Blood of Orpheus


A DEATH OF EROS, A WITNESS TO DISASTER

‘Seeing so much activity of the mind devour her natural beauty

is painful in that blame is always the culprit, to blame others,

to set sin in the heart and feed it anger and hatred, I feel her

and she hates that the shared experience takes place.

A field of rolled hay, the Georgia green fields that when absent

I yearn for as a long in the past love, this land, this air,

Life is always balancing and sometimes it does fall, it is in the Fall

We understand our own methods of what seems to me as

Ridicule of the heart and the mind, of a war that despises the spirit

Rather seeks to understand the Holy Spirit.

I know.

I fought it all my life up until the moment Christ entered and spoke

As he does to many, he spoke those piercing words from his own wounds

Into those who are open to this event, this unraveling of discord: the awakened soul.

I pray she awaken.

The meanness and name-calling, the rumbling roar of hatred shoots across constellations,

I pace each room looking at what I can and cannot move, what and how

Shall I move into it’s place as a memory catcher and lightening rod to poetry

And music, as a direct course to writing again when I see so many boxes

Filled with notes, version after version, expansive poems it hurts to imagine

What awaits, but wait they do and so here I piddle, wondering how to help

Heal one cannot be healed. It hurts to see how she destroys the beauty of Spirit

And of God while thinking it is a direct line. It is not a direct line.

I fear madness has taken hold and she cannot cope sober and blames

Others for the ongoing disaster. To be witness to the disaster is painful.

I must. I smell the slow burning of the death or Eros.

Sad.

Not much can be said in the whirlwind of such hatred.

Sad captures and identifies a mind at war. The balance is leaning downward

Further every day and every day I try to offer conversation and light;

Every day I am a lone figure in a Hopper painting.

Failed. Smoking a non-filter Camel. Glass of Tulimore Dew in hand.

Lone. I must seek more deeply into my heart and soul.

I am witness to the disaster and I cannot “do” or “act”.

It is like being the camera in war.

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When The Third Book Was Opened


When The Third Book Opened
Yeah, I know, I know I am one of those,
Those upon their knees, crying, laughing,
Feeling vast. I like to feel vast. It’s cool,
I know the prayers will accept me,
Yet then small visions banging
On each side inside out my head,
They were not my own, and I asked to stop…
Then I knew I better not,
For something there is bigger than me.
God and confusion: each masters of my domain,
This room of books and song, of prayer,
Of labors I’d rather not do but they
Have needs beyond my own.
Telling me exactly what and why I am and I am not.
So I speak each vision into my iPhone…yeah,
This ridiculous new age that ate my pens
And took away typing when I felt the visions
Rise again, and so I had to wait to listen
To my skin, to the air around me,
To the asteroid shower gleaming above her
On a grass hillside above Jenner and the river,
Above the Pacific where they shot and left trails
And it looked like suns birthing around her head,
That blond mystery, I am afraid of them,
I am afraid my soul will be eaten alive
Before I can say my last Holy Father,
My last Hail Mary when each breath
Was that heavenly inhale exhale
Within one another, it was all I wanted.
Then I saw the hillside collapse,
And there was nothing but she above me
Blond hair like a forest of soft thin grasses,
And I saw an angel, my angel,
Lay her hand upon a page I could never read,
And I wanted, I desired, I knew I could not,
So into another night I drew constellations
Of song upon this high ceiling, the sky,
Through this air, or was it sandalwood scented hair?
All I hear is this knocking, demanding,
Every life stands upon my own, Humility,
You angry creature, you have kept me bent
Over all my life even standing tall I was still beneath you,
You, dear God, You; I am just a man,
Doing my thing disappearing into another sunrise,
Saying YES, I hear you to each tap on my mind,
And yes, I write her beauty as you tell me,
I walk alone and sing. Then we along the coastline
And take her hand, watch another star shower
And admit that things are not always what they seem.

Banks Excuses of Dyadic Operators Still Being Used? Grow Up You Young Killers. You know you are Killers. Darkest Night Shining


file:///Users/h.lamarthomas/Desktop/Banks%20Credit%20Unions%20Do%20As%20You%20Will%20We%20Have%20No%20Power.m4a

file:///Users/h.lamarthomas/Desktop/Dear%20Darkest%20Shining%20Night.m4a

Waking and gazing into an asteroid shower at 6 a.m.
Knowing that I was robbed not twice but three times.
Thank you new banking system where you destroy on automatic or lay enough delays to lose your home after being twice hacked and treated as a criminal. Killers making excuses silk thin bringing little deaths upon us all. The poem is a curse. Daniel as he prayed was for a curse that the lions find another meal than his own flesh. As David praying his enemies be conquered and he dance drunken in the streets celebrating and then realizing not by the curse as our government and banks would wish upon us little tiny people. We do as we are told, then throw a CD player out the window and blow it apart with a 12 guage pump Mosburg looking like indie 70s movies playing in slow motion.
Now, this poem incantation as the young sorcerer Milarepa, later Buddhist mystic song writer, would have spoken into his yak dung fire no different than Biblical warriors a thousand miles away. So I paused inside my language to feel the anger rise and subside in hope “change is gonna come”.

The second is a song-poem because I could not decide to sing or recite. My plan was to play piano, but I scrapped that idea after listening to the power again of the rising sun through this brightly lit green edge of the forest where colors you cannot name them all, yeah I dare even a gin and sprite drunk Frank O’Hara could not name. So I left it as it is, an unaccompanied poem sang into each ray of light, sang into each whistle of night bird mocking bird doing their night bird thing, you know, mocking birds singing back as you sing to them and they as well whistle the dawn awake and calmly pull the covers over the last glimmers of night. Yeah, this is late night August night where thunderheads or soft sunshine bring the day alive. . .you just don’t know until it is here. Rushing along the sidewalks, the lawns, rushing into the wood just to hear the peace of a slow river slow soft swirls of water caught circling around a lone rock just past the 1951 bridge pretended to be repaired but it looks like gorilla glue and duck tape to me. This is not death. It is an optimism. The young sorcerer Milarepa stidll looking to find the light of the Diamond Sutta (from the Pali text it is sutta not sutra, that’s all, just respecting the language) after hoping that of the Lotus Sutta would wake his body into life.

A Pure Land Language..



I recorded my morning singing bowls and meditation on Amitabha, third level of Heaven being Pure Land, happiness, pure happiness among other Bodhisattvas and Buddhas. And so I haad to play the vocals through different knob settings and played around with a mellotron for proper background holdings for the bowles when eah ran free of it’s vibrations. There are messages in the poetry throughout but you really have to listen closely. It’s about ways of reaching Heaven, of at least being freed of the travails of the ever mortal shell in which we reside.

Namo Amitabha Meditation and Pure Land Talk, cause I want more people to talk to who want to know or who are on the same path, NOT ZEN.


This is an oh boy! or an oh hell not this….
It is a thirty minute meditation with morning singing bowls, a poem on highlights within a stream of light, Pure Land Amitabha meditation and explanation of what Mahayana and Amitabha Buddha teaching on three levels of heaven with the highest level being Pure Land. So many read really awful world religion texts, translations from 1900 and very prejudiced and unlearned expositions upon Mahayana Buddhism. I real Pali text translations and Sanskrit as they are closest to the 7th Buddha, our Shakyamuni Gautama Buddha who become the Enlightened One we mostly speak of when in reference to Buddhism. Being true to the teachings is not easy, as you progress over the years one begins to enter a stage of Bodhisattva where the supernatural nature of the noble truths, noble paths, and of attaining to a state of heightened knowledge and spiritual evolution, it is not to separate from others nor is it a substitute for Heaven. It just means that some of us work very very diligently to overcome our inner suffering and to attain right vision and and right action. Peace. Love. Charity. Hope. Compassion. Now there are differences, and throughout my life people have relished finding ways to stump me on the beauty and transitional nature of living life to feeling and knowing life as it is lived as an ascetic. I go on. Forgive me.

Wild Redwood Love, My Dear Departed, Beth of Many Passions but One


Careful with that volume, Eugene! heheh. This starts loud loud loud and becomes more of a song poem to the confusion of passion and love.
Don’t we all at some time? Confuse passion and love.
So I suddenly just hollered this one out. Turned on the recorder and did it again, then fixed yodels and yelps but kept a few high pitched sounds of that crazy bizarre emotion that makes us doe the wildest things never thought possible, but yeah, anything is possible. Guess I can’t say more lest lives are wounded by the truths of passion. She is beloved departed, never could get free of cocaine and her heart just finally said No. Peace in Spirit, dear one.

Poems in Rage and Love with Crazed Sounds Pushing Beyond My Beyond


Do not turn up too loud. Be careful. This goes from gentle to classic earsplittiinloudenbangin one note to the next and if you have heard live Tibetan Bowls you know that they can be taken to the lowest low to a shrill thought impossible, well it is not impossible.

I had a blast recording this. It has a few of my most published poems two I think are personal masterpieces. Can you tell? Probably not. But that is not why I made this recording. I wanted to go beyond even my most experimental capabilities with live instruments. I did. So I Om’d and Namo Abitabha’d a bit just to settle the back heart into motion before an ear explosion happens. Or maybe it is not as risky as I think. Who knows? I don’t. If I did it would sound completely different and that is not why I did it this way.

Stupid background noise had me trash the first 24-28 minute version. So there is some aggression going on. We all need a little aggression.

This is not an easy piece. I would in fact call it about as experimental as I have gotten which is to say Beware Crazed Sounds Ahead. So enter at your own risk. I just wanted to go beyond anything I’ve heard and it may be because it is simply awful or that it just needs work while still being something unheard. I don’t know. Stupid background noise had me trash the first recording so this version has a bit of venom to it. Better to burn on the wing than stooped upon a ladder with some Moloch prince in a three piece suit…

Song: Silent Corner That You Claim and Hide


Three instruments and me. Obviously about the silent corners we fear in our minds, and that those who push the hardest they are strong inside are usually crumbling with fear from deep inside; and then, they point and say it’s you, it’s you whose life and actions cause the curses in your mind, and in ‘yours’ too Psychology Today noodlers. Yeah, right view takes work. And then: Nope. Not me. Sorry y’all. I claim nothing of who you are and dedicate this song to me. So if I want to write hate mail, me to me, who cares, I am more open than the sea; so I hate me about love or a sincere heart showing pain then I can hate me, I can hate me all I want and equally love even more opening up right view, right view as supernatural, as we know, right view is where it all begins; and these are yours and all those screaming blue meanies you seem to adore, yeah I give a hand out to touch the finger of your blue meanies in mind theft and word chores. Then I just smile and laugh. The sun shines too hard for some. If you are on FB you are known. uh the photo is ironic hahaha just making fun of myself