Psalm 2003

By the Rivers of Babylon,
yes, we wept sore.
No boughs to hang
our assault rifles on,
we wept for America
gone.

By the Rivers of Babylon
no flowers greeted
our burning eyes.
The song of America
from a dry throat never
cries.

By the Rivers of Babylon
they made a harp of
my brother's hands.
We wept sore as the flame  
of shock and awe
expands.

By the Rivers of Babylon
grains of sand rattle
in each empty cup.
Hateful eyes follow us
like Sunlight in cloudless
ruts.

By the Rivers of Babylon
yes, we wept sore
and thought of home,
the lush green of America,
taken by desert anon and
anon.

Neo-Kantian Mileposts(2008)

Becoming: the consumption of time

Space: the promotion of being

The antinomies of reason are market place choices.

Hegel's logic only moves the bowels.

Synthetic A Priori: Free Markets= Peace and Prosperity

Konigsberg fits on Wall Street. The French Revolution has become
a Bull Market of "Imaginary Thalers".

Rousseau becomes the dog who walks with Immanuel, not
the "Newton of Ethics".

Universal Peace, cf. Free Markets.

David Hume. The unhappy consciousness of the consumer.

the consumption of debt is the aufheben of consumption

but it's a negative dialectic--you end up consuming yourself--

(Marlowe's famous motto--that which nourishes me destroys me")

My first girlfriend's last name was Marlowe.

My last girlfriend's first name, Kit?

Drowning Shelley

Clouds drift
above scattered
fragments

A lock of auburn,
like clipped
Faery's wing,
buoys
with mysterious
levity

free from
the weight
of foundering
bark

Prosaic

The sun, kindled by wind,
casts a gentle beam lifting
gold from horizon's end.

Like a miner carefully sifting
remains of night's ore away,
children brushed by the light lifting

Open eyes to greet day.
Mother wakes to whispered mirth
of light, oblivious play,

As the sun slowly leaves Earth.

O Céu Escoando

Want takes me to the galley,
one turn lost to others.......
trying to rescue
the drowning sky.

                                                                    Turning away
                                                                  from the dream
                                                               of light’s warmth.
Waves double our vessel's pulse. 
                                                        Allowing respite to creased brows
Night awaits
on Calvary,                                                  
her bed,
remembrance keeps us.

                                                       Song's vigil sweeps this residue on.
Brutal Utopias
in the clouds:
The mast turns
to reflection
but skies fall..........
                                                    We are sung by eyes clouded over.
We curl into 
 skyless ombre.
                                                         Mother Night enwombs.
Day is Father's wake.
With Sun's ascent                  
he lowers eyes                           
and the son strains
under its brilliance.                                    In his eyes
                                                                      the Cosmos
                                                               taken from our eyes.