Of Wor(l)ds Beyond

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In my youth I attempted
to assimilate the others
Even attempted to take interest
in their dull
commonplace conversations
Only to be bored
by their financial hopes
and scripted dreams

I can't recall the moment
I was blessed or cursed
with foreknowledge
of a dead future

Maybe subconsciously
I'd known all along that
we're all lone travelers 
from somewhere
in the vast Universe
to here and now
to somewhere else

So I no longer waste thoughts
on the opinions of others

For I know now
I am an outsider
in this century
and among those who
masquerade as men
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Blondie

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One of the custodians
from the adjacent building
calls me Clint
anytime we pass
in the hallway

Due I suppose
to my carefree attitude
and general disdain
for authority

Perhaps a reminder
of Eastwood
in his old western films
back in the 60's

A comparison I don't mind
I rather like the old west
and though I may remind him
of a gunslinger like Blondie
or the man with no name

I doubt I'd ever spit
chewing tobacco on a dog

or play sides for profit

and I'd never sacrifice integrity
for a few dollars more

Things haven't changed much
since then anyhow

The good die young

The bad still control the wealth

and the ugly breed like cockroaches

To host a new batch
of village idiots and thieves



La Chiesa

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Unpaved dirt pathways

To archaic stone steps we plunge

Into the sacred valley beneath the falls

Feet submerged in its turquoise waters

Gazing above into its reflection

Sharing the breath of God

As the eroding jagged cliffs jut out and over

Like extensions of the tree roots within them

Overshadowed by circling hawks and seagulls

Nonchalantly gliding through it all

This is my church

Here

Without enclosures and corruption

Where the spirit flows with the river

…and everyone is welcome

Living in Shadows

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Though I've always burned
with the serpent fire

I chose to live
within its shadows

Carved upon walls indifferent,
written

So as to stray from the public
(Eye) disown,
withdraw

From the falsehood
of the world material,
Non-ethereal

With lives so dreary,
so dry

That even a spark
with leave them ash

From castles cardboard
to char the tiny remains,

The windswept cinders
of their calloused hearts