Timothy Lawton

7/12/1997

If in the universe we’re not alone
God is still sure not to lose his throne
And if the pathfinder should happen to find some roads
The scientists can no better explain it when it’s raining toads
Or fish, nuts, and blood
But, now I’m off on a tangent
The hand asked where the phalange went
And who sent in the Marines
All those jellyfish and whales washing up on the beach
Where the universe show is shown on a dark clear night
Beach blankets, butts, and beer followed by a macho fight
When they don’ care what was wrong or what went right
Only once have I had a U.F.O. in my sight
But, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that scene
Someone else saw who I didn’t know and had never seen
Such a sight out of site a pink trail of light
But, maybe we are in the universe alone
And god is sure not to lose his throne
Because all paths through the mind find the same road
Doing me no good in explaining how or why it’s raining toads
Or, bombs, guts and blood
But, now I’m off on a tangent
The hand asked where the phalange went
And who sent in the Marines
All that blood and guts washing up on the beach
Where the society show is shown on explosive nights
To keep anything saving one has to fight
Distraction on my left and desire on my right
We have only one life to be a light
And I can’t let myself forget what that means
The things that I’ve been shown the things that I’ve seen
Such a life, spirit sight God’s fire in the night
And if only one calls the universe his own
Love is the cause and substance of his throne

8/30/2000

Troubled plagued by the same old thing
Thought for another poem cause for another drink
The struggle is constant the pain unceasing
Like a condemned man who keeps believing
There’ll be a reprieve
How much greater is the frustration of other men
Who have not my mind and faith their wounds to tend?
For both my mind and faith have been thoroughly tested
Yet, my pain is strong and my endurance invested
Yes, this is the ink with which man scripts his travails
Cursing the sky and cursing his Creator with wretched wails
Where we truly fail

9/21/2000

What is a day and what is a life?
But time passed an experience had
How can one spend a moment?
In countless ways in countless waste
Or, in beautiful understanding
Choices
Choice is our dagger
Choice is our love
Sipping delirious imagination
Caught within the jaws of expectant machinations
Biting the hand that feeds us
Bleeding the blood that leads us
Sin
A moment spent away from God
A time of the past an experience had
How then can we fill our moments?
Human being in spiritual being
Going beyond the self accepting God’s help
Because a maze is best known by the hand that made it

7/9/1997

There is murder in my heart, but it’s not a sin
Not because I have some sick justification for my mad impulse
Not because some delusion has driven my mind beyond reason
But, rather, because what I want to kill deserves to die
Deserves to wither in an ignominious decay
Deserves to be destroyed with all the fury with which some pestilential beast should be annihilated
Have you ever noticed how much of the world is vile?
How much of the world needs to be detested in the most vigorous manner
With a heart of pure hatred, despairing no place to harbor some distant pity
For you see there is still much left of the beauty that has been spawned by the hand of our creator
Yet, this is just why I have murder in my heart
For that which I wish to kill wants to savor the blood of that beauty
Savor that blood as prey in its’ carnivorous mouth
If it was only for that one brief moment that I was driven in a fit of passion to turn and slay this wretched beast, I would say that I wanted to kill it
But, no, rather I would say for years I’ve been planning this act
Plotting this design
I have sat seething, pondering how I will ambush my victim
How I will tear at his flesh and slice to his bones
How the warmth of its’ blood will roll over my fingers and I will smile in triumphant victory at the moment his heart ceases to beat and the last vestige of life crawls out of his breast in a sputtering wind and he is no more
No, I must use the term murder
Murder in the first degree
Premeditated as no crime has ever been before
Long in detail, brutal in action, painful in its’ honesty, like some Russian novel
For this beast hovers in the air
Its’ face is in the rocks and on the grass
His smell is in the ocean and he can be seen in every tree, animal, man, woman, and child
He lingers outside the bar and on the city street corner
He works on Wall St. and collects welfare checks in his project apartment
He is the mother that kills her infant child
He is the chemical plant along the Great Lakes shore
He is the priest that fancies altar boys and the rapist who lurks in a dark alley waiting for the image of his dominating mother to pass by
This beast laughs when the clouds that were threatening rain shatter into a blue sky over the drought parched land
He laughs when bitterness and anger flow from every pen and tremble in the guitarists’ hand
He tells stories about heroes that warm the heart and give patriots tears
He ruins the rain when puddles flow with rainbow streaks of oil and gas
He leaves a dirty film of soot that covers the world in his putrid grin
Yes, I have murder in my heart murder in the depth of my soul
Murder when he seeks to confuse murder when he gives us choices to choose
Do I want a cigarette or a beer?
Will I have sex with my wife or some transvestite queer?
Will I buy milk or a lottery ticket?
Can I have a big screen T.V. and a ten car garage?
Or, should I just buy the best and use my credit card to pay the rest?
Some other day
Should I stay straight or shoot up my veins go on methadone or take valume for the pain?
That fills my waking moments
I feel murder in my heart but it’s not a sin
Because I want to kill myself because I’ve let him in
I’ve let him give me hopes and dreams
Asked him to fulfill my wants and satiate my needs
I’ve let him fill my mind with conceit
I’ve begged him to give me a chance to be me
Me, when I want to be enraptured in the flesh of a well proportioned woman
Me, when I want coffee, butts, and bones in compulsive potions
Me, when I want to smash the face of every bastard who’s ever pissed me off
Me, when I want to taste good food, or see a new mountain, or another ocean
Me, when I hope to acquire the means, use, and memory of every desire that I’ve ever had
Yes, I have murder in my heart
And if I want to kill the beast it’s no sin
For it was with me that I was forced to start

8/1/1997
Once, a long, long time ago, a man ascended a mountain
But not the great mountain that stood to the east of town
No, he conquered a greater mountain
A mountain it takes more than legs and arms to climb
An edifice higher than the sky, one that cannot be seen, but only felt
Deep in his soul he felt the rocks, the rocks of want
And for years he felt those rocks, he felt them at the base of the mountain
With each rock he encountered he sought to see if he could pass, and if he could he walked on
But if he could not, he tried to find those cracks and crevices upon which he could climb
And in this way he ascended, conquered each step of the great mountain he had inside
Deep within his soul
Yes, deep within his soul he felt the boulders multiples and times larger than the rocks
It took him so many years to conquer the boulders of granite, hardened with pride, amplified with self-confidence
By now when he looked back he could see the valley below him
The wind whipped past his face blowing with impunity on the bare side of the mountain’s middle
Then he would look up the steep and treacherous terrain ahead with determination, examining each of these massive obstacles that obstructed his path for some way around
And if he could not walk he sought those cracks and crevices, or other means, by which he might ascend
Moving slowly in the thinning air, but steadily higher and higher, until that day he passed the trials of the boulders deep within his soul
Yes, deep within his soul he felt that icy peak of doubt
Cold and obscured by clouds except on those bright sunny days of honesty when the truth of the light revealed in a glistening white sheen his final impediments
Now he looked back and the valley below him was but one of many
And the wind whipped at him in a ferocious attempt to throw him back down from whence he came

Then he looked up and saw the sky, and his path there was blocked by on more set of steep and slippery terrain
Planning each step, every placement of his hand, persistently orchestrating each move of his grueling ascent, until that day he finally set foot as high as he could go
Resting safely on the pinnacle of faith
Though he slipped occasionally, and had to climb his way back up, he spent most of the days of the rest of his life above the rock ridge and ice of this mountain in the depths of his soul
Yes the depths of his soul
All the townspeople with which he lived regarded him as a saint, but he said no
That they were just climbing and that he still fought to keep his balance and not fall down
Yet, upon his death they sought a way to remember him
A way to remind themselves of his journey, and theirs’ also
High up, high on the icy peak to the east of town, they erected a cross of gold and it shone brightly in the sun, always bringing the townspeople to recall his journey, and their own, as well
Years and years passed, and one day the townspeople decided that such a large cross of gold was a waste as a simple reminder, no less when they could only see it on sunny bright clear days
Why not cast one of silver and place it on the middle of the Mountain?
Then they could use the extra money to build a theatre, fountains, or some other monuments to brighten up the town
The one’s they had were just not up with the current style and they seemed so poor compared to the other villages around
So they set about their plan to retrieve the gold cross and replace it with the cross of silver
Then later, many more years passed and the townspeople felt belittled in the reflections of the silver cross’ rays beaming from the middle of the mountain
Had not each of them conquered their own mountain
Had they not each, in their own way, conquered the pinnacle of faith
As they sipped from the golden goblets their forefathers had forged from the golden cross
So, it was decided that they should take down the silver cross and make practical use of it as had been done with the cross that had gone before

And to keep with tradition they would add a wooden cross to replace it, but when they tried to ascend    the slope they kept slipping on the rocks and couldn’t even get up to the boulders carrying this cross
So, this time they just placed it where they stood
Just a little lower than the steeple in town
Then years later, the townspeople thought the cross was a symbol of a bygone age
Only charlatans and fools believed in faith
So, they walked up to the mountains’ base looked up in despair at what had become just two wooden stakes
And the townspeople had a Sunday cookout with the boards they set ablaze