should everyone, to pursue their passions. My mom's one of the most inspirational people I've ever known. She's a professor of Sociology, but she always valued raising her kids more than publishing in inconsequential vanity-journals, and I am forever indebted to her for staying home throughout those seventeen years while I took it all for granted. It's the fringe feminists I have a problem with, who detest romance, the Great Books, and the traditional family, because they were never able to create these things themselves. And because they can't have them, they don't want anyone else to either, as that is their selfish definition of equality. From: CheroKid@aol.com Thank ye kindly Capt . Proud to be part of yer crew. Sir there be be lots of mates here to join us if ye give the word, I will show them the light of your ship. The stomping ground I speak of is the college of lake co, in IL. So with your permission I will spread the word with my land lock, truth loving class mates of the great ship THE JOLLY ROGER. YO HO HO! DEATH TO THE BORING AND POLIITICALLY CORRECT WORDS OF T.V. LAND. LONG LIVE THE JOLLY ROGER THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Agrhrgrhrgh! Spread the word me merry matie! The ship is ours! Spread the word! From: Steve Brown I liked your poetry; it reminded me about my sailing days in the pacific. well cast off then i must be going now, ta ta! THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy there! Glad to hear from ye away down under! I've never windsurfed the Pacific, but I plan to someday soon! From: Gregg Bailey Avast! I have lately been thinking about the whole postmodern scene, and I have come to the conclusion that Nietzsche was right! Are there any doubts that this slavish love of equality is in essence a war against all greatness? At bottom, the slave's revolt in morality is characterized by resentment against all forms of excellence, a depraved sense of self-importance, and values of decadence. In summa, the post-modern herd moralists fit the Nietzschean critique to a "T." If ye would doubt that prophets exist, gain access to eternity and study yer Nietzsche. Methinks that some great men have proved themselves capable of peeking around the corners of centuries of human history, although I am sure that the post-modernists would think such an idea to be mad. The fact that the same people who are hysterical over Pat Buchanan appropriate Nietzsche and Heidegger as partners in the great cause of equal rights for all shows that they are intellectual and moral plebians. Imagine Stanley Fish hugging Martin Heidegger and you will see the comedy of the situation. Further, imagine Nietzsche dressed in drag as a proponent of radical political equality. It seems that the man who once said that greatness "requires semen in the blood" is now supposed to *really* mean that semen should be freely distributed as a public service. If ye would be interested in checking out me web site, be sure to visit http://lobster.connectup.com/~gregb I do some writing and art, and I am always interested in ways of sinking the postmodern ship. It smells of a certain decay, although I'm sure that those aboard prefer the smell of carrion to the sweet smell of spring. If ye would be interested in some writing from a Nietzschean perspective, I gladly offer my services. Yer mate, W.G. Bailey (Ishmael) THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: AGRRHRGR! I totally think Nietzsche perceived the dangers of a secular society, and thus he was a prophet of communism, fascism, radical feminism, socialism, postmodernism, and nihilism. But those who commandeer him so as to promote communism, fascism, radical feminism, socialism, postmodernism, and nihilism, shall be made to walk the plank! Agrhrgrhgrhr! Send yer work on in mate! From: steven walfred Aarrgh and heave to laddies. It does this old salt good to see such fine buccaneers as yerselves loosing furious grapeshot at the scurvy dogs who fain decree themselves lords o' the sea. Tis would be an honor to serve under ye flag and I would heartily share me booty in exchange for passage on yer fine ship. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! Welcome aboard, and keep yer mind loaded and primed with an unabridged copy of Moby Dick at all times! Ye never know when someone's sneaking up on ye on yer port side in this postmodern fog. Ahoy! If ye see the White Whale, drop the crew a line! From: North Star <> Dear Becket, I enjoyed reading your essay very much. The spirit of your mission is extremely exciting. I ran across the Jolly Roger and Starbuck a few days ago, and this mysterious, adventurous feeling has crept into me. Something about you and your partners' words have stirred my sleeping soul. I have become so caught up in my career and my graduate work that I forgot the youth that used to write poetry, that used to shout out a battle cry for change. Last night, for the first time in eons, I set myself to the task of writing my girlfriend a poem. I felt so invigorated! I worked on it until three in the morning, and at the last line, I knew that this was the most worth-while creation that I had made in years. Thanks for letting me aboard. Your mate, THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhrghr there! Many times have I stayed up late, plundering infinite treasures by the tip of me pen. 'Tis the greatest of feelings, when noble inspiration fills yer sails, and ye find copious booty in all corners of yer mind. 'Tis something the postmodernist perpetually envies. From: Sherry Vowel Dear Mr. Knottingham, I don't quite know how I came across your site (might be because I'm re-reading Moby Dick), but I'm glad I did. You write beautifully. It's unfortunate that many of your instructors seem interested only in money, politics, or towing the politically correct line; however, their disinterest seems to have started you on a noble quest--to gather together the orphans left floating on their coffin-life buoys and to give them a safe port to sail in to and out of again, knowing they will always be welcomed back. Continue thy noble quest and take heart; not all instructors are egoists (unfortunately, some have I met), nor are all thirtyish persons materialistic moneygrubbers (these, too, have I known). Good sailin' to ye, Sherry Vowel (33-year-old English prof, who teaches because she loves to hear her students think out loud) THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: ARGRHRGR! Were I one of yer students! From: Gharris Ok, I found this site looking for info on a report after reading Pride and Prejudice in an AP English class. I'm a Senior in a small Middle west high school. I've been a frequent visitor since I first found you guys. Have read P&P, The Sun Also Rises, Red Badge Of Courage, The Great Gatsby, and now The Scarlet Letter for my AP class. Bought a bunch of classics from a used book store (Lord Jim, Poetry and prose by John Milton, Farewell to Arms, Heart of Darkness) to read this summer. Going to St. Thomas University in St Paul next year. How do you guy's write such great stuff? I've used 2 ink tanks for printouts and have about 20 bookmarks to various places on your site in my browser. I'd love to learn to write poetry like that but not sure how or where to start. "Ubi abundavit peccatum superabundavit gratia!" THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy there! If ye'd like to learn to write poetry, fall in love, read Shakespeare, Melville, and Milton, and then let yer spirit express yer sentiments until ye've won her heart. It's how I learned back in Ohio, one glorious September. From: Pam S. Thanks for putting such a cool site on the internet. I just came upon this site in my travels, and haven't had time to thoroughly enjoy, but have bookmarked it and plan to come back very often. As a freshman in high school, I agree with some of the other postings that we are told to slack off because it doesn't really matter. Thank you for turning my brain back on again, and making me realize what the world has to offer. - Kirsten THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Agrhrh! The wind's rising for this generation, I say. The deeper ones have yet to speak for themselves, and we shall be captaining the millenium's renaissance, or something! From: LUDWIG L I was searching the net for information on the 101 Airborne division during WWII and somehow ended up at your web site --I'm so glad I did! What a wonderful place to visit and I will visiting again! I feel like I've found a diamond mine --Great stuff! Date: Sat, 21 Aug 1999 18:43:36 +1000 Ahoy maties!, I'm just writting to send a message to ye'all that your site is truely magnificant. I'm a newcomer me'self, an aussie chick with a love of literature. Your newest shipmate, casio132. Date: Fri, 20 Aug 1999 22:29:59 EDT Avast! I've found me ship at last! Is there yet romance, chivary, men willing to write rhyming poetry to win a wench? (As I did, so long ago) still longing for that magic when words stir more than intellect? I'm astounded, but... Why not! Regards, RB red Date: Wed, 18 Aug 1999 12:06:20 -0500 Dear Mr. Knottingham: I found the Jolly Roger site by accident, looking for likely sites for my students to explore (I teach early American history, never one of the "hot sellers" in academics), and read through your essay. As a Unitarian-leftist- skeptic academic who has (oddly enough) never had any trouble connecting the greats of the past with the present day, I can only say "good for you"--the renaissance will come in time, the jeep and (maybe) the girl hopefully a little sooner. With best wishes, David Department of Social Sciences and Philosophy From: "Kattelus, Kristi A" Jollyroger. Cap'n: Just HAD to say how MUCH I love the 222 PEARLS! I am an education student, ready to waylay the minds of the young in the stagnent waters of secondary academics, and I know the sound logics of the PEARLS will follow me for many years, as they are embedded in the unknowing young "clams" to grow further. May God bless you with many more fruitful years. Adventuring Pirate, Kkatt From: Jonas Made Dear Drake & co, Thanks for the those 222 sardonic pearls! One of the crew mentioned something about meeting up in the summer - I'm still interested, if you're planning on being in England. I have now set up a web page - with a link to JR, of course. It also has some of my poetry on, although nothing that I was thinking of including in a (possibly) forthcoming anthology with my good friend Mr. Seymour Jacklin (who I belive is also on your mailing list). Will let you know if that works out, as we would both value the opinion of such an esteemed body as the Good Ship. URL: http://www.dur.ac.uk/~d61m4w/lit.htm ... that's the bit of most significance, but it also doubles up as my homepage, so there's other stuff on as well. I hope it doesn't evoke the liberal - it's perhaps 'unconventional', but I don't think it offends the JR constitution. It is my 'old' poetry after all. I think I've moved on since then. - many of my favourite authors have abused opiates; e.g. De Quincey, Burroughs et al. That is not, however, why they are my favourite authors. Perhaps these authors violate the JR constituition, but I think that it IS possible to discuss subjects such as drug abuse and crime and still be within the constitution. There's a major difference between how one lives life and subject matter. Also, I would pay more attention to a man who had lived a good life warning me away from the negative than vice-versa. I would be interested to hear your opinion on this; that's how I've interpreted the JR constitution. It's your baby, after all. Keep sailing. Thanks for your support of "the art". Adam.
From: abdulbar@*****.com Dear Sirs, Do wish you would quit hacking on ol' Fritz Nietzsche, he has contributed more to the conservative movement than R. Limbaugh and the lot of the conservatives today who have sold this country to the banks. N. recognized the nature of the liberal long before they had even recieved that name. Nietsche belongs to the cannon of the west! In order to better understand his contribution I recomend the men of the Good Ship Jolly Roger read him and his great interpritor Marty Heidegger! With reference to Heideggers work "Nietzsche". If you want a criteria for this study, it is that you will find nobody in North America teaches these men in proper context. Hence the liberals have not found any use for these men other than defamation, which is a pretty good recomendation. "...That God was not an external substance, but only a moral condition with in us." Freud. This is the concept that Nietzsche claimed the killer of God. And it is through the eternal reoccurence of the same that God will return in his full splendor, through people who prepare the ground with in their hearts to recieve him. The Qur'an the last revelation of God, addresses this with, "God will not change a people, until they change what is in their hearts." Abdalbarr Brown From: Michael Please send the Jollyroger to my liberal daughter at the University of Texas c***@utexas.edu THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! We've sent out a reconaissance team to rescue her! From: bjhicks@ greetings to you, esteemed shipmate(s) i've spent the past three days studying your most intriguing website; i am a mid-forties married man from houston, texas; i suppose i might be called a "boomer", although i've never felt a part of my own generation - i have always, rather felt myself to be apart FROM my generation. i do not possess a college degree, however i am a most literate individual who feels the same undying affection and respect for the power of the printed word that you profess on your most interesting webpages. (please forgive my consistent use of lower case; i consider e-mail to be informal communication and shift only for emphasis in this regard). the last great work i enjoyed was "ANTHEM" by Ayn Rand - a most prophetic work. i send this short bit of info because i wish to ensure out of respect that i am not interjecting my presence into an area in which someone such as myself is not welcome. rest assured that i am a conservative, and that i have many thoughts and ideas which bear conversion into "words which mean things". my primary areas of compository interest are poetry (romantic, religious, political, satirical, prose) and essays. thank you for a most engaging opportunity; i feel as if i have possibly found a home - if so, please let me know; if i am being presumptuous, do accept my apology and forgive me. floggerflowers THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Agrhrgrhr! Renaissance men are welcome aboard me Ship of The Line! Date: Mon, 07 Apr 1997 00:55:52 -0700 Just happend to stumble onto your site. I am impressed! But then as an over 50, female, conservative, newspaper publisher/college-instructor/grandma/small-time politician/... (you get the idea (;->))and publisher of other things, who started adulthood as a physicist, I am sometimes easily impressed. Not really, I am more jaded than I let on. I like the site, it is an antidote to the crap I have to deal with from some of the educationists that I work with. Literary point--why do you not include Marnie (or for that matter Typee or Oomo)? I managed to recycle a research paper on Marnie as the pre-cursor for Moby Dick through 3 American literature/composition classes (getting an A each time, I might add). Tragically, one day, when I was instructing a class of soon-to-graduate high school seniors (in an honors class no less), at the college where I teach, and wanted to compare the use of the Bible as literature and the allusions to the Bible in Melville's writing as a model of the importance of knowing some of the details about the inside of a computer, rather than just punching buttons, I thought I would do a little reality check. Upon asking the students how many had read Moby Dick, there were two hands (out of a class of 22 students) that went up. One girl said she'd read it, one boy said he had read the classic comics version. What has happend to our common cultural background. It is becoming an even bleaker November for my soul as all of this continues. Keep up the good fight, even if your taste in some music sucks! (;->) THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! It's only Becket who still likes THE SMASHING PUMPKINS, and a couple of seventh grade skaters somewhere. Corporate grunge bores the rest of us of to death. We'd rather be reading MOBY DICK for the fourteenth time. Date: Mon, 02 Sep 1996 19:44:46 -0400 I am recently a grandmother, so I'm no gen-xer, but I'm thrilled that I now have access immediately to books I have been touting all my life to my five children and now...one grandchild. How thrilled I was to find the complete Penrod--a book which is so difficult to find today. I have run off the first four chapters so that my 13-year-old daughter might get a taste of this wonderful book. Is there any hope we might get a copy uploaded of Tarkington's Seventeen? That was another of his best. Thank you again. Leave it to the gen-x'ers to come through with that for which many of us have yearned for a long, long time. My generation messed things up. I'm depending on yours to bring us all back to our collective senses. As I tell my kids....."They don't call them "classics" for nothing." THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! Yer generation didn't mess things up. A small, ambitious, liberal contingent of yer generation did. Date: Sun, 01 Sep 1996 19:57:20 -0700 From: Toni Brannon-Ward I really thought I was the only one. It is so good to know that there are other people out there who feel as I do and that we have a place to stand and UNITE! This is the best site I have ever seen and I could kick myself for not finding it sooner. You are such an eloquent writer, I think I love you! Toni "York" Brannon THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! The postmodern-vocal-minority-elite wish ye to think yer the only one, but like there're at least 10,000 others, and I have a hunch there are a few million more. It is this Ship's mission to find them, to sign their souls aboard, and take them to places where character matters in both novels and presidents, where marriages endure, where the young respect their parents, and parents respect the unborn. Avast! Woe to those who come between The Good Ship and her Purpose! From: Sarah Cahill Hey! I totally loved Bootsy's story, "NANTUCKET GHOSTS"! Keep 'em comin'! -- Sarah THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! As long as yer there, we'll be here! Date: Thu, 24 Oct 1996 18:33:09 -0700 Good job and a great story! THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Bootsy "Board 'Em in The Smoke" McCluskey says thank ye! Date: Mon, 21 Oct 1996 20:03:17 +0100 Glad I found you gentlemen. I've been a Raft fan ever since I found a tattered copy of the Afterdark Fieldbook tucked away in a corner of the UNC-Chapel Hill Student Bookstore. I actually saw Raft read some of his work at UNC, but it's been a long time. As a student of literature, I agree with your dismal prognostication of what modern education is doing to letters. I was lucky enough to find an untenured professor who teaches on a volunteer basis who dared to open up the "secrets" of Plato, Aristotle, the Bible, Shakespeare, Descartes, and Machiavelli on their own terms. Unfortunately, this individual was the exception rather than the norm (as evidenced by the fact that I began to write my honors thesis on Milton until I found out my adviser wanted me to deconstruct Paradise Lost as a fable of misogynistic theocracy. Uh, no. I am excited to work with you gentlemen in any way possible. I have a lot of experience writing, just for starters. I edited a libertarian journal for a yeat at UNC before being recruited by the Daily TarHeel editorial page, where I wrote for a year as a common-sense advocate of thinking and rapid opponent of stupidity (another exception, especially on the pages of the DTH), and later as an editorial writer and temporary editorial page editor. I have been published in the Washington Times, Reason Magazine, the American Enterprise and the Charlotte Observer. I stand ready at attention, to fire the Canon, or at least to hoist a sail. Cheers, THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Send on the literature! We'll publish it in HATTERAS! From: Jim Gatti Obligatory Ahoy! Well, I just finished reading this bit o' literature and I must say I'm quite happy with it. Don't really have much of interest to say, except to wonder if the line "I held the phone for awhile, trying to think of someone to call. No one came to mind" is a subtle tribute to the magnificent Bouncing Souls. Could this be the case, or am I just a lonely punk rock geek? You make the call. Keep up the splendid work, Mike THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Yer just a lonely punk rock geek, and we're proud to have ye aboard! Date: Fri, 25 Oct 1996 00:05:52 +0000 It is a comfort to learn that there are others that find it necessary to educate themselves outside of school. You are not alone. Marcia St. Louis THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: We were only ever alone when we were in the postmodern classroom! Avast! lxxxii. Date: Tue, 15 Oct 1996 08:09:09 -0700 dear sirs: as an abd graduate student looking for employment in the professoriate, i have felt all alone on the hostile seas of liberalism. now, your beacon of light has given me hope! i was almost ready to chuck it all--the phd, the years of beating my head against the walls in the halls of academia, gagging down each issue of the chronicle--to become a bicycle mechanic. kudos to everyone involved in your efforts to provide some sense of balance in a world gone insane. god bless your souls. where can i sign up for your listserve? eric berube THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! God bless ye too, for ye have given us hope! Date: Sun, 25 Feb 96 02:08:22 -0800 Could I be more enthralled with your entire approach to poetry, conservative gen-xerism, etc....? I think not. There are too many feminist, in-your-face-forget-classics "professors" at my university. Frankly, I thought that's why I left the theatre department...and the radio-tv-film department...and the music department....apparently the creepy pseudo-artsiness of these people (both female and male, mind you) is following me relentlessly. It is such a nice change to see a page dedicated to more intellectually stimulating angles in poetry and other genres as well. No wonder it's one of the top 5% of web sites....hmmm Have a bloody good day at sea! -Heather p.s. Do you accept original submissions? THE CAPTAINS RESPONDS: Avast! Could we be more enthralled to have ye aboard? I think not. Send on yer original submissions, for we are creating a page of reader's material! Date: Thu, 01 Feb 96 11:01:20 -800 The latest installment of The Jolly Roger is your best effort effort to date. Me maties, it warms Redbeard's heart to see Russell Kirk quoted in your pages, he being a constant source of inspiration. Without the late, great Kirk, I would have missed the necessity of the moral imagination, which lies at the root of all great literature and the eternal human soul, for keeping order in that soul and in the commonwealth. It's a disgusting shame that the bloated Bloom of Yale with his Marxist deconstructionism gets so much attention from the darlings of the dominant media, such as Charlie Rose, while Kirk, along with T.S. Eliot, Paul Elmer More and Irving Babbitt, all defenders of the moral imagination, are read and known only by conservatives such as us. Arrr! At least, for now, at Stanford University, my home port, one can still find the Great Books and the works of Kirk in the library, there to be read free of the diabolical imagination and nay-saying of the bloated Bloom and his cronies. Well, me Avengers, keep the powder dry and the Western Canon primed and ready! We have the yellow, scurvy dogs on the run! Yours, James "Captain Redbeard" Harris THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy me Stanford matie! Hey hey, ho ho, Western Culture's where we row! Date: Thu, 01 Feb 1996 23:09:06 -0800 Sir! Seaman Diogenes requests permission to address the Captain. Sir! Sir! I am duty bound to place myself on report. Sir! Sir! When I signed onto the Good Ship The Jolly Roger, I was not aware that crew members are required to be members of Generation X. Sir! Sir! I am not a member of Generation X. Sir! Sir! I am a member of The Lost Generation. Sir! Sir! I submit to whatever discipline the Captain may impose. Sir! THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy! We're writing for all generations I say! From here on throughout eternity! Such is the manner of words inspired by Date: Thu, 8 Feb 1996 00:09:55 +1100 A CONFESSION by Slit (alias Gerry Jackson) What you say about leftwing cultural vandalism and the intellectual and What you say about leftwing cultural vandalism and the intellectual and cultural pretensions that accompany it goes, unfortunately, for Australia. The rot, I fear, is as deeply imbedded in this country as it is in yours. What else can one expect when, for example, our Prime Minister can stand up in Parliament and state, without the slightest evidence of humour, that "why only last night I read a book while listening to Mahler." This was said, by our cultural commissars, to reinforce his cultural superiority over his conservative critics. It's enough to drive a man to privacy. (By the way have you thought of becoming privateers for the cause of free thought and genuine of becoming privateers for the cause of free thought and genuine artistic creativity?) I fear it is all too much for my stomach at times. However, I'm fortified by the knowledge that the canons of Western civilization never fail to blow away the leftwing barbarians -- when they're fired. Though they are always primed it is becoming increasingly rare to hear their roar. Impossible to spike, the left think they have found the perfect solution. Capture the fortifications and take out the gunners. In this they have had considerable success. One only has to read the drivel that passes for poetry; see the shapeless heaps of scrap metal that our intellectuals have the gall to call sculpture; witness the juvenile, and sometimes obscene, activities of our multimedia "artists" to realise how far the rot has spread. And all at the taxpayers' expense. This mob couldn't compete with monkeys in the market place. At least chimps are entertaining. But all is not lost. Just as the end of the Middle Ages brought us the renaissance and the "age of discovery," in science as well as geography, the "age of the electron" will eventually break the creeping authoritarianism of the left. The cyber seas will do for us what the printing press did for Europe. Your loyal shipmate Slit THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Great to have ye aboard, me matie from down-under! What it all comes down to is that they've got one hand in me pocket, and the other one's funding lesbian performance art! Ahoy! Drop the crew a line! From: Christopher Love your work in MISC.WRITING, though I doubt you have made much progress towards the enlightenment of that group. I'm not scared of much -- I jump outta planes for kicks -- but I'm terribly afraid of the Brave New World the liberal sheep are trying to drag us into. It WILL come if WE don't stop it! I see a world with Maya Angelou in every book shop, on every shelf, and nothing else. Help! THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! We see a world with THE DRAKE RAFT FIELD TRIP on every shelf, alongside Shakespeare, MOBY DICK, and HUCK FINN! Date: Fri, 14 Jun 1996 00:55:25 -0400 My generation spawned the 'boomers' - we were so busy giving them everything we missed out on in the 'great depression', that we neglected their spiritual development. My own children and grandchildren became 'liberals' when my back was turned. Thank heaven for your generation. Perhaps with your hard work and dedication, 'truth crushed to earth will rise again.' I sent for the T-shirt and 'Raft" book which I am enjoying. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhrrhrg! We're proud to have ye aboard! Ye should have spanked 'em when they were burnin' their bras! But it's never too late-- we'll just start spanking 'em each time they hand us a condom. Hopefully this won't encourage them. Date: Thu, 30 May 96 08:43:45 -700 I am a first timer to your page. I come from a lonely desolate island where all about are the redneck cut throats of the yuppy generation. I am all alone here on me ship. Everyone here is a lost souls. Lost in time with the music that once was. How is it to be dealt with? I dare not join their ship for fear of too becoming lost. I reach out to ye and yer ship to take me aboard and whisk me away from this place. I shall serve yer crew with the utmost respect. I will follow yer orders to a T. If it is your desire that I walk the plank, then it shall be done. This is living hell. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! I know the feeling! Last night I was at this place called Molly'sand the Juke Box kept playing Lennon's "Instant Karma" over, and over, and over. Date: Wed, 19 Jun 1996 22:08:35 -0700 Notes of interest: The libraries are filling the shelves with children's books that are politically correct and multicultural. They are robbing the kids of literary substance! Extra Point: Check it out. Maya Angelou's poem "Where the Caged Bird Sings" is snitched from a male Black writer in the early 1920's. I've seen the original in an old textbook. The poet is Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) He was the son of former slaves. The name of the poem is "Sympathy." I know why the caged bird sings, ah me. When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,- When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings- I know why the caged bird sings! Please keep working. The minds of my children need good nutrition! Jan THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy Jan! We're here to make sure that yer children grow up with a literary renaissance! I mean like Lollapalooza gets pretty boring after you're fourteen, and Maya Angelou is no picnic either. As we said before, the purpose the multicultural-level-theplaying-field crap is to inspire to people to stop reading. We're here to give 'em an alternative to alternative. I guess Maya's aspirations made her take literally, "Good authors borrow-- great authors steal." From: Billy Bones Ahoy, Cap'n Ahab! Billy Bones reportin' fer dooty, sir. Just read the latest issue of the Jolly Roger (v2/issue 2) and very much appreciated your thoughts on Princeton's past. In order to understand to what extent academia has fallen from its former state, Princeton is probably a good case study. You may know that one of Princeton's early presidents was the Rev. Jonathan Edwards, a Presbyterian minister, theologian, and scholar who is still widely regarded as one of the greatest theological minds in history as well as one of the greatest scholars this country has produced; most theologians rank him with Augustine and Thomas Aquinas in terms of his brilliance. Princeton's divinity school was once a bastion of Reformed, Calvinist theology and the envy of the world. However, this was not to continue indefinitely. In the latter half of the 19th century, Princeton's faculty fell under the spell of liberal, modernist influences in the church, just as was happening in the U.S. Presbyterian denomination at large (but the corruption always begins in the divinity schools and spreads from there). Presbyterians in the early part of the 20th century drafted and affirmed the Auburn Confession, which did away with the conditions for ordination that required pastors to affirm many of the essentials of historic, orthodox Christianity in order to be considered for pastoral or missionary work. However, a small group of Princeton faculty, led by Dr. J. Gresham Machen, rejected the creeping modernism of the Auburn Confession. To counter the liberal influence of the PCUSA's Board of Foreign Missions, Machen founded his own Indepent Board of Foreign Missions. For this, he was excommunicated from the Presbyterian Church (think about this: Machen was excommunicated from his own denomination because he dared to stand up for what Christians had believed for almost 2000 years). It was then that some of the Divinity School faculty joined him in forming Westminster Theological Seminary in Philadelphia, which thrives to this day. In addition, he was influential in the establishment of the Orthodox Presbyterian Church, one of several conservative evangelical Presbyterian bodies in the U.S. The OPC and Westminster Seminary are doing well, and what is happening to the PCUSA? Like many mainline Protestant denominations that have embraced modernism, it's dying a slow and painful death. So what's my point? Basically, that Princeton itself may be a lost cause, but I'm an optimist. As you guys work hard to spread the word about what's going on at Princeton, people will eventually get the message and send their kids and their dollars elsewhere. Then perhaps the other universities will sit up and take notice. Gotta run...Keep up the good work, keep the guns primed, and FULL SAIL INTO THE BATTLE! Billy Bones THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! READERS RESPOND: THANK YE THANK YE, YER ALL TOO KIND! Date: Fri, 01 Mar 1996 11:48:48 +0000 Please sir, may I have some more? Hi! Sorry. Sometimes I just Get so carried away with good literature that I want more! Why does this subscription only have to be 20 pages long?! I want more! Why does this subscription only have to be 20 pages long?! : ) Thanks, anyway! Love, Sheri Parker xoxo THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! I am at a loss of words. Date: Wed, 13 Mar 1996 13:16:57 -0500 (EST) I wanted to let you know that with each new issue, the Jolly Roger gets even better. (Really, can it get any better?!) In the last one, I especially liked (Drake Raft's) The Rebel on Capitol Hill and The Verdict. Of course, I'll forward it to everyone I can think of. You know, reading your work would probably scare the heck out of most of the English/Lit professors on this liberal campus. Not only are many of them frightened of seeing the truth printed in such a public way, but (if they have any ability to recognize talent) they're probably afraid that someone with your writing ability could steal their jobs, hands down! Keep up the excellent work! -- Ashley. THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Argrhrgrh! As long as we have readers such as yerself, keepin' up the excellent work shall be as much our pleasure as it is our commitment! Date: Fri, 15 Mar 1996 11:03:24 -0800 (PST) I've only been on the Internet for about a week now and the Jolly Roger seems to be really incredible. Thanks for actually showing me that there are people out there that want some realy literature out there. Oh, I read the " Catcher in the Rye for the Grunge Generation." Gee, what a great book, an instant classic. I'm seventeen and that book made me laugh at the sheer studpidity of Andrea Marr and everyone else in it. I guess I read it because I needed some kind of escape from my International Baccaleaurate English class run open-mindedly-closedly by my left-wing feminist teacher. There are scores of incredible novels, poems, etc. on the IB booklist, but my school chooses, for the most part, the stupid ones, about the fact that white people suck. The AP class at the other high school in our town that offers advanced English gets to read real literature. Apparently my teacher seems to think that I'm sort of a decent writer, so I'm one of her nominees for NCTE writing contest. She hated the story I submitted to her. Honestly, it wasn't very well written, but it wasn't a bunch of profound metaphoric babble that she would have wanted. When I want to push the envelope her way I'll kill myself. I don't know why I picked Coxon, except it's the last name of Graham Coxon, guitarist for Blur, which happens to be the greatest group ever put on earth. Damon Albarn, singer for Blur, is one of my biggest influences. He and Jane Austen. My teacher doesn't like her much, so there's another reason for liking Jane. Anyways, I'm starting to type nonsense, so I'll end it here with one question: How did you get kick out nonsense, so I'll end it here with one question: How did you get kick out of Oates' writing class? Coxon THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: By writing the truth , me matie! The element that got us kicked out of creative writing classes is the very same element that gets us published in the honest soul! Avast! And thus the 123rd Pearl of Wisdom! Help me! Hold us back, somebody! Beacause we can't, we won't, and we don't stop! I mean it! Help! How can you stand it! Date: Thu, 21 Mar 96 09:15:32 -0800 Mind if a Baby Boomer eavesdrops occasionally? On my maiden voyage into treacherous waters, I was fortunate enough to catch your beacon almost immediately, and spent a delightful two hours with the Jolly Roger. I found myself laughing out loud one minute and uttering a thoughtful "hmm..." the next. Can't risk the jolt to my middle-aged middle-of-the-road complacency too frequently, but I definitely would like to peek in on you from time to time. You youngsters are a national treasure. May you ever remain diligent in your efforts to turn the tide, and may you continue to have a heap o' fun in the process. Thank you! Sincerely, "Bubba" THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! We welcome men, women, and children of all ages aboard our gallant schooner without the help of any quotas, for the Truth herself knows no quotas, and is accessible equally to all who search for her. It is our sincere pleasure to have ye aboard, Bubba. Date: Mon, 11 Mar 96 14:10:07 EST Becket - I recently found the jolly roger home page while surfing the net and thought I could write a paper on its ideology for rhetorical theory class. I am attempting to prove in the paper that the jolly roger literary revolution is indeed a social movement (we've been discussing the qualities of social movements and the characters of leaders of those movements). What would be of great help to me is how you and the rest of the crew - drake and elliot - view yourselves and the jolly roger/grungervative thing. Do you see yourselves as leaders of a social movement - do you even think this is a social movement? How are you trying to gain a following, what kinds of action are you taking to promote the jolly roger....etc. I know this is an in-depth request, but your input would help my understanding of the jolly roger and allow me to develop my writing more thoroughly. thanks - Pamela THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! I assure ye that The Jolly Roger is a bona-fide social movement, and the coolest contemporary one at that. Included in the package is honest heart-felt rebellion, oppressed individuals, unrecognized artistic achievements, the arrogance of the aging liberal elite, and t-shirts at http://jollyroger.com/shirt.html! Date: Wed, 20 Mar 1996 23:08:07 -0500 Ahoy Ahab, Bluebeard and Red Avenger! I'm back from France and I'm glad to read that you received the postcard and yes, you may use the image in any way you please. Unfortunately, I ran out of time in Paris before I could find out where Michel Foucault is interred. I do know he died in Paris in '84 but I'll have to do a bit of research to find out where they're hiding the rascal. As for being arrested for draping the jolly roger o'er his tomb, I don't think I'll have to worry too much about that happening; the French are used to visual displays of one sort or another. A country that allowed the 3200 year-old obelisk from Luxor at the Place de la Concorde to be enshrouded by a giant condom isn't going get too excited over the public display of the skull and bones. If anyone does ask questions I'll say it's performance art where upon I'll run the embarrassing risk of being proclaimed a post-postmodern genius and awarded the Legion of Honor. Since I couldn't get the snapshot, I'm sending you a print of Gericault's "Le Radeau de la Meduse" (The Raft of the Medusa). The original, which is about16' x 23.5 feet, hangs in the Louvre. The Medusa was a French frigate that sank off the coast of Africa in 1816 because of the incompetence of the captain who was a political appointee. Deserted by the ship's officers, one hundred and fifty passengers were left adrift on a raft. Few survived and in 1819 Gericault captured in oil the moment the survivors spot the faint wisp of a sail on the horizon. I've always found the painting extremely moving and I know you won't have any trouble picking up on the allegorical symbolism of the men and their out-stretched arms on the raft and the far sail on the horizon. For me, Gericault's Raft is one of the greatest representations of mankind's eternal reach for Truth ever commited to canvas. However, when I stood before it (this time partially obscured by an unrelated construction project) in the Louvre last week and again looked upon the men on the raft, I thought of the multitude of students set adrift by the post-modern captains of academia. In particular, I wondered about those students, remotely, perhaps only instinctively, in touch with the currents of culture and tradition being denied them (currents that would lead them to Truth), who, at some particular point in time during the course of their education, feel in their bones that Something Is Wrong. I thought of the raft as being that instinct; that instinct passed along by those that sailed before us that somehow keeps the spirit afloat, that whispers in your ear that there are Things Greater Than You. That instant, that epiphany, is the sighting of that distant ship's sail. And despite the black waves of nihilism, that sail never again seems quite so far away. As for me, I'd rather happily sink with my friends, a song on our lips and a poem in our heart in pursuit of Truth, than sail the easy waters on a ship captained by the liars, fools and sophists of The Great Liberal Death-Wish. But not without a fight. So polish your cutlass and let the Culture Wars begin! And if you squint your eyes hard enough, you just might catch sight of a jolly roger o'er the sails of the ship on the Far Horizon. Take care, Gary "Cap'n Blood" Prange PS, I've attached a GIF file of a detail from "The Raft of the Medusa". THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast Captain Blood! This letter and Gericault's "Le Radeau de la Meduse" shall soon be honored with their very own page aboard The Jolly Roger! When this issue gets included on our WWW site, yer page'll be up at http://jollyroger.com/beaconway/captainblood.html ! Thank ye very, very much for the poster, me matie! Date: Fri, 22 Mar 1996 11:39:31 -0500 Moby Dick sighting: OTTAWA--Moby Dick sighted by one Drew Gadoury of Ottawa, Ontario, Canada, 21 March, 1996, swimming up the Ottawa River behind the Prime Minister's residence. How this is possible is not for me to ask. Drew Gadoury drewg@corel.ca THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! Somebody call the Prime Minister!
Date: Sat, 18 Nov 1995 19:32:41 -0500 I feel it is more than a coincidence that I discovered this site recently. For most of my life, I have been homeschooled. The great books were my "textbooks" up until high school. I "attended" high school for three years. Actually I languished in the suffocating nihilism that chokes the life out of nearly all modern high schools. I suffered through the nasty, shallow textbooks that package frivolous, inconsequential details into tiresome language. Those that did give a larger picture of events and thoughts are often hopelessly crammed with watery, weak versions of the rich and powerful ideas of history. When studying, say, the Reformation, why did we not read at least some of the ninety-five theses Luther posted on the door of the cathedral? Instead students must remember to fill in "ninety-five theses" in answer to the question "This document started the Reformation" on test 32a. It is as if the modern educational system was created to play Jeopardy. Answer in the form of a question, please. Beyond the actual methods of teaching lie the philosophies that created the specter of the educational system. This is where the real problem is. I felt deeply for the suffering souls of my peers. There was an overpowering sense of hopelessness and depression buried deep beneath the typical lunchroom superficiality. There is a bitter and complete sense of disillusionment that is not of their making but nevertheless hangs over the them like a black cloud. The things that should stimulate and excite the minds of today's youth have been taken away from them. It is not only the fact that the Great Books are not presented as such and deconstructed, but that the average high schooler has been desensitized to literature. They have been blinded by the trash thrown at them and even though most know it is trash it is hard to see clearly in the light when you have been in the dark for so long. I knew all this deep down. I saw clearly the problems that affected us all. Yet I was condemned to inaction. I was rather immature myself. All I could do was watch. I could (and should) have done much more to help that school and my friends, yet I didn't. By my Junior year I was becoming what I despised. The slough of despond almost claimed me, but I did have deep foundations in the lasting things of life, and parents that cared. I was saved. I pulled myself out of the school and homeschooled my senior year. It may sound to the uniformed like I was some kind of dork who didn't "fit in" and couldn't take reality, or whatever. Thats a lot of crap. I was on the Varsity Football team, class president, and involved in a couple other things that mean too much to too many people. No true human being "fits in" to the mold that the sham intelligentsia and media moguls create. No human being can be joyful when truth (which ultimately means life) is devalued. Throughout the last four years, I have often wondered why those who seek and stand by the Truth never seem to take an offensive stand against those who seek to destroy it. Sure, there are those who fight politically against the politics of meaninglessness. (Sorry, Hillary) This is needed and it seems presently a good start is taking place. "PC" has become a term of derision to many Americans. But this is not a battle of laws and school boards and regulations. Ultimately, it is a battle of hearts and minds and souls. And it will be won not be holding ground, but by taking it. Many complain about the tripe that passes for literature/music/visual arts today, but HOW MANY HAVE THE GUTS TO NOT ONLY COMPLAIN, BUT CREATE? How many seek to create organizations and groups that seek to create TRUE art and expression of our nature? Not many. The Jolly Roger seems to be a place where it is possible to fight back against the dying of the light. (Yes Hollywood, I read that line before you used it in a movie) To me it is a starting point-a place for a generation that has been bought and sold like slaves to fight back. Not by attacking, but creating. And 24 soldiers, heh, heh-thats all we need to keep Truth alive in our time. I can't believe the Jolly Roger exists! This is, like, cooler than that new Friends show, and stuff. When I found this place - I couldn't sleep for a long while that night. I praise everyone on here Greatly! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I am struck with AWE. An AWESOME place, and I'm one seventeen year old you can count on to tell everyone he knows and provide as much support as he can about and for this place. A deep thanks from my soul -"PATCH"
Date: Wed, 15 Nov 1995 16:41:11 -0500 (EST)
Ayes mates, it's been long years that I, a 38 year-old post baby
boomer, pre-X sailor have sailed upon once vast seas of thought
recently much polluted and drained by those scurvy scoundrels who
would spoon-feed intellectual cotton candy into the minds of our
nation. I have oft gone alone to lay waste to the bastions of
liberal fuzziness and have been rebuffed in my quest by the sheer
mass of the sticky spun-sugar of lies moistened by the false tears
of compassion of those within the gates of academia. It was a
lonely quest, yet a fine one. Those such as I, who have labored
amidst the background of ridicule in the days when political
correctness was a term of derision to only a small faithful band,
may perhaps lay claim to have laid the foundation so that ones such
as you, our progeny, could build a magnificent vessel like the
Jolly Roger. I salute your effort and it is with great pleasure I
accept the honor of serving aboard that fine ship. Let's give
opportunity for the
liberal-feminist-currently-in-recovery-deconstructionist-
multicultural-mushbrains to learn what the words "victim" and
"rage" really mean. Man the yardarms! Set the sails! It's payback
time. The only problem with the dead white men is that we haven't
studied them enough!
--Death to fuzzy thinking
Date: Thu, 16 Nov 1995 01:49:44 -0500
Hi Elliott, We are keeping your Feature Link on The BIG EYE and you
will be delighted to hear that Newsweek magazine has featured The
BIG EYE in the Nov 20th issue as the WWW Search Tool on their
Cyberscope pages (p.16). This should introduce a great many
persons to The Jolly Roger and I'm delighted to be able to do this.
You may use this information in any fashion you feel may be of
benefit.
Best wishes, Stewart
On Tue, 16 Jan 1996, Coman, Curtis wrote:
Ahoy Red Avenger:
I just read "Nantucket Ghost Story" and must say that Bootsy's made
me a believer ( http://jollyroger.com/beaconway/bootsy.html ). Of
course, I was a believer to begin with...maybe she's just confirmed
what I already knew. There IS such a thing as Truth, for those who
are not too timid to embrace it. When you get Kirk's "Conservative
Mind" in stock, I'll order it from you. I'm very impressed with
your book list; all the great books available for ordering on one
handy website!
I printed out some of your poems from the web pages and sent them to
a young friend of mine who is a freshman at Berry College in Rome,
Georgia (my alma mater). Fortunately, Berry has not been deluged
with the multiculturalist/relativist/postmodern drivel that is
spoon-fed to unsuspecting undergrads at so many other institutions
of higher learning, but Melinda needed a dose of Drake Raft anyway.
I'll let you know what she thinks.
Sam (my five-year-old) and I are reading George MacDonald's fairy
tales at bedtime, and he loves them. Say, how about adding some
children's literature to BeaconRay Books? You know, sort of a
"Western Canon" for kids? I saw this page on the Web, I think it
was called Home Arts, where several authors (Maurice Sendak and
Harold Bloom included) gave their opinions about books they would
include in a Western Canon for Children.
Their suggestions included standard popular works as well as
some surprises...Bloom really got my attention when he suggested
tales from Norse mythology, because my wife and I are big on
Western mythology, folk tales, fairy tales, etc. (especially
Irish/Celtic stuff). Anyway, think about it.
I've got some ideas for books you could include.
To borrow from the native parlance: You dudes are totally cool.
Curt
("Billy Bones")
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS:
Ahoy Billy Bones! Bootsy will be psyched to hear your praise. We've
thought about opening a children's section-- it's a great idea, and we're
thinking that perhaps later this year we'll expand to include more.
Kirk's book is on back order right now, but we should see it soon. Great
to have you aboard-- I remember you were the one who was fond of Romans,
and now I am too. Right now our major project is publishing THE DRAKE
RAFT FIELD TRIP later this spring-- we'll talk more about it in the
upcoming JOLLY ROGER. See you aboard the Good Ship! All the best-- The
Red Avenger
Anyone kicked out of anything by J.C. Oates is already a friend of mine,
so I may as well introduce myself. Stephanie Herman (signed on as Navin,
twice) -- you may be familiar with my work: I trashed a bunch of feminist
novels (by Gilchrist, Atwood, French & Piercy) for The Women's Quarterly,
the journal of the anti-feminist Independent Women's Forum in D.C. and
have written a few times for Conservative Generation X (CGX) here on the
net.
I can't tell you how excited I was to find this whole melange of literary
stuff tonight. To be honest, I hadn't really connected my endeavors in
fiction with my non-fiction interest in conservative ideals. Well, maybe I
had, but you've given me a lot more to think about. I'm currently 50,000
words into my first novel, "Fraternizing of the Hemispheres" in which two
baby-boomer teenagers in the '70s are being set straight by a
down-to-earth, somewhat Republican adoptive grandmother. So maybe, like I
said, I have made the connection. Anyway, I've enjoyed Beckett's poetry
(and I don't care much for poetry, so that says something) and later, when
I have more time, I plan to read more that's offered here.
I'm almost tempted to demand that you allow me to work with you because
your direction so exactly parallels mine. My tactics would include the
threat of discrimination charges if you didn't let me (I'm a woman). But,
I realize this is your thing. However, if you ever find yourself wanting
to expand, please let me know. I'm great at everything.
Sincerely, Stephanie Herman
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy there Navin! Truth knows no gender, and thus
we regularly walk the streets recruiting Republican Grandmothers to sail
aboard the Good Ship! Arghhghghghgh! Toss your prose in yer carpet-bag,
and bring it aboard, me kindred spirit!
I just discovered your site tonight. I'm intrigued, though
somewhat puzzled by its several purposes and divisions. In any
case, I assure you that I belong among your disaffected
visitors.
I also attend (as a senior) the university which, with justice,
draws a considerable amount of your ire. Education here is
always narrow, most often superficial, and dull. My real
education occurs on break or during my procrastinations, during
which I spend time with Sterne, Shakespeare, Johnson & Boswell,
Melville, et al. My truest professors and dearest companions
all. I read outside of class with the same passion it is clear
your visitors possess. The close of the Phaedo related a
tenderness I will not forget; Don Quixote's spiritual death is
one of the most melancholy moments in all of literature.
Hopefully your site will help give new life to the creation of
the universal and learned men this world has recently neglected
to produce.
To readers of this site, I suggest the prophetic chapter "The
Barbarism of Specialization" in Ortega y Gasset's Revolt of the
Masses.
I look forward to walking the gangway.
Dan Kearney
"Nobody ever learned anything except from what is above them."
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS:
Ahoy! Watch yer step, me matie, and if ye ever go prospecting
through the gardens at midnight with that special someone, be
careful that the liberal scurvey dogs don't creep up on ye in
the postmodern fog and slit yer throat! I remember it being
thick as pea soup!
Aaarrrrrrrrrr, matey! Tis I, Gary "Captain Blood" Prange of the
corsair United Republican Fund, swift of sail and scourge of the
Midwestern left. I thank ye for permission to come aboard.
Lads, I hoist a tankard of sweet rum (or perhaps a single-malt
scotch) to ye. Ahab, Bluebeard and Red Avenger! I have
downloaded thy broadsides and the smell of black powder lingers.
I say Onward, avengers! and rake the hulls of the cardboard
armada of liberal academia! Aye! Pour it on, lads! I see them
now! The HMS Deconstruction strikes her colors. Cowards! And
there....the HMS Multiculturalism. What! tis no man-of-war.
Tis but a garbage scow! She's taking on water but her crew
knows it not. And yonder...the HMS Political Correctness lists
port-side. Load the Western Canon, boys! Hurl the Iron Ball of
Truth through her waterline and give the brigands what-for!
And lo....
Thar she be....
The flagship of the Self-Annointed! The HMS Liberal Death Wish!
Her captain is Molech and her time has come. Bring the Jolly
Roger 'round and ready the grapple lines. Take cutlass in hand,
and with a rhyme in your heart and steely eye, board the
barquentine. Aye, make her crew taste brine and prepare to
scuttle. Send the Great Lie to rest in Davy Jones's locker,
hoist the Jolly Roger over the shallow waters of the Culture of
the Crowd and make for the deep waters of Truth and Liberty.
Aaarrrrrrrrrr!!
Courage,
Gary L. Prange
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS:
I'm here in the sweet, peaceful valley of Kent to study
English and teach freshman composition.
I just read Moby Dick this last semester, so your metaphor
strikes me as wonderful--the entire book was a masterpiece, but the
strikes me as wonderful--the entire book was a masterpiece, but the
last twenty-five pages were unearthly . . .
Thanks again for making the Jolly Roger--you've made me have
at least some faith in this modern age. I am still partial to Plato,
Aeschylus, and Alexander Pope, however. That allegiance can never
alter.
"Only the educated are free." --Epictetus
--
Dark-Eye
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS:
Thanks for braving the hostile elements and teaching the Truth
at an academic institution! Ye give us faith in this modern
age! May God be with ye!
Ahoy Captain:
Commander Freedom here throwing in my two bits wishing you
and yours a most meaningful Christmas, and keep the sails unfurled
in '96.
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS:
Arghghrg! We had a lovely Christmas. And a Happy Valentine's
Day to you, and all the rest of the Ruthless Pirates who yet
believe in the subtle, pristine romance, born by God's context,
which our grandparents knew and know!
Date: Wed, 03 Apr 1996 16:45:45 +0000
I got the March edition of your wonderful thing. It's so great. I just
wrote to tell that I stole (I know it's bad) a copy of MOBY DICK from the
stacks in my English teacher's room. You see, the IB class at my school
used to read MOBY DICK as part of the syllabus, but they replaced it with
Toni Morrison's Song of Soloman, which was replaced by Achebe's Things
Fall Apart, which is what I have to read for class. My teacher decided
that Moby Dick was just to large of a work to read in our class. I'm only
on Ch.6, but it's quite enjoyable. Thanks for the recommendation.
Cheers,
PS-For a laugh go to http://www.theeastvillage.com. If you haven't heard
of it, it's supposed to be Melrose Place meets Slacker. It's about some
25 year old editor and her bohemian pals in the East Village. They start
the page by quoting the Bible, it's hilarious, I couldn't get through the
first page before I had to stop and come here!
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! We do not condone theft, and thus we're
happy to see ye borrowed a copy of MOBY DICK when ye realized that ye
were being robbed of an education. I say the Great Book was purchased
with yer tax dollars so that it could be taken off the shelves of the
book stores and hidden in yer English Teacher's room! When ye return
Melville's Masterpiece, and ye want yer own, drop on by
http://jollyroger.com/moby.html and pick up a t-shirt too!
I really loved your page. It is hard to find people where I live that
belive in reading the classics. I want to commend you for your work and
tell you to keep it up.
I also wanted to clear up a little something. Most people would classify
me as a feminist, because I belive in equal rights. I see nothing wrong
in this. The women you are talking about give us a bad name, they need to
get their own group. The people who came up with the ideas to start the
movement did not have those views all they really wanted was to be able
to go into a interview and have the same chance as our friend Joe Blow
over on the right. It is like the term hackers. It did not use to be a
term referring to people who went into the systems and screw things up.
It was a term used to describe someone who was computer literate. Both
terms (hackers and feminists) have been changed. I guess what I am trying
to say is please do not streotype us. Not all of us have gone over the
deep end.
I also would like to say thank you for understanding that to write good
works you do not have to be drunk off your butt or high as a kite. Even
though a lot of the (what most of society call the great authors) were
always on trips. That does not mean you have to be on something to be
considered a great writer.
Keep up the good work you guys
Your humble ship mate,
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Welcome aboard me sober matie! We're for equal
rights. We're against nihilism, pornography, and frontal assaults upon
the moral fabric of civilization authored by fringe feminists.
i love your literature
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! Brevity is the soul of wit!
Avast! In the words of a loud musician "America is Killing it's youth!"
This is true in every sense. It is good to see that some fine maties of
our generation, and others, have found the, dare I say, "generational
spirit" to raise the flag of piracy and challenge the wild boomer waters.
How dare any generation before us say we cannot even dare to shine as
brightly. We need to be heard and I say this fine fighting frigate is
just what we need, and now I will step down from the proverbial soap box.
Yours justly and sincerily,
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! This generation shall author a renaissance
I say! Round up all those opposed and have 'em walk the plank at midnight!
Ahoy Good Captain!
I am writing in praise of the great ship Jollyroger. As a former high
school English teacher (who left in disgust of "the system") I want to
thank you for offering a real Literary Flagship as an alternative to the
Literary "S.S. Minnow" that contemporary "literary minds" want us to sail
with. I too have suffered through stifling creative writing classes in
which "creative" was very strictly defined by a prof. who, if you can
believe it, had little or nothing published him/herself ! ! ! !
I hope everyone on the Jollyroger gets a chance to hunt the white whale
as I have with Ahab, Ishmael, and the others. I also invite the Captain
and Crew of the Jollyroger to sail with Captain Falcon in Charles
Johnson's MIDDLE PASSAGE. A great seafaring read.
Thank ye again Jollyroger . . . literature ho! ! !
Gap-Toothed Dave
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Avast! It breaks me heart that a fan of MOBY DICK
found their spirit exiled from a contemporary high school.
Arghrghrgrh!! Look out yer ivied offices, administrators, and in the
midst of the postmodern mist ye shall discern the outline of something
immense. Is it the white whale? Is it the Jolly Roger? Or is it the
sober spirit of man once again taking the form of Great Literature? I
assure ye it's all three, and it's as real as the fear ye feel.
I am from Australia I love all of your work.
I have just noticed that of late the people aged from about 10 to 20 are
generally been called Gen 13 'The Doomed Generation' I was just wondering
if you had ever heard of anything like this. DACCA
THE CAPTIAN RESPONDS: Avast! That's just a bunch of washed-up boomers
trying to sell us bigger government and more drugs. This generation shall
author a renaissance, I repeat, for we believe in the Glory of God and
the Human Spirit and things!
Thanks for sending one of the truest and most thought provoking lists of
wisdom I've ever read. I think I'm going to forward it to my principle's
address. He might learn something. Thanks much, I look forward to
reading more from the Jolly Roger.
THE CAPTAIN RESPOND: Avast! Such optimism for an administrator's
potential! See? Me generation is full of hope!
Date: Fri, 13 Oct 1995 23:59:55 -0400
Great work, and keep up the effort --- Where do I get a T-shirt?
Date: Mon, 16 Oct 95 12:14:46 -700
Ahoy, Ahab! Many thanks for the recent e-mail. Things at
the Stanford Harbor (aka The Stanford Gulag) are most definitely
not on an even keel. That scalawag of a university president we
have here has come out in full support of affirmative action.
Pity, I had higher hopes for the man.
But I take courage and refuge in the Great Books. Your
encouragement to read them and to extol their virtues has
inspired me greatly of late. In fact, for the first time, I am
reading MOBY DICK. Moreover, I have bought a copy of Einstein's
RELATIVITY and a copy of his IDEAS & OPINIONS. I look forward
to learning from both these great men. Once again, thanks for
the encouragement. Let's continue to sail the seven cyberseas
in search of liberal booty!
Yours,
I really like your page on internet. I am new to internet
because my company just got internet.
In one part you say you can teach people how to like the Great
Books. I will like to learn how to like the Great Books, and I
plan on buying some to have in my house.
I like Rush, too, and I think the poems you write are very good.
I never liked poems that didn't rhyme. Please let me know how I
can learn more about the Great Books and how to like them.
Mike, Denver, CO
Date: Mon, 23 Oct 95 14:42:28 -0400
Um, Ahoy, maties (I'm not quite up with the sea lingo yet)
Let me just say that I read my first Jolly Roger (heard of you
on the Repub-L discussion list) and I'm looking forward to more.
I have been wandering the hallowed walkways of Duke University
for about three months, now, and I'm having a wonderful time,
but I'm missing the Great Books. Anyway, I'll be hearing from
you all regularly now, and maybe I'll post a little of my own
verse for everyone's enjoyment/criticism/entertainment/whatever.
Clear skies, strong winds, and following seas!
Lindsay a.k.a Inge the Valkyrie
Date: Thu, 26 Oct 95 22:48:54 0500
DEAR JOLLY ROGER -- Fantastic! Stupendous! Thank God there is a voice
of sanity in this cultural wilderness! Dittoes, Jolly Roger,
megadittoes! Good luck, keep up the good fight! We are
reclaiming the Soul of America!
Your brother in arms,
Walter James Raleigh Reef
Hey, I really enjoyed your poetry....Hope I had permission to
download it. Like to hear more about your campaign for
conservative poetry. --Bill Juntunen
Finding your website was a breath of fresh air! I did register,
but I'm so excited about becoming involved with such a group of
people that I had to go ahead and e-mail you!
I loved your interest in the TRUTH! I am very disturbed by the
modern crisis of rewriting dictionaries--particularly in
redefining the word "truth." Also, I hope your references to
the truth are indicative of a belief in absolute truth.
Relativity makes me sea- sick! I won't keep you longer because
I hope you'll return my mail very soon. I look forward to
hearing from you. --Ky Sinclair
READERS RESPOND: THANK YOU, THANK YOU, YOU'RE ALL TOO KIND!
Date: Thu, 28 Sep 95 10:54:18 0700
From: Samuel Anderson
To: mcgucken@physics.unc.edu
Subject: Your work- I want it
Elliot and the crew: Where can I get your literature in
full? I love REAL writing, and I really enjoyed chapter
one of The Drake Raft Field Trip--- now I need the rest.
I'm not joking, so don't laugh at me (because you like to
laugh at people) and just tell me how I can get the
remainder of your literature.
Soon!
Samuel Anderson
Ahoy, Ahab!
I must tell you I've thoroughly enjoyed THE JOLLY ROGER.
You and the other RED AVENGERS are doing a great service
for us lovers of Great Literature who are held captive in
the Gulag (in my case, Stanford University, home of "Hey,
hey, ho, ho, Western Culture's got to go!"). I had been
downcast of late, without hope of escape, but THE JOLLY
ROGER stormed the harbor, bearing the banner of TRUTH,
and now I will leap aboard her and sail the
Seven-Cyberseas, thus ending this run-on sentence.
Thanks for the opportunity to join THE CONSERVATIVE
LITERARY REVOLUTION. I, too, love the GREAT BOOKS, and
some good ones, as well (by Walker Percy, Flannery
O'Connor, G K. Chesterton, C S. Lewis, J R R. Tolkien,
et al, who, of course led me straight to the GREAT
BOOKS). Also, I share your disdain of liberals in high
places who seem to exist purely to kill the human spirit
by first destroying the human spirit's GREAT BOOKS. May
God have mercy on them, as we sure won't!
Good luck to you and the other RED AVENGERS!
I am yours most cordially, James "Captain Redbeard" Harris The
Stanford Gulag
i own an unbound original galley proof of "the drake raft
field trip". i love it. it can be a little self indulgent
at times but its real ludicrousness and pace keep it
cool. your video sounds like a real undertaking. good
luck, let me know how you're doing with it.
jill
Editor's note: (She's referring to our video entitled "Selling
Sonnets," which we're filming at UNCCH and Duke University.)
This generation reads!
http://sunsite.unc.edu/owl/selling.html (big file with lots of pictures)
The only way to accurately describe the way I feel upon reading
this web site is to bring to mind a man clinging desperately to
a tiny styrofoam surfboard as the 20-foot swells lift and
plunge him, each wave a flirtation with disaster (to quote
Molly Hatchet). Just as he's thinking he can't hold on any
longer, he sees a tall ship just a few hundred yards away. He
is rescued, and given good food and drink (probably wine and
venison, if we want to keep the proper tone going here). As he
falls asleep the old sea chanty "Me Wet Feet Are A-Peelin'."
Anyway, congratulations on your superb venture. I have long
held many of the same feelings/values about
literature/art/politics/everything else as you (all) express
here, and, as someone working seriously on his first novel, I,
too, share your predisposition for actually WRITING rather than
simply TALKING ABOUT WRITING. I wish you much success, and you
should know that, when I talk about the web and its potential,
I often mention your site as an example of people "publishing"
whatever the hell they want to say without any affiliation to
the big wig companies out there.
Keep up the good work.
Bill O'Connor
To: Elliot McGucken
.......had some relatively free time (well actually paying
a hell of a lot of money for my time here at good ole Duke
U) so I read through a bunch of your web site. Actually, I
didn't read through it - I savored it, relished in it,
absorbed it like the dry desert sand. I grew up in the
shadow of the Great Books, I live a block from the house
where Moby Dick was written...Kipling, Tolkien and Chaucer
were playmates. I had this silly idea that when I went to
school (high, college, grad - whatever) I would continue
this track. That the University would help me follow the
footsteps of those Greats who had traveled before me and
left a brilliant legacy that I could not hope to glimpse
all of in my lifetime. Instead I have president Keohane
barking down my throat that I am anti-intellectual because
I don't spend every waking moment with my eyes bonded to
my Orgo book. She sees us "just sitting around", lounging
on the quad or in the gardens. What the hell was Thoreau
doing at Walden? THE phrase "stop and think" is not one
many people use in the right context. I don't have time to
stop and think while I am taking an Genetics exam. I am
too busy regurgita
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