Miscellany Tubes

When coming into a reckoning of self there can only be truth and –

Just kidding!!! This is a post to highlight my youtube. Its eclectic, and shows very different sides of me.

I’m gonna be at the beach a lot with these ones.

https://www.youtube.com/user/juoninjewsus

I only have 4 subscribers and my very hacked phone and overlayed apps cause me to only see 1 or so views and subscribers. I would really appreciate folks taking an extra step to write if they watch, leave comments, even send me screen shots. ade.ra.cc@gmail.com is also my email. I do hope these bring entertainment and calm.

Stay present!!!

https://www.paypal.me/AdeRaphael

Life Lessons

Life Lessons

My life has always been
A rainbow, a storm,
The light of day, dead of night.

I do not dream in color
I dream in reality.
In my dreams I come fully alive.

The hawk delivers
A message fading on
Wind echoing eternity.

"You name is king, witness to hell, hunt."
My angels call me destroyer and teach me
Of the beauty needing protection
and how to play with fire.

Brain ablaze, I have learned:
Creation is destruction manifest.
Destruction is not violence, consumption can be.

-Ade Ra (circa 2017)

Flares

FLARES

 

Solus,

By your will, rewrite wickedness

With erasure.

Compensate commensurate.

 

May that lesson be burned

Into their fleshes and minds.

Sanctum exists in time already,

Cobwebs and spiders must be cleared.

 

Set fire.

Set.

Fire.

 

– Öm Ra

 

(Still me…. monikers)

 

Something for the #gamers (warning, pubg) https://youtu.be/MKmUdILSxAQ

Misled

Misled

Does the rider blame the horse
For drinking from poisoned well
When it collapses on the road,
Crushing the rider underfoot?
Do we blame the breeder?
For not raising a poison proof horse.

The rider?
Assuming they lead.

The map for not listing “poison”?
Wellmaker?

What about the poisoner(s)?
Long moving through the land,
Poisoning every well,
Toxifying every hand.

 

 

Inoira

CAnon

Canon

Is this what they foretold?
Our prophets of lore?
From the center of government,
Away from the herding masses
We are screaming the mantra now.
“I need… TP… for my…”
Throats catch from holding so long
And the sense of the time is
“All of us, cannon farters.”

What does it mean
To do, America?
I never consented,
Just witnessed.
Here to testify, always,
Beneath these laden ceiling fans.

 

Inoira

Are you Present?!

 

It’s your friendly neighborhood psychic here to share a story about my story that is all of your stories from before and after. To be published in the second edition if Forgotten Lands (a publication about my home, the Virgin Islands). “My mother was a virgin, streets filled with urchins… I am the Voice of Ra, let us find our stories together and apart forever into recreation.” You’re welcome, enjoy, support me please as we support ourselves better.

 

Archibald’s Story
Archibald, or “Archie”, as he was affectionately called by his grandmother, grew up on a small farm in a place the townsfolk called “Cerca de las cuerpas.” He wasn’t very tall, nor abnormally short. He was known for a bright smile, seemingly never far from his lips, that only showed itself on the rarest of occasions.
“Archibaldo”, as the young men who drink bitter nectar down by the river call him, knew the stories of almost everyone in his small community who had [died]. Since before he had learned what it meant to breathe in this world, mourners took their walks past his home and carried their extolling songs nearby to the place where the “Murro” are hidden.
“Murro” are the bodies of folk ready to add their story to the skies. Their bodies are hidden from their ascending spirits, lest the souls seek a return to the rotting flesh. It is known by the folk this type of thing was not allowed. Once through, a body is destined to return to the cycle of the world. Destined to become material for new life to be built through.
Any soul still yearning for life, feeling “not quite ready” will seek out its body, the familiar space. Upon finding their body, it is said, they will attempt to inhabit its flesh once more, the will to remain alive being so powerful. It is known, unfortunately (for yearning spirits, and fortunate for the rest of us), a corpse cannot be reanimated. Instead, the soul would take up residence in something else, some budding life – like the eggs of maggots to be reborn in that form. This being known, the families of Murro made sure to hide the bodies in the caverns outside of the town. They almost always left them deep in the darkness, where one can’t make out a face amongst the heaping mass. In addition, the funeral processions included songs and tales of the deceased to weave a complete story of their lives. Everyone hopes to leave a legacy, it is known. In fact, the spirits most hard-pressed move on from this earthen realm often feel there is more to be completed, that there is more left to their stories, that their song is still missing keys.
When the mourners pass Archibald’s home, he cranes his ears in the darkness, listening to each soul’s story. Afterward, he’d hear just the quiet footsteps headed back from whence they came, the whispers of elders hushing young ones feeling the magnitude but not fully understanding to the cycles that turn this universe, and the shuddering silks of silently sobbing loved ones. Archibald, who the townspeople called “Sombrazo” in whispers part-fear, part-reverence, part-curiosity, heard it all.
“Archimedies the Bald”, as his best friend called him until their very last breath, lived among the townsfolk when his hearing extended beyond the burrow that had been his family’s home for generations. Day in and day out, for eons, his family harvested the mushroom groves and fern ponds scattered throughout the dank catacombs. “Ours has fed the town for generations on generations, Archie.” Archibald had heard this countless times, head swirling with the smoke filling the space reflecting off of the shallow pools, drops steadily dripping in the wet dark. Sounds carried far in this place, these catacombs where light never reached, where it held all the weight.
“Arch”, as his mother called him, measured time by the score his world composed. Arch fondly remembers his mother pausing throughout her daily activities to listen to the whispers of restless spirits floating around the abyss where Murro go.
When she was just born and still new to the songs of the earth, a traveling seer told her that she was an owl in her past life. That is why her hearing reached so far and so wide, even into “worlds beyond”.
She replied,
 “I am Knowing. I hear the hooting echoing when the dreams come.”
Archie’s grandmother, at the age her daughter was when she took her story to the sky once more, nodded, chuckling and saying,
“I am Knowing. I hear them too when I am Knowing her dreams.”
Archibald, like most in his family (besides Shodan the UnKnowing), was Knowing. His Knowing was different, but he was Knowing too and every time a story was told it came to life for him. Each time tales of his mother were told he felt closer and closer to her. Archie had heard this tale throughout the years whenever his grandmother put him to the bed and called sleep to him. It is known that dreams of the young stick to their spirits the firmest. When sleep came, bringing dreams in its wake, she used her Knowing to make sure they remained peaceful for her young Archie.
Each day he arose with the bats coming home to roost above the catacombs. Their banter flowed through his dwelling every evening and morning as they settled or prepared to hunt. His life was the reverse of the sometimes mourners and their roosters whose crows, like the feet of the mourners passed through the catacombs periodically. He had only heard many a tale of that ball of fire that shared its warmth with the land flooding above. He knew the sounds to describe its ‘glare,’ its golden warmth radiating a touch of creation itself.
Archibald longed to see it, live in it. Do as the townsfolk said and “bask”. Archie grew up learning to fear the sun though. His Knowing was precious and the “Sun steals Knowing. It is known.” It was known.

Cabrones

Cabrones

We sat on concrete, against a wooden wall,
We looked at each other, meeting for the first time,
His eyes hooded, guarded in the way one is when meeting for the first time.
He spoke with his tongue,
I responded the best I knew how and the hood lifted,
Revealing trust, love, surprise and endearment in those warm eyes.

He told me he appreciated the way my tongue bent to meet his,
How he hated the “gringitos y americanos que tienen no curve to their pronunciation.”
He said “and the way they say cabrón, ‘cabarrone’!
It’s all teeth, hard and rigid, los pinches cabrònes.”

“Cabrónes,” I repeated, smiling, all teeth, happy for acceptance
From this black-bearded man with gold skin, sun-kissed to brown.
He smiled, mostly eyes shining with the sun
And just a hint of teeth hidden behind smirking lips,
A smile of mischief and camaraderie.

He gripped one shoulder, pulled me in close
And into his beard I nestled,
Onto his shoulder I leaned, feeling his heart beat,
it called me “hermano” to a rhythm felt through my soul.
The wall behind us crumbling, we supported each other,
And breathing in unison, we watched the sun arc across the sky
In this home we found ourselves,
In this home with no walls.

At the well

No!

I am not the victim! Although,

I see him at the well.

To see such a sluggardly fellow,

One not keen to movement.

Watch for those eyes though,

Yes!

those eyes!

The vibrating e-

ver so slight-

ly, looking, unseeing

that which is in front, but

rather musing.

 

Yes muse!

Delicate intricacies!

A scene at hand:  

 

“…bless his soul for I know
The old dog is half blind,

and stark raving mad!”
“No grasp on reality!

Really,”

“I can hardly believe it.”
“He is such a sullen fellow,

prone to depression.
His smile though,” “yes that smile,”

“it radiates…

Hap-pil-y mor-bid, like an angel’s cadaver-“
“that knows it, consciously musing on that fact.”
“Half-Conscious, stuck between Hell and Heaven
Seeing both sides, and I weep for him for he knows”
“The argument will end at his…”

“end that is.” 

Out of the silence

From the dark dark space

Beneath hearts, a thrumming erupts!

Shedding glory!

Shedding light!

Shedding every encumbrance!

Of man, this space a creature honed

With blades existence

Wrapped tight.

A trickle through blood

Along skin too smooth to bear

Witness and proof to the mountains

Broken ceaselessly!

This is the battle between

Nature and corpulence,

A stand so final

‘Tis all desired most in times

Greatness is measured,

weighted!

Grafted to scale

Where all value places

Eighty stones.

‘Tis penance this form

Pays the piper of poignancy.

Ubiquitous Chop [{I}]

The Ubiquitous Chop dismembered Neanderthal.

Moving gracefully Chop slices again,

Paring species from species to species

Belonging ubiquitously separate, analogous parallels running simultaneous ubiquitous directionalities imposing willful chops, lacerations, stitches, perforations;

Fillet on flay fillet on fillet on nothing and everything.

Flight of The Mourning: Noah’s Ballad

Mottled dove, why sing that song

tweeted along wires for the world to see?

Being improper season for such tribute,

It perturbs, this song of mourning;

Echoing coo’s begging sleep.

 

This is not your song,

So little mottled one, why add voice

To cacophonous scale

Aiming for harmonic stability?

Your voice threatens a calm

Over tightly-fisted chickadees

Pecking order through flocking chaos.

 

Hollow-spined slight one,

Where is your song?

Yes, the one of glory, home, and haven

Extinct from earthen realm.

Craned ears listen through hymns,

Awaiting resonant tones that clip

Wings from spanning homage.

[Beneath the Canopy: Fruits of Paradise] -or- [Perilous Nectars: Falling for Paradise]

Fruits Falling for Paradise

 

Time and time again men spend

The fine grains of sand’s of time

Upon briny metal mine rusting

Mindings of God’s man’s mettle.

 

Their souls flow, rolling out the decay

Slow, slowly leaking Eden.

 

Without Adam and his sharpened staff, 

They’ve gone searching golden groves,

Feeding a hunger, tis eve’s greedy lust,

Nectar flowing down juicy dripping lips

Flowing farther from mother grace.

 

Mother’s nature hates the good-daughter

Before her heart slows pace; she quickens too soon.

 

Eden petrified presiding over

The Tree of Chi painted in the red

Flames that fall upon Paradise,

 

And greet outstretched palms

Praising the warmth, hands sunward

Worshiping blessings rained down

Upon by a God gambling on someman

Ambling into a tangle breeding corrosion

Folding beds into webs of lies; legs and thighs.

 

Knowledge live.

Humanity rise.

A Vision of Epoch Ellipse: After the Precursors

They carried us like memories

Escaping the fall,

Outlasting a final turn of tides.

 

We embody beyond corpus,

Fiction clasped hand and hand

With truth we created, recreated

In line with truth as necessary.

 

They are us

Though our aim differed

Creating that becoming.

 

Ceaseless ripples expanding

Concentric cycles

Ever dissipating, as waves

Allow destined repetition

Potential to rest

In peace,

And spirits shall turn for new.

 

We are the dreamers they thank

In each breath sleeping deeply brings

For their dreaming offered.

 

They hope to never be us,

Accepting that they are us

And never will be

Less than ripples’ greatness.

Turning Tides: Liquid Glass

Nation’s riches blast on the wind licking the sweat dry from my face, whispering cool wisdoms.

She sleeps in the nature riding up my feet – a cool blanket softening our forms – she is undertow.

Curious by nature, diving deep comes easy meeting pleasure at her pulse I cannot breath in.

Coral colliding bountiful – draped in grain, stars, scales and more constellations than that pattern

Glimmering at the surface – underneath a star breathing warm touches running along every coast.

 

 

These echoes touch me tossing in its wake, settling, shaking,

Quivering, legs flaying here and there, toss on rhythmic toss.

Curling chimes whistle – her ululating wraps a hold on me – I –

– I’m left holding these waves’ harmony.

In this embrace, flight is more than notion, it is emotion itself

Swimming in an elixir of ultimate euphoria,

This reflection, this lake emotion’s tears.

 

A Vision of Epoch Ellipse: Skeletons on the Wind

“Merry, merry, me!” Sings the thin-lipped revenant,
Clacking on the misted kingdom.
“Joy everlasting and everlasting wisdom!”

The fanciful necro-monger, aloof,
Recognizes ghoulish era ending.
“Joyous life under darkening sky, be ceaseless.”

Haughty bag of bones,
May he find righteous knights
Ranging wayward land.