Second toss, same sh1t.

The following poem contains explicit material, paradoxical philosophies, obscure allusions, and a whole heap of immodesty.

Viewer discretion is advised.

My Waste Land

I. Upon discovering The Waste Land…9/21/07

Her silence is a small death-

A miniature execution of
So many dreams that remind:
The Myth of Meritocracy
Is as absurd as True Love.

We are both just human
-Though I am closer to a god-
Barren of visceral power
And a Fisher-King in
Every practical regard.

She knows she’s let me down
And that was after she let me go.
Her tears are filling my eyes
Maybe because I’m the one who is hurt-
But she knows I will not cry.
She cries enough for us both.

And in each tear that forms,
I endure another small death.
My life lost, in the water
Her eyes shed.
And after this ancient ritual,
Perhaps I’ll rise again,
Because when she at last
Stops crying,
I’ll say all that can ever be said.

“I will always love you”

But We,

We are already dead.

II. Welcome to My Waste Land
1/14/09

I
Arose here, and found
I
Seceded from linear existence-

Somewhat diminished but
Transcended all the same-

Figurative; in literal's position:
Dante's Inferno
And so many levels of Hell…

When Purgatory became an option
I traveled too boldly there.

Steps made brazen by the Burglar
From Under-hill
Eventually led to Nan Dungorthin.

I
Physically traveled no farther than

Car could drive.

   I should set sail-

Raise my own fleet

And make conquests of
Homecomings:

I just have not left Home.

I once wrote on
A portrait of the Prodigal Son,
Rembrandt, circa 1668-

My absence was never physical.

My atonement keeps
Between here or here,
There or there…

One day I will travel to Greece-
I will find myself Italian-
Return Excalibur to the stone;

To the Lady-

To the Lake...

Achilles was no Champion, without Pride- and
Aeneas could never have founded Rome;
Arthur would never have fought with Saxons.

My life is in Myths you don't know

As I do.

Remember discovering The Waste Land?

It was all Purgatory, again,

But Harsher.

Harsher harsher harsher...

Scouring: Scraping.

-Dust is too soft-

Even dust of bones-

Limestone is Calcium too.

Stone of bones and white as paper
Arid, abrasive, but felt in deliberate traces...
Fingertips in dust-

I have lived and died to live and die without ever dieing

But Living that entire time. Entirely.

Too much
I've taken in-

-Rogue without her gloves-
Empathic when encountering another
Fiction or physical or pure fantasy
As if I am assimilated by what my mind
Assimilates.

I once noticed the space between embers becoming a flame.

There is a balance to be maintained:

I am only aware.

My knowledge is Dante's Inferno
Understanding is what Eliot calls The Waste Land
Living is just awareness:

-I am all too aware-

It is in spaces of the Unknown that death lingers:
Duplicity, misdirection, or Lies.

Conrad's Marlowe puts it best:
"taint of death, and a flavor of mortality in lies."

I have transcended,
Certainly,
But I am yet to ascend-

Waiting in this waste land,
Writing methodically in the Dust:
Wanting one phrase;
A single utterance to
Withstand the winds of time.

I would not stop those winds.

Let them blow furiously to
Erase my writings
If they be ephemeral;
And only my dreams.

But should they be of substance,
Weighted heavily to withstand:

Weigh them heavily on the minds
That grant eternity from the brink:

Oblivion.

I know the works of Billy Shakes,
Of Dante, Virgil, Eliot, Homer-

I know Joey Conrad,
Of J.R.R. Tolkien, the mentor.

I will know every Author,
Poet-
I want
Every thought that they sacrificed to the Pen,

To the Dust:

And they are alive as I am, perhaps in a
Purgatory of their own.

   Let me linger here a while.

Scratch deep into this white-bone dust
Before my own bones are made a medium
For others who discover this waste land, too.

Then if my knuckles are bloodied-
Red ink for channels I've scratched-
The wind will only dry my blood in the dust...

Those that come after will
Surely see that stain.

Then,
When I have left myself in words

I will return to the World.
Travel out of myths, and stories to
Set literal foot on ancestral stones.

Until then, I dwell in dreams-
Beautiful and Terrifying,
Or just Difficult,
But still alive.

Life, is easy.

Yes,
I've said that many times before.

Living, is what's difficult. To be aware and
Utterly defenseless...

I do not know what I will say next.

I do not know what you might say.
   What if it is not what I hear?
Aware can still be a wrong way-

But that is the difficulty, isn't it?
It's why I prefer what written words say.
Written is not living.

Written is the same as Life.

-I have dreams
Inside the dream I live
And my memories are
Memories of a dream, Remembered.
Sometimes I'm remembering while I'm dreaming still-

Oh I have discovered this waste land;
Just as I'm discovering it still.
Soon, though,
So soon,
I will journey back-

Another decade
And another
Maybe another still

I am young
Though not linear, any more.
I am old, too.

I am

I...

You, who have been led here-
Who wandered, quested, or roamed…

You are assimilated.

You will find my blood.

When my bones are dust
You will write, too-

You will write until your own red ink has run dry
And stained the white-bone dust, too-

We all are already dead.

How else could we have ever lived ?

…Welcome to my Waste Land…

We're too good for Hell

III. Ranheru’Ruindil Vala’ar’Ara’Akinaur

Wandering Lord,
Servant of red flame,
Powerful and a God-

A Sword Immersed In Flame-

Guardian of the Flame Imperishable,
Keeper of the Imperishable Flame,
   Golden-
   Watcher-
   Balancer:
   Lord of Lauraind,
and the Laurn-
   And countless other titles he would not use.

Just Ruindil Akinaur.

He sits
A throne of stone set in crowns of
Red oak: black and white.
In the TreetopVilla- In the
Main Hall.

The North Wing‘s
Private chambers,
Library, and Dining Hall.
Or the West Wing, The Villa’s Pub,
And its Guest Quarters. Or,
The East Wing, where wreaths of
White flowers
Adorn the Fallen, Lant’Faroth’s doors before
Gates of
Hanging Gardens, above
Lauraind’s Heart:

Amidst the Seven Rivers named after
J.R.R. Ossiriand-
Adurant, Duilwen, Gelion
Ascar, Thalos, Brilthor, and…
It does not matter. Those are not
My lands

In The Mauglir‘s Desire .

Ah, the Mauglir,
The Maker-
Creator of Ladies, and Lords.

He is Death:

-Desire. Temptation. Subjugation, Damnation.-

He is Despair.

The Mauglir is Absolute,

But:

Imperishable is the Akinaur.

Balance
     and a

Sheer contention of Wills.

-The Eternal Engine-

Ages upon Ages:

I trapped Ruindil in Purgatory.
The Veil, and Olaurin’s realm.

Factory for Dreams
And Nightmares…but they are not

The Mauglir’s Dreams…

And so even nightmares are not such evil things.

What do you know of Desires?

I know, and loathe,
Yet want, and do, until
I-
Will:
Decide whether
It is good, or evil, because
I thought it so.
Hamlet could not have reasoned better
To be or not
Should you instead, let
It decide You.

The Mauglir, though-

Desires only the Imperishable…

It is Life, it is Living, it is Free-

And the Mauglir must
Subjugate, possess,
Enslave whoever does not willingly.
Worship, and obey-

He is the Maker:
Master of Voids,
Lord of the Shroud, and the Shrouded.
He is
Oblivion‘s Avatar-

He is Want.

Thauron knew nothing of True Power.
My world has no Ring.
No gold to be taken from
River nymphs of the Rhine.

-Oh there are layers of
Allusions that comprise the
Unspoken contexts of these delusions

And you must learn to see what
You can not hear. Feel when you are blinded and
Press your tongue if you are numb-
Smell and Taste are joined closely.

And if all five should fail you-
Know it is as it should be.

You will die when you will die
Just hope that you die free-
Without regrets of deeds
Done or not
Regardless of being
Innocent, or Guilty.

Sometimes, there is no right choice
Until the wrong choice, is made.

Not even the very wise see
All ends of ends:
The endings that are yet to be.

Smeagol’s desire was stronger than Sam’s, though
Technically, Frodo’s finger held the Ring.

No, it was not destiny.

It was all
Desire…

Obsession.
Immolation-

Oh yes your desires will burn you,
Scorch you,
Incinerate and conflagrate your Being…

-A moth pulled to light is still
Drawn to flame; while Pink
Floyd’s Sisyphus Part 2 melo-
Dramatically
Plays-

Integrity is all that can save you
From an
Eternity of Hell. Of burning
With balefire
You created
Pandering to the Id:
Your Inner-Grendel.

Oh your desires will consume you,
One way, or the other way or
A way a Delphi Priestess could not foresee.

A self-fulfilling prophecy…

The kind that needs no help from the gods.
The Self is far more powerful-

I created Me.

I am not all-powerful.

It’s foolish to believe
Anyone, could be.

Monotheism, indeed.

No, the only god that is more
Powerful than a person’s perception is
Fate.

Chance.

Luck, in its purest degree.

And for a mind like the Mauglir
There is nothing more tormenting…

That which can’t be accounted for-
Controlled, coerced, or compelled:

Anything that is defying.
So
Defiance is my Desire,
Don’t tell me what to see,
Point me in a direction and just leave the rest to me.

Oh I have wants that consume my thoughts and keep me tossing, rolling, and turning While I try and sleep.
Those wants have changed throughout the years but I have always believed my thoughts Are as important as my dreams.
So I dream of thoughts, and think of dreams and want and want without reprieve from Always being fueled by desires that keep me laying with eyes closed and tucked deep
Under blankets just trying to will my self asleep, but instead I think and turn and dream without ever sleeping but wanting, wanting, wanting Life
To be better than just Existing.

And my Desires are so simple!
So typically mundane.
Just Love, and love, and respect, and wealth-

I suppose I desire fame…

For the proliferation of knowledge-
Of values that resonate within;
Nobility and gallantry and
Justice that has nothing to do with
Courts, Laws, or Judges.

Integrity:

Does not need rules.
Needs only Will to do what’s right,
Which is a desire in itself.

And then there are more
Primal Desires. Carnal lusts upon
All lives are essentially built.

Mastication,
Fornication:
A man must
Eat, and
Fuck.

Impossible desires in this waste land
Where all is barren, desolate, and dead.

All blighted: Blasted of comforts that
Succor a body and spirit: Fruit, and flesh,
Yes, that feel…fingertips in lust-
Tracing, tweaking, and turning a perking
Nipple. Knowing her desire matches such-
Quivering, shivering,
Shuddering from a
Flushing heat.
Humidity,
Sweat or sweeter, just the tip of
Anticipation‘s treat:
How I miss lengthy
Straining within that succulent
Space, so close and comfortably
Viscous, when all other sensations are
Ceased.

The one time when Desire truly makes us
Flame.

When Man or Woman knows
What it is to be a beast. Rutting
Under blankets, in a forest,
Perhaps on a couch, or a black
‘95 Camaro’s front passenger seat…

Our desire for connection is prominent-

Love or lust or perhaps I’m just
Loquacious in this
Explanation of fornication…

Call it verbal masturbation
Before you say I’m
Garrulous.

Oh I languish in this waste land.
I’m running out of memories to eat,
And what then will sustain me?
This waste land has such a dry heat.
My lips have not been wetted, without
Another pair to meet. Parched and cracking, and
Croaking my voice because I choked on words
I’ll never speak,
Again.

Words I heard you echo-

“Amin mela lle, ten‘oio”

I just wish I knew you had ever, truly,
Spoken them yourself.
What is Forever?
Always?
Eternity?
I had thought so, but
What do mortals know?
Oh I am closer to a god,
Having created gods and
Eternity’s of my own.
Yet, even I should never have
Promised forever-

…I only cursed myself.

IV. Life from Fire
1/21/09

Hot.

Pretty.

First words spoken-

Thoughts verbally conveyed.

Hot.

Pretty.

Not just vocally, as when

I cried or screamed or giggled or squealed like any infantile mind must do before wants become more than feed me, change me,
Hold me close and
Love me,
Unconditionally.

Hot. Pretty. Wood stove. Christmas tree.
I may have already been born but
Those words were my awakening.

And when I was a child,
I never wanted to age.

Peter Pan syndrome or maybe I was just a
Toys’R’Us kid…

Really, I just knew better.
I have been told I have an old, old soul.

But,

I just knew I would never be as free, as I was on Summer days
When I would wake up early to play in wet grass beneath
Old oak tree’s shade.

And as my age advances,
Those memories darker fade.

Gods it’s just such a long,
Long fall from that grace.

I lost my shuttle somewhere, and I’m being
Immolated by re-entry.

Shooting stars are falling, and
Their beauty burns too bright,
Brightest, burns quickest:
But, like a phoenix
I’ll re-populate my
Crash site.

Oh there will be life from this fire-

I must
Propagate what I have learned.

I must survive, and show,
There’s a reason why I burned…

V. What the Ashes Said

Shhhhhh

He’s resting.

Let him gather in the ashes-
Child of the First born, and of the
Flame.

It was all taken in-

The Fire, the Heat, the Dust, the Blood,
All taken and elemental now.
Thoughts and memories,
Nightmares and dreams,
Wishes, wants,
Desires-

He is as I should be.

Ruindil is the perfect Me

Oh I had discovered the waste land,

I had been trapped in Purgatory.

Bleakest, most Blighted,
Blasted, Broken and
Despairingly Desolate of lands:

Now,
Reborn, instead,
From my ashes I

Stand.

I created Ruindil,
Just as I created my waste land.
I created the Mauglir,
Maybe now you understand…

Oh I am all I will be and
Have been and
Being, not just existing.
Growling, again,
Primal,
Elemental,

I am Alive again.

I…

Breathe deep this
Fresh, sweet,
Moistness in the air,
Winds that warm no longer
Erasing or Drying,
Just comforting and invigorating-
Pushing low wallowing clouds
Over horizons of vast oceans.

I have set sail-

At last, a good launch.

And this is just the beginning.
So my Odyssey begins-

Maybe not only on oceans.

I’ll sail on seas of leaves-
Wooded-waves that roll and
Sway on currents of the wind.

Though I no longer wander-
No longer quest, journey, or roam:
My goals are
My own compass.
I am
Sailing home.

And time no longer matters.
I have all the time I need.
I think I already told you
I am all I will be.

So now there’s just that being.
I’ve rested and gathered more than long enough.

Out of the pile of ash and embers
I’ve grown:
Growing: Springs first flower-

Beauty, returned at last.

So,
Should you discover Your own
Waste land, know that it is for a
Purpose. Endure in broiling
Silence, and just continue
Writing in the white bone-dusted surface.

Let blood and tears and sweat
Stain your thoughts so the world can see,
The waste land is nothing more, than the
Living mind’s Purgatory.

VI. My game of Chess…

Checkmate.

Play again?

Turn the board.

Checkmate in Ten.

I just got as tired of beating myself,
As I was losing to myself.

   The End.
****

As before, any thoughts, questions, comments, or criticisms... all are welcomed, expected, and appreciated. Whoever makes it through all of that should get like a thousand pies. Whatever the hell those are.

~Ruin...Joe~