lifted

a mild facination for a backward spun loop
a corsette brought forth from the crevice of mid-afternoon

a single, indivisable, ray of light
a formulation form'd from the alchemists bend'd mind
a sunday waving colour advancing in divisions
brought forth from the ranks of wing'd seperation

a blessed price, here givith, called the unknown
sings from the core of juipter as blood drips, precise, upon the stone
fragments once clung to tattered sleep
now awaken wide into there imagened dreams
all who longed: are now filled to the brim
of this, our perplexed spin

Google Video

martok-voiceinthewilderness: link to my submitted google videos.

file host: link to my public files.

insufficient, inadequate, half reality

insufficient, inadequate, half reality
i love you so--

you were my sun, my sky, my moon
the night when all i knew was blue

A cauldron of fire to boil my bones
but i'm not sad within this fact,
my markedly sublime home
A place upon the razors edge
which withheld its best for the willows rings
and the tree was not offened by pain - for it was king

A dignified passage to the secrets it was keeping
safe under leaf and drum and the minuet dances
a starless canopy 'till the cliffs doth come
unveiled you reach and fall with stars
then you know why you are,
the memory made was kept for this day
a sweet face, a sweet face

insufficient, inadequate, half reality
i love you so--

you were my sun, my sky, my moon
the night when all i knew was blue

the engine that i could not keep from starting

A Walk With Stones

consider the wall;
will you pile it on your back and walk?
the shadow grows as you gain mass.
unable to share the task of sweeping floors and concealing facts.

Besides, what does your soul know?
Does it know what's right?
Can it exsist void of time?
Can it sing, "Is this life"?

Pigs by Day
Sheep by Night
Cower and sloth in steady lin3s.

I want to know not of these things.
I could break the code,
unwrap the bow -
but then we couldn't be friends.
SO I TIE MY SHOE

My Governement
My REgret

A Guilded Monument for the losing END;
Another patriot dEAD.

Land of Little Transition

The thoughts that Gabriel had gathered
left before the fall of a feather.
Seperated from the wings which heaven
rained down to the land which has lasted,
what could not be forgotten?
the feeling guessed at; some perpendicular matter entrapment.
spread along thriry-three degrees of seperation
an inclination of a fire which swelled was only ice retracted,
a reflection of an heir gathered at the threshold of a well -
looking down on the concourse of all that has been built on sand.

a
FIRE
a
FIRE
to
RESTORE all the unimpassioned days

i spot the land of the evergreens.
numerous spread roots under earth and feet.
the snow is all around and the river frozen fast;
but the birds, they shall come again.

the northern nests will echo sound
As the land laments over cycles found
an enheritment: riches made not of skin,
the moon to light the way from your darkened sorrow
and an eagle planted shall be the heros boots on wings of fire

the winter has gathered
i've been along but not along those lines
no subtle tickets stamped and ridden.
only a calm lusting for living and preparing well

here the parades pass with no fanfare
only in wonder of amazement of a man who made liars
of those who said he could not fathom such wonders
or keep pace while within such sorrow

deep below and dug around
he has found the firey entrapment to untwine his wire;
to be humble and know only that he must do what he was told,
pleasure in briars - a fitting settlement

a story of survival, a story of humanity, a story of precident
on the plains, he shall not rob you of your good worth
fleeting angels dream - who is to say you can not illuminate
the dark days of no hue, those times of black and truths

but the story ends not with self, however it may begin in isolation

the
ICE
the
ICE
to restore what you meant to say

too articulate for my benefit
all sentances set upon a stone statement
a blackend end and a recource bound
a fallen feather without an echo'd sound

none now stand for pride
all wait for anothers hand
an ending of an age, an ending of a stair, a building of our monument
the ending of the lengths for strands of hair;
all shortene'd to make you ripe when all you feel is bare

too sweeten'd for these days or too bitter for the years
a glue made from roots, a confess for the crystals but nothing to say of glass.
alone, faithless, bruises soon yield to cracks
- It may come when looking back:
A notwithstanding loop which can not be dodged or cured or tracked.

a mirror to the otherside never looks the same way twice
And the story ends not with self, however it may begin in isolation

a simple cell

if it would come so this could end-
we wouldn't run, if it is our sin
then glory is as when it was found-
goodbye to the prison cells!

who are we my friend?
an aspect of knowledge?
knowledge exsists!
knowledge exsists but not within our skin.

think of distraction, its not competition.
what is worse, no end or no new beginning?
we all know its the later and the first is for the better.
so, you provide the birthday and i'll supply the trust.

a simple cell with only a body to fear
a forrest long dry, for the forrest didn't hide
familiar sorroundings!
familiar sorroundings exsist but not within our skin.

no one will ever see you
no one will ever define you
for your aspirations have long since been naught.
since these vision of bones and rot

counterscript

A forged heart can be broken
in the fire which made it strong
an emotion can swelter
into emptiness without cause

with bleak as motive by a still lawn
the river flows through the belly when you are waste deep at dawn
everything passes through us but nothing remains certain
'cept distance, distance amoung us as the stars above

the prophecy which was spoken
now stands upon the chord
of a tilted pitcher before the water pours forth

the manifestion of a dying dynasty

Eight years and Eleven Scores Since The Manifestion of a Dying Dynasty:
The Curse of the Bambino.
[ANd They each have two-hundred and twenty-eight jars of peanut butter behind there bunker walls,no honey; so the bears leave them and the bees don't sting them, they will never fall]

the've bought roger clemens fast ball cutters,
leaving yankee clippings from the papers falling on the avenue streets;
leave your loyalites be as you fly, they say:
we are strangers, not bound to the bond of friendship

metal turned to pretzels,
where have all the venders gone?
the honest have been, covered,
from dust to dust, smuthered
by one million corporate agreements which fade in the rain
and aol disks useless rust.
both cover their tarkets in the morning to
install a mark upon the heads that says:

An olive brach is a green eyed struggle
and a declaration, we don't need you anymore:
said populaion pressure was robbing them of there pleasures
during evenings as a falling sun marks shadows spun by home
from enjoying a ball game alone

they have green now they want red to complete
there branch bank executive picnic t-shirt colours
our blood is mearly dye, and our skin made to stitch profits
into jerseys for there softball teams

at there branch bank executive picnic they all
took boats not seeking
because
they have bought every thing they want
all the vessels tied to the pylons
pull like a moon on the dock -
it was evening
and
there're taking everything with them to sea as they go
to escape on vacation but never to learn; of the hurt they cause

we the players are bound to the fabric where the seems are torn

the numbers
they mean nothing to them
and are draged from the shore

now i have struck out over one thousand batters
bats shattered
i have tricked the cleaverst of managers

now i have killed one thousand soldiers
faces splattered
i have tricked the cleaverst of generals

but your corporate agreements
say we can't be friends
corporate arangemnts pulling me from the shore
to decay in the bottom of a boston bay

they'll say its my age
but then again the numbers only mean to them:
lost chances and clever glances they write under two lines
profit to be made
how much further, they can't ever wait
to leave the cities
always leavin' in a hurry to secure what can only be theres for a little while.
they do not seek, so they will never grow
that is why they try to take anything that can be bought and sold
everything with them as they go
everything but their soul

the players, though far from home, are destined to win the war
the battle is won because there heart is their sword
upon their sleve it is worn, ragged, but never torn

sing into the fire

it is our future but 'tis not an end
only a seperation poised against all the evil which has been
a weight and a pretense - the coming, as if water to a shore -
shall be the undoing of all that has been before

keep hold the memory for the hour grows late
for fear of nothing to remember but the last of our days
is there a new begining in the still of shade
or shall we linger, siezed with the worst of fate?

time, now it is no more
yet long distances await between the seconds
where all is falling snow
a sunrise and a journey to an answer
what you here could never know

across the bridges wilted planks
my heart sank only to rise again
innoncence never was and innoncence has never been
however, makes not life unprecious

yet this is war and it shall have its way
so here we meet to discuss final arrangments
our fate is sealed, we are dead -
best to strive against that which hides
and in every second still, sharpens it darkness across our towns
so here we plan our blow.

time is short but we must last
and we must one day bury our dead
for it was said, "let the dead bury the dead."