Birdsong

It is but 4am 
a tiny hour
Awakened by chirpings, tweets and chatter
 
The Sun is preparing coffee and toast
Adding rouge and lipstick to the Skye
 
At the Owl’s desk the letters tumble
they fall and jump upon the page
 
An earlier morning
Early and Earlier
Ears flooding with Birdsong
 
And yet Mind wanders
ponders, plays
and wonders
imagining
as it always has
on its own
mine of course
my many minded mind
 
Good Morning 
 
 
Randall Anthony Jonas for KLB 
June 13, 2013

Poem 234.12

Poem 234.12 
there is a nameless god to be prayed to without words
there is a silence one can get to where the purity of the universe is
there is a connection of one to all if the mind is silent
there is an energy hidden to most by the ego rambling
          by the damage procured by the passing of time
          by the life unexamined
          by the inability of most to look at thoughts pass
like water in a stream
the mind thinks
that is what it does
when awake
when asleep
each one is in a dream
while awake 
while asleep
this dream can only stop 
when one empties the reactionary imbuement of the untrained mind
 
and so it happens when one experiences a revolution in their life
one that turns the table over
displaces all one’s beliefs
one’s self perception
one’s world view
acquired via experience
a crashing sudden experience
vacating the mind’s aqueous substance
 
the pool empties
the person is in shock
and only the will to accept all
all truth
the truth of paradox
the fact that there can be simultaneous truths existing in conflict at once
like a Hegelian dialectic
 
and so you say
ok i will die
all will end
in 100 years nothing will matter for me or all who knew me
and to leave a legacy is just a weakness and fear
 
naturally everything leaves
and everything is reborn
giving seed to the new
 
and to be quiet, to watch, to let go
to allow all the darkness to become 
the ally of the light
to accept the shadows
in Jungian style
to know that dark self
is to allow the light to shine 
 
and this process
after a fall
a long 
vicious
cliff dive
 
splattering the consciousness so strongly
that the subconscious no longer is hidden
if one has reviewed all
light and dark
and accepts
and shuts the fuck up
 
synergy will occur
not for all
not for all
just for some
 
god is not moral
morality is a human thing
 
and if one wishes to ride the energy of the cosmos
then one must let go
so the universe can filter through
the tiny person 
like a conduit
that energy of life
connection
all is one
one is all
 
this is the job of a human
unless of course
they are shot
run over
born still
born in war
and so
 
this it the truth
the esoteric truth
burned up in libraries like Alexandria
and the others by Aztecs in Mesopotamia
 
the Zen way
the one way
the silence
 
R.Jonas
August 2014

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La Ruelle

By Randall Jonas

June 2014

 

I

 

Carrion Crawls …

The Vulture’s Doom

 

Beware of the fangED

ones – vampirisms,  leech-like mortals

 

shadows whimper, wail and whine

while spectres wander wildly upwards

from a lava laden alley in

the oldest haven of

Montreal – a city of culture, a city of sin

 

close by caterpillars congregate

in webs-a-sticky, waiting for their Exodus

lit aflame by malevolent foul little child-demons

who think everyday is Halloween

plump imps

licking sugar with serpent tongues

cackling, hissing

consuming

liquefied pork and sticks of butter

 

The ManGod commands them

 

The Nature Mother

frowns

the Butterflies

balked

shrivelled

smoking

 

And there are you:

bumbler, fumbler, stumbler

and fool

 

bouncing off bricks

in the eldest ruelles

of Vieux Montreal

 

The wine goblet in your hand

The saxophone hanging around your

throat

like a noose

 

Running into architecture

the gothic gargoyles

blink and grimace

tripping you

and there you are

 

babbling in your

shiny brogues

your silk Bugatti tie

your fancy Shafthausen

such a she she la laa farce

 

Time

wasted

as wasted

as you

 

II

 

Mist flowing up from

the angry rain drizzled alley

enrobes your sorry self

entering your anatomy

purging

your liver

disembowelling

the toxic waste

you have become

 

The Iron Sewer Opens.

The Gutters vomit

Sisyphus on a unicycle

Screaming Jabberwocky

You have fallen

III

 

And down you tumble

losing

wealth

possessions

disease

adictomaniac

 

LIGHT NOW ENTER!

 

you finally found your Self

dressed in soft freshly woven silk

with the Pied Piper

dead and gone

his Rats drowned

no longer

must you follow

 

The goblins and orcs vansished

And on a hearth of

dew laden clover

a rainbow arching over

you

 

The healers have come

painting you with Lavender

and Spearmint

 

None to worry

None to worry

You crossed the Trolls Bridge

And have met the Phoenix

 

R.Jonas

June 2014

 

 

Unedited, Unrefined – One Shot

the only way to free yourself from the chains of structure, imagery, words, rhymes, and repetition is to kill the english language and make it your slave, abuse it and do not dare copy the stutterings of old dead people, do not take their ideas and transfuse them, do not. it will never feel like your own, and if you write then write for yourself and not an audience, if it is worth anything it will be liked and if it is worth anything and nobody likes it well the audience may just not be the right one, one guy told me it took him 18 years to publish one ruddy little poem but it is published, and that not to say all writing is good writing but why write if all we do it for is to get published and liked? really? write because you like and love it, write for you about what you know and feel and has happened to to you, tell stories, do not worry about who will read it, and yes read widely, read everyone and anyone but write, write and write, lean structure and all that uppity poetic academic slur, it helps, but at the end, if you dislike it you will never do it well, does it ever make you shiver and cry when you write, have the words just fell out or made you feel like falling? keep it up. write and write when you hate it, throw it out, burn it. make up new words, break rule, take nouns and make verbs, take words and make them places, emotions are cities. i get ill at times. ill when i feel repression happening because i know i am being watched. then i freeze. there is no such thing as writers block, you just have nothing to say – and so say nothing – write that down now. i do not know what to write . and write that over and over and over until you find something, look in a phone book, find some weirdly names, everyone is a wizard or a drunk and your breakfast can yell at you here. nothing matters except that you tell a story, it can be as vague as you like as long, short, tall, fat, white, black, fractalD WHY?”BECAUSE YOU OWN IT! It is yours. If you could write as quickly as you could think you would then be missing out on thought which is not your language, it is not. no. go now, be free, win, love and walk up a tree with candy in your hair and celery in your pockets for the wildebeests to read and chew. because after all  everyday is your day, there is no getting out of it. and considering all the mean things English has said – you do a great service to English by writing poems and prose. 

Randall Jonas

June 2014

The Advice Bacchus Gave Me

Once a Lava Lamp was smashed upon my skull

It took me about 2 weeks to remove all the little shards of glass

Once I near fell off a cliff in Sweden on a ridge called Frufallen

It was an ancient place where husbands threw there wives 

down 

down 

down 

to die

 

Once I fell on my chin, it split

and they gave me a CT scan

there is a tiny scar on my chin

forever

 

Thousands and thousand of times

I swam in oceans of booze

vino, plonk, hooch

moonshine

 

I could fill my home with the liquid

of my youth

It would reach the ceiling

It would drown us if you

were here

 

There were these 4 lesbians at a bar … 

and they hated my cowboy friend

and I

because we had dicks

 

My cowboy friend was charming

he serenaded them

next we are all together

6 people

Singing country

laughing

happy

genderless

 

Running naked on drink 

it happens

Drinking in a tree

Drinking in a car

Drinking on the floor

on a plane

in a cubicle

at work

before work

after work

 

This nectar medicinal juice

swallowed … 

one is too little

thousands to few

 

Once I saw a friend

oozing booze

rude and oozing

picked him up

off his pathos

 

I was standing inside a mirror

Bacchus let me in

And said

 

My gift is not for you

 

Randall Jonas 

June 2014

 

 

Dark Passage

Follow me through darkest passages

When the rains flood the fields’

and the drought forevers and forevers

 

And I will climb over the dentist’s drill

the open heart surgery

the days of nothing

to fight for us

 

Follow me through vampire’s alleys

When bats scream and rats bite

and our blood empties upon

the albinotic moon

 

And I will donate a lung

my left kidney

my right eye

my left liver lover

to save you

 

Follow me through panic and horror

When a mind shatters, moans, implodes

and thoughts are monsters

chewing, chewing, chewing

 

And I will mend myself though all means

with food

with medicine

with time

to love you forever

 

Follow me when I am lost

When outside kills my inside

and I am not able to mount my steed

hold my sword

wear my armour

 

And I will swear an Oath

one of loyalty

one of promise

one of dire seriousness

 

to honour your life

as you honour mine

 

Randall Jonas

June 13, 2014