A SIMPLE QUESTION

by Shaun Lawton 

Given a choice directly ahead of you 
on your pathway toward a binary split
at the fork in the road so to speak
would you turn left to buy yourself more
time in this existence for the cost of
being eaten by an anaconda eventually
or would you turn right where you would
perish painlessly much sooner?  Or
can you accept the spirit of the question
and answer 'left' or 'right' without
rebuking it by providing another reply? 
Your answer reveals a lot about your
capacity to listen.  Those who shout into
the well of tears hear something familiar
echo back up at them, while those who listen
greet something familiar by making a friend. 
Somehow this message got lost on
a lot of us.  Please don't make God 
into an echo chamber where you transform 
loneliness into companionship.  Instead,
reach out to what others are trying to say
and humble yourself before them.  You will
see what I mean when given a choice ahead
of you on your path toward a split of your 
tongue.  The next time someone has
something to say to you will you turn your
left cheek away from them to lend them
your right ear?  Or will you turn right away
and say something about having left
them behind?  Think hard before you 
answer and don't just sit there; say something. 


SL 
SLC
6/30/15

I AM I

by Shaun 

Lawton 

It is it
A wide open eye
our umbrella
staring awake
seeing all
receive its vision
in dreamshine
we remain dry
while on high
beyond all skies
exists nothing
which our greater eye
needs protection from
unblinking with no shield
it lowers the lids
for all men to yield
to dreams in which
they come to see
what we are
but what are we
must ask again
when we awaken
every morning
slowly coming
to our senses
if not the manifestation
of that countenance
which never sleeps
nestled below
in this blue nest
farthest from the deeps
to get some momentary rest

HARLEQUIN VENTRILOQUIST

by Shaun Lawton 

He cared not for the stars, he did not feel so wise,
there was nowhere for him to go, no matter how many
times he tried, and as a matter of fiction stitched
into our lives, we are sewn together, the teller
and the reader, you see, and that's what draws
you in, the sentences hypnotize your mind
through your eyes, for the duration of the narrative
generated by the source text, the reader begins
to identify with him, our lost protagonist suffering
from sidereal disdain, feeling immobilized on
his pillow at night, and suffocating with routine
during the day, dealing with the intensifying 
awareness that there may be no escape, that
the parameters of our biological continuum may
have been preset for execution, our genetic
message being pronounced along the unfolding
sentences of our generations, that there was
nothing you or we could do to prevent the next
generation's outspoken message, materializing as
word balloons with human outlines, going about
their daily business and routines, mulching the
detritus of our dreams into a palatable nourishment,
our ashes, their fertilizer, but the part that smarts
the most, they cannot see this and are relegated to the
pitiless, regardless of how filled with curiosity
or wonder they've become, nothing less than
being shown themselves directly with time and
experience, until they have reproduced themselves,
that our tongues do not extrude from our own mouths,
so much as they fork through our children's.  

RAGE AGAINST THE DIVIDE

Doing time without rhyme or reason;
surely is a mad season.

Feeling lost at what cost (a hollow one).
If I sound caustic it's cuz we lost it.

Fist in the air in the land of the free
(between you and me reigns a cut and dried society).

Much worse off than simple hypocrisy:
we've got outright lies and shameless blasphemy.

A corrupted system where the rich can kill for free
and the homeless and poor must pay to behave.

That's right, land of the free
(free to be doomed by the likes of We

ourselves who can pull the strings using dollar bills
and flashing rings with our professional smiles

all the while hiding the real nature of this beast—
that we're all killers at least.)

Trained to remain calm at the embalming.
That's how we became character actors.

So now I'll cut myself off from this train of thought,
because I know where it's leading.

And if you think that would make a great candidate— 
well you're probably right—it's a great fuel, hate. 

You think that's not the issue, well it isn't justice either.
In a divided union there can be no believer. 

So remember in November, I dare you to step forth
and make your voice count.

Otherwise you grant power to the other side.
And that is all it takes to seal our fate—

Conscientious cooperation— 
wide awake or quite sedate. 

A CLARION AMID THE DIN

It's not only outer space that's important
and it's not just inner space either
it's both our neurological microscapes
as well as the deep core of our own planet
and it's not panspermia itself that brought
life necessarily to earth nor just our molten
iron womb alone either as much as the distinct
possibility that the combination of asteroid
(sperm) and planet (ovum) may have resulted
in the origin of life here and hence ourselves
as a bonafide awakened sentient species

And how could we forget the deep
oceanic trenches and the inherent
mystery they conceal? We're familiar
with five percent of our ocean depths
there lies the real future of science
because the outbound quest may be lost
and doomed to a telescoped oblivion
if that were even imaginable much less
possible but yes leave it up to us to
achieve impossible absurdities

Something so original and harrowing
as to make damnation appear mundane
go for it Rocket Boys and may the spirit
beyond the deepest waters move you
toward the ultimate adventure
of discovery and may your destinies
meet with unspeakable success

What a mess. Enough science fiction
about space ships already, I call a boycott
the real space-ship is Earth and I want
to read and write about that so reel your
spaced out dream back in quick
everyone knows the crypto-
terrestrials are here already
and we're their latest offspring

Listen to the leaves inside your mind
and realize the wind passing through
the seashell of your skull is not
imaginary because you may have
mistaken it for something else
it is real because you imagined it

Try to get it right and did you know
there's no such thing as out there at all
it's all in the mind every sparkling piece
of it including those glittery dead sequins
twinkling every color of the Alphabet
whose intertwined songs harmonize
into a celestial choir belting out the one
hymn we've been hearing all our lives
and it's not just whispering myths
or describing lost dreams, that's just
the sound of it all breathing

So wake up and grow mouths
so you can stop screaming
see what I mean by reading
not only in between the lines
but repeat the lines themselves
because it is not just the words
on the page that carry meaning
it is their distinct combination
and the empty spaces between them
crowding out the remainder of existence

A polarized balance which pings
a microtone spark across the dark
of space to light up this place for us
to see the secrets buried deep enough
to make it worth the challenge of our lives
to find so please stop searching for extra
terrestrials if you don't mind we've plenty
here already dying to know us besides
extra-solar ones more than likely 
advanced already are ahead 
of the curve searching for us 
we may rest self assured

They will find us on the television
screens of their collective minds
and read our lips from the static
laden silent film of our own history
projected in the bright expansion
of a gravitational microlensing
for their perusal so meanwhile
what else are we going to do here
all alone together aside from
feeling lost in our own home

For the sake of all that is common
and good, alienated and terrified
of being invaded because that is all
we inherently know (from having been
born from scratch of the lightning
bolt spark-struck nickel iron womb
core of our parent planet) don't you get it

We're the species that invaded this place
if it isn't obvious already then try to think
of it this way, every solar system is a factory
in the shape of a vast tapestry which
manufactures us at the third station

And here we are on a conveyor belt
of revolving bodies harmonizing cosmic
frequencies for the mass production
of sentient fruit and the mirror trick
to remembering who we are is not
to care what the reflection looking
back at us from dark matter resembles
because phantom distortions of ourselves
are terrifying when taken out of context

This has been a public service announcement
coming at you live online all the time archived
on the world wide vine from Thornswrath
Guardian of Ambush and Soldier for the Army
of the Trees and Sworn Protectant of the Rose
Still Blooming From the Heart of the Earth

MENKINDRED

Peering at us daily from 
the mirror of the moon
We're flipping after one 
rotation, spinning in continuation

zagging in the other direction to 
complete another revolution
about the darker focal point 
before once again returning

to that fat old sun in the sky 
calling us away on the lazy
laurence of another day half 
remembered like a dream

whaddaya mean 
what do I mean?
I think I made it pretty 
clear, it's best to steer 

away from here my dear 
and while you're at it why 
don't you buy another taco 
from the street vendor down 

on the corner a block from 
the tattoo parlor or maybe 
have yourself another beer 
the message within the earth's 

magnetic flip may just coincide 
with our dark sister's dance
you once said under the faint
flickering and almost inaudible

hissing of the dull purple neon 
light emanating from the six
paned lamp shade above 
the brass claw base situated 

as tradition demands before 
the shut door one wants to bar 
from passage candle light filtered 
through molten glass slowly 

as our resolve gathered for 
the shedding of the skein 
of worlds. Our epidermal 
lineage, the molting of the serpent 

as it grows from the egg 
that is forged of a shell 
woven of spinning particles
zoomed in on revealing 

planetoids and asteroids 
and stellar detritus weaving 
a shuttle-cocked shield inter-
penetrating shadows emanating 

from the interior, lit up across 
streaks of flash-lightning
revealed an intermittent 
shining pouring straight out

plutinos and centaurs circle our 
parent star as a rank of centurions 
guarding our very solar perimeter
the pretty real celestial birth 

which awaits us all appears
to our perceptions as death 
itself.  Welcome to the log
Welcome to the home of the log.

FROM THE EYE OF THE SLOT CANYON

Intergenerated events
coinhabit eternity.
A balance may never
be found.


In eternity a balance
may never be found.

This means that in eternity
No equations may be balanced.

In eternity there's no
universal quotient.

The universal quotient
lies in eternity's eyes.

Only within the pupils of eternity
may equations become balanced.

And may their stare remain
forever upright and unfluctuating.

While eternity
Itself stutters
and stumbles
On its weary way

FROM THE OLD WORLD ORDER TO THE NEW

It does not depend or matter one whit where you start measuring all of it whether it be from the macro and finishing in the micro scopic world or the other way around we dwell among for starters a world that is legion and even though we are  just one together that should not render us afraid but remind us if we are to set out for the rising sun we must do so on our own and play by the rules we believe in because the faith in our fathers must be replaced with the faith in ourselves if we are to face their darkest fears which they all escaped with cigarettes and beer and which need I remind you will eclipse the worst nightmares we could imagine ourselves or have you forgotten we are the post cold war babies that had a close shave with rabies in the sixties it was part of an experiment conducted  by the government to get its subjects to worship water which honestly backfired they still whisper to this day on rare winds which quickly pass away that all fears are soluble in the roots of the father tree whatever that means but you must see the point I am making if my writing you are seriously taking and if you don't believe in wolves and men or in the full moon and tides then I may have to ask what you do believe in because it's all in motion and such a blur I think I understand your point well sir just don't forget that in the legend the pure of heart are given credit in the moonlight of their darkest hour for having summoned up the courage to withstand attacks from the fiercest demons and we know we haven't seen the worst yet just because our Dads are dead and we their children left behind know deep inside we're already members of that DPC we just haven't had our tickets punched yet and that is why from here on out every last day is a brave new world unfurled beneath our feet as if we actually created it ourselves while taking the baby out for a stroll alongside the street before the sun sinks too low and that is precisely what we've done and will continue to do so for a long time to come. 

KISSING THE MIRROR

Clif Clemons conceived the bogus, laughable, seemingly over-used (thus attaining its invisibility) concept for the first real, that is, conclusory time while he was somewhere reading a book.

He had been reading that sentence where the author explained the heroine's rationalization as being vacuum tight and flawless, that is, except for the premise. That she was worthless and wanted to kill herself.

Clif was apt to set down a book in any manner of ways: dog-eared, bookmarked, or opened flat face down; just as he was likely to in the middle of a sentence, or at any odd interval of text. Sometimes, the thought of a just-read sentence would trigger repetitive associations in Clif's mind and his eyes would turn to an open window magnetically.

Not that he looked at or even noticed the flawless sky there. Sometimes after his thought the then-revealed presence of blue sky would abruptly bump him into trance-thinking of an unpursuable nature. Most of the time any such chain of thought as this inevitably led him to forgetting the book he'd been reading.

It was during an occasion such as this that he thought, “I really am alone and the whole world, everyone I know, is simply a reflexive response—not to my unvoiced wishes, but to my acted out ones.”

Clif believed this, somehow assembling its meaning in his head and finding the ability to confirm it. Like when he kissed his girlfriend. He stopped once and wondered if it were not because he initiated the gesture. He could not remember a time in which she singled him out for a kiss. When they kissed he knew it to be something in which they met half-way, though if measured, his portion of involvement most certainly would be over fifty percent of the whole. This in fact, for Clif Clemons, turned out to be true—as far as kissing his girlfriend was concerned.

In every instance it was he who began the kiss, he who broke the ice—he who did the real kissing—as far as he was concerned. And so he decided concretely that this effect could be taken further into all the remaining aspects of his life.

This dawned terror in him. His whole life, everything he ever did and was still in the process of doing, was introduced by he and he alone. The universe was just something that responded reflexively to his cue, meeting him half-way, or to be a bit more precise, forty-sixty.

Perhaps some would have found this strangely exciting, or have visions of being able to do anything, if the universe simply reacted automatically to their actions. But Clif's terror was correct. For he knew then he was completely alone.

EDEN'S AFTER PARTY

The underground has swallowed me up.
I find it curiously dark in here.
Illumination arrives in unexpected ways.
By blue cellphone light.
From a warm orange bic flame cupped in a hand.
Nothing beats hanging with your rebel friends.
On a city sidewalk late at night.
Cases of brews stashed in the trunk of a car.
Empties getting lined up in the gutter.
Everyone keeping their beers down low.
I could really get to like it here.
Too bad they're tearing it down.
Haven't you heard (the screaming across the sky)?
They tear one section of it down.
Another is created from the aftershock.
A falling building (oops) one of their shiny ones.
They're making the whole planet into Disneyworld.
Ironic isn't it though.
Since the best rides are free.
They just aren't regularly scheduled.
Do yourself a favor.
Go to a local underground show.
Its not about the music.
Its about your life.
If you're lucky Sleepytime Gorilla Museum will headline.
Then it's about the music again.
Like a swift punch to the chin.
A shocking caress on the thigh.
Just what would you do without the underground?
Better get moving.
See that pretty city scape.
Encroaching from the horizon.
Getting closer every time you look.
It's corporate Disneyworld.
Arriving like a tide to swallow you up.
Run. Find a dive bar playing a grind show.
Go in and say "Hi" to someone.
Before they spit you back out.
Before you find yourself looking in the mirror.
Before seeing a mannequin staring back at you.
Just another dummy from a department store window.
That doll will soon know more about you than your own self.
Its camera eyes do not lie.
It has more memory storage than google.
Its capacity to remember has grown past yours to forget.
That dummy is working on stealing your ID.
It's got eight of your social security numbers already.
You are on the verge of becoming a nonperson.
Get out of your mirrored closet quick.
Go out the back window why don't you.
Take the fire escape to the street.
Throw your cellphone in the nearest dumpster.
For this adventure you will need your hands.
You will need your feet.
You will need your mouth.
You will use your brain.
Put down that energy drink.
Get yourself some water.
You've been carrying the secret with you this whole time.
The secret to survival.
The secret to success.
The secret to happiness.
The secret to truth.
The secret to all that shit.
It is not the picture of success you've been taught.
You need to be weaned off that matriculation.
This can be dangerous.
Many are convinced their current identity is genuine.
They could die from shock if it were revealed to be otherwise.
There are ways to lessen the impact.
One of the best ways is music.
Start listening to non-corporate, underground music.
Live music works like a neural bath.
The salts of music dissolve programmed restraints.
Hearing music live is necessary for many reasons.
Recorded music instantly becomes injectable.
You are in control of it.
This is not music's real function.
Its real purpose is to possess you entirely.
Its function is to force your inner slave to break free.
To surrender from the prison of your flesh.
To get you dancing.
To throw you into a state without a care in the world.
To abandon yourself to the thrill of being alive.
Recorded music only retains a ghost of this potential.
It is only there as a reminder.
It can be accessed for positive use, yes.
Yet it is equally lethal as a mind destroying drug.
Implemented by corporate benefactors to control you.
To make your body and soul move for them.
Through endless levels of their selfish game.
So forget about your radio and iPod for a bit.
Just let it all go.
What do you smell down this alleyway.
Now that its late.
As the stars burn and scream into the atmosphere.
Focus your hearing on the sounds down the street.
Start moving.
Stick to the shadows.
They will lead you to Eden's after party.