WotanTyger

Purity power ageless wisdom that man could never share -- the pearls are cast before Your feet: The Coming of the Bear. Wash off the blood, wash off the shame: In Northern Forest spirits fly; to join the long sleep and rebirth of triumph, where man can never lie. Hold us in Your ageless arms, where weakness cannot live -- look at us with Your timeless eyes... Tell us what we must give. Poor mortals though we are, Great Bear, please Give us the strength to dream. Give us the plenty of the summer sun, and winter moonlight's gleam -- -- and Tell us all Your tales of hope: Those Elder Days, where You held fast, to the Fall of Man, and his spreading death, for soon, we are the last. One Day You'll return to cleanse Your Home -- the place, where we never belonged: For we chose to be your enemy, and almost never your friend, until all our chances save the final one, were gone. Mend our hurt, Great Bear, and show us the way... Give us all what we deserve. November returns to take us

Brought to you by AFMPM*, Local 151 (behind the firehouse) Last summer's sapling, defiantly standing against the howling snows of January in young-life hard-times that seem to never end- 'til that cold-to-warming day, for which his older brothers are dread-filled preparing... The Roman spike in their side(s), through which their clear-running blood ooze-slide(s), Just like that Jimmy Gilmer song from way back in the day: "Layin' down tracks to that sugar shack." Some overly-optimistic hippie once said: "The World is an Eternal Yes!" Unfortunately, due to outsourcing// //downsizing// //offshoring... Yes moved overseas last month. No is gone for the day, and Not Yet's off-the-clock in five minutes. Only one still here is: Ignore ya, 'til ya give up an' go away.

Three days on the road, heading back north, and now there's dust in my guitar... 'Cuz I can't really call myself --a "guitarist" any more than I can call myself a "poet"-- (is there a musical equivalent of "poetaster"?) --at my age, who am I fooling? At best I'll be a dumpster-star. And, perhaps a very sobering metaphor for a midlife guitar-wannabe (sorta like me) yeah, a black-as-midnight metaphor for the state this ageing body is sooner-rather-than-later gonna find itself in? "It's like dissolving into a coughing fit right in the middle of guitar practice -- right as you're trying to sing & play "Dust in the Wind..."

A certain catchy song from the low-side of the Eighties about late-night radio interference bouncing from Moscow to Cologne (the) Scene is set with the emotive lyrics: "Early evening, ring around the moon". Unexpected gift of contemplation as you long for your warm bed at home. Yet mere words can't do it justice-- it's truly a sight to see: several nights of lunar rings (stark-yet-delicate//crystalline) in the tortured-breath final weeks of two thousand, twenty-three. "But wait, there's more!" --in the 'barely-starting-to-crawl' Barbenheimer mushroom-heady war-baby of this twenty-shy-of-a-Gross brand-new new leap-year. Inland/Westward of old St. Augustine Luna high overhead on its slow-creep, final approach from distance-closing-southward of its nightly zenith-- ~ ~ Ensconced like the Infanta ~ ~ ~ ~ in her ~ ~ ~ ~ delicate, palanquin ring of near-crystalline wispy cloud ~ ~ against sky of dimly luminous slate grey after 20:00 hours

...but at the end of the day We always decide that violence is the only way. No matter what we do no matter what we say, violence is the only way. Just like ideologies can only truly reign when their message is spread by the club, the gallows, and/or the sword; and suffering our dogma to be criticised or questioned, is not to be tolerated: It's a luxury one cannot afford. 'Cuz its primacy must be enforced through fear and pain: "All Pleasure is Evil!" "All "sex" is Rape!" and, above all, never forget: "Brutality and gore in The Name are things to celebrate!" Yes, brutality and gore shall be worshipped evermore And our true Pantheon Triune: Moloch, Mars and Mammon -- -- always the Gifts of our genuine sincerity. Always be what the plan is... 'Cuz attacking the tools is a cynical numbers game at best: Like forbidding a lumberjack a chainsaw, and limiting him to an axe. We're concentrating on the "how" but utterly refusing to contemplate the "why". We won't address the deepest

-{I)- -{Mid-January}- Crescent moon lies horizontal tonight, like some celestial Glasgow Grin— Yeah -- an appropriate cosmic metaphor, as we slide into two thousand twenty-four, for the current state this crazy world is in. Bight amber shine, like that Waterboys song where the protagonist just stayed in her room: Fluorescent amber sickle in halo-glow revealing the secrets of the shadowed whole, (a) poet of dim-memory's Round Slice of Moon-- --or that orange peel smile that every kid eventually tries (just don't make the stupid mistake of putting those orangey fingertips too close to your eyes). And when this poetaster most wants inspiration? Well, that's when I'm least likely to get it: just like the Idea and the Clue Stores, long ago stopped accepting my credit. Yet that horizontal fluorescent crescent: Some astrological portent of impending doom? Perhaps some End-Days "Signs and Wonders" of hopes & hearts all cracked asunder? Nah: "You're overthinking it, you idiot! Sure

Late Florida January, the land lies still-- in some in-between place: Night not yet arrived, & evening just left... Not so much as a hint of breeze, save some stealthy fingertip chill; eerie near-silence only broken by something softly peeping in the nearby woods: Like some purgatoried dreams between honest sleep & eventual death. Or perhaps a silent contemplation of words I just can't seem to reach: Stubbornly/mockingly dancing just beyond my stiff, frigid grasp or some unnaturally drawn-out... ... ...pause between breaths. & the unfathomably far-off skies hold jealously-close their ancient secrets, always cold & indifferent Big Dipper large and low on the horizon & something else about this night so incredibly rare: A cosmic metaphor for some great turning or some clichéd "Great Awakening" & though often too dim for feeble, unaided eyes to see, tonight the little bear is just as bright as the big bear. 29 Jan 2024 20:30 29.8922° N, 81.3139° W

What? You must think I'm some sort of wizard, doggo... Somehow, when I pick up the newest mess you've made on the floor, whatever you've >>chewed up

What hunts me is the dishes who have gathered in the sink they plan to overthrow me and the disordered way I think. And the laundry, well I must confess I just don't find it fun it's assembled in the basket yet remains mostly undone. The stories I haven't finished all are running off the page looking for a better writer who can give them center-stage. Let's not talk about the sweeping or the mopping I've neglected they frown at my utter failure to perform just as expected. I have seventy-two texts because I just avoid my phone I think before, in times of yore I considered talking 'home.' I pick at the necessities to appear mostly in line but I'm not sure that it's quite enough to externally embody 'fine.' And I'd tell you that I'm lonely but I'm afraid to let that out it hurt too much the last time so I cannot go that route. But despite that, I want to believe that it's going to be okay so in spite of my unfinished tasks I'm glad I got up today.

I used to think that life was about waiting for a curtain call. Poetry itself doesn't yearn for some kind of stage youth-its vainglory-insisted that I might be on tenterhooks for something impossible or- -perhaps impossibly-something great. I wanted opportunity, but I was not an opportunist. You can become stagnant, overgrown and choked with weeds thinking the universe will give you some sort of handout because you can make something reflective beautiful. And it's not that I was unwilling or didn't work hard it's that I worked with the anticipation that purpose would fall into my lap, that I would grow large on my effort alone... ...that there was heroism in creativity borne from isolation. My most joyful moments consist of time with family and friends, of collaborating with peers and creating community with those not likeminded but familiar with the struggle to exist; the one simultaneous and in tandem with the deep yearning to be seen. And I will tell you that life is

I'm learning the art of breathing Inhaling through my nose In a slow dance with life Feeling the turn of the breath From the inhale to the exhale Making the transition smooth Like waves crashing and receding Taking with them all my fears I time the inhales and exhales One immediately following the other Sipping as much air as I require But not more than I need My heart slows in synchrony And the heavy burden that it bears Becomes light once again

head like a fishbowl got two angels inside saw a glint of godhood on a screen split the decision- infamy or deicide welcome, get born with your habitual ambitions in hand dream chase without rest, reward without work trade in attention until it's so scarce it becomes in high demand on the precipice of promised greatness again, were we? anticipating a dizzying rise to stardom, if only not for the peons keeping you down to earth while you're starfucking, balancing delicate egos like cosmos on spinning plates for eons head in the clouds, mouth buzzing with the duplicitous scandal if you don't deserve to be here, why don't you lift someone who does up help them reach the deeply envied neons, no, it's the unbalanced nature of nurturing the beast, this blue collar image of a struggling worker, rising, grinding, loyal to the fault line is unshaken, and how it is his time to feast at a table with Roman disciples, wearing T-Shirts with him already crucified on the front the

I could see a ribcage in the clouds strange bones protruding from pale white ethereal flesh Nights breath shallow isolated gasps of swirling moisture gods blood curdling in the lungs of cirrus I gaze on her organs of stone as her celestial body succumbs to sleep to a morning clear and dreamless

The pen I use got up today and disappeared to caper with my notebooks and my cellphone and all of my spare paper. It took each of my ideas and yanked them right out of my head so it's not that I won't write at all it's because I can't instead.

On days you feel a thousand pounds and thoughts consume your head, remember there's accomplishment in getting out of bed. There's no such thing as perfect and those who say it's true, my dear, I really verily fear they're liars through and through. If you got your clothes on sideways I won't pretend that it's a crime, if you're moving at a snail's pace well, you're moving, and that's fine. So the coffee isn't strong enough so your bedroom is a wreck, some need time, just to embody 'fine' and if you're not, well, heck. I'm not here for the 'perfect's for the 'wonderful's or 'happy's, I'm here for the 'exhausted's-the 'weird's- -and I think you're doing snappy. If you find, within the maelstrom that you made it through the day, you're A-list on my tattered chart and I'm glad you're 'just okay.'

I wonder if the weaver dreams of times when they were overlarge, of eras like Silurian when arachnids were once in charge. I wonder if her mother sang of Baltic seas and salty spray, or if she sits upon her web and doesn't think of things that way. I wonder if her web was wove in honor of her giant past, and if the strands she shimmies down were long ago netted to last. I wonder if there once were wars between factions of spider kings, or if they were a peaceful race who didn't care for violent things. I wonder if they think us strange with our two legs instead of eight, and if they think our ways are odd; so obstructed with grief and hate. I wonder if arachnids love in any way that's like we do, and if so, why do they go and eat their partners when they're through? And sometimes I just amble by and don't wonder of things at all it's hard to think of things so big when you are beautiful and small.

3/18/23 I want to believe, that if I turn into your arms enough, the world and its troubles, will melt away and dissolve, into the silvered pools, of your eyes. If I hold you long enough, if I count the cobbles, at the riverbed while you, talk to the birds, would it be enough? The universe is a giant, knocking at the castle doors, and I am afraid the longer, I let it bang on the gates, the less time I will have, to go out to parley; to beg for peace and if not peace, to take the sword and slay, the black splotch at the doorstep, before it crosses over the threshold, and stains the corridors with death. The encroaching cold, of inevitability is the closest thing, to consistency I have ever known. If you look beyond, the warmth I pour into my words, you will find the letters, are bristling with teeth and sharp edges. I am so afraid cutting us open, on the dagger-like apex of, my nascent, cynical incisors. My court-date with dread, at the throne of Misgivings, holds such a

They call it 'Up from Sloth' From idle stagnation To a full-bore brunt Cutting out the mats from my hair And showering-shaving once again From spending all day in bed Rolling over and over and over To a frenetic electric pace And getting er done Going from zero to zoom Repeat "Oomph" after me... There are things yet to accomplish Gotta rise and shine at dawn To the whispers in my ear: "Let's make use of those idle hands!" Trying to inquire of them: Be you angels or demons? "What does it matter?" is the reply, "Have ye not a new purpose?" Yes indeed a wind blows within! It is called 'inspiration' after all And I am completely filled up