Angel of mine, in my mind.
Angel, you're an angel, dear angel, nothing is wrong, life is free and strong.
My future is bright, I've done nothing wrong.
In my life and mind I flow uninterupted, unbiased, and unincumbered.
My soul is fed the finest food. I can stand in earnest to accept my fate, my faith, my love.
My love grows power. The same love that grows a lovely flower.
My heart is earnest as well, free and true and loving you.
Loving your quirks and beautiful heart.
Goddess of my dreams, you sell the finest linens and lace, you sell the truth, its what you've become its who you are.
My dearest thoughts, I will fill you with spirit, mark you like a cow, with a brand of hot iron.
Angel of my mind.
You come to me from the corners of the earth, with your finest friends, allies and wise men. You adorn the institutions of the earth with your thought, your light, your love.
You the unquenchable, the insatiable, and untamable, you are the center of my being. You are an idea, a theory, an unpracticed song in my head that flows goodness, that gives the good to all.
Angel of mine.
Angel of my mind.
Basking in the glory of a morning ray, birds chirping in the windows, lovely and gay.
The goodness of the moment is bright and pure, the daylight is transfixing and carries troubles away.
The light is pure and the life so good, never told how to chirp or flutter, the birds just know what to do.
Those cotton pj's with the fitted feet, always started my day.
All the lessons of life lay before me; "do I know what I need?"
My heart will find out, my heart will find a way.
A standing reed, a wind, a bending reed. A sunlit day, a moon drenched night, stars billions of miles away.
A favorite stuffed bear, a cozy little chair. Paper and ink, a leaky sink.
A clock on a wall, finding a long lost favorite ball. In different eras with blinds in between.
No difference in what you believe. In case you must choose. To seek or to find,
or fall backwards accidentally sublime. Tossed aside in a bramble a barrior to some.
It is where the pheonix was lost to all or to some. Where clowns arrange parties for the tragically
mundane and truth is a tonic and lies are a shame. The hearts of the people in rhythem with time
make dutifull moments and do petty crimes. The fatter you get the worse off you'll be and bright
naked mirrors reflect what you see. Responsibility comes calling in moments of haste,
a cascading river of embarassing waste. Return home and be shocked by the powers that be;
panic and anger directed at thee. A linear man, in linear space, running around as if in a
solitary race. A path to follow mends many a fence and spurs high horses that are ridden in
self- defense. Theres no time to be silly and bills must be paid, always these neurotic tendancies,
leave nerves that are frayed. The temperature and elements do affect drastic change,
the people you are gets rearranged. To bring the phoenix into the scene is to fly away or clip the wings.
Angels imagined and thoughts projected mean nothing unless made real and objective.
To sum it up, it all matters now, as it did then, that forever tommorows must never end.
by Ken Dinneen
Lie to get by, deceive to die, circle the wagons, run for your life. A lie is more than a wasted breath,
they can breed, and cause chaos, and haunt you til death.
Lies make liars and school makes scholars, lies are like starch for social collars. Make it work by
any means possible, lies and their father are terrible disseases of honor. Serve your deception while
it's hot, many reasons to lie, and many to not. What builds up, what falls down, when does deception
garnish a crown? When lies are a staple of everyday life and the happiest people are those filled with
strife. When only the wise have any sense, those who know themselves deeply, who are free of pretense.
The lies can escape you and truth will abound, what good are lies when all you have is the truth that
you've found. Falseness of truth, an imposter for sure, prayers sent to heaven are quite immature.
What does a God of infinite time do with a liar of character and mind?
His choice is found in what we all do, his choice is after all, all up to you.
Knowledge of self is a simple tool, a weapon, an armament for all that you do. Life is crazy sensitive, and weak; an embryo of mind so fragile, so free.
Safety, peace and love, what heals the brain.
Turn up the beat, but don't go insane. Remember, school, and life is a particular thing.
Love is a privilege and earth is our home. My body and mind is all of my own.
Technology is changing and new games come along.
Society and its tropisms are all rules for a throng. Crazy physics make it all happen.
Consciousness and intelligence should never be dampened.
Sun shining, life blooming, horns tooting.
Behind the blinds of the money curtain lurks all influence of activity. The rapid pace
is total captivity. Open a book, read a chapter, follow a trail of psychotic laughter.
Mental battles seem so critical, heretical thoughts so maniacal.
Stupid and stupefied lack of respect, social conditions, vectors of competence.
Gods green earth, and loving the truth of history.
Hope and possibility seem so dear to me. The self of God, the only truth to believe, the truth of my self is all that I need. Life is my joy and my self is my ecstasy. Now is a pleasure, we have for eternity.
Stranded in Hell or Heaven
by Ken Dinneen
Crossing red to get to the backstreet the fence line green with foliage different colors of graffiti making my way across town.
The gay flowers in small patches here and there and the hint of nature turning its wheels. Beside the street remnants of a world
where strange debris accumulate slowly over time. Tall grass bunches blonde and dry sit planted to accompany the telephone poles.
On the street to paradise an apple is freely given and I push onward, sated. Out by the freeway a girls face catches my eye and I
wonder if it could be her, someone, anyone. I wait and keep looking with my thumb out for a ride.
Back in the city with the traffic busy now for the time of day. On foot again but closer now a man I don't know drives away in an old work truck.
Closer to paradise. The cold of night surrounds me, confronting my attire, I'm foot sore and weary. Who is there in this time of independence, a time of
dependence, a loco homeboy, the outlaws of the west who find their answer in a glass.
Desolate alone and black, shades of black and deep purple shadows lurk to hide the money-less. Money lurks in those shadows too but out of reach and it disappears.
A ticket to ride the closest thing to paradise. A ticket thrown out the window and I ride free. The city lights and the route of the city bus all part of the plan.
Then the long awaited connection to the place where you're supposed to belong occurs. This is the town, this is the road to paradise.