Copyright ©2001-2002. By John Kooz. All Rights Reserved.
Sometimes, I ask.
I ask, why do they put up with it?
With what? Themselves, of course!
They float amongst each other like distant ghosts. Their glazed glances
And prosaic talks.
The all want to love– to connect, feel, see color in the sky.
But they shield themselves from it. They concoct thick, metal-clinking, meshed armor
Patented with rude remarks and cruelty for ultimate protection and shelter.
Everyone’s armor fits them distinctly and uniquely, for everyone’s disposition is different -
Old wounds that can’t remain open, secrets that must remained veiled, masquerades that
Remain at the Costume party.
Can’t remain open? Must remain veiled? Masquerades?
Why? Why must you hide yourself?
Wounds are defined as being cared for by loved ones, secrets designed to be shared,
And masks, crafted for masquerade balls only.
Why all the furtive hiding? From what? Love?
Love? The one thing that allows you to live, thrive, cry, burn, rage, throttle, nurture skies,
Roam freely, unfetter a mind, interact with, and erupt all of your limits?
Why? Why, friend, I ask why?
Undress your catatonic veil of metallic concealment and icy mistrust - feel.
He scowls at love,
Frowns at life,
Uproots happiness and tries to make it his own.
Why does he do this?
Why does he frequently blockade the natural path for others,
With his putrid filth; with his raunchy, grasping ooze
Like a drowning swimmer
Gurgling for that last breath?
Because deep down he is touched by
His lingering hatred-truth with a passion;
frustrated by irrelevant laughter;
Troubled by jagged ripples;
Irritated by humming spontaneous silence,
Astonished by flustered clusters of light.
But instead of accepting this unsound explosion from the painted skies of his soul,
It frightens him.
He starts looking for that last gurgling breath,
And tries to suffocate it.
So, it’s fine with me junk-man, if you smother your own fantasy fading of dreams
But in the mean time,
I’m going to be painting my skies.
I don’t know what I am feeling.
This rushing gusto of fervent light
In the murky corridors of my body.
It homes me and numbs me;
Numbs my mind,
That mysterious organ of a clunky, mechanical, mastery.
And it allows my body to find
This subtle mastery
In the slinking, swirls
Of the smoky corridors
Of my veins.
The warm, caressing blanket of the sky,
Revolves and soothes in a mystifying miracle of light.
The ever-glowing circle dances,
Mingling in the iridescent space
Of this morphing, melting cushion of clouds.
The blanket spreads its soothing
That embalms my sweet lips
And whets my skin.
The circle of the sky
Shifts and shades
In, about, and through this blanket.
And its glaring omnipresent smile
Prances between the cracks of
The drowning softness of the clouds.
This is a softness that swirls
With the same motions as the
But at the pace of a listless baby;
Or a homeless, headless, hatless man
That has just found a benign blanket
To mollify his pains.
I coast down the concrete harbor.
The pedal to the wheel makes my heart squeal.
God, I love to see, and hear, and feel.
The twinkling halos
In an indigo of florescent flows;
Those who tinker by
In those robotic row-boats,
Cannot freely go;
They cannot divine on vista valentine.
How sad is their rolling carcasses
Drifting around and around that incandescent moat.
I watch disparate masks
Shade through this world
Overwhelmed with contorting tasks.
But their sadness caresses me,
I have them join me for a didactic cup of tea.
I try to show them the halos that luminously show;
And teach them to know,
What they already know.
The ocean beckons
With each crushing tide
And reeling rift.
It dances rhythmically out wide;
It does not need to decide.
The reeling laughter within
Matches that of the surging sea.
I listen to its romantic echoes
That split my spine and sever through me.
A brilliant, distant ghost appears in
This god-like charade, and, here, I know I’ve got it made.
This poetry that spews from my lips
Is like the froth of the ocean–
How it ripples, glides, and dips.
The mind spurs like a decrepit savage.
You walk these stale streets;
You walk these stale streets
On a torpid trek while you solemnly scavenge.
All born of the same blood
The same worth,
Then why the entire world without mirth?
We are all born of the same grind.
Then why do I find
This soggy earth purged of
Dusk-light dims, and words with no hymns?
No music to soil these streets
Saturated with abating abominations,
Oh how I despise these negating revelations.
No colors to flourish
Just a dim, grim tomb.
This is not our sordid doom.
Let music purge your soul.
Write with a kind mind,
Maybe then you’ll find
The butterfly of your
Soul’s unfurled rind.
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