Coming Home, Home Gone – Misanthropic Duality Gospel

Come home,
Home gone,

Light off,
Lights bright,

Day scream
Night wails,

Moon sings
Suns song,

A Single,
A Couple,

Belittle,
Embrace,

Old friends greet
Wishes of blessing-

New enemies born
To young yet to kill-

Wade in the furnace
Daniel’s dance too-

Ashes, Ashes,
We are but dust through-

We all rise-pheonix
We all fall down-

Thorn cloud halo Christ
Golden wreath Cesar-

Love-
Hate-

Class-
Fate-

Couples drunk single
Single drink dates-

Merely mercy from Baba
Less light from veneer-

Ripples on the wildest wing!
Horns off the sober Angel!

Anthrax Christ on the mount-
Satan sells ipods to infants-

All the children gather petals,
All withered, like snowflakes-

California dreams deserts oft,
Maine is a temple to season,

Fly- LA.yover- there beside that –
Fire, and see the cats eye love us-

White Cat,
little flame

All apologies- I’m mad at my-   image- released reflection-

Forget grammar, language and laminated identities-

Really we are
The moments passed-

Answer the door and close it-
In the faces of every clay mask*

 

This is a meaningless poem.

So Goddamn
Sacred Holy-

*Shattering them all into dust.

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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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