Moods

Tired, tired world...
Jaded, faded, sickly sound
Of lonely voices in a crowd--
The halls of possibility
Crowded with profanity
And jealousy deliberately
Feeds on our disguise.

Tired, tired world...
Mired by the whirl
Of nonchalant misgivings
And contaminated pride
As overdosed necessity
Bleeds our hearts until we're dry
And stoic substitution
Sterilizes passion,
Gently carving out what was inside.

Tired, tired world...
Independent meaning
In an isolated mind--
Room for warmth and wonder
Narrowed to a slice
Proportionate to desire
Or a sparkle in the eye
And lost on empty windows
And limited by sight,
Frivolous assumptions,
And complicated lies...

Waive our own humanity
And sever the ties that bind
And hide inside ourselves
And create our own outside,
Exclusively inclusive
Of whatever we don't deny--
Self contained societies
With artificial skies
Locked away in solitude,
Drifting silently through time--
Secure in our fragility,
Convinced of our virility
In a tired, tired world
As everything passes by...

Good night.

©Copyright 2008 Jason J. Loya

I meditate on
The silent, silent sound;
The sexual spiritual
Semblance of a man--

The sound that echoes reason,
Treason,
Disease, and all that feeds
On emptiness and endlessness
And ceaseless busyness--

And somewhere in the din
Behind the howling wind,
A gentle warming breeze
Whispers quietly
The simple secret:

be

And it's clouded by the noise
Once again...

©Copyright 2007 Jason J. Loya
Note: This is my 100th post. I have had this blog since January 2, 2005.

This woman is fantastically full of passion and inspiration. I only know her in that cyber sort of way but she must be a kindred spirit. Check her work out at http://www.myspace.com/poetickhaotique and http://www.myspace.com/kacie954. Always support people who spew passion - they give this world the hope that it needs to go on in such wild, wild times.

Alone - a loss -
A brief confusion--
And in the end
He took the time
To -- wait -- who?

The man behind the curtain--
The one who keeps you guessing--
The one with self disaster
Written on his eyes.
There's a man with
Catastrophic self destructive madness
Hidden in the being on the lawn--

It's catching you know
It's not what they say it is--

It's some kind of fervent flu -
A virus with a potent punch
And a plague to follow through...

He stands there on the lawn
Seemingly not blinking
Or not seeing
what he's done -
He waters all the plants
He does a lifeless dance
He frolics with the ants
And he waits for the final curtain call
But to no avail
For the stale stately smile
That washed up on his face
Is sterile as the sand upon the shore
And poisonous and bland
As a thousand tiny ants
As they dance a wicked dance
Or maybe more...

©Copyright 2007 Jason J. Loya

Headlong
A wayward wind
A wayward man
A toxic din

Long last
A Sanity
A vigilance
A rarity

What's wrong
With undue guilt?
With what you've felt?
With hand made hell?

Cuts deep
And bleeds a bit
And bites your lip
And takes a sip

Not that
You had a chance
You wore the pants
You stood your stance

Knew well
It wouldn't last
It had to pass
It had to crash

Just when
You thought you won
You had your fun
You made your run

Headlong
A waning trend
A fading wind
A fallen man.

©Copyright 2007 Jason J. Loya

Hoorah! Hooray!
It's yesterday!
And tomorrow
Has come and gone!

©Copyright 2007 Jason J. Loya

Light in the corner
In a dimly lit room
What is that odor?
Is it lying sweet perfume?
Toxic ruminations
Feed on misconfigured mind
And animals would shiver
With the wild breeze of time
Are we growling?
Are we growing?
Have the ants shown any slowing
In their purposeful rendition
Of a line?
Have the ants shown any slowing
In the corner that is glowing
In the dimly lighted room
So full of lies?

©Copyright 2007 Jason J. Loya

The Canticle is an epic poem that I began writing in 1997. It surely will never completely end. Here, I share what I have written thus far for the first time. CLICK THE TEXT BELOW TO SEE THE PIECE IN ITS ENTIRETY. Enjoy

The Canticle
by Jason J. Loya


Underneath the pink umbrella
lies an unsuspecting criminal.
Is it even appropriate to
offer any sentiment?
Alone -- a loss
a brief confusion
Alone -- beyond
without a motion
He sits there slyly smiling,
deeply craving loneliness
but all's not well because if it were
the falling sky would breathe in tune...

Corrosive morose understanding
Isn’t the same
If it isn’t amazing,
Fluid and out of control

Out of the hole
Out of the hole

Flying so violently
Then there’s a lull
But it’s hardly
A good-hearted storm outside
Blinding the
Good-hearted troll

Fond, disengaged understanding
Couldn’t be more of a lie
As long as it promises prominence,
Comfort, and plenty of time.

©copyright 2006 jason j. loya