Writings: Sometimes what giants sacrifice in height, they get back in years...

Sometimes what giants sacrifice in height, they get back in years.
Though the economy of sacrifice may pin back their ears.
If they tumble too far to the right.
I stumbled upon an abysmal abyss and saw ATLAS enraged
and banging his fists into Paradise's stairs, and my head
was ringing until it cleared (if a few more white with hairs),
but at times I think it was staged. Especially when he
pulled a cast of mermaids from his beard. And their fake
blood ruined the ink on the page as the poet feared
it would.

 


 

Too much morality can kill your spirit just as much as not enough.
The earth is a ball and we balance ourselves on it.
Otherwise, each time ATLAS shrugs, we fall.

 


 

Even fear must be gauged, as sometimes we fear most what we need.
Our needs are not weaknesses as much as our denial of them are weaknesses.
And our refusal to acknowledge them, cruel.
Balance and moderation are tools.
And time lets you know when you
are out of school and ready to turn the page.

 


 

...if you don't object 
BYRON kept his hands inside 
his embryonic pockets in case
he genuflects for coins. But for
a gin and tonic
His loosened grip around 
a pencil necked baton
conducts a supersonic minuet. Only the 
string section finds it ironic.
The arthritis 
in his wrists regret, the time taken
to shake the fists at time. It may
be that he bruises easily, faces the music
trebling up, his creeping seepage
bubbling up and bursting
to doubt before the evening
sun has set and the night has turned
its love crimes out. You bet he's on the
next cruise. A pocketful 
of wry, while then you die
inside portentous proving
grounds that have a mind, but not
to cry.
You rebel as you are moving
around .Then you inhale and grab
the dragon by its retractable tail.
Then fall in with the jailhouse
lawyers that set rabble rousing
tongues wagging with dice that 
cover bail when not setting 
hailstones traps, and negotiating
with men for hire, and settling bets
with the gallows pole the 
executioner laps, where twice 
the amount of heads fill buckets
where lice are now loose 
and limp lies limbs, unfolded 
from desire, such as soon to
fill a hole with not so subtle reminders
that death is kind of gruesome,
fresh grist for the fire.
Though sometimes awesome
and then some. Those moralists
are such scolds! Sometimes life
can be more lonesome. Sometimes the center
will not hold ! This did not 
however stop me from picking
at my teeth, while hacking at their 
gold. Zebra striped
choirs tell you this, even when 
harmonized by liars underneath
and corporate boll weevils 
mandated by spread sheets
to deceive us.
You rebel, and with the
fevered backslap of the whale,
CONSPIRE, wailing away, a shadow magnet. 
Believe us,
Craven if it's vagrant.
As dry as a vulva
in Baghdad's bloom 
looking to make you over 
for hire.
A dragnet, careful not
to get caught
between euphemisms 
and euthanasia. Both 
stagnant. Both prisons. 
One never 
looks you in the eye, 
the other never pays you. 
Both a foul as flagrant
as sure as the cliffs of Dover.
And ignorant of the
youth in America. 
Absent of mind 
concerning ALI, and drawing
a blank on FRAZIER.
One who flukes in various
hues and whose views
are dank and wet. And whose 
bank will lock in credit.
The bite marks heralded
on his calender are writing
in oversight his carols yet:
SCRATCH AND CLAW
IS THE LAW!
( and all of life can be sung
between 'Mamma Mia'
and Mia Farrow, before
her fees were set and the 
choices became too narrow)
THE BLUES tap dancing
like llamas in broken barrels
of laughs, and lurching from
its pollen count's aftermath
in bloodstains. 'What a ruse'!
Said the Russian above the 
roaring din, when his
head got pushed in 
by his next of kin 
reading PUSHKIN 
to him.
Smoking as if their cartilage
would choose to lie steamed 
against the marrow of a heavy chin,
over boozed from Tyranny's weighted 
testicles and grinding blades, and surrender's
arrested sorrow. Like thumb screws.
Like glass in gum chews,
when you are that stupid to 
choose tomorrow,
exactly how many teeth you
plan to lose. It's all so confusing.
Yet, I am going through my
coin purse, to help him 
pay his dues. What he does with it
is his choosing. In the time
it takes to wind it down 
and settle up his debts,
to rattle at his hissing
moments and rage at
his regrets. His scars
are centipedes of hope
that blanket deeper bruising.
They skinned alive his
rock collection and arrested
all of his pets. One escaped 
in a pair of shoes, a rabbit
escaped in a hat we were using.
Neither shall fossils
nor whistles delay
what the waves beneath
the margins prove, as the sperm
foams the ground. As the froth
of the ocean stirs the world around
and attempts to further save.
AND when the glove
hits the love, the leather
cracks to reveal Crocodile tears
wearing Alligator shoes 
stepping away from a 
pool of envy, a useless
grave, and trying 
not to make a sound,
while its footprints accuse
of solitary days.
I were told: If you snooze,
you lose. So WAKE UP!
And set your sail upon
the tide of these neuroses.
The Nile is flooding with
fresh psychosis, this very hour 
and losing soil to bile. Relax yourself, 
the next eruption might 
take a while and unsteady 
your hypnosis. This ship
is spinning like a top 
in the gyre of its
twilight cruise.
J'ACCUSE!
He stops,
and steps away to brush 
his mouth, which stings
of halitosis.

 


 

From the 'How Did That Happen?' Files: 
YOU CAN'T MAKE THIS STUFF UP !
A friend brought back from a trip 
a novelty gift for us. It were 5 TEABAGS, in a set,
each representing the likenesses of these greats:
Elvis, John Lennon, Jimi, Bob Marley and Michael
Jackson. And get this, MICHAEL WAS THE 
WHITEST of them all! Masters Marley and Hendrix 
were both mocha smooth and light brown. Elvis were
a light pinkish white, while Lennon carried a 
glowing orange light beige complexion. And in the 
middle, grinning, was Michael, with no tone at all 
to his white, just pure plain vanilla, even more than
the others.In fact, I've never even seen whites with 
this color outside of marble busts in museums. 
What a coup! God bless him. That cream
he used really works!

 


 

THERE IS NO WAY OUT! 
Just love your life and turn 
the abyss to bliss. The abyss 
won't disappear. You change it 
from black hole to head room.

 


 

WHY DOES PROMETHEUS 
THROW THUNDERBOLTS AT ZEUS? 
(to keep his pitching arm loose)! 
O sullen are the seeds which came
down the mountain to attain.
Because he gets bored, that's the truth
and because no one else can handle him
or mount the mantle of sandalwood
which freighted him at best, that his
attention span remain, focussed. And happiest
of all fools is he who realizes his predicament
and let's it save him, save the spindle of 
the mandala which created him, and lets
go of other hocus-pocus. He crafts logos
from crested tools. While his chest
is full of tumbleweed, and his 
waistline slim, he hurls his
darts from the vestibule of
crested heights, aiming, 
and tossing names at him.
While critiquing how the show goes.
Who could be braver
while cursing at his
own behest, planning
further duels, to mitigate
further behavior?
He stands aloof. 
He can tell from
the dark splattered clouds, 
when his proverbs have 
hit Olympia's proverbial roof. While Zeus
fumes with what could be put to
better use when not dissembling
and questioning his rigid posture,
his nymph assisted youth.
The saints of death and desiccation 
bringing in the sheaves to be
sheared with ease. The lions
claim the sheep prattle on
when they hear the jewelry
rattle, shivering in their tenderloins
before the wool is gathered, and snatched
for the battle plans hatched to absorb
the boys riding in tall saddle.
The mules suggest rough going
and bray, in essence to say what
their sweat is showing, what
their sacrifices mutter, but forget 
to pray.
Meanwhile,
another bolt is hovering,
covering, hiding in the breaks. 
And between renegades
and hand grenades,
the grenadiers on guard
are shuddering. 
Who never met a war path
they wouldn't take, if 
the numbers fit the brokering. 
It were brutal when he heard
the maples branching out
into grief. EXIGESIS CHRIST!
What has become of consecration
and what has it done to his wife?
Stunned and broken across
the bow of someone else's strife 
and abbreviation.
Twice, a thief steals the 
day, and gives it back as
a weightless pebble. So:
Announcing another level,
Prometheus spits from his mouth
another moistened wedge of
a silver tongued devil hanging
on for dear life.
A changeling who changes
things, for its own sake,
jabbing and circling
before the chance stings,
before the bell rings
vertically straight, though
horizontally cross. A left hook
to your mother and I'm your boss.
Bred like starlings, hung like moss
(I wrote this one in bed,
though that's what he said
while entertaining darlings who
flutter even when they floss).
Immersed,
Even numbers go numb
feeling the loss of things
that go out of trait, and bends 
out of shape its dusted wings.
It resembles that which breaks.
That which slackens into a 
loosened purse and beer house
poverty sing the polyphony's
of the dead, blackened by
the toll life takes while it forsakes
what between the lines it read
to undo its epiphanies.
Words got terse!
Verbs got assigned before the
vowels were delivered first.
Worse, wasted beyond the
harbor lights that dot the night
shore with lightbulb stars and
wraps itself in fishnet tights,
are the sisters of the swaying bars, 
who stutter and lose themselves in verse.
Tongue twisters, a sole rehearsal.
Surrendering their souls
to role reversal in hopes to
someday reimburse.
They'll marry and be covered
in connubial blisters helped
along by soothing butter.
They also serve who sit and wait
even if they masturbate,
though especially if they can enumerate
the difference between
the cash and clutter.
Trash my rhymes, though
leave my dimes to generate.
Never at a loss for words,
though at a loss when
paying the fines, and
that is hard to tolerate. 
This train of thought may not have
made much sense, (even as it rolls
out of steam) but it cost
you nothing at all to ride it.
COMMENCE. The light is 
green!
AND IT WILL be leaving 
again in an hour or less.
Get inside it.
Perchance to dream.
Half an hour to RETRENCH
if accompanied by your
mister's and the veil of longing
they fail to address. Remember:
IF YOU HAVE A LISP,
your lips move slower
when you kiss her!
But if you lick her,
the drool might drown her quicker
than she screams. Try not
to trick her! You picked her!
And to the victor goes the spoils
that doesn't mainly go to the vicar,
the rest goes to the doctor keeping
both seams from getting sicker. 
One lies thicker, the other low and close to his coils.
One much closer to labor,
the other closer to the fruit of his toil
that his sweat beads allowed him to savor.
Happiest is he, who as an 
idiot, neither knows nor cares
Happiest yet is this scribe, 
writing on a dare
describing his own self, 
unawares. Writing in 
his yellow socks, and
rocking in his orange
striped underwear, 
while hoping it 
clears his blocks.
Opportunity clears
its throat, and grabs
a nap before it knocks.
You can call it a speed bump,
but even a camel has to get
over the hump. And
thumb its nose at 
other ropes. And the 
monsters asleep in
various lochs who
get all the headlines
but miss all the jokes.

 


 

We were all concerned
when Shiva got the shakes.
All of the apologists gathered,
all the forms it takes
to fill out with nervous
insurers standing by
'lest his epilepsy be used
as an alibi to lower
the interest rates.
His children, unalarmed,
outside on the balcony
perambulate,
while the doctors give
Lord Shiva another try.
Some cry, some delay
as the priests in the temple
stand mute and pray
behind their thick and
perfumed drapes.
And though he plummets
at the weight of a thousand
strings in praise, the rupture
within him brings, 
a coiled scorpion's
glance at the vomit of epiphanies
he used to sing. And all the 
trees it used to make, dance
with the same winds the night's
truant lullaby betrays.
And entrance with the willows,
the moonlight's shape.
The grapes press on
so why not shall we?
The days filled up well with
Shiva, that's why
I hope he stays.

 


 

'Tis not always who is first to the mountain
who is the king of it, sometimes it be the last.
As breaking into diamonds are the coals that
life has already gotten past, it contrasts this
with shallow graves which wriggles through
wrath, its worms and sallow weeds. Entranced in 
nuclear thoughts. In abstract math.
While a cyclist rides a psychopath trying
to out pedal his misdeeds.

 


 

IF THE FOODS THEMSELVES DON'T KILL YOU, 
then opinions about them will. 
One way or another, no one gets out 
of this world alive.

 


 

NOAH'S FALLEN ARCHES
were of no concern to his able bodied crew.
They would forge what papers were necessary
while their mission were forging through.
Though embarrassing to the master previously
mentioned, it were not enough to curtail convention
and blur, and take up more space in his mind, than the space
he had to travel through, bending gravity while
gaining time to get to her, and moving towards suspension.

 


 

To be governed by laws is a higher cause,
to be burdened by rules is the use for schools.
For us fools while we pay our dues in them.

 


COPYRIGHT SANANDA FRANCESCO MAITREYA 
MILANO 23th MAY 2011
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