This generation,
evil and adulterous,
still grasps at signs.

None shall
be given to it..
only being
flowing through
itself in time.

What other sign
could a believer
possibly still need?
Except the medium
by which The All
of signs may be
observed, indeed…

Yeah, I lift..
myself alone
through prayer.
I’d do it for you..
but I am no
soothsayer.

Exerting your
own force upon
the weight
of being..
may be
the only way
to speak with
The All-Seeing.

For one may only
train the muscles
that attach to
their own bone …

Do you take me
for a starving
artist? Naw..
You should
know better
what I am..

Naught,
but a temporarily
disgruntled, maybe
down-on-luck..
but always
dignified
artistocrat
at heart.

The only Lord
I answer to
is The All-God.
Red is my
royal purple,
pentagram
my sigil,
and atop
my scepter …

The pen
is mightier
than the
sword.

Even mightier,
however, is
what’s written
by the pen..
The Word.

The meaning
that one hears
in seeing what
was written
is, indeed,
mightier
still.

The second
mightiest might be
the feeling in us
that the meaning
renders clear.

The mightiest
of …

I have rippled
myself
through this
body.
Through this
mind I have
travelled
in waves.

All I’ve been.
All I am.
All I must be..
Find at last
their own form
through my
shape.

Through
the shape
of the vessel
that holds them.
Through whose
will they shall
form …

Oh how
the mighty
have fallen..
off the shoulders
of giants that
might.

But in truth,
what’s to fall
from high heaven?
When within one
at all times
lives light…

When reflections
in my shattered
mirror..
gaze right back
into my
present soul..

I have lived.
I have played …

Flow like water
from my vessel
into yours..
from yours
back into mine.

What water?
Water of our
being.. shared
in space and time.

It takes the path
of evil on occasion..
to fulfill the ends
of greater good.

It finds its current
in transfiguration
of mundane into
comedically
absurd …

I count as many
toes upon
my hands
as I have fingers
on my feet.

About as many
as the shots
I should’ve taken..
that I’ve missed.

As numerous
as stars that sparkle..
on a cloudy night
to naked eyes
are my regrets.

The All
I yearn for …

Fellow Romans..
Hide your wives.
Here comes
the bald,
adulterous
whore.

Who pissed away
his gold in Gaul..
Just to come back
and mine his craft
for more..
at least for now.

For isn’t gold
The All of good
that makes these
gilded showers
flow in steady
streams?

Alas …

What am I
really missing
here? Except for
constant catty
noise in my
right ear?

A noise I know.
A noise I love..
but what of it?
What else?

Nothing.
I’ve known
all sorts of noise..
but just because
I love to hear it
doesn’t make it
good …