I'm helping to organize a "Library Poetry Thing" event for work.

Talking to my fellow library geeks, I realized that I didn't invest much faith in putting it together. It's not like Bret Perry was going to walk up with a masterpiece, or Mecca was going to run the show. No Angel, Dan or Tim. No Atman, Gonzo or Kristina Boswell. Oh well, this poetry thing may yield some diamonds in the rough, but I tip my hat to the phenomenon that was Michelle Strier's birthed vision that we all joined in with similar frequencies of time/space hallucinations. Thank you to all of you, and to those I've not mentioned or now forgotten. I found the "Journal" and was amused what I wrote when I was 19. The numerals, of course, refer to Tarot cards. Life is but a dream, (oh sweet XVIII) nothing what it would seem but quite Extraordinary shifting the unseen seeping through the seams life is but a dream, sweet Art

growing brighter every day Yes, XIX is the way Four shrugging doubt away & the world is ours to play around the deads dismay the two keep changing anyway, so darling, dream inTense dreams today!

divINe XX has aligned we see with the mInds eye whats upon the earth & Sky piercing beyond the Moon alternate experiences in the next room

the library has arrived, so open soon because you control the dream, dear heart

its the only thing i can say without giving my self away let your iNtUITition pave your way so just open up with love reality comes down from above dance & laugh & Explore while having fun life is but a dream, or XXI

Theres Nothing real to lose, Only what you shalt choose the feast is always There dont be caught up unaware a ladder is always above your head so be conscious while in bed dream of dancing through the air, and of..!?!?!?!?!?!?????

------------------------------We Lust for Life wishing to swallow whole our ecstatic distress while constructing eternal temples to our own deaths the expanding cosmos in its boundless infinities has no space left for our detonating tastebuds to grab hold hungry with teasing mouthing bites

while the immutable elements squirm ceaselessly in defiance dreaming themselves immune to our sweetly intoxicating and strange dance unearthly revelations flow inside and surround the erupting mind shifting, seeing, seeming, being nothing but that which we take hold the hand of and create

this metaphor of reality that theyve given me to play reveals its transitory nature anew each day changeless ways, wandering daze, amorphic maze, didnt they give you a map? still silly seeking sanctuary after professing to pervert the altar in the name of the truer Godhead and yet again unchanging theme weaves a history of made to believe

the Specter conveying the spectral scepter led us to the gardens again within the kingdom with erupting rapture we took hold the wand with trembling hands, poised but knowing not yet what to make of this land simplicity perplexes the cultured magicians mind when endowed with little understanding of the disc of time hemetically left alone within without a place to hide the reclusive dreaming poets humble pride this little bag of seems that a fairy once ago gave to me

has led me transfixed with childlike wonder in a figure 8 now only short trips to the other side of the gate

Eye blinked my I; remembrance fled my tormented mind Oh, how those humans will be strange! Coveting their sorrows & counting their bills with sardonic wiles and sadistic wills for all their words of salvation, they seek not but for idols to worship while smoking pot emptiness becomes in heartaches and back pains when denying the natural intuition of the terrain God help me, they cry, perceiving seeming apathy from the skies soon sparking the spoke of carnality, letting translucent smoky desire writhe bottom-feeders surround the breeders & nature shows a malicious grin vision touching deeper meaning of what it is to live in sin lifted upward only to slide spiraling downward asking for another fix deliverance junkies bleed the collective veins while keeping the devil fed with a crucifix the only hope for transcendence lying lucidly dreaming I to I, again a virgin adorning the softer side of morning Standing tranquil in the sea of endless possibility, Is your bag of fantasy boundless enough to keep me Immortally free? Piercing the veil of light and lies so, little girl, where did you get those eyes?