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Picture Credits:
“ Wake up, wake up; I have come to call,
hoping against hope that you were home!
Consider me a simple chance of fate, chockfull of astral planes,
but you’ve relegated me to a dangling, cobwebbed corner
of your weed-infested brain! ”
I awoke with these words wreaking havoc in my numb bewildered mind.
“ Please realize that you were born to be a teller of tall tales;
a writer’s soul meant to share, meant to care,
and if given half a chance, a comparison if you dare! ”
Thus spake my Matrix Muse.
“ I’ve known forever that you can’t draw,
although you’ve tried on many given days.
Even with a queenly ruler laid straight against the crisp white paper,
your #2 pencil wavers and wobbles into crooked vapor.
That’s the reason why my startling stories and prismatic poems
are brush-stroked into fantastic, neon colored words;
wall to wall in louvered patterns, stimulating feelings strong and bold.
A tantalizing appetizer of complex intense emotions;
evoking calmness and serenity, peace filled promises sweet and sugary fine.
Calamitous commotions clash; acrid hardships amidst time’s unsettling strife leaving after-tastes of brimstone bitterness
on your tongue and in your mouth.
My versatile prose and frameless verse offer readers everywhere
a masterpiece of grandeur, drawn on Heaven’s canvas.
I’ve sold my very soul into the burning depths of hell,
but pledged all rights to distant vistas in-between.
I paint with catch-word phrases, tingle-tangled thoughts;
just an anomalous hint of my topsy turvey life. ”
“ Get to the point, ” I sighed.
“ I’m a conniving, cunning thief walking on rubbered neoprine soles.
A grassroots robber baroness,
stealing grandiose subject lines from your inner vault’s
unlimited valuable payroll.
I can’t keep still or quiet any longer;
the dormant volcano is ready to spew
into red hot lava wishes, magma flowing forth into an avalanche
of unstoppable power and no-holds-barred access.
A derring-do dream-world of words upon words upon words;
connected to interactive relationships, a reinstatement of your former self.
Actions weaving words into beautiful tapestries,
blending intermezzos, intermingling colorful story threads. ”
The dust lay heavy on her meanings,
hidden beneath decaying layers of dirt and grime,
built up after numberless years of neglectful disregard.
“ I think not, ” sprang to my open lips
as I quickly shut the unlocked door
right into her startled face.
After all, I was in no mood to do spring cleaning
at this outlandish point in time and space
as all the dust, dirt, and greasy grime had left me
with Excedrin Headache # 9!
**********
I awoke to piercing silence and found myself entombed
in an eight by twelve foot prison cell;
bleakish breadth and chilblain damp as well.
For convergent company I had three crumbling walls of granite grey,
each one lacking pretty pictures or current days marked off.
Devoid of carbon chips, conspicuous cracks, or plaster peelings;
no Michelangelo masterpiece painted on the dingy ceiling;
Not a single fan blade to rotate the dusty air,
not a beastly bedbug, blood thirsty mosquito,
or friendly la cucaracha to keep as pampered pet;
I was quite alone in my solitary lair.
The bars of steel stood grey and cold,
a hard encasement to my trembling touch.
Looking through the 6 inch spacings I saw a vast grey ocean,
stretched to a meaningless horizon
of horizontal colored nothingness.
My scorching screams and pitiful protests
are simplified to silence;
dissipated black, then dispatched into an endless gaping hole.
Sucked up like a cosmic vacuum cleaner,
where not a whimper of a sound escapes.
Would I be forced to live in such luscious splendid squalor
forever and a day?
My erudite Matrix Muse, a ghostly apparition,
cast a greyish shadow,
rising through the chilly concrete floor.
“ Which dazzling shade of grey suits me best? ”
She twirled, then pointed
the loaded shiny steel
of both six-shooters right at my ashen heart.
“ Gun metal grey, perhaps? ”
She swept her hand towards the humongous battleship,
that floated on the endless surface
of the vast grey choppy ocean.
“ Or the iron grey of that empty skulking hulk,
which is fastly sinking to the locker
known as Davy Jones’;
pretty much akin to how I see your life. ”
I blinked my eyes in quick succession,
but the illusion of this fabrication held me steadfast in her gaze.
“ Why, you’re nothing more than a mourning dove;
greyed-shied quicksilver
crying out in your singleness,
wanting to be heard. ”
The wandering poet troubadour; dancing swirls of dampish grey,
evolving into peacock shadings, shouted out with gyroscopic glee,
” Life is the acknowledgement
that I exist inside your writer's soul! ”
I tried my best to capture that elusive Matrix Muse,
but she had left for greener pastures,
in a hazy rhinestone ruse!
**********
The bleakish gloomy prison cell
gave up the greyling ghost;
deserted on a landlocked island,
my landlubber eyes
gazed around.
No yellowed-butter sunshine,
no puffy clouds of white,
not a hint of gentle breeze;
no chirping, singing birds or emerald dragon-flies.
Sand here, sand there, eternal grains of polished glass,
sand, sand, everywhere.
There I stood, bare of foot,
on gritty granular particles;
a million miles away from the madding crowd.
I drew midnight watch on the solitary seashore,
my isolated sandbox
devoid of Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars.
One ripening ripple, an individual wave
approached the lapping line of lonely forlorn beach.
The small-time surging wavelet
turned into a tidal wave tsunami;
a volcano spewing forth my Poetic Matrix Muse.
“ The red-hot lava of my mind erupts so you can see,
the grains of sand are changing
into infinite crystal thoughts,
ideas to fuel your mind. ”
My Journey
My Journey does not beckon to the swift of heart
or fleet of foot,
but to those who stay the course.
Come magenta colored morning, or ebony emanated evening;
the strictly straight and nonaligned narrow,
the calamitous crooked and wanderlust wide.
Acute anticipation, tick-tack-toe titillation;
a crisis of consideration,
I see smoldering passion
the perception of the Doppler effect,
donny-brook danger in your eyes.
A fetching catch in your voice;
the neophyte smile sketched on your oval face
spreads to your sprawling heart
in spotlight stroked caresses.
Cinnabar carillon touches, basilisk breaths intermingling;
a power surge of inspiration,
rampant reachings and raconteur teachings
display the poetry of matrices feelings
painted with quixotic phrases.
Tingling with reflective meditations
coloratura senses sway emotions;
sweet alyssum weaves with interlacing water lilies
waltzing in 3/4 time.
Adapting with élan easement, flowing flair of the spirited tempo;
we are fine claret,
fluid dancers smoothly changing,
those who write of substance, life, and love.
Just when I imagined I had pinned down
my cunning Matrix Muse,
she swiftly swam away,
a pixilated mermaid, shouting,
“ Why don’t you take a whirlwind ride with me
on a worldwide Pleasure Cruise? ”
**********
“ I don’t know how to swim with piranha-minded sharks, ” I cried.
“ Please don’t leave me stranded with no other-place to go;
my underlying, no denying need for you
has come full-score!
I have visited, made the vortex voyage to the inner recesses;
the dimly dull and faintly lighted.
The dingy, drab, and squalid;
void of original, unique and eccentric ideas
which could change one tiny specked iota
in the world's perceptive eye. ”
My Magnificent Matrix Muse
stood right there before me,
in a pillared salt-wash fire.
“ I see I’ve lit your fuse!
I’m the 4th of July Firecracker;
unparalleled fireworks traveling the cityscape, moonscape,
foreign regions of your mind.
Your creativity has been cast in stone
with no marbling streaks to set you free.
Forget about the sailor’s warning you received,
which was duly signed and authorized
by the mighty Hercules.
‘Sail no more beyond this point.’
Pure balderdash to bamboozle, trick, and hoodwink you
into prudent laziness. ”
When I saw she would not be my maid,
she swiftly handed me a monumental mop and penates pail;
unraveling rags and napalm cleaning fluids.
I took the time she’d given me to quickly clear away
layer after latent layer,
notion after dormant notion.
Exigency discarding; junkyard dogs and junkyard wars,
junk-mail and junk-bonds that have no worth.
Lavish profundity blew my flotsam jetsam brain cells,
as I felt the first awakening
to supervene surprises found where least expected;
my Sylphish Matrix Muse had a titled book called Avant-garde Dragonfly.
‘My metallica-coppered dragonfly
is aka in many circles as a darning needle
Slender outlined wings and long streamlined body
Ductile, thin lined hammered beauty
showered me scherzando;
High flying spirits playfully effervescent
with original optimism and vitamin enriched vivacity
Striking dramatics, magenta appearance
colored in Apollo’s brazen sunrise
Bronzely exaggerated
Complexity maneuvered in its chariot ride
A party line pallette
spreading outlandishly
into saffron orange and lemon basil yellow
Casting draughts,
camouflaged sifting lights and darks
Shadows boxing, sparring, ducking left and right
My narcosis mind is digitized, epitomized
Part and parcel
Of the grandiose crystal-garden
Gazebo gazing ball
Trapped, imprisoned in luminaried scenery
Perfectly represented
by blaring true-blue trumpet-vines
Closed circuit concerto clarinets
Curio curled amidst curative curves
Curiosity spurs me on
To acquire the infrared information
from classical frontline shapes
Eagerly changing into spinning rounded spheres
Generating an overflow of shimmy-shined
Pick-me-pink and lunatic-fringed
lavender delphiniums
Blatant blastoff pageantry
Baronial, imposing show of stately pomp and circumstance
An avant-garde avalanche
A flaunting exhibition;
advancing, brandishing
outrageously ostentatious
superlative ideas’
I sailed my Chinese junk,
juxtaposed on every sea that’s known to man.
Immensely versed in oceanography
around the whole-sum universe,
trying one last time to unearth my Elusive Matrix Muse;
then it finally hit me, like a jagged lightning flash.
I realized a well-known fact,
not obtuse fancy’s fiction.
We were one in heart and deed;
I was one with her and she was one with me.
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