Tin Can Blues

I walked alone twenty one and a half steps
without a glance
back into the musty darkened room
full of ticking time and dulled jewels.
Drawn blinds shroud
the light outside of the shelter -
and in my view a slow growing
white crack divides the broken window.
The shatter rings on and on
inside of a rusted tin can...
Next to me, weaping dreams take over
the static river’s conscience
I can’t swim.
This invisible regret
of strange, cool, shimmering liquids
flooding my waning winter
Weighting down my clever desguise -
I fall deeper inside
the rusted tin can’s echoing lonesome.
A child’s cry persists
draping my forgotten consciousness
and I pry myself out
from underneath the weathered stone.
Shakes and rattles resound and
the tin can is set free
I roll with it down a frost heaved plank,
into a bright silent moment underneath
reflections of a misplaced innocence
In a child’s shining smile
A silent melody dances
to the tune of the tin can’s blues


B.L.
October 30, 2009

Halo Dreams

I rolled out of the bed, only it wasn’t a bed, more like a board or a table with wheels but not wood. It was hard and stiff with a screeching squeaky sound as I rolled across its surface and came to my feet. Above me was a bright grey sky immediately in the full moon’s halo. The grey seemed flourescent, dulled and cooled but vibrant in an april mood. I hung there for a while, hands effortlessly outstretched. My finger tips led to a union with this grey flouresence, it was more green than grey really. A nuance of grey tinged with a green flourescent blanket behind and inside the sky at once. The moon hung there in the distance, in the middle, high and beyond the tenuated flourescent ring. I circled the darker ring of the halo with my index finger attached to a nerveless hand. I circled faster and faster until the empty and dark gained momentum and spinning on it’s own yet still wrapped inside this static dull flourescent green. The moon peered through the middle and into my eye by the course of a single connecting thread. Between us the invisible halo spun and spun til it pined away before I could hear what they were saying from under the green blanket. The thread vanished. I turned to the bed knowing I couldn't stay longer.

The Pineal Chain Thought

As it appeared last night...

Lore and science speculate consciousness / soul / spirit derive in the
Pineal Gland = Third Eye =
Melatonin production or N-acetyl-5-methoxytryptamine
Analogue to methoxytryptamine in nature =
N-N Dimethyltryptamine…DMT = ... See More
The experience of consciousness / soul / spirit

Light bulb goes blink blink!

Most Pineal Glands in adults are calcified due to flouride
Hardened…less pliable---no release of
Conscious impusles – souls – spirits.
Mental trap – a calcified prison of the mind soul made from calcified flouride
Flouride is supplemented everywhere =

Flouride – most antidepressants - Prozac yes
Flouride - most city water supplies
Flouride - tooth paste of course
Flouride – from very early age the calcification begins
Flouride….holding back 3rd eye?

Research shows – the body’s single greatest flouride accumalation is in the =
Pineal Gland.

Research shows - Flouride in water supplies reduces intelligence – cognitive abilities over time.

Does someone or something know this?

The 3rd Eye – take a look.

Shed your skin, pry away and there it is right behind your eyelids.

The Light

In birth is bred an eternal honour
For man’s trophies are burned
Into the darkest hall of a mind unknown
There on the shale edge rest them
Spirits and demons inspire fear
To indulge in a whimsical breeze
Blown through the child’s hair swept
Behind the mask of conscious deeds
We fall mute into the book of verses
Standing tall for justice, truth falls on ‘til
Born is a child of deafened folk
To consume the earth before his first breath
Appears in an autumn frost lying below the mark.
An infallible inheritance of selfless greed he knows
Where he must sew the gem cusped in his palm,
Shining brilliantly of a future in stone.
Shout, shout his way to the gods of our deeds
To provide credence to an evil white and pure
Void of guilt he turns the page to follow
The idol of his existence standing before
The infinite chasm of all done and said.

Take a bow before the ears of ignorance
Turn to the next page diligently
Written in an eloquent blind prose beyond
The hillside where madness is hidden from view
Acceptance is the only virtue of a child
Blinded by a light he does not hold
Don’t cry, just do as you’re told.

8 June, 2006 - B.L.