“No man is more hopelessly enslaved, than he who falsely believes that he is FREE.”
Poet - an artist of words with the capability to make a full experiential
model of a lived experience - or one that is potentially livable.
I strive to be a poet, but don't call myself one. It is an honor only others can bestow.
My true name shall remain unrevealed, but friends call me Keyser; as such I hope you do. I am a criminal justice major, though I'll be going for a psych major soon, enroute to the FBI; though I'm not sure whether I want to be a behavioral analyst or a hostage negotiator. In the end, only the future knows.
My goal in participating in this site is learning to excel in the art of poetry through giving help and receiving it. May we all one day achieve the title...
Groups I'm in:
A Critical Circle, A HowtoGiveConstructiveCriticism Group, Poets wanting comments, The Secret Law of Attraction, Titles Are Us, Vocabulary Word of the Day
My Works:
(8) 
(7)
Zen and the Art of Fishing by Gene Fowler
Li Po bumbled
his embrace
of the moon in the river
and tumbled in, his
breath stopped
by the heavy press
of water,
now we pull forth technologies older
than Li Po
and remove with careful ease
the moon from where it
rocks in waters
and cast it again
adrift
in gleaming skies.
On Being a Saint by Stephen Morse
A robin flies to the top
of the shingled well shade,
glances in through the window to our kitchen and
then on up to the roof
over my head
and gone...out of sight
to where robins go
when we can't see them.
Bushes, nests, eating
and singing.
Doing whatever it is they do
to stay alive.
Parasites in dead birds!
Causes me to wonder about
their life,
the quality of their lives and
really, have you seen a robin mate?
Their eggs have blue shells.
Blue-hoo, I have seen them broken
on the ground.
When is a robin not a robin?
When he's a saint.
When is that?
When he's not a robin...same as me.
I'm a human except when I'm a saint
and when I'm a saint
I'm not a human or
a robin.
I've never been a saint
or a robin.
I don't fly well enough
or high enough
to qualify.
And I don't lay eggs with blue shells.
I've been on the roof
but I had to use a ladder,
although I once climbed a tree
to get there.
I've never seen a saint.
I don't know what they do when they're around.
They might fly,
eat worms, sing and
lay eggs in a nest for all I know.
For all I know.
Not likely,
but you couldn't prove it by
me.
Children of the Night by Saul Williams
(from memory so don't shoot! 
)
and out of the sun's gates come little girls in dresses of fire
wearing pig-tails of braided smoke
which stem from their moon cratered scalps
the glowing seeds of a nightly garden
that would blossom regardless of the sun
they know the night and the seven names of the wind
through the tales of their wind-blown fathers
who will father these mother's of light?
and what will become of me?
children of the night
only some will star the sky
only believers in death will die
and fathers must feather the wings of women
for the unfeathered masses dangle ridiculous
carrying crosses to phalanx filled tombs
the future sails silent through blood rivered wombs
that ripple with riddles of cows and spoons
and births, moons, and Earth
sun centered at noon
and here I stand, court gesturing infinity
fetal fisted for revolution
but open hands birth humility, now
what is the density of an ego-less planet
must my spine be aligned to sprout wings
I'm slouched into slang steps
and kangoled with gang reps
but my orbit rainbows saturn's rings
mystical elliptical presto polaris
karmic flamed future when saturn's in Ares
and now I'm a fish called father
with gills type dizzy
blowing liquid lullabies through the spine of time
to tranquilize a nervous system's defeat
at the feet of forever the children are gathered
or rather buried in that mass grave site of the night
they are the seeds of light planted in the sky
but then nights and skies are meaningless
to their unearthly eyes
they are our children
playing chess on the sun-burned backs of one-eyed turtles
check-mating a lifetime slow crawl to enlightnement
cashing in their crown and glory
for magic and contradiction
the children of fiction
born of semen-filled crosses
thrust in calvary's mound
with memories of manana's millenium
the gravity of the pendulum
the inscription of the grail
the rumors of war and famine
diseases and storms of hail
all hail the new beginning
behold the winter's end
bring on the puppets and dragons
let their ceremonies begin
for they have come to shatter time
and bring back the dead new born
an army of me, baring change in the front lines
and shadows in the field mines
to wilderness, the lights of the city
I have seen them
a tumultuous army of
bastards and beggars
madmen and idiots
witches and harlots
dancers and lunatics
sinners and singers
losers and lovers
students and teachers
poets and priests
orbiting the realms of the ordinary
through the ordinances of those ordained by the beast
these are our children
love laiden life lanterns casting shadows that shepherd the flocks
crying wolf when the moon's full
as sirens of love's lull
the offspring of gibraltar's rocks
who will deny them when thrice crows the cock
will it be you Peter
decked in daymare's denial
masqueraded in matter over mind under trial
self is the servant to serpents with wings
three is the beginning of all things
try angles when wrecks tangle your wings
let visions blur not your deservings
pile stones and unearth ancient learnings
see self as the ghost of your servings
if you're serving the father there's no son without mother
parent bodies discover water bodies and drown
wade me in the water till Atlantis is found
on the sea floors of self I'm starfish and unbound
heard the name of that mound is stone mountain
underwater volcanoes erupt water fountains of youth
lest this carnal the equation cancel out wind and truth
swirl me beyond sometimes drench me water proof
let eaves drop forever rain sunsets on my roof
as I sit on the front porch of my sanity
deciphering ham bones to van Gogh this vanity
Oiled egos canvased and framed!
to be reborn, unborn unbaried, undead
a reflection through a blood stained glass window
of souls gone yellow round the edges
carbonated dreams and blurred daily lives
but let family bring focus
out of swamps blossom lotus
the muddy water blue daughter's of infinity
grant you water bodied bhodisativas our serenty
as we rise with the tides toward infinity
and she will be raised by wolves
just below the masonry dixon line
where eagles noose the misuse of Osiris's
sacred papyrus'
in their claws clenched
so that the vultures of our memories
may feast upon the remedies
of ancient laws lynched
and flawk to the treetops of the forethoughts we have forgotten
yes silence will be begotten of the wind
the silver eyes of the darkness are her friends
they sometimes paint forever in their dens
on the mountain sides of sometimes now and then
in between the rise and set of you and I
mayblue visions know the depths of liquid skies
and some ask me if she cries through the night
when it's the substance of her tears that
drench the days with light.
shit, you better hope she do
because there are women with fur coats and painted faces
dancing on the peripheries of perfection
they eat chinese apples that stain their teeth red
and can cackle cosmos out of chaos at a moment's notice
and the children on the train
selling chocolates with their mothers in the background
fundraising their dreams from the dead
and the authors of autumn correspond with catharsis
and change the leaves of my needs orange-red
I eat fruits and vegetables
for only living things can feed the span of wings
and thus she was born to charter my flight
into the blues of night
I am the darkness that precedes the light
a pupil of the sea's reflective sight
notebook in hand
I footnote land and write
plot dot dot dot
and dot my eyes is right
and cast my lot amongst the
children and the night
Untimely Meditations by Saul Williams
(also from memory so don't shoot! )
the fiery sun of my passions
evaporates the love lakes of my soul
clouds my thoughts, and
rains you into existence
as I take flight on bolts of lightning
claiming chaos as my concubine
and you as my ME
I of the storm
you of the sea
we of the moon
land of the free
what have I done to deserve this
am I happy?
happiness is a mediocre standard
for a middle class existence
I see through smiles
and smell truth in the distance
beyond one dimmensional smiles and laughter
lies the hereafter
where tears echo laughter
you'd have to use math
to divide a smile by a tear times fear equals mere truth
that simply dwells in the air
but if that's the case all I have to do is breathe
and all else will follow
that's why drums are hollow
and I like drums
drums are good, but
I can't think straight
I lack the attention span to meditate
my attention spans galaxies
here and nows are immense
seconds are secular
moments are mine
self is illusion
music's divine
noosed by the strings of Jimi's guitar I swing
Purple Hazed pendulum
hypnotizing the part of I that never dies
look into my eyes are the windows of the soul
it's fried chicken collies and cornbread,
it's corn, milk, flour, sour cream, eggs and oil
it's the stolen blood of the earth
used to make cars run and kill the fish
who me
I play scales
the scales of dead fish
of oil slicked seas
my sister blows wind
through the hollows of fallen trees
and we are the
echoes of eternity
echoes of eternity
echoes of eternity
maybe you heard of us
we do rebirths, revolts and resurrections
we threw basement parties in pyramids
I left my tag on the wall
the beats would echo off the stone
and solidify into the forms of light bulbs
destined to light up the heads of future generations
who recently lit up
in the form of
OM
maybe you heard of us
if not then you must be trying to hear us
and in such cases we can't be heard
we remain in the darkness unseen
in the center of unpeeled bananas we exist
uncolored by perception
clothed to the naked eye
five senses cannot sense
the fact of our existence
and that's the only fact
in fact there are no facts
fax me a fact
and I'll telegram a hologram
or telephone the son of Man
and tell him he is done
leave a message on his answering machine
telling him there are none
God and I are One
times moon
times star
times sun
the factor is me
you remember me
I slung amethyst rocks
on Saturn blocks
'till I got caught up by earthling cops
they wanted me for their army or whatever...
picture me
I swirl like the wind
tempting tomorrow to be today
tiptoeing the fine line between everything
and everything else
I am simply Saturn swirling sevens through sooth
the soul living heir of air
and I breathe
and all else follows
reverberating the space inside of drum hollows
packaged in bottles
then shipped to tomorrow
and sold to the highest nigga
I swing from the tallest tree
lynched by the lowest branches of me
praying that my physical will set me free
because I'm afraid that all else
is vanity
mere language is
profanity
I'd rather hum
or have my soul tattooed to my tongue
and let the scriptures be sung
in gibberish
as words be
simple fish
in my soul-quarium
and intellect can't swim
so I stop combing my mind so my thoughts can lock
I'm tired of trying to understand
perceptions are mangled, matted, and knotted anyway
life is more than what meets the eye
and I
so elevate I to the third
but even that shit seems absurd
and your thoughts leave you
third isolated
no man is an island
but I often feel alone
so I find peace through
OM
Some of the quotes I particularly like...
“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight,
and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” - Oscar Wilde
“It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution”
“I am the only person in the world I should like to know thoroughly.”
"We are all travelers in the wilderness of this world,
and the best we can find in our travels is an honest friend"
-- Robert Lewis Stevenson
"The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled
was convincing the world he didn't exist..."
"If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly,
our whole life would change." ~ Buddha
"One day you will ask me: "Which is more important? My life or yours?"
I will say mine, and you will walk away not knowing that you are my life."
-- Khalil Gibran
"For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions
(one has emotions early enough)—they are experiences."
—Rainer Maria Rilke
He said, "By the media. The media can convince everybody it's real.""
