I, Mongoose

Freely given at the price of chance
Scattered atoms die to dance
Rhythms of muted fate
Gathered before oblivion's gate.
...

I try to keep abreast of the world's happenings and ways
To know what my nation's energy is about these days.
So I pay attention to what tv news says.
But there are so many spewing
...

Confused ambulations arise to mind
Fed by an unknown sustenance.
Dread and anguish together dined
Over a feast of bitter reluctance.
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Every time I come to this place
It is the same with the changing.
Shadows and glare reflect form,
As night-clouds a lightning storm.
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Churning up the muddy waters of love,
I a belching frog, thou a cooing dove.
Taken by what I feel and lost to all I see
Heartlong jumping just to fall to thee.
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Apart from the buzzing of fellow men
I sit alone in self-exile's den;
With none to speak and none to hear
Secrets whispered in solitude's ear.
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Space between here and drunkenness
A desert wasteland of crisp lucidity.

Wand'ring through hot sun, burning sands
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Her beauty is the sun,
Light and warmth of my world.
Her hair is the autumn wind;
Her eyes a cloudless night.
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We are dying of thirst
At a well in the desert,
With a torn rope
And shattered pale.
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The sharp pain doesn't bother me so much
I mean it does
But it's always so unexpected and quick
Then it leaves me alone.
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First line of bottomless poem
Second comes in and rhymes the first
Third introduces a new idea
And the Fourth makes it burst.
...

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The man was authentic, what else can be said?
Four disparate faculties, effortlessly he wed.
Thought, Feeling, Word, and Action
Blended in one harmonious transaction.
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The baggage train trailing behind
Drags heavily through the sands,
Slowing the progress
Of our desert caravan
...

Last night, lying awake in bed
Weighing the morrow's possibilities in my head,
There seemed things worthy of excitement and dread.
But that was before the light of day
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I am a book that's been read,
A pipe that's been smoked,
A diner overfed,
By my own appetite choked.
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Bad poetry written by a sad man.
Nothing could be more pitiful.
No, that's not true.
A sad man writing no poetry at all
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Words are sketchy rope bridges
Spanning the Grand Canyon between two minds.
Imagine how the heart must be cut off,
Like Hawaiian islands in the middle of the vast Pacific.
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In the song of the nightingale
I hear only your name.
Waves forever roll, reaching the coast
Just to be nearer thee.
...