A Toast At The Feast, To Modern Models And Passing Lives In The Chains Of Time


To new-neon and her niece
To disk imbued with circus

To leather jackets the rebels
To chronic elevation of the

To old particles, that fell in the grass,
To grass
the Children of Love

To the bitter Solitary nights, afoot all,
To homeless homes they kept afloat,
To Mona Lisa, and The Beats, a Howl?
To Poe , Raven’s wind and Pit’s bones,

To Jazz, To Jazz, To Scat,
To Blues of our souls, To Rocks in our head, To Symphonies


To Chem-Trails, and bird tails, To Illuminati Dollar

To Pilgrims ships, that broke upon

the settling rocks,

To Moloch, To Bohemia,
To Groves of Indecent Kinder,
To Troll booths, To Asphalt,

To Super-volcanoes,To Route 66,

To The Green Thumbs and Giants,

To Greenspan, To Alderan,
To The Emerald Oz, To Enoch’s great quills,

To the Watchers lost,

To little Green men, Army Men and Gray man metals,

that fell in Roswell’s sands,
To Libya, to China, to Gaza,
To new ETs, to old Tube TVs,

To Asimov, to open caskets, to weddings,
to Ludwig’s 5th, to Helter Skelter,

Revolution, Revelation,
and to faded photos lining the halls,

To Faith in lies, to lying in wait, to weight, and to funeral pyres,
To JFK, Cuba, To Vietnam, To Napalm, To all who fell in The Jungles Alone,

To immolated immortals,

to Gomorrah and sad Goliath,
To salads we tossed in Agent Orange,

To the tips we gave the servants,

To petroleum gases, to Xenon, and Boron,
To petri spawn, they brew in the fries,
To captives and sailors across The New World,
To The Natives we loved, who died of detachment,

To Nicotine we cashed as crops,

To CIA Cocaine cartels,
To Network Analysts who signed the

Declaration twice,

To barrier reefs we
assured with black oils,
To Rain forests and clouds
we veneer with blood,

To diamonds without value, hidden in

the poor mans fangs,
Or parcels of narcotics they put in their

To living free or dying slow,
To rabies, To Cholera, To H1N1 and to the pigs,
To the Pearls I throw, and the Carbon I revel in,
To magistrates of manics, who run now the world,

To scandal, to Valhalla, to The Prophets Stone,

wide high ceiling,
To The Stoned Prophets of Zion

and to depreciation,

To the pacification
of inflated cotton gods,
To BP CEO Rolex rubble,
to NASA, To Ice Cream,

To Ice cream truck music composers,
to Ice,
To The skinned knee traded by a young diabetic
for the canes,

To the cane-fed brains, and

the brain-fed-bioengineered-grains,
To Parliament, To Senate,
To Caesar, To Gall,

To the Hannibal

who walks with graves and slow cigars,
To the Elephants who flew but once,

who died over peaks of war,

To Mercedes parked in low alley walls, and

to Clipper ships,
To the bottles raised
In the din of life’s feast,

To Desire, to street cars,
To Death Stars, to Hollywood,
To Polanski’s loss, Lo!
All of Babylons laments,

To Christ, and to Melchizidek, To the Trinity,

Wise-men and Thieves,
To Carpenters, To Desert Power,

The Great Spice, and to Manna,

To the jackals and
to the thirsting rains,
To Me and To You and
To all who never know,

To the first of days,
To the End Of Days,
To toil, to Brahmin,
to To, and To Be,

The mountains wish to swim,

the Waters were the ice,
The sun is
fire spun,

Around a Tired moon,
and us Alone,
All bow before, all fall
beyond, this Rock.


About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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2 Responses to A Toast At The Feast, To Modern Models And Passing Lives In The Chains Of Time

  1. Jingle says:

    lovely word flow..

    the tired moon, wow.
    enjoyed the imagery.


  2. Evelyn says:

    like this
    “To old particles, that fell in the grass”

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