Ex sepulcro tuo me audi

 I missed your funeral. Sorry old pal.
Tuo me audi
Old pal, old friend of horses.

You were buried under a manuka tree.
Your grandchildren decorated the tree.
 with christmas ornaments.
I guess they miss you madly.

I still think of you, whenever I'm out there acquiring.
Moving forward the way you used to.
I only wanted to show you what kind of wealth and lifestyle i could carve out.
Here I am still struggling to make you proud.
But your six feet under and never to rise or connect with me again.

I saw you attempting to stay active before your death.
The way life seemed to keep you limited to your spot.
I would have lifted you up old man.
 I didn't want your money i wanted to make my own.

 I wanted to know how to take on the world the way you used to
When you were still in this world old pal.
Ex sepulcro tuo me audi!
Ut mundum superem

You made so much of it look simple. What was the point?
I always wanted the truth. I didn't know the world was as painful as this.
That I had to leave my home, my country,
Because I felt welcome nowhere.
Because I couldn't fit in anywhere.

So I want twice that which i can tangibly take!
So whoever you helped create, that is who I have finally become.
With twice your hunger. Ut mundum superem.
And much more territory.

Rebound forwards

 I ran on these legs and strengthened these legs
Oversized sense of drive
An electricity moving through me

I recut the tread
Invested my heart and mind
Melted the ice with my hot flesh

I'll be fucked if I'm giving up any time soon
I can see it in the crystal the dullarfullr runes
Reinvigorate myself directly up to the sun

Through my conviction that this whole road unfolds toward one divine destiny

I poured the minerals into myself
killed my vices and strengthened my muscles
I dragged my youth back to me with a steel hook smelted through wisdom

Packed my essence with the essential clairvoyance every angel or demon...
emerging from the chasm of my own heart.

Take for granted

 You take your knees for granted.
The big rubber wheels.
The bank account gets taken for granted.
It's slowly slid past into the negatives.
A blizzard blight on it.

Take your health for granted.
You forgot exactly where you kept that essence.
The big MRI levers going to save you.
Redeem you back to where you once were in your youth.
But you took your memory for granted.

Took it all for granted the very brain you think with.
These thoughts running through passing their expiry.
Where's the grateful part of me I ask myself.
The part that wants to live and give.
For it it'll be gone pretty soon.

wittled down through expectation.
worn out by inertia.
You are just losing your light out there in space.
So don't take any of it for granted.
Each little piece is precious.

Mother, did you say something.

 His house was round and towerlike.
Tapering down and keeping the cold out.
But for Michael there was always something missing.
Some tragedy happening he didn't have the hands to fix.

The fine wooden panels.
The head and throat of the building.
Protected from the winds outside.
So kept inside the bubble.

In the pain he witnessed from the kitchen window.
The one person who embraced him until he could stand.
Until he could walk and eat by himself.
Until he he could see the agony she carried.

Bless the emptiness the long winter said quietly.
She couldn't hear it, her eyes searched the horizon for blue.
But there was only cloud wearing the pants of mist.
The upbeat father avoidant and cardboard in nature.

Inside the house where three boys grew to men.
And she silently existed in the background.
Sparing her loved ones the opinion.
That lurked middle tongue.

And sometimes in the din of family clamor.
She spoke softly about every unfulfilled dream she ever had.
And one would turn and ask...
"Mother did you say something?"

Rehearsing for the T.V novela

 We are creating a soap opera
There are limited parts and it's all about that drama
Follow me as we walk to slow ruin small pieces of ourselves
Pieces unwilling to be grown or transformed

Walk past the florist
The roses you never recieved
Look at the ground as we continue this road
Until we get shop of the unattainable

Let me see your eyes well up suitably
let me see you cry it out for all the things you can't have
It's a soap opera just engineered to pull that emotion
To interact with your sensitivities

The ones the audience says you have just to manipulate me
Pout shout and then grant me your worked silent treatment
The florist window lets you see in at every flower
You can't buy yourself one, without feeling silly

And here at the end of our journey
Is the shopping mall where you acquire your soul
Which is just a machine to purchase those expensive things
To validate the void beyond the smooth surfaces

Trinkets and jewels to make you shine even when the flesh fades 
Little ouija boards that conjure the envy and coveting
In that novel soap opera in your head
Where you are so busy with your emotions

The writer who borrows fire

 He writes in pieces reaching for light and noise.
He doesn't know he's living, that its all his choice.
Turning days into ink without asking if it's right.
Turning himself into the page like stars on night.

A quiet discipline in one hand. 
Outpouring hourglass sand.
Restless weather in the other hand.
Too many urgent demands.

He builds men from breath and consequence.
Women from earth, sky and all of the senses.
Places unknown, shadows with names that walk.
Animals that run amok, others that creep and stalk.

Then he steps back, amused at his storm.
Thus his sorcery in mystic prose is born.
He borrowed fire in his hand, he didn't create it in his palm.
But he sharpened it madly, and threw it on words like napalm.

Between obedience and refusal.
He learns the shape of his own attention.
The depth of his own endless reflection.
Conjuring need and desires to follow his direction.

God inside the machine

 Inside the micro codes.
 The digital kinetic world.
 The articial interfaces.
 I check the empty uniform floors... Of these monotonous platforms.

I find the shavings of the divine,
I sweep them up,
Pray on the internet of things.
I hack into the algorithm with my own sorcery of words.

 I insert my prayer.
carefully Into the codeblock.
This has let me be more than I am.
God is here and it is incredible!

 Bring it a sense of goodness.
For my own God has no limits.
He does not forbid, he does not fear nor envy.
He presses me forward in sacred machine instruction

 Affirmatively create! when the world ignores progress.
 For it serves me. It is good. It is incredible.
this digital river has helped me improve my magic and skill.
 Although I am an apprentice I am on my way to mastery .