The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Zeno’s Hands

Zeno stretched out his fingers, and showed the palm of his hand, – "Perception," – he said, – "is a thing like this."- Then, when he had closed his fingers a little, – "Assent is like this." – Afterwards, when he had completely closed his hand, and showed his fist, that, he said, was Comprehension. But when he brought his left hand against his right, and with it took a firm and tight hold of his fist: – "Knowledge" – he said, was of that character; and that was what none but a wise person possessed.

The flat palm with wide fingers tells us of what is seen,
Gives us impressions of what being human means,
Like reflections of the moon sitting on a lake gives views,
Only fools jump in to grasp at its truths,
Yet talk comes all too often from here,
As well as antiquated ideas of which way to steer.

Yet it gives us the most beautiful scenes,
Like cutaway montages in movies it seems,
We all get just imaginative dreams,
But the best kind of friendships hold on by these seems,

The hand begins to close as we mature,
A new level comes to ascend what is sure,
In turmoil the fingers long for the palm,
To add truth to the folly brought and add a sense of calm,
But this is the most unstable place of all,
With arguments and ascertainments spitting up while beginning to fall,
A new frame of mind comes into place as argument fingers settle to the palms place,


The fist does understand all it is true,
But uninventive and unimaginative it becomes construed,
To only what is happening at the moment pursued,
And can only be seen by those we deem removed,
Limited these people say those with open palms are fools,
That palms still closing are only good at dismantling their tools,
That everything should be just as we see it,
A nirvana born of stagnant observation while we sit,

But lucky are the few that step through the folds,
Looking past just what the world holds,
Then come unto the other hand its open again,
A place they forgot about in their own heads,
Taking the naïve and mixing with the known,
The great untold hero of knowledge unfolds,
To give us the wise for whom the world is like a puzzle exposed,
I hear Zeno’s words with cheer and delight,
And hope that more go for the end of his insight.

Sean Stutzman

You will find me in The Fields

You will find me in the hills,
You will find me in the tills,
You will find me as you plow,
You will find me in milking sows,

You will find me in lands of plenty,
You will find me in lands of many,
You will find me when times are hard,
You will find me in times with bards,

You will find me in the light,
You will find me gleam at night,
You will find me in the ground,
You will find me though I am bound,

You will find me in many forms,
You will find me in growing corn,

You will find me in what is called nothing,
You will know I am everything,
You will find me in rocks,
You will find me in a pox,
You will find me trees,
You will find me with the bees,
You will find me in river beds,
You will find me inside people’s heads,

You will find me in all filth,
You will find me blossom even in silt,
You will find me in beauty,
You will find me in living,
You will find me in death,
Do you know me as of yet?

You will find me in every piece of every man killed,
You will find me in the fields,
When the body rots we all break down,
To chemicals making up the ground,
A thought that tied together makes profound,

It is what Freya and Demeter did sing,
But with less Science to make concept ring,
To say as the flesh leaves our bones,
We break back down into dirt and stone,
Melting back into the core,
Erupting out again once more,
Our layer just another tale,
Of the crust eating away at memory fail,
As millions of years go rushing past,
To ages of slimes that didn’t last,
Except in present form and phase,
To our body being given praise,


For each year as the bodies break down,
The earth starts to proliferate and abound,
The balance of kingdom animal to plant,
The fungi and bacteria help with that,
One to one body cells to bacteria,
Sing the new age hysteria,
That we are as much the environment as ourselves,
Individual triumphs of mating bells,
Something sage of old had found,
Yet construed to terror with no microscope around,
For the cycle will continue on and on,
The earth just a note in the entire song,

So do you know me as of yet?
Easy answer said the philosopher of Theosophy what but god comes next,
Not god but matter I said so he sat perplexed…


Sean Stutzman

Xochipilli

Lord of flowers I feel your smile,
I ask not too much from you,
Your bounty is beyond the feeling of love,
Like the ringing in my ears from the pulsating drum,

Let each of your herbs ease my soul,
Teach me the lessons from the serpent old,
I plant your body,
I eat your spirit,
I see your soul,
The introspective dance of light coming from my mold,

I see the plants decorate your body,
The Sun-openers bud and flowers sway,
I see my memory cleaned by the suns gaze,
The creeping morning glories cling to your way,
The serpent’s favorite instruction daze,
The nicotine calms your body to sway,
The old way with no toxins in play,
The drooping flowers of the Quararibea tree,
Mix in drink and make me feel free,
The diviner’s sage around you square stalk and meek,
Teaching material is not what you think or what you seek,
But my greatest lessons you taught me from your knees and ears,
The psilocybe’s challenged all my greatest fears,
From all these tried one message is clear,


That intoxication breeds inspiration,
Your voice the great beacon as down the tunnel I cross into instigation,

Even after your voice has worn away,
Apart of me now forever you’ll stay,
For you are the way our mother sings choice,
Explaining why hippie hallucinogeners speak of nature in voice,

For you are the mediator from the static world,
Not able to move with wind you swirl,
But ignorant people say plants have no voice,
Well pick up one of the great gamblers many a choice,
Then he will tell you with booming vision,
As our digestion of them gives us direction,
That they are speaking to us but our ears have no rhythm,
So only in chemical induced hymn,
We meet up with the perception of the plants,
The gift great Xochipilli grants,
For just like him with wind in the sun and moon we should dance
And raise our face to the sky in trance.

Sean Stutzman

Wind Whispering Wisps
Can you feel that buzz in your ear?
The sound of the world blowing so clear,
As if the spirits danced in trees,
Saying hello as they fly through the breeze,
My eyes delight in seeing breath,
The inner shape of the global path,
So strong it can blow through boughs,
And make man a nothing in size of clouds,

Like thundering friends it is the subtle power,
That breathes the power into the hardest showers,
Like a soft voice from the land of nowhere,
That laughs as it can’t be traced to somewhere,
For if you fallowed the voice in the wind,
You would end up back right where you did begin,
Like the consciousness pulse of the land,
That forces weather to change up what is at hand,

For every story ever written is more dramatic,
If gusting gales bring on more panic,
The setting almost sells the frame of horror and time and place of game,
The beauty of tragedy is it needs summer rain,
The problems of today echoing solidarity,
The wind brings the chorus of wild individuality,
Sculpting the earth like fingers digging in,
The modeling clay sculpted by the eon’s hands,
Like Chronos smiling with cyclical breaking of land,
The wind calls my unknown name,
Like the billows being pushed onto my burning flame,
I hear the breeze and smile at the rain,
The dignity to which I give them some find insane,
For can’t you feel that beautiful pulse,
As it flows through forests with gale strength in force,
And kisses cheeks as snow settles its course,
Like the sky embracing the land in intercourse,
With weather dooming some and saving others,
It is the tricky but impressive brother,
That has changed lives more than any other,
And at days end brings in breathing color,
The feeling of the earth’s skeletal shudder,

I stand outside and feel the boom,
As it rushes fast in gloom,
A thing that brings me joy not sadness,
As rainy and dark can bring gladness,
I hear the world whispering with the wisps,
And stand open armed to the lands great lips…



Sean Stutzman

We Who Dance In the Dark

As music fills my ears with planting beat,
I feel the sound move to my feet,
Insatiable drive fills my limbs,
Do I do this for some accord?


No, no show on television can grasp my feeling,
No judge could tell me my hearts meaning,
I dance to feel the earth mother,
For dancing humans are life’s art shudder,


The last form of free expression,
You move how you wish no dictation,
For the ballets beauty is from a plays direction,
They feel that programed movements are the true interpretation,
Yet each of those dancers true release,
In freedom of motion a solo piece,


When music inspires your body’s story,
The programmed movements become so boring,
Let fly your heart to sing to this world,
Let limbs fly and your body unfurl,
Do not care how silly or odd it looks,
Don’t watch videos and don’t study books,


Just let the rhythm feed your spirit,
The flow through you just feel it,
And if others point and joke and jest,
Then enjoyment you’ve found in the very best,
For we need to meet the person beneath,
That youthful you of old to yourself do bequeath,
The feeling of new sensation in you is your only obligation,
Dance until your muscles achieve obliteration,

Smile and feel what the shamans of old made quite clear,
Dance in the moonlight shatter your fear,
That man himself has created so few things,
And absorb the world’s heart in the movement it brings.



Sean Stutzman

Twisting Roots Ebb and Flow

Though actions act out plays to say,
That we are mobile over the ground,
We ae truly rooted,
Like great trees we sway as the day to day waits,
Sweet nothings bend our branches,
Soft whispers shake our bows,
But our roots remain,

For even the person who chooses to run,
Fly on the wind to find greener days,
Does so by how the first situation played,
The strategist cutting ties,
Yet those roots gave us who we are,
Rotted festering still you come up,
However that challenge is never fully accepted,
No banner for heroes of home world contempt,
Just the resolute feeling that a bond is there,
Yet questioning every action until bare,

We all grow bark quick and tough,
To block the blows and insects that burrow,
The gnawing gnashing teeth slice the tender weak flesh,
Promoting those guarded at just the right nodes,
To hide from insects or pesticide their woes,
Holding those with easily guarded bark we scream that’s the mark,
Where people should be at if all is not just a farce,
Yet as we sit and speak together,
We find a much more even honest world uncovered,
That all is emotion and that is what we do,
So easily judged by a small select few,
Yet we all have some inherent “problem”,
Whether behavior, choice, clothing, or whatever,
Because in a world of millions you look weird to all,
Besides those that see through your rose colored glass ball,
The outermost barrier of surface at best,
A topical insight of those in our past,
Make all of us look like crazy fools,
Making calls off of our most basic things to choose,


So as humans we choose to judge one another,
As a choice to find safety in numbers,
Yet from outside eyes we look back in wonder,
At how foolish we accept “truth” from each other,
Like rambling wild men we comment on weather,
Coffee tables, games, and stories of places that seem better,
Our weakest places bared in creative poise,
Are what we choose to not disclose,
So a silent background has become real life,
In conventions, café’s, and the internet at night,
Being more real to the box than those around us,
And who could blame the common man,
When even basic life has such demand,

Look only this way,
Don’t speak out of place,
Act like you’ve been given gifts from choices you never made,


So let us play out a dissection of all the silly questions:
What five things can we say are wrong with you?
I think,
I feel,
I act creative too,
I choose my own thoughts,
I wear clothing like you ask me to,

How could you do that?
Act different or weird try sometime and you’ll enjoy it quite clear,
You obviously are sealed in a place of no choice,
So kick back a little hear your pure own voice,
Not something you heard since you were five,
Something only you have thought of since you were alive,

What are they thinking?
Probably more than you, they knew the judgement would come wouldn’t you,
They choose to ignore it and go on right through,
Maybe you’re scared they might make money like you,
Might actually get taken seriously and find you at fault,
For your obvious lacking in personal grains of salt,


Why would they wear that?
Because you say be yourself,
Than hide any person that makes that choice alienated on a shelf,
For they are too strange for really being themselves,
The thing you chanted and cheered,
Because those commands go to a crowed loud and clear,
Yet when abnormality comes your way,
Like spoilt children you rear back with your toys,
Leaving the rest to play out self-loathing tolls,
Questioning their every action by just one of clothes,


What nonsense we bring to one another,
Like bad weeds we feed off one another,
No permaculture layer to benefit our differences,
No grey area to co-benefit those we do not like,
But full war as we send out insect minions that feed off our own stems,
Until the plant can’t support them or they eat it from within,
Coming back getting praise then sitting gnawing your stock with a grin,
When we should easily except that we are different species of plants in the end,
For what does nature tell us about the tallest tree on the hill?
Proud he holds his root,
The best water flows through the roots,
The best nutrients flow through,
He was positioned to be growing above the rest,
A commanding hold on the valley dance,
Yet the small little tree in the valley laughs,
As the storm approaches at long last,
For trees that stand tall and high,
Have to look the sky in the eye,
As bolts do rush to meet ground rise,
The tall tree the target of impartial world size,
And then the exploding wood comes without caused lies,
No just the physical point of truth,
When at the top things just target you,
As the easiest point for damage to come through…

Please let our roots bring us to light,
A growth so strong that others stride,
That personality raises us on high,
So though the trees are standing tall,
A much denser growth will come to all,
With fewer at the bottom and fewer so tall,
Yet individual phenotypes thrive and fall,
Making a world of magical delight,
Let us all seek the shade of the sage’s tree sitting insight...


Sean Stutzman

Time Eater

I wonder what it would be like,
If we all were given the real time in life,
The time that gets eaten away,
By all the monsters in lives that consume our days,
To not experience life in a rhythm dance,
But eats your family from existence,
To houses where parents barely no their children,
Not from desire but working condition,
From luxuries of mentality we get toys,
But can barely speak to each other through the noise,
A bubble forms in everyday action,
The ideas of others come from micro interaction,

For how many times do you see someone and say,
I know exactly what he does in his daze,
I see how they like to look,
So I can determine what choices they took,
Yet at the end you never see inside,
The stereotypes and lies of mind,
And people are then walking fried,
By a program that holds them under a narrative lie,
Never knowing what their friends really think,
Never see their loved ones enough pushed to brink,
Then acting as those who fall apart,
Aren’t the by-product of our cruel hearts?

For if we never care unless we receive,
Then benevolence is a mirage the naive conceived,
To act into a world that holds bastards to sit,
On top of mountains in houses of millions that don’t fit,
And the regular people are looking at the new privileged kings,
Like Sauron they sit controlling life by rings,
That look more like titles on a name tag,
A chain of being brought by ignoring rags,
And even if we feel compassion it gets abashed,
By the inadequate frame of life in stash,
To hordes of gold the legends of dragons sold,
That the heroes can no longer can challenge them in bold,
Then shall the world in hindsight find us great,
Or a stepping stone like so many dates,
We like to think the changes are so crazy,
Yet they might become the common face of a future more due our term lazy,
Then we would only be the origin for great thought,
But never achieving what we sought,
Just another time to be running regular similar lives,
Great things with time look like small strides…


Sean Stutzman

The Void

Of things that are there, and yet not she is the queen
The eminent pondering in the mad-man’s dream,
The quazi-question of metaphysical esteem,
The dream could be the same thing...

So ask the questions oh shells of thought,
And dive into the murky waters you yourself brought,
For what is life if not effort used and fought?
The dream could be the same thing...

So calm that abundant ringing of deafening knell,
Allow the preconceived to break apart and dispel,
Or are we the words of a physicists quell,
The dream could be the same thing...

Seeking a home for the rules he wishes,
The quantum tone in bleak tunes diminishes,
Like cosmic nets are rules reel in monstrous fishes,
The dream could be the same thing...

For we are those that dance in the light,
We are chorus that does sing forth and ignite,
If only about place, perspective, and strife,
The dream could be are real scene...

So do we seek our own repugnant goals?
Or can we dishevel our Paleolithic tolls,
Attacking on mundane sights on the "how?" as it unfolds
The dream could be are real scene...

For those who don't question are doomed to repeat,
And those that pure speculate are not capable to redirect men’s feet,
At the end of the day the great knowledge passed on could all be deceit,
The dream could be are real scene...

So the real I deem is a positive thing,
Even if in material it all seems to sting,
For I hear the beauty in the harmonious bells ring:
I see the pod break open and seed,
I feel the wind as she listens even to me,
I taste the apple ripe on the tree,
I place the microscope to see cellular divergency,
Telescoping to distances lifetimes beyond me,
I can play with in my plane,
And with new age I can feel more of the same,

For as Life grows more profound more understood,
The shadow of new mysteries lays down its dark hood,
For the universe would fragment if learning it we really could,

So when light disappears and darkness great chaos seems to be coming in,
The Void so close you could drown if you don't lift your chin,
Remember that the vacuum could be all in the end,
So do not hold on senseless hues,
That trick the mind to believe in absolute truths,
We are the transgressor and the hero,
The demons roar the angel’s fury,
So to think that alone you are is pointless at end,
For lines drawn through the resonating sands,
Speak only of your own ends,
To alienate oneself and rebel at conscious end,
So better to reel in the nature of the life at odds,
Then feel that life’s messages are only mere nods,

Lessons are given at highs and at lows,
At points in-between where nobody goes,
Yet mapping our world gives us all the keys,
To play as great players inside reality,

So to the void I would declare this:
"If you are there, then on one day we shall return, but if not the dismal life yearns,
For only you could truly be the perfection sought,
The end of the conscious balloons tying knot,
Yet would you ever be allowed to be,
To exist yet not so paradoxically,
The question in the end was for you but defines me,
My beautiful net of dualities...

Sean Stutzman

The Sun Reborn

Ideas built on ideas,
What thoughts could come?
On cycles of life of love and the sun,
Repackaging ideas,
Do we still hear echoes?
For if only one idea is true then all shall crumble,

When staring each day at the beautiful land,
Where heroes were born and common men stand,
What novelty of life is put into view?
Like an amalgam of cultures into a modern stew,
Then why did we forget the rebirth is every day?
The most powerful feature revolves and stays,
And though motifs change,
And people move and breed in strange,
How can life not be seen from pockets of the deranged,

For the sky always gave sorrow and bounty,
The weather your friend,
Or the doom bringer of end,
Or the fiend stealing your plenty,
Or the gentle touch to many,
Then of course the parallels of chaos and order,
Come straight from the duality of growth and fodder,


Then who but the person sitting on the hill,
Watching the sky,
With the feeling of healing coming in the rise,
Hearing the ills,
Watching the game of the peoples move for thrills,
Can see what power sits in the minds of humans,
From groups who label themselves into tribal bands,
A place that is the root of our religious borders,
And gave rise to the idea of life in order,
Then hear the primal call in your soul,
Where the push to feel breaks through the dull,
For infinity is found intoxicated looking at snow,
And after kneading and resting the bread rises from dough,
Regrowth as you lay in the grass it pulls,
Where allegories heed the new conversion 2.0,

Then I am but a product of eons in motion,
Where I sleep others have lived like the ocean,
Where layer upon layer builds to crescendo,
What am I but a piece in an epic puzzle?
Where we are but moments in the idea of forever,
Then I am note in a song heard never,
Like a rift in dimension I break through into a babies cry,
And as the rattle escapes me I am crushed back inside,
Like a feeling of coming like a wave on the tides,
Then from the moon I feel like a vessel on the ride,


Nature is calling to receive back the information,
Like a mad scientist playing out billions of experiments,
Then I am man,
A breath of power on top of the land,
May I never forget from where I stand,
And may the power which ripples course through my hands,
But then a caretaker I must be to hear to old clans,
And a preserver of the ideas that good must be our stand,
Not from an idea of idealistic banter,
But to make lives of all things whole and with matter,
Then we can brag as we like to do,
And say we are the ingredient tying together the stew,

For all the sins of one culture may be the blessings of another,
All the truths in one house are lies to the other,
Then the bigger realities of life come from looking out,
As above so below rings through in a shout,
But to a tune that can be heard from all angles in route,
And know that all basis is brought from the wild,
That’s the seeking of what became the inner child,
Let the allegories be of a truth from one another,
Let the feelings of future come from caring for our mother,
And take the best to play the culture of modern,
Like a beautiful poem written from cultural pattern,




Break free from the ideas of fixed ideals,
Give way to the cares of individual tears,
Let all speak and truth like a ship will steer,
Even if you don’t like what you hear,
And hear voices from the pattern that give hope,
Not a single player but a group of notes,
Then life is a game of both rising and falling,
Like the pattern of the sun,
Which might be the message of our ancestors in total when time seems just a sum…



Sean Stutzman

The Salmon of Wisdom

There he sat under the hazelnut trees,
Swimming around swallowing seeds,
Guardian of the mystical knowledge,
Past from the flood to the sages blooms his hedge,

By many names his life cycled through all of Ireland,
The truth in the end convoluted to know like falling sands,
The hour glass the field in which these heroes stand,
This is the teachings of the reincarnation of life’s plan,

For Fintan was first learning secrets to say,
That back into the earth you come out in new phase,
Like enter the void the mentality seemed to stay,
Being man one day and waking up as a stag when death played,

His message sang down in wisdom of different fruits,
Growing on trees and swimming in pools,
For isn’t interesting to look to where the nuts fall,
And find vision baring fruits grow in the British Isles tall,

Not just one flavor but many to call,
For Tuan ate of Fintan and became just as tall,
The walkers of the wild they comeback in place,
Only between lives as humans has animal face,


They sat watching the land waiting for the next sage,
So they could share the truth of their shape shifting ways,
For Finn did try to learn the secret teaching,
By landing the dream fish that swam in seas deceiving,

Only with youth Fionn does he get the meaning,
From our friend Sarpa salpa is not always giving,
A funny fact when the range of the fish goes into the Mediterranean,
Matching with the invasions and cults brought there in,

A meal eaten commonly without any problem,
Until the fishes belly contains the algae to create vision,
Funny that Roman lords of the sea,
Match this idea and territory of dream,

With a commonly used hallucinogen with plenty of fellows,
Just harder to find the more northern it goes,
Why poor Finn sat for seven years,
The number matches the serpent cult quite clear,

The word Sarpa from latin comes from the root for snake,
And in Sanskrit the rakshasas have Rudra’s powers invoking ache,
Matching to cults that flourish where the fish do grow,
And in Hellenic cultures follow Oceanus, Neptune’s, and Noden’s path,




A tract leading right through the fishes lands,
Right where the Caulerpa prolifera grows at hand,
Then ask why Silvanus is allows close in frame,
Then realize the visions where what they grouped the same,

For our ancestors looked for things that brought sight,
To minds resting bedded down sleeping at night,
All tie together with great goat Pan,
Who matches dwarves of visions from far-away lands?

For if Nymphs, Satyrs, Tritons, Nereids, and the giants come from the titan age,
Match the Fae folk, the Dwarves, and elves of mythology,
The Pygmy’s the dwarves of other mythological days,
Then Silenus and Dionysius were the only to keep face,
Because alcohol over any other substance remained safe,

Forgetting that brewing these special combinations,
Gives context to the meads of poetry and wisdom,
And that if spirit was thought to carry through in new form,
The ability to remember your past lives was norm,

As the great druids of Ireland tell us the score,
That when eating the special and divine it brings truth from the bore,
Your body ripped apart as visions ensue,
Be from fungi, fish, or grain the cults matched to,
Dreams the thread that make the land they sang from last,
Things easy to prophesize with when you know of even caves with gas,


To the older age of intoxicated priestesses and sage,
With the name of the serpents and 7 matching its cage,
A serpent of seven came from El and gave us Yahweh,
So the same game by different names we used to play,
Like the Pixies song man is 5 and devil 6,
All gods’ imagery is matched to 7,
Even meeting up to sleeping Vishnu and Shesha,
Whose predecessors Varuna and Indra match storm gods and of seas,
Showing that more connected was the Indo-European philosophies,
And that these ideas tied to Soma Haoma were forged into beliefs catalysts forgotten,
That maintained strong form until the Mithraic cults sundering,
What the tower of Babel claimed was true although time made it a drudge,
They forgot they were revering the same things and with Iron age grudge,
Allowed the apocalypse of 1170 to give it no faith to fane,
As when combining all the cultures marrying the gods became sane,
A tip of the hat to an earlier play,
One we named not solely but Gigantomachy by name say,
So we are the fall of the same respects given,
The game the same in all forms even to he is risen,
But the killing of brothers like Cain to Able,
Made the barriers of lands forget their origin in fable,
And then Edomites and Israelites term a single friend,
When the Assyrian armies come to bash them in,




Then why do I look to the Irish at the end of the world,
Because they were one of the few so far out they were preserved,
The teachings of the serpent still held some words,
And the destruction of culture was preserved by “Un-civilization,”
A joke to say they held more concept in legend,
And the marriage of the Romans gave similar terms,
Confusing when we look back without catalysts to converge,
That the cults of the mother goddess have common root,
Though the exact location lost to me and to you,

The seek that Apollo, Asteria, Hecate, Cybele, Rhea, and Artemis,
All the witchcraft and spindle goddess’ like Demeter, Freya, Perchta, and Frigg’s,
Are forms of Altars that Agni and Hermes animated from Xoanons undisturbed,
The germans simple calling the meeting altars hearg,
Where the meetings of farmers made politics and the mothers of the hearth,
Who brought all the forms of so called civilized states,
The formation of the empires and conquering changed names,
But then all the goddess icons go back,
To an idea of a total personification of the land,
As a threefold women of many different lands,
Getting married to the storm deity as mountains touch sky,
Where the gates of time are in the Norn’s, Charite’s Morai’s, Parcae’s, Hesperide’s eyes,
Even going as far as India They elaborated Karmic lines,
And then upon the rebirth importance seemed to find,
Split by three fates goes back to Kali the great mother of all material time,
And matches old adage with Shiva as a corpse when energy cannot bind,
That these and older stories come from a intoxication line,
One the Rig Veda the mead poems and the Orphic Hymns sing in kind,
Of when the thought of stabilizing into areas was a new find,
That matched plants in the area giving Psyche to mind,
I thought matched to experience,
Why sex was also kept in to the ideas of this science,
For just like a lover if never tried you have no clue,
About how the experience will feel or what stories told are true,

And the rites of Soma and Dionysius scream come roaring bull imagery,
The pressing and grinding of things to intoxicate subliminally,
And if poppies and mandrake are part the rituals,
Then every intoxicant has a source speaking biblical,
And matching to the characters that part of the land,
The giant’s forces of nature to which poor little man stands,
And the updating of localities to taking new lands,
Makes sense of Zeus over Cronus,
Yahweh over El,
Ba’al Haddad over El,
Odin over Vafthrudnir,
The men are trading kings clear,
But from women the runes and the prophesies are dear,
Matching the Volva’s, the Pythos’, and Sybil’s,
That all the lords of storm slay serpents of old mother it is so clear,
Be it Tiamat, Leviathan, Python, or Jörmungandr,
The serpent form of goddesses are earlier fears,
And the least told hero after troy gives a steer,
To the gold so spoke of in stories of fates and years,
For the saga of Aeneas matches the celtic tales,
Of seeking the golden bough Persephone’s catalyst sail,
Of the Pantheria’s gift to reincarnate motif,

A story matched as part of the Eleusinian mysteries,
That by vision of plant you seek immortality,
Funny that in argument we try to pick just one,
When the inspiration of intoxication not the source is what is sung,
Through all the tails of different forms,
Match cows and wheat and pinecones norms,
With the early mosaics of Christians matching suit,
And Martin Luther King even saying in Eucharist there is common root,
Then by sacrificing the storm gods phallus of popping up after rain,
The chemical stimulants and oracles make sense that some points made priests insane,
And that ecstatic rites of passage match up to this game,
For in experience of life the secrets revealed are tamed,
And the glory of life after death manifests inside brains,
A secret held by those on the outskirts of the un-sane,
And a beacon for the healing of the modern timeframe,

For if all these ideas come to Paleolithic root,
When violence held context in religions formed more brute,
Then we are the descendants of the brave few,
Who stood up to time and collected the truth from dew,
From metal wizards and wild-men to priestess of promiscuous truth,
The knowledge was held by the weird in the group,
A thing we no longer try to bother,
Those standing on the other side of Aeneas’s father,
Haven’t been born yet but wait until the right date,
And the great mistress of material makes good all of fate,
Be it Neith with weaving or spindles of thread,
No watered down we made inspiration spread,
Because with more people control is more attractive,
And we lost ecstasy so far that we are consciously reactive,
Teachings ways to contemplation with no risk we call revelation,
Yet like Buddhist in Ashrams what fear comes in their contemplation,
A half game of what then takes decades to achieve,
What Moses and prophets sought in one night of dream,
Like Saul your whole world changes in one day dramatically,
And the voice of the hidden speaks through calamity,
Something we decided was detrimental to wars of humanity,
And like Absinthe ran propagandas that stole inspiration from fanatical being,
Making demons and witches of the true pro-generation,
That gave us anything resembling the new era of nations,

But again the salmon hides for the next invasion to arrive,
For the knowledge is lost with each amnesia we find,
And the prophets of old would speak risk thereof,
And would represent the sacrifice we made lent now of,
A water down form of the real traditions of before,
A teaching that said without risk there is no reward,
Like Odin’s price or the cost of Christ,
Soma can now speak back with even more choice,
Of things of the new world with similar praise,
That like teonanácatl,
Shows that every root comes back into Yggdrasil’s to be adorned,
No longer lost we can once again transform,
Now we know the sources of Amrita Ambrosia and glory in whole…
Sean Stutzman

The Quiet Towers

Can you hear the whisper of the towers of old?
Where silence is demanded as the rhythm unfolds,
Where cliffs in Ireland, Scotland, and Tibet,
Find Vultures and eagles to feed off the dead,
Like wind running over the rock does sings,
The burials for everyone even kings,

To the most beautiful thought in ancient death,
Not a fear of loss,
Or a preservation of death,
No the sky burials and mounds of the eagles,
Show man had looked into nature and gave back equal,
That if roots can’t liberate the soul from the dirt,
Then in eternity I find recycling through mouth of birds,
That let vultures feed inside,
That lets eagles earn and dine,
The bones put back to tombs and mounds,
With the skeletons of eagles consecrating the grounds,

Or bones bleached down to packaged holds,
Our mother using thousands of mouths to consume my fold,
That the flesh be given back to earth untold,
For then the excrement falls on fields,
And then your cells are used in kilns,
And though we hate the idea of consuming,
Another person it’s a different form of human,
For even the ash we scatter to mountains,
Breaks back into the ground around us,
And as the plants break through with food,
We the primate grab and consume,
Minute particles of other beings doom,
A chemical ingestion to continue things that move,
And a real knowledge of where we are from,
As the true rulers of the world are decomposers,
They feed off what would kill all others,
Entropy singing in the voice of the wind,
Gave rise to thoughts of afterlife fin,
For in a game where you watch the bodies break down,
A realization of mummification is escapism unbound,
For which modern religions would say I simply clown,
Yet never question composition of what in dirt makes it brown,
And when you realize that the decomposers have ruled,
Since before dinosaurs and before plants fully ensued,
Then realize the deity if ever there was,
Is the queen of the cycle,
The roaring of the buzz,
That eat and break down all that was,
Then get where early sects of Christ,
Have trees of mushrooms an obvious vice,
As when sacrificing the Wind that is of El becomes Yahweh in state,
Scattering the spores onto the substrate,
Then his only son comes to root,
Goes into the underworld and comes back up non-consumed,
Then a better understanding that the water bearing story,
Got removed from context and made very boring,
And that shamans in Siberia would have found common foot soon,
If the Cathar’s and Gnostics weren’t burned to the moon,
And then the cults of serpent and of the wheel,
Have a unifying voice of intoxication clear,
And when in the early bit of bible,
They say god is not of air to birds or sea to fish,
God is the voice in the plant kingdom it is so obvious,
For why else have a burning bush,
Or the holy of holies kept so hush,
Because these gods are lords of dreams,
Only real when our mind breaks seem,
And leading our armies in our sleep,
A pull from the other unconscious world we keep,
Matches Krishna to Nuada and Yahweh in-between,

All who gave leaders visions inside scenes,
And ruled armies in the celestial realm,
That kept changing as the hidden one kept being unbound,
And being turned into a male dominator who punishes freedoms sound,
Who was sheltered in the minds of sage,
Who got removed from power as kings made rage,
Built on horrors they did to their neighbors,
A game the common folk were always sacrificed in,
Their only reprieve the defense of their land,
Which empires ripped out of their hand,
And the spirits of locality were stripped and with laws band,
That truly gave beauty to the towers of old,
Where the youth find mind and old grow bold,
That a relationship to the land in which they lived,
Was more important than new concepts like individual Sin,
A name created from a local divinity who was condemned,
And laugh by the time of Roman Popes,
Who use the term deus and hold up their hand,
But had forgotten that from Thracian Saba-dios all symbols and hands,
Then until the enlightenment they waved sticks blessing fields,
So god is nature from their view quite clear,
As the celestial heavens was the outer sphere,
Funny that now they would make fun of the pagans,
Though every rite and ritual started there in,
And a tip of the hat goes more in mind to King David,
The first revolutionary since Mosses invocated,
The warrior spirit wind,
That as to throw out the oppressors of force,
Gave root to a single male dominating choice,
That gave them a reality that wasn’t being owned,
And allowed the Messianic heroes to be bold,
Unfortunately after Roman overview was large,
They lost track that the same histories held their charge,
And then fanatics attack the cults,
Where the Eucharist was born and ecstasy a result,
For that stupid choice of not teaching others,
But leading them by saying they are stupid to one another,
Are the true villains who stole inspiration,
And at the false perfection sought a catholic put people to concentration,
While an atheist starved his people and killed the shamans in cold blood,
And the materialists gave up on treating land as one,
So no idea of the modern frame gives satisfaction to conscious plane,
And true inspiration they call insane,
So from what but the decomposers can we advance the brain?

Nothing in truth can be gained by their message,
While the ancestors graves send a better message,
That when put into the ground,
If important a ship or mound,
Gave completion to the physical portion,
Like tombs of old kings before distortion,
And heroes can be born by giving them legacy,
Something unfound in modern theocracy,
Something we play with though we lie,
Or else Bush Jr. would need concept to win,
And not just saying a good Christian he is,
No fault to the man for doing what works,
But the numbing of broad thought devours us,
And so we live a period from before,
When blind strife struck Baldr with mistletoe,
We let Loki’s rule over with primal needs they moan,
Funny that in myth you find truth,
For everyone loves broad minded sight,
Because he does not judge or force to say what is right,
Just casually holds out a helping hand,
To see that in Hel he is even regarded,
Solved by the rejecter which leads Odin to punishment,
Then wisdom travelled but was only found between lands,
Something I think we match where we stand,
A hope that we can give love back to land,
Flesh back to animals who we only strip out where they stand,
And let our mother recycle us is our true final demand,
For she will do it anyway if you want it or not,
And the heaven in your mind is just another level of thought…



Sean Stutzman

The Philosopher’s Goal

The truth that Pythagoras sought,
To sunder from men of specialty taught,
That in each age the thinker tries to remove,
The inequalities that life brings to consume,
Yet with Genius he is pushing the sand in his palm,
The problem that men like to destroy in life without qualm,
From any era or any age,
The quiet man sits in utter shame,
That though we call ourselves tame,
Authority not character rule the game,
So that morality is directed from those with fame,

But this is why the men of thought,
Sought refuge in mysterious holdings and on mountain tops,
A route that never makes the culture match up,
And great minds leave silence as the world swallows their minds brought,
As fear is a ruler instead of thought,
Empathy a lever not a rule to be brought,
The quiet souls sit back in isolation,
Though they may be the only people that actually have inspiration,
And silent drones the rest keep working,
Whether in ecstatic cults or modern twerking,
They live for the escape from the game and its set,
The reality they run from is like a choking net,


Yet this behavior is railed against and upset,
By any and all ways of concept,
That the regular day to day,
Has become so important the men of outside get no say,
Tied to papers that tell us answer can only be trusted,
By sources that none of us get to look at and make info be fed,
Then these men of mountains realized that culture is flawed,
Though Plato and Socrates promise beauty to all,
For the group can never adequately install,
The truth that the Vagabond has readily on call,
And so our ideas circle biting a tail for all to fall,
The problems of future are paused for social stall,
Then our pompous attitude of modern success,
Will only be tested when brought to quiz through stress,
And the development will progress even with problem in test,
And again we will be the fallen claiming to be the best,

So sit back in mountains that are to disappear and find solitude,
Run to the hills where others make no time to,
Learn the identities of all that you can,
For a more rounded human reality that people can stand,
Not some image of play that makes regular folk food,
For the ideas of entertainment continually consumed,
Until all that is left is sitting in cubes,
Laughing at things that we have seen 10 times on the tube,
Feeling less like a contributor and more like animal in zoo,
With the elite watching in cover with lamb skin hiding doom,
For like passion their attention only holds for things in boom,
The ideas that people seek with impatience damn the good,
For even in simple action boredom shall consume,
And create the next radicals inside the stew,
A trick that in a melting pot makes labels our only truth,
And leaves happiness a carrot in front of the cart promised so smooth,
Yet seems absent to even the richest and the most motivated,
For they will never admit that in doing so their existence is dominated,
And more and more dogmas will give more and more groups,
Things that should have just been available by treating each other good,

So like the old thinkers I hope to remove elite in idea,
But a chaos is brought if to this action is brought too much zeal,
And gives reason behind why Shiva and Merlin are bringers of destruction,
Even though their paradigms are to bring love through action,
Then we are all the destroyers sitting in quiet calm,
The gifts of computers and television numb the internal qualm,
And like Fahrenheit 451 we sit enjoy walls all day,
Then when laying down we can’t stand being in our own brains,
A quiet feeling that runs deep through us all and monsters often game,
Yet we are all the complacent horde tired, worn out, and yet without any say,
Still sitting in the best that we could do by leading all through play,
Yet labeling and judging each other by simple interactive choice,
Why can’t we have the time to hear internal voice…
For shall we be men who love each other,
Or the next name on the list to advantage a brother…
The only happiness comes from others shame,
Then lost forever we’ll play the same game…
Sean Stutzman

The Night of Two Queens

I drive to mountains I know in life,
Up to where my Grandfather gave strife,
Made money from helping cutting timber,
And hunted in years when he was more limber,
A connection I could feel so softly learned,
My car in weird feeling starts to turn,
As if I had no control I see a lake,
Something I do not recognize too huge to mistake,

A long corner seems to keep my car turning,
My heart starts racing as my safety is my yearning,
Yet off the road my car seems to run,
I panic as no break no steering can be done,
So opening door out onto ground I did roll,
But dragged by invisible thread I get pulled,
Behind my car as it crashes to the lake,
My body landing in the shallows a feeling of fate,

My car is floating to start so I try to get in and start,
But it just starts to sink like mud swallowing my tool of heart,
For the tool I rely on day to day was sacrificed like chariot of early day,
Too worked up on how it got there I ran and feared to stay,
Like every man brought to the view of fate,
We all try to move back the ending on that date,
And so I ran up the hill to a cabin,
My wife and my family are sitting inside it,
But the weird takes hold as a bee sits in the room,
I grab a cup to help it live and take it back outside again,
Yet as I try others arrive through golf holes in walls inside,
And again panic as I must protect my family,
I still can’t grasp I’m in a dream,

And out from the wall a beautiful queen emerges in splendor,
The size of a hawk she buzzes and I look at her,
But I am scared of my daughter feeling sting,
So out the door with family to a ground ring,
Back to the lake we go running,
Yet lots of cars are getting pulled in,
Yet out of the lake their cars are spit out again,

And a song so sweet comes from its waters,
Like a ghost whisper of my fore fathers,
And pulled between the two I feel set,
A feeling so beautifully comfortable I’m weirded out by it,
And I awake as the bees swarm around,
As the songs whisper echoes lives of beautiful sound,
And I think I fall to sleep with my family on the ground,


Yet awake I find myself in my bed,
My family alongside me not on the ground instead,
A weird feeling as if out from paradise being pulled,
And that beautiful feeling feels like it was striped and I feel cold,
Yet as the sun kisses my cheek,
I look over my shoulder to seek,
And a smile of wonder comes over me in phases,
Looking at their safe sweet lovely faces,
My life is love again,
I smile and grin,
Tell my wife of interesting tale,
And hope the queens in my dreams give my soul sail…



Sean Stutzman

The Night of Serpents

I drank down the last of the green lady as sleep called,
Like the last kiss of reality as my brain went to being stalled,
A final inhale and my mind rushed to dream,
Trying to escape into the fabric between the seams,
As my head went down I entered several frames,
The memory of which I have no recall to claim,
But the night crescendo with an interesting vision;
Something maybe tied to subconscious intuition,

I was walking with my girl and another who I can’t remember,
No reference of time no tell towards a September,
The room we entered was smooth and decorated,
Almost sterile of objects minus what was future fated,
On the side of the room sat a terrarium and behind a man,
He sat with vigor a huge smile at hand,
His hair blonde I could not recognize him,
But uncomfortable or voices matched hymn,

But inside the cage there were beautiful rattlesnakes,
The glass between us and them seemed like it break with minimal force take,
The biggest laid in the front of the tank,
Like a long lost guardian like king to the others rank,
I met eyes with him and felt a deep connection,
Something palpable and like friendship without translation,
His eyes spoke as if with sympathy,
To a feeling in my stomach I felt inside of me,
Yet erratically I saw my fiancé and my friend walking towards the cage,
I rose to protest but my voice was made but had no rage,
I felt discomfort I felt the untamed,
The man behind the tank a mystery he remained,
The blonde picked up the snakes in his hands,
Smiling still the glass no longer in front he did stand,
The three other snakes in the cage lashed out at my fellow travelers,
I immediately tried to help but found I could not move forward,

I felt something behind me call,
Like an old beautiful whisper like an echo bouncing on walls,
So I reached to help my fellows and grabbed them and turned to go behind me,
Twisting to grab them and put the snakes between and make my fellows free,
Yet only I stood in a new room,
The problem from before no longer consumed,
Nothing was inside this area but one figure I could draw,
A room with only a giant jet black cobra,
Yet no threat as before I felt and no desire to run,
Like old friends our eyes locked and returned each other’s sum,
We seemed to speak without talking and then my mind returned to my fiancé,
A panic of the previous room as if from another day,
I nodded and then turned quickly back into the other room,
Swirling back to vision from previous pseudo-doom,
The snakes still lashed at them but never struck,
Though their heads dodged and moved down to duck,
I felt angry to the man who kept pushing the snakes at them terrifying them,
But now I felt like I had the right to defend it to end,

I did not know the blonde man and he moved inhumanly,
No matter how loud I yelled he never even looked at me,
Yet I tried to run to them but was stuck,
I kicked hard dug in and tried to buck,
So again I reached out as before but pushed through to past the snakes,
Covering and protecting my fellows with whatever it takes
I awoke in my bed the anger draining from me,
Like an image from an alternate life it all seemed to seem,
The dream foggier but the eyes of the old passive rattlesnake gave me comfort on the other,
As if like the loving eyes of my departed grandfather,
The smile and the happiness of the cobra gave me courage,
Like speaking to an ancient friend with a casual badge,
Still I wished to release the snakes from the others held at bay,
Something that felt religious as I went to do my day,
As if the man was using reality to entrap my fiancé and friend,
I felt the breath of awe on my mind and the start of the day began…


Sean Stutzman

The Lady of the Ravens

Can you hear the cawing call?
The forest echoes with its voice in the fall,
Watching like a watchmen over the entrance of the wild,
Like the old friend beckoning you closer to a world of the agile,

Can you hear the warning crash?
That splits the air with crescendo smash,
To tell the animals something draws near,
To warn of things others couldn’t hear,

Can you know the ladies name?
The queen of the fiana the queen of games,
Who once lead men to love their place,
Next to the woods that mapped their space,

Can you love the song of the night?
Where darkness wins instead of light,
Where the other half of life’s great game,
Gets played out by effects some find untamed,

Can you hear her truth from decay?
To watch the world as it behaves,
Your body a breakdown of life in display,
Without the death of things nothing can stay,


Can you hear her beautiful song?
When crows on roofs all come along,
To echoing sound as if each call a pulse,
Then understand that life has course,

Can you feel the touch of death?
It constantly is there even if you hold your breath,
But people have never actually behaved,
In truth of micro to macro we still cling to being saved,

But the goddess’ visions brought some to mind,
Of things that in regular reality one can’t find,
And as the peaceful rites moved to common peoples,
It put on male face entering steeples,
Yet the lady of the land still conjured fear,
For a predator she is quite clear,
But every man must face what lies at the end,
Whatever judgement or faith you choose to be in,
Yet probably it will be a surprise,
If anything is there you’ll have to adapt to the ride,
But most likely you break away from you,
Becoming part of the fabrics amalgam stew,
And maybe then you’ll be cradled in her arms,
The dew coming in the morning to wash what was your palms,
And then you’ll go into being another piece,
That another animal can exploit or a fungi eats you as you are deceased,
Then it makes sense she was a lady of the lands fluidity,
For she is a combination of all our past identities,
And though we act as termites building cities,
We might just be the next passing of novel proclivities,
Of the thing we all source all our cells,
And give back to as death rings her bells,
For sidhe’s truth got warped to evil warning,
The lady screaming or washers singing,
Only gave an idea that she was bad,
But listen to the words of the Babd,
Babd-sidhe speaks of peace everlasting,
What a strange song for someone labeled to demonic casting,
I think the triplet’s old song can give us strength,
To a world where nature is given rank,


Where life is not the only thought,
And where black gives honor to ideas sought,
For I love those who dress in display,
Of countering the drabble of idiots in modern day,
The people who claim normal as only the good thoughts are allowed to people,
Say they never cause any harm or evil,
Then devour the world like it was their play thing,
And call abstract thought a creation of sin,
To them I hold the highest contempt,
For you will never see the beauty in the entire game,
You will never know truth just half of the name,
And transferring onto the next,
You will swallow the world in material context,
And become the empty termite mounds,
Where maybe ants next in line will move into and abound,
Learning life is not some toy,
For idiots to piss away for personal joy,
Yet trapped to a cycle we all push on,
Just wondering which species will next pick up the baton,
And learn from a species that wanted to kill better than any other,
And sacrificed the world sitting in church pews calling each other brother,
While all the while the world fell down,
Because you couldn’t even give respect for the ground,
An aspect supposedly of what you call god,
Yet you justify taking all and destroying his façade,
The mountain will one day answer your half with a devastating black,
And to heaven your eyes will go and nothing will stare back…
Then maybe we have been demonizing the queen,
Who compliments half of our true being,
And gives hope that countering uncontrolled zeal,
Will give us an understanding through which our minds can know is from our world real…




Sean Stutzman

The Idea Of The Trees

Beacon standing on the mountain side,
I strain my neck back glaring up at your back against the sky,
Like giants watching over us the wind creates a sigh,
Like lords of time you watch over our societies,


Burning when we yearn for more,
Ripping skin off for aesthetics we sadistically muse,
Our right to use your old grown cells muscle,
For shelters that hold no protection for your music,


Would we change our tune if we could realize,
Like broken down remnants of previous generations imprint revelation,
That our ancients sit watching our dangerous race,
Built on thousands the chemical amalgam is our past reconnected,


Like breathing beacons of past you give and give,
Unwilling to see you as a part of us by ego species gained,
Can we not see you impart air in a chemical plethora of gold?
Giving back the second piece to the very air we get,



Like great elders I wonder what you’ve seen,
Standing stationary for centuries what lives and rests witness our sins?
Given scene to our concept of majesty you sing,
Bouncing wind you tell us of our youth and rash strife’s,


But always calm like standing guardians we can go to your base,
Sitting calmly in pose of where even our earliest thinkers were born,
You give insight in whispers of time of holding without budging,
Sage love births at the flow of your own silence building,


Utilize while replenishing may be our only choice allowed,
For how can you play unbalanced removal of breath in archetype?
Like fools we slay great lords of the past aeon,
Never letting break down to create our new additions to the ages,


Preservation is impossible entropy calls your bluff of evermore,
So will your ego blind those who would give back to the entirety?
For a piece in a chain can only way down the link by growing bigger to enjoy,
Until the chain breaks from the weight you imposed so enthusiastically,


Saying never use is an impossible dream,
So cherish and thank the ancestors you rip down,
They keep you warm, dry, safe, secure, and inhaling deeply,
Giving praise to our motion by paying their due,


Like subconscious recycling nature gives that to you,
No charge to yourselves but your bodies and youth,
Like a loving mother who births, kills, breaks down, and regrows like yeast,
So a game of trade off should give us vision over years,


But stubborn we are to let ourselves be apart,
Of a natural game we were playing at our alpha-dawning,
The game we hide from and combat ageing ailments,
Though freely entangling ourselves to human alignments,


Then we are the friend who won’t pay back his debt,
Even after learning how bad the investment hurt our friend by doing,
But worse than a friend we struck out at our mothers discord,
She tries to explain in overview of eras she is not dastardly,

Yet we still think we are the only creature deserved of respect by ourselves and anyone,
The most pathetic of images given by an institution we cannot trust anymore,
So why hold the tie that makes our world the monstrous ambiguity,
Why not give in to the powerless action of progressive life as an anomaly,
Thank the trees our forefathers resurrected through force automatically,
And eat the fruits of their break down they will speak this truth through your anatomy,
Interactions of water and nutrients we share everything but aesthetics,
The secret relieving agent our guardians stave off anxiety,
Allowing for their own destruction for they are part of us all…



Sean Stutzman

The Holy Trees That Bring Immortality

From mountain goddesses in cultures spread far,
Seems that in fertility the rites of the love goddess are star,
From Asherah to Astarte to Inanna from the east,
To one of Nuwa’s daughter Ma Gu in Chinese,
To the African cultures through use of dagga,
The plant has been held to the truth of Shiva,

The holiest gift as it never kills,
It gives passion to a man who sought only to kill,
And with Ma Gu gave rest to workers,
Set in torment by hierarchy that sought terrors,
The sweet breath of plant gives ease to the man,
And with Shiva’s chillum gave speech to Brahmin’s,

The plant has biblical ties in the Middle East,
One that Solomon even seemed to be teased,
Into inhaling in incense like Scythian Baths,
A great way to sit and honor the dead,
If the translation of Cannabosm leads into our heads,
Then our future will see Christian’s guarding its bread,

For every herb baring fruit is inside of its title,
Though restriction of the holy oil came from king’s bridles,
And lost to the people came inspirational files,
But ask why Solomon when to mother of heaven,
Even though his priests tried calling it a sin,
But it was a tradition of sorcerers a class he was in,
And only with the desolation of Judah brought truth to end,
We of a modern flavor can’t even imagine,
That they came to concept absorbing nine pounds through skin,
Even loosing thirty three percent by absorption,
Makes you wonder if high free masons understand,
Now that the Manly P. Hall’s of the world are reported,

For even the amounts in the Picatrix,
Show that when looking for vision the amounts sky rocketed,
This tying back to the Scythian funeral,
The hashish tied into the burning cistern,
When sacrificing stag erecting tent brings vision,

A ritual you wonder if older root had,
Since the author himself said over a hundred texts he did clad,
Into older traditions backed to shamanism of old,
Back when the visions of the oil brought Saul mind to bold,
And the end of his story lead to madness untold,
Maybe showing us where the cover up needed manifold,
And the practice of use stay in serpent cultures of old,
Leading to networks of trade stretching the mold,

For the best incense you needed to go far seeking sires,
For the best intoxications match up to routes of empires,
The routes of the fire sacrifices lead you to root,
And realize modern Christian’s fight there primal foot,

For Hindu’s and Daoist’s do question its importance,
A tie back to the roots of where religions are started,
So let us relegalize the gift of the gods,
That help emperors stomach’s and gave rise to love gods,
Astarte’s trees given right to her named festival,
An intoxication goddess with hemp around her temples,
Got thrown out for tradition of prostitutes toils,
A thing Lebanon had never changed until Constantine,
A new comer to the new traditions of the Hebrew way of being,
Then under all thoughts layers comes to show the sage,
And realize it was only the public withheld from pharmakeia,
And that Herod’s fiery cup still leads back to what was lost,
For the elite never were removed from the game,
Until with the Roman slaughter were removed and never reclaimed,
And when looking in ancient cook books the Jewish people did combine,
Even into dishes of festivals the plant of the divine,
Then what are we doing in this age and time,
The insanity of Nixon a megalomaniac pushing his rhyme,
I wish the gift of the Wine,
That to the Queen Mother of the West good Ma Gu brings gift,
And is lifted to heavens for even offering it…



Sean Stutzman

The Great Mystery of Direction

Can man really say what is good and bad?
When as the clock keeps turning morals change in clips and fads,
And as the hands move freely they seem to make more spokes,
And as the new voice comes calling it pitfalls in old jokes,
For of course the world has boundaries that hold ideas in columns,
But a slight tweek in perspective makes them loose not very solid,
And as we dance out our daily lives in personal choices in the rise of chance,
When can man point out his own hindrance?

For every step when looking from the grey,
Makes light of a middle the polar minds fight to betray,
For often the problems come from two positions getting treated as one,
The harder getting deemed evil the good only labeled when fun,
The harder context being lamented,
Allowing the path of the traveler to become tormented,
And men so easily see a single frame,
Which leads to violence and problems of shame,
Yet if it is so easy to call out your cause,
Then it was probably a justice of your own minds pause,
It will never give you the full play…


And as each decision spirals on,
You can often feel a simple pawn tossed to the royalty that directs and spawns,
Yet no play of this is not construed,
The thinkers of old feel similar to those of the new,
A testament to the world holding its own ideas,
The concept that was god was nature in personification of societal reals,
Yet the message is always new never ending,
Skuld’s sweet kiss is incoming never relenting…


For what do I do sitting in a culture that I can’t meet in the eye,
And with each stone thrown from family and friends may be snide,
Is this life not up for reflection?
For in ideas and frames I run my brain to find some protection,
Yet the real play of culture and its push for your pay,
Makes the esoteric a hobby and an escape today,
Yet as a man who feels comfortable in this what can I accomplish,
Do I sell into the mode of sharing my wish?
Creating a huge audience yet like Gibran could they really respect it?
And at worst like Nietzsche they construe your view to hellish directive,


The philosophers of today sit inside books in coffee shops stirring their brains,
A silence is held as they share any inflection,
For the modern has given it’s just easier to be complicit,
Work each day in a metaphorical cage knowing that we can’t reach to wild grit,
For the show that is a display in front of brains seems to control the players from behind,
Not an imaginary co-operation of power but the personification of public mind,
I ask what should I do while others answer blind,
But they never really listen…


For if we are too quick in concept then a sliver of the perspective is all we get,
And the assurance swallows the discussion in intellectual debt,
But what of that outside world we keep neglecting,
The drives to protect lead you to human functions enacting,
And then gala parties are there instead of friendship,
And when millionaires steal the divine paths to the other are they on the same trip?
I move to empower those I can effect…
I feel that I will sit in the dancing of my brain to help those around me,
I will do all I can to help friends, love-ones, and family,
But I can only be the impact to those inside my vision,
And if I were to make a power move then I’m no better than those on mission,
Who create great strides but inside money ties,
End up asking and behaving like politicians,

Discussion and aide to the problems in brains is all I can do to help,
But if professional not a loving approach but an etiquette gets persuaded about,
So here I sit laughing at my own position,
Plugging along in common work writing things that won’t be heard,
And the best joke of all is I would despise the attention if it set in,
I guess the problem of those who growing up had similar woes as me who I want to aide,
But if I were to display my internal dialogue to the wide array,
Then the difference of perspective would destroy my helping hand,
Then I would be no better than con man,
Snake oil salesman giving in to product land,
For we have made the ideas of mind a product for consumption,
And inside that sight you see cult and exploitation not helping persuasion,
A repugnant style I could not stand to be a part of,
Then I see why the hermits did what they did,
Running to common ground as culture became quicksand,
Yet with no livelihood and no free land,
Inside the bubble I hold my stand,
Waiting and walking,
Disappearing to the wilds,
Yet reaching them with vehicle made possible by same complaint,
Then what is the way to exercise your brain,
In a land where mystics and philosophers can often be framed insane,
And the wild I seek is being tamed,
Then a simple man I play my part,
Still diligent but trying to find a place apart,
Am I just too stupid or too smart?
But maybe that designation is just as fickle as the polar found people…


Then I sit eyes open only to possibilities,
But sealing most by personality,
What path shall I walk next?
As long as I am me and not losing myself to shame,
Any action can preserve my game,
But how to continue on the board remains a misty rhyme,
May my eyes be open from inside before my time,
And may each person find happiness even through turmoil in ride,
Then and only then will my mind subside,
And be content that those around were treated by me a labeling of alright,
I will stand with compassion searing to all walks of my life,
Even when others and family look in horror to my life,
They sadly will never know the joy,
That every day I wake to see life around makes me fulfilled and truly employed…
May natures outside sweet breath kiss me with reviving kiss,
And as I ingest the veil lifts its impregnable mists,
As I breathe I hear the otherworld sing,
That if you haven’t heard you cannot comprehend its incomparable iridescent ring…
I am only a single person,
Of a single family,
Of a single lineage,
In a single state,
In a single country,
On a single continent,
On a single plate,
On a single planet,
In a single galaxy,
Part of a single universe…
Then the answers aren’t very singular are they…?
When extrapolating connection is always to bigger frames
Then with what use should I put into action with my brain?
Even those so called found seek more as time goes on,
Then lost each of us are yet more stable some try and sound…
Are they the greatest tricksters of all here in bodies bound?
And if so then treating others with respect and with compassion moves more than activities,
And to be a better person is never measured by collecting currency,
But by your interaction with the other lost fools,
Be careful of getting trapped by the watery words in fenced off more desirable pools…
Honesty of truly knowing nothing of our purpose,
Is a common thread that gives voice to the greatest human trust…
That gives every single human a place of common ground to brew,
Find your path and make it through and as life ends a new mystery will be before you…
Look back to Urd’s beauty as a guide,
Let Verdandi be persistent as a constant ride,
And maybe just maybe Skuld’s pose will give you a new mode,
I tip my hat to the three states that are so subconscious now we forget their hold,
And may the Norn’s tapestry give you a new idea to be bold…
Then being lost and yet helping all gives meaning even if cultural application gets stalled…
Written for those who are stuck thinking on what is the next move...
We all are there in different pose…
As the future is always coming on at least have happiness in your soul…


Sean Stutzman

The Great Gift Neglected

Little friends buzz and hum,
In houses of denizen they come,
To orchestrate the hive of mind,
To build the thoughts of comb inside,
For look to the dancing ladies,
In Minoan lands of island trees,
To see when the ape turned to insects,
Against the grain of small group tactics,
To learn of larger mastery,
The mothers of our society,

The number of 7 matches clear,
Of abdomens I yell with a little sneer,
Who from old did bring little baskets or bags,
Though future men said they were demons and hags,
That go back to Gobekli Tepe with Gods carrying sacks,
Why our little friends mirror this with pollen on their backs,
A trade that matches the drugs being moved,
As once you collect the seed you start creating food,
And then we see the hive becomes rules for city planning,
Where do you think naturally the ancients were learning?


Then the gate guardians and the idea of foreign curse,
Matches the horns on towers and the evil eyes reverse,
Which makes sense when Cananite wine storage is clear,
Not just full of grape fueled nectar for the elite,
That had honey wines and itself added to make them sweet,
No more like a communal father seem these kings,
The keepers of family groups coded by sigil rings,
With gallons on hand even as 1170 comes crashing down,
And an answer to why drinking customs should civility all around,

Then get this lady in her source,
The mother gods and of discourse,
Was worshipped by Xoanans often of wood,
That were held in places where groves once stood,
That from caves and cliffs she is heralded,
And Rhea raises Zeus on honey undebated,
Then ask where or what could be in the trees?
That would make women so special?
That would give them the nectar?
That would put women as queens?
That would make bulls into their feed?
That would live in horns?
That would give birth to the gift so tough?


For Gullveig gets made into metallurgic greed,
Though from dwarves the great gifts of metal are received,
The holders of the world they are set in place things,
That never ever move once set in reality,
So funny they say she is tied to drink,
Veig making sense from their economy,
For this lady gave them wealth that is not contested by any,
But from a natural source of life not stone came her plenty,
That the queens of Indo European tradition moved into the warlord’s observation,
A powerful priestess-hood that challenged male dominated nations,
Then this bounty of wealth should match the seed,
That in honey comes B.C. surplus and from the hive a queen,
A truth proven that every bounty of knowledge and wealth in Norse thought,
Comes from a Mead goddess’ pouring knowledge into your mouth,
Something they adopted but slayed the dancing queens,
As witches of change to hunting ways of being,
For only the kingdom of the dead in their minds,
Was home to the information that collected from tides,
Not from their own lands could it be received,
Meaning that the Jotun gift was adventure and need to trade,
As obviously they were seeking the runes as Odin would say,




Then in Mediterranean ideas we find Hercules pillars,
At atlas’s home the ladies of fate sat under stars,
With a great tree that sits with them tending it,
Ringed defenses around trees explain what they need to protect,
When myths did mix a dragon from Zios’ cult starts to guard,
And then what but honey could these ladies of grove impart,
That the Hesperides sit with apples so sweet,
With flowers that open on the ends of leaves,
That in groves with water and flowers about,
Give a tie line to whole entire thought,
That inside wooden tree trunks comes what we did want,
What in symbolism of old is shoved in all fonts?
That gave our ancestors the first head start,
Of boons of products to go between each other by cart,
First boom of extra not just from the rain,
That matches incense and drugs the other half of the game,


Then realize the lady who brings food to table,
Is the one little queen inside the shelter,
For no plant would grow,
No flower could rise,
No tree could survive,
No the keys of plant kingdom and carbon like two pillars arise,


Now that we are the age of angiospermic delight,
Without the lady who gives life to all things bright,
Who in a wooden idol had life inside?
And would give reason to Hecate and Artemis’ shrine,
That society and all the plants in full,
Have significance with all the cults of the bull,
And lost with Thera the common call,
That claimed old Dionysus of Mead Lycurgus was worshipped by all,
Yet went crazy when grapes came to usurp his ball,
That Hera poured life for all of the gods,
Ambrosia her nectar given to immortal odds,
Then was taken over by the pourers as they traded gender roles,
Funny girls held that too until pederasty is bold,

Then what does the queen control and hold that no other does?
That she obtains by the little workers holding pollen on fuzz,
Why then honey and nectar are shared through workers and drones,
And to the next generation the idea of surplus honey for more combs,
Then to the earth our progressive teacher we owe cultures feet,
That gave Minoan dominance seat,
And laid Mycenaean nations at their feet,
When looking back gave root to our beliefs,
And was riches to create the power seats,

For the lady of weave,
The net,
The Loom,
The Distaff,
The wheel,
The moon,
Once wore bees in her hair and a hive as face,
Then realize without her we have perverted the bees from proper place,
Something that warnings of old will bring us real problems and disgrace,
And the second great symbioses of man will degrade,
As the bees drop one by one as we raise up our male war bound state,


I call for Asclepius’ revival,
The remembrance of the insects of why we sacrificed the bull,
The gift of hives to make us and their breeding better,
As a lead in point for carbon life to work together,
Our male dominance even creating the only monster,
A chimera of our impatience just without fur,
The killer bees a punishment for forcing efficiency,
While forgetting in our models we are just worker bees,
And that a respect to these little friends gives us wealth and strength,
That if petroleum was gone would be the pain to continue societal length,
And if we make this idea take hold,
Look at the help we give to the whole world,
The plants get aid,
The ape gets paid,
The bees get made,
The bulls get laid,
The fungus gets play,
The balance is maintained,
And our great mother of the world from inside her log remains saved,
And carbon life has a road to go to help success get paved,
And the hive in all is proud of how it’s maintained,
And the drones are not the final death throw explained,



For when a hive drones and leaves,
If models for society,
Gives sourcing for the peoples of the sea,
A terrible overview warning,
That if we neglect that balance to male lords,
Then no more queen to make more life just wars to seek after,
And death not growth Loki’s children come in laughter,





And then the Norns chuckling can be heard,
Not as something formed in words,
But warnings that from every culture gave birth,
That we created the world of their nightmare earth,
One more obsessed with change and death,
Then growth of the life that occupies it…


Sean Stutzman

The Great Gates of Time

Who has seen the gates of time?
Where the fates decide on who lives and dies,
Where future soldiers still are tied,
To strings pulled thin as people cry,

For escape of the end we must face,
Is a doomed escapade three legged race,
The winner sees the galaxy ripped apart by a giant collision of epoch chase,
But open the gate of space just in case,

But forever doomed to steer,
To arguments of freedoms clear,
Forgotten governments work by fear,
Let us be pushing for what for we can cheer,
And if in the middle at least to not sneer,
When a choice is made to protect peoples tears,

I am but,
Human,
But how,
I,
Am,
Is increasingly hard to maintain,
A hard truth of finite brain,
Without revitalization how can you have stimulation?
Without hesitation how can you have revitalization?
Without protecting what you have aren’t you irresponsible in the end,

I mean the world is a place that we claim belongs to man,
But isn’t it funny the mighty elite tossed off by speck of dirt on their feet,
Up on their high horse tossed off of their seat,
Could make the world ugly by digging into deep,
Hoping to create some technological reset button leap,

But then does open the gates of time,
The truth that burns right into human mind,
For yes we stand in standard kind,
But we lack maturity for every single human bind,

For efficiency is our faithful mantra,
Austerity the mirage of rewarded ascetic draw,
When want for consumption is inside your very laws,
Its fine to live even with elite but disdainful to leave the poor on pause,

You see and then the merchant clause,
For socialism is a band aid bleeder,
Communism is waiting for a problematic leader,
Capitalism is a bulimic consent,
So maybe humans are challenged at being,
In millions of numbers like insects breeding,
Yet without babies the balance starts conceding,
And not enough people for operation lead to needing,

So,
Then,
I,
Sigh,
As I am the man of heart out bleeding,
But every message in the world by perception is misleading,
We are individual entities speaking,
And individual receptacles of lost meaning,

Being a little odd gives you the truth,
That if different they act as if that’s from youth,
An immaturity of sorts not correctly couth,

But then think of the world from a gate,
On one side conforming on the other your state,
In the middle the membrane of what can relate,
Funny still this choice implies what can be cruel fate,
As human lives are put to ultimate date,


Our choices a gamble of any odd day,
This is the true gate of belief in pay,
For at least a member we must play,
So families can live and sun can have rays,
When people can smile about where they must stay,

A look to the mountains gives life more feeling,
Being out in the woods a balance of meaning,
A contact back to an ancient ceiling,
A power to which made us all conceding,

Understanding broke the bond,
But our attack on the wild went on to prolonged,
For when the gate of time stands oblong,
Punishment of man starts coming along,

For if the climate is hard to tame,
And reaction impossible to be the same,
Then we are like every sedentary cultures of fame,
Tied to weather more and more the game,
For population always ups the terrain,
Why even the ceremony pilgrimages gain strain,
For if competition starts eating its own source vein,
Then very scary we make ourselves lame,

So open now the eye of time,
A perception of longer climb,
One with human beings aligned,
Questioning passive damage and crime,
To see if innocent really our minds can still mime,
That everyone is taken by hateful incline,

Then maybe we could be an interesting group,
One more inclined in enjoying time then blowing up the coop,
The hens inside can multiply and relax out of the loop,
Since judgments gone of fucking someone might need to come through,
For all the time we push our minds to funny angles called truth,
But like Sudales in forum were probably getting conned into the sooth,
But on what platform are you on so strong to say you know the story of Ruth,
Just layers upon layers of teacher on teacher it is enough to go through the roof,

So then inside anachronism lies that elites wrote down what is before our eyes,
The ideas are hard to know from any other source so unless we get blended view of size,
How do you know propaganda or politics doesn’t hide lies?

And when interactions of our late greats gates,
To domesticated eyes look pretty insane fates,
You wonder what Wild West’s of the future await,


With violent symphonies of common assent,
Funny destruction follows our narratives sent,
A picture that fear has always made us bent,
To orchestras of composers as management,
Not jazz band soloist of staggering accomplishment,
For isn’t it funny that Tacitus says the Germanic peoples are lazy for enjoyment,

Now cultures of the past are never as sparkling,
As what we think up inside of personal timing,
So add the gates of time to open on victim to victor and information spread,
A challenge as many a victims now dead,
A funny accomplishment what then of people who said,
That it happened to be exactly this way when between it lay years numbered in hundreds,
Then wonder how many routes through text we can give “truth,” a bed,

On this we might think study to be mad,
But greater then is the idea that’s bad,
For instantaneous gratification makes all of us long term nomads,
Than any allowance of future conquest will be land,
Though armies of accountants lie down with headbands,

We men need stand before the gates of time,
Bowing before the power inside,
For the Titans gates have been reopened,
Now that leadership prays on those within,
For don’t you think it interesting that as old ideas fall,
That new friendly motions open up to all,
Then cycle back to corruptive pull,
Then rise great heroes to solve the null,
Leading back to unfriendly bull,

Built on the fabrication that life is not built,
On things looking back often cause guilt,
Scary still more is that anchored to the silt,
Is the great gate of life an organism belt?

For then we see that of ourselves we can be free,
Of sacrifice and silly scene no longer breathe,
At least ones of human being,
But forever the damaging tied to our needing,

Then a funny man I will beam,
Sitting between the seams,
On family and friends I will be teamed,
On echoes of laughter deemed,
To be the connection point to dream,
Of a successful human self esteem,
The gate of time my fateful friend freed,
To be the long lost song of consciousness need,
The balancing check to the ego of deed,
More over a punishing force if ignorantly relieved,
To be off our choice is not well to succeed,

So what truly is a challenge to our version of the last one hundred years?
Wouldn’t it be the people see fear?
Locking people in asylums when family condition was clear,
Not questioning that it’s what their idea of life was to make that dear,
Hard when it went poor enough to sneer,
Because nothing and no one could compare,
To the optimum example of human repair,


We are champions of how long we do things in a day,
How long do the monkeys work without anything to say,
Except what they see in television goggles play,
A silly propaganda of masquerade,
An outward view of archetypical may,
Then a dangerous hate of aftermath misbehave,
Of the group you put out to dance and be free,
Then act down on substance and action interfere,
For if told you can be wild and crazy,
I get why college frats get to hazy,
But that gate and time closes more and more each time,
And sad we will be if ever people lose track of the rhyme,
A game with 7 billion heads punishing the people should be crime,
Unfortunately we may need to take care of each other’s lives,
Without trusting in leadership if all ends in lie,
The gate of time laughing into the gale,
As little apes we run around trying to catch sails,
Of how and when the gust should ride us up,
Saying that of course no source does live to fill your cup,
But self-help liars sell you the remnants of the ship,
And in the end say the secret to the game is just imagine it,

Saying safe passage has never been available,
Yet selling you that it’s your fault for being unsuccessful,
But if different efforts result in different plays,
The formulation of free trade giving different ways,
The corporate ass holes ruined the game,
By maintaining their own security over impossible timeframe,

For every Rockefeller should be poor,
If truly the game was a revolving door,
Since the age of their supremacy came from before,
If not an oligarch wet dream then they should be done for,
Not the new vision of aristocracy we already kicked out the door,
A game if they keep playing who knows what is in store?



So if gates open in our minds that lazy is a frame of mind seek,
That tribalism sits with 21 hour work weeks,
Even if advantage has been set to 1% freaks,

Then outside of medicine what can they do,
But be the leaders of war bands painted without honor due,

For can you say that we care for our heroes,
When they come home to face that the argument only paid when votes brought in rows,
When the men who stand up for the real pure nationalism,
Sit on street corners with signs hoping for charitable capitalism,
For is communism a good option not a chance,
They end screwing the common folk’s mental endurance,
For promising to care while end up as an elitist nightmare,
And people get bled until there is nothing to scare,
Then fascism lines up to hit the plate,
Heavens we just got rid of that plague date,
Of megalomaniacs tied to their own schemes,
The individual the measure of a good way of being,
Then we are sitting at the best we can skew,
Of with 7 billion people what can you do?




The gates of time open before our eyes so bright,
The technologic gift of 100 years insight,
No longer sold on images of gold,
No cash out reward to masses untold,
No we are the children that time ate its own tails wealth,
The husk of the snake eating itself,
A gift message from by gone age,
Says this has already happened just with different sage,
And then you wonder if risk to reward,
Has been killed and locked away by the threat of the sword,
Then we should see that European transfer stuck strong,
And question if the con argued elitism even existed in long,
For if all the game seem the same from the burnt out losers,
Now preaching message of propaganda by victors,
Than even to be around makes you a hindrance,
And that being inefficient makes you some alien in trance,
A cash cow of us making money off our deaths,
Then shouldn’t we find some more relevant paths,
That take care of small and carry to big,
But sad the great lord of time does laugh,
You can’t just turn the time back,
It must breakdown before you will carry back again,
The Aegean apocalypse becomes a scary lesson bin,


For when orchestration hits its limit,
The horde of people fill the gap there sits,
The ending of our accomplishment,
Then add the gates of time,
And hope we seep through the lines…

Sean Stutzman

The God of Paradox

I walked one day onto a road and there at the corner sat an old sage,
I asked what he had learned in his days,
He smirked and nodded then said to me in truth,
That is something hard to share with youth,

I said well experience is the best teacher,
He said so you wish to learn while not experiencing either,
I said no I just wanted to find insight,
He laughed and roared my lord you’re uptight,

What image of you thinks he needs improving?
Answer that and maybe the teaching will be self-revealing,
But it is your experience I was needing,
Not my own interpretation or feeling,

Then you are lost in what all these religions made labyrinths,
To lie and tell people that improvement is a mental rinse,
But then what kind of teaching are you to say,
That all of us have our own narrative play?

Well then not thinking leads to thinking,
Thinking so much leads to find your brains ship sinking,
And thinking to desire the need to stop,
Then forever thinking you do sit and set up your shop,


Your belief your wares you put on display,
The tasks of the world your customers that day,
Then a game of conversing is selling your latest version,
To those already set to standard conversion,

Then why would you tell me that god is dead,
Then say we are the game inside his head,
Why would you say that nature helps you?
Then cry out panic when the deluge consumes,

What kind of figure tells you to believe in nothing?
Then tells you belief is all that’s happening,
What kind of man says poets sing truth?
Then say the worst liars the poets are to me and to you,

For in perspective we hold that god is ambivalent,
To sending down power to change the constant,
But in fantastical metaphor we choose to be held to truth,
I question if there is anything of supernatural dew,

For is it not weird that modern day phantasms,
Get condemned so hard by the groups against,
When classically they would have been their lessons,
To push to next generation of truthful content,




Then shouldn’t the Christians be giving praise,
To revitalizing cult behavior and daze,
To activate contemplation they then contain,
To only the priest being given a say,

For if the hippie comes to stare in god’s eye,
But is ridiculed not from one but both sides,
Shouldn’t the puzzled mind ask why?
Then realize you would damage elite tries,

For no power would come from classic pose,
Where men sat thinking of if what god they chose,
Made difference to the way the world goes,
Then overview of the shamans of olds enthrone,

Then paradoxically seeing,
The god found in trance being,
Is a hallucination but real in the same meaning,
Then if out of trance should importance start receding?

I think the views of old,
Could marry to all the stories told,
If man could only be so bold,
To knock out the genders and names of the mold,




For the lessons give subconscious insight,
That what we are in general might be a trick of light,
The question then being if trapped inside,
Is the predecessor good or evil or a non-material ride?

But this a modern thought so bold,
Made to be distributed as Darwin’s model was told,
One that robed both from interrupting gold,
That was common thought to all of the cultures of old,

For if in a piece of land you sit on a space,
Live with it over time you give it face,
Then as you grow bigger the concepts locked in the race,
Then moving his location keeps making arguments waste,

The funny idea being that once to bigger form,
The natural shape and stature are no longing adorned,
In the natural sphere out which they were born,
A loss of natural potency in lore,

Which leaves us with dominant faiths,
More tied to remembrance then producing new fates,
Fictitiously drinking the blood of Christ,
When available from plants comes the same insight,




He probably saw no problem with that voice,
Being from his locality they are the plants of choice,
And by his time they were hiding spontaneous insight,
Making the leadership those who only got to the light,

So I said to my imaginary friend,
Do you exists or don’t you?
The lord of paradox laughed at my feud,
He said more importantly what does that mean to you?

Everything of what I am sent here to do,
Don’t you think the premise is a bit construed?
Thinking that you are the only you?
The one who thinks of me is created a new,

But what will the faithful do?
Well if you’re here experiencing isn’t that real truth,
But original sin does me in,
Then how can you be born with sin in a world before time began?

If he created the space,
Then punished the humans for just being his race,
A trick of an apple from your servant gave raise,
To this whole idea that world is chaos based,




Yet not random because infrequences like humans are made,
But on realities of truth a dungeon of being is gave,
For if the god of paradox made you and the devil too,
Then wouldn’t it mean the game was set to be screwed,

For the descent of the fall from his view he knew,
And went on to do it that way so the end time brings doom,
Does that make the devil his dominative side too?
Just an abstraction of his form his ego understood?

That he challenged himself to game,
Making a wager with himself in a game he already played,
As omnipresence and omnipotence mean he could say,
That from the beginning he knew that the end would swing his way,

Then this god would be like mad scientist,
Generating strife to see the reactive catalyst,
An idea that would leave most beings remiss,
Of perhaps being just the volcano model reactionless,

Him stirring the pot to make life experientialist,
But then wouldn’t the Hindu view subsist,
That in play of imagination we all live,
But boundaries set make the game not give,




Much choice to the little ants in cage management,
For if truly a force did move or was sent,
Then why only in the B.C. era did he seek lent,
From direct faces of sages of Moses tent,

The rabbinical idea of seeing god lies,
Without years of conditioning your mind,
To what wild men and exiles brought from isolation,
And could state as brain chemistry matched drug occasion,

Which matched up to death in which we do fear,
Yet if all these cults sought to promise that heaven was so near,
Then why doesn’t god come and make all crystal clear,
Ah but ambiguity rules through in sneer,

For if improbable the world does pick its next icons,
I wish that we would hear the past voices of cons that became of us fond,
But the real being inside that’s external in pose,
Is inside of me yet not able to boast,

Until to my head the visions do roast,
The fake ideas of society’s ghosts,
The taunt of life being that in intoxication we begin seeing,
But if just a dream then why should we keep feeding,




The father archetype just a structure of authority in mind,
An argument that at the old council you find,
Yet never to share with the common kind,
Then the lost gospels spell what it was without hierarchy making us blind,

Then we see that no one idea can rule the frame,
That if from nature gods place is natural and in our brain,
The substance of vehicle is chemical in both of these the same,
And ask why early biblical heroes intoxicated to be game,

For in a local world of things discovered,
No tie line of evil is brought over its head,
Even if a couple users end up dead,
The comfortability of community martyrs them instead,

And the learning of one person to thousands can be spread,
Like oracles of old with mystery finally killed and bled,
Then what as modern men do we have to lose,
If missing this paradox from our daily view,

Everything that lets you try what you want is judged off of 3,000 year old thoughts,
Every action is then deemed off where by scale it stands in correlation troughs,
And widdle it down to your locality anew,
And then laughing you see that the same rule on me doesn’t do what it does to you,
Something we change when our brain refrains,
For no prophet today is on a hillside,
No holy men on mountains or wild men to hide,
The shaman today only comes from inside,
A fact which might make them ghostly insights,
To lessons coming from the riskers of worldly outsight,

So to the mystery figure I did sputter,
But what does that make the world to one another?
A playing field of chaotic attributes of other,
When distance came in we lost sight of our brothers,
And by the end instead of goats we sacrifice our mother,
A game routine in administration,
But lost if without mystic observation,
One that inside society is a different view of temptation,
Then the view of a man said to have been surviving in the desert condition,


His view coming back in should balance orchestration,
A thing modern religions would throw out by conserving reiteration,
A game lost to the mist the true beings of inspiration,
One that until regained gives man advocacy of abomination,
As why save the planet if gods rapture is real integration,
Then material life is only damnation,
A thing arguing made the Gnostics go into stagnation,
But a thought that should question gods desire for ascetic right,
To what sexual choices or showing of might,
Culturally are ruled not from natural insight,




Then god’s ideas from Hebrews old,
Are societal commands of a people who pick and have chosen modern tolls,
Then what can they do for us anymore,
But give us half our right and then wipe their ass with our cash coming through the door,
A scary thought of supportive nightmares,
One that makes it hard that they even to strangers bring care,
Something old prophets never had in retinue to be scared,
Because the number of people was never so layered,

Then ask why we do not have societal prophets,
Well that missing piece of intoxication matches it,
For if even by experience you back then know,
That the challenge to society is part of the code,
Realizing prophets and shamans were people not fitting mold,
Of what their cultures routinely composed,


So we need the hippie movement new,
But one not tied to trend or crew,
That is honest to the breakdown of the new,
And fights for us commoners to have life not construed,
We just have to believe metaphor not what is definitely ruled,
Realize concept was more important than conserving view,

Then teachings of new will not be societal pox,
Just by realizing the concept even at first was paradox…

Sean Stutzman

The Gateway without a Gate

I have spoken of things that are in mind,
I have spoken of things that are behind,
But yet the now is ever more elusive,

For though I dig through thought on thought,
The empty bowl is where the enlightened found drought,
Yet it is were truth sat all along,

If I try to direct the river into channels of my vigor,
Am I any better than the flow just of a slower shiver,
Yet timing is a means to everything,

For doing nothing breaks us down but makes us rounded,
Yet doing everything keeps us versatile yet confounded,
Are we any more found than any other man before us?

For the path I have walked down of mystics and ideas profound,
Means nothing without the catalysts sound,
So a path only few can walk to,

For if genius before me sang my song of battle charge,
Then no difference will I make to the world at large,
The stone Buddha I sit laughing at the absurdity,



But active if I move my feet then the bodhisattva ignites in me,
Yet tied to a world I will never be completely free,
What paradox can I next stand to climb onto?

But eyes see me as a normal man,
Something as a mystic you cannot stand,
Yet even in our own logic you are just that the paradox begins to consume me,

And if I sit inside my head,
A lingering begins to the point of being dead,
Am I only trying to justify my thoughts?

For would ashrams exist now without money?
Would churches still meet in the woods?
Like the meeting points of our ancestors so misunderstood,

I dare say modern mind has lost this touch,
Something beautiful as food is in our clutch,
Yet ugly as no longer can there be communal crutch,

As morals have set in a condescending hush,
For speaking is more a direct push,
Yet all we say is topical to the reality in front of us,

For we are all the actors and poets,
Playing out the game before us,
Using poetries to explain our lives,

Of course poetry never accurately supply’s,
The framing of reality instead it picks beautiful lies,
That make the frames orchestrated to our mind,

I guess the point of wisdom is the glimmer of truth in all the layers of lies,
Something that holds no allegiance to dogmatic eyes…


Sean Stutzman

The Game of Masks

The ball begins as the persons take their places,
The list reads off their origins from many faces,
The butler called culture list off the few,
Starting with lowest attention due,

Each persona places in place the mask,
The one brought on by their families tasks,
Already given shape by those from before,
Your name and place announced as you walk through the doors,

But yet this game is funny of sorts as new masks sit inside,
From other people different shades are meant to confide,
So dancing around the room we all change face,
Maybe a little at first some trade place,

But the frozen few announced at the end come into the room,
It was their ball we all attended to our doom,
Brought in with the promise of good company and food,
Yet no measure was made to see into everyone’s mood,

So cobras sit watching and waiting for ruining,
With masks of pain to cover what they are doing,
Secret pacts hold true through all,
Leading many to dark masks that fall,



So focus is pointed to the Serpentine masks,
Claiming they are the evil incarnate with their tasks,
Yet they have not changed masks from the beginning,
A new thought takes hold the reasoning,

The ball and all who came were invited by one in the same,
The quiet figures who sit back as if tame,
Knowing holding that they created the game,

And while the hoard does rabble and strike,
Those tame take from their pockets and from their pride alike,
Until only the elaborate masks are on just a few,
The game they wanted to play all along we create a new,

Like vultures they rip off sequence and gems,
Feathers fly as they lie and destroy bonds between friends,
All the while the ball accuses the men,
That simply have been playing out the role handed unto them,

Cursed to waltz in violent fashions,
Doomed to self-implode on impending actions,
All the while the fat cat smiles,
Killing a few of the serpentine defilers,

Never solving what was promised at first,
But creating new concepts to hate and thirst,
For power is the place they were given,
Their masks handed to them with greed and ambition,
The masquerade was started to give joy to all,
Yet it seems more like a trial then a formal ball,
The common man trades masks and feels accomplished,
Yet never does it truly solve what he wanted to by switching fists,

Hammurabi screams down the ages with fire,
His glamourous followers aim to continue his desire,
For all are at the ball,
And can’t remember what sat outside of it all,

It seems like a different place is in our dreams,
One that held us all onto the same teams,
The differences were only between groups of being,
No individual dissections of perceptions misleading,

Yet the ball goes on into the night,
Until a traveler comes in from outside its light,
His face is bare it holds no mask,
His pallet clean only survival as task,

He laughs as he enters roaring the roofs beams,
This is what you do with your power and esteem,
You let these few challenge and hold you captive,
Making you switch what at the root you were after,




The ball goes quiet and all is on edge,
Until the man walks in with the most beautiful mask from an outside ledge,
Silencing the hoard starting to gripe and wonder,
Stating this is how we have all been made to blunder,

He says don’t worry I’ll fix it all soon,
Just make sure you keep on the masks given to you,
The ones who know him sigh with relief,
They almost had to work at something called a belief,

Then he says something quite unbelievably tossed,
Arrest this stranger who would make our beliefs to be crossed,
He is evil I tell you without a doubt a bad revealer,
Pay no attention to the fact he just proved me the deceiver,

His knights come out and grab the man,
Just before he reaches out his hand,
Pulling masks off as he runs through the room,
But the executioner’s squad comes to bring his doom,

And as they go to kill him then,
He says one last time over the roaring din,





“Personas are masks made to have fun, but you are not having fun when all is done. Meant to be plain faced and bare humans are, adding masks to add flavor to the enjoyment of all. Yet you all have become sick thinking the mask is yourself, don’t you see that is his best trick, if not his only power to grasp. When you pull off your masks and burn them in suit, a much lovelier mask will be there at the ground for you. Then we can all have a ball one with a real beginning, and a thought to play cards to all different players. No longer judging by what one person will do but allowing each other to find agreements in truth, and knowing that it’s as fuzzy to me as it is to you…”
Before he is finished they chop off his head,
The leader cheers that justice is manifested,
Yet the ball is coming to the end of the night,
The masks of the few more elaborate each fight,

And as dawn breaks and the ball is through,
One masked man sits in an empty room,
His pockets are full,
His orders are clear,

But no other voice comes back when his orders are sneered…

The dawn then burns him to a crisp…
Leaving just the skeleton of the building to sing…
Of what marvel we all had as human beings…


Sean Stutzman

The Fairy Cavalcade

The air was crisp and cold,
As I walked on the trails of old,
The sky did ripple and wander,
On winds blowing and blustering I grew even founder,
Stepping out into the moonlight my face turned upward,
The clouds seemed to call him bid him forward,


It was then I turned to see a tree,
Of alder wood that sits right next to me,
I sat down and sighed,
For my body was tired and my walk had gone wide,
When from the corner of my eye I spied the knacker’s crumpet,
Silver shield of Lugh’s great heralds sang out to me like a trumpet,


The clouds did ring and bark did sing as it touched my lips,
Not too much but enough to walk I only ate a tip,
Too strong a strain did come onto my brain,
A feeling unsoundly sane,


Then from the glen a harrow bark rang to the night,
I sank real low looking about to discover an insight,
The horned serpent twisted in my stomach,
Making the night seem to gleam as it does in Connacht,

Then the second bark followed bringing dread,
More distant still but the sound did shrill even the birds fled,
The coming sight of clouds to my right sat with gaining din,
For from inside the gods did try to pull out from their worldly skin,
A voice so sweet came from next to me from the sound of the wind,
She said don’t be scared but be aware of the company you’ll be in,
Danu stood next to me smiling with bow in hand,
Just as my sons you must prove to be a better man,



For Fionn’s hunt has come to call with you a part of it,
She said you’re a lucky man that happened just to sit,
Where my body gives the richest gift,
Something men spent years looking and looking for it,



I cried out no for I had heard of getting lost forever,
She said yes but not if you can be clever,
Do not challenge what is right or wrong,
Do not think that time has gone,
Be sure to sing if ever discomforted,
I will lead you back to your own head,



I looked down and saw,
My body lying on the ground,
She smiled soft and became the moon,
Her eyes sparkled and fled too,
I suddenly was standing with a great host,
Fionn stood waiting for my boast,



What or who does come to the Fianna,
What great deeds allows you among champions,
I tried to say of my athletic days but long gone were days of war,
And all the warriors did agree it made me have no score,
So then to test at what best could be amongst them,
At this point I looked to see from my mouth a stem,
He smiled and said if you can best Lugh in any single task,
The ride with just for tonight in victory you’ll bask,



However friend if you cannot win,
Stuck in hunt you’ll be until your fin,
I thought real hard on what I knew and did grin,
Then said I’m ready to begin,




Lugh approached a man gleaming with light,
His smile even shimmered shining bright,
I had to challenge Fionn myself if that gives you less fright,
But do not be scared for if you dare you can have true delight,
The Dagda smiled and raised his eyes and said Fionn challenged me,
He’s gone on to gain the wisdom for eternity,



I replied sly and said I would try,
They said you’ll return now even if you die,
Stuck in the hunt forever your mind,
For we must go and get a Formorian as a find,
So hurry up call out your luck on what you can win,
Keep in mind Lugh is probably the best hence his glowing grin,



I have talents though none by what you call them:
Well how about are you a smith?
A champion?
A swordsman?
A harpist?
A hero?
A poet?
A historian?
A sorcerer?
A craftsman?

We do not smith but I do craft my own instruments of fun,
The pipes I do make are of such that then give me claim to be a champion,
Swords no longer are so used but put in front of me any tool,
I will use it to make others look as fools,
The harp not played in our days but turntables I spin round poetic,
The cheer of friends and support of love I hope could be heroic,
Poetry I do conceive and bring in my heart as if from a fountain,
And the list of cultures I have learned can no longer be counted,
Sorcery is no longer free and I can still call on my animal guides,
And as for craft I do make all my rails and ramps for with my tools I ride,



Lugh stood back as if he was worried,
He then said well let us see this you must hurry,
For though the games they used to say no longer seemed to matter,
But the hunt must claim what we are all after,


In front of me sat a whole bunch of glass,
I twisted and formed it to last,
Sealing the holes I started to dance,
I burn it through in victory defiance,
So smithing yes that I can see,
You are one step closer to me,
And by the size of that inhale a champion,
The other gods yelled out their opinion,


The greatest test the earth did shake,
As from the rock beside turntables sprang,
Fionn had barely moved his hand,
It just arose out of the land,


So there I sat on wet grass,
I start onto it though silence has past,
The turntables place with a computer list of familiar songs,
I raise up to the challenge with a mix not long,
But filled with jabs and cuts and breaks,
I let the music flow through my takes,
Inhaling harder I take in my lady,
A smiling female face as I exhale she is fading,
The ending crescendos to a sound of the hunt,
Something I added for more than being blunt,



Lugh smiled at the end and said quite clear,
Heroism is for the hunt but History you know sincere,
Then tell us of when terrible Rome invaded,
The time we all were lost and debated,



I start with the fort invasion,
Moving on to British frustration,
Adding in bits of Irish tales,
The adding of which brought on great cheers,

Wonderful he said and gave a smile,
It was almost as if he wanted to go for a while,
But now the great challenge to you my friend,
One much harder to succeed where you’ve been,
And with that he shrunk to the size of a mouse,
His voice still boomed as if as big as a house,

Come now sorcerer let us see what you can do,
A panic came of my face sighted by Lugh,
But then I breathed in and calmed my mind,
I needed my guardians to come a find,
I whistled sharp once and a long they did run,
The grin came through the mist like a sun,
My friend the fox smiled back to say he knew what deed,
He nodded and absorbed straight through me,



I shrink and spun down through the tunnel,
Like water flowing down a funnel,
Then staring Lugh in the eye I was at his size,
His roaring laugh did start to rise,
Well fine come back up and find a craftsman challenge,
I had felt so calm and ready not able to see he had walked me to ledge,
For crafting from my size to theirs was almost unheard of clear,
But fashion my bow from a small stick,
I had to make the fiber and tie it quick,
I used pine needles as arrows a curled leaf my quiver,
The dew I shift through makes me shiver,
Making fletching out of poplar droppings,
I searched around for all the right things,
I found a vacant snail shell and broke into the middle,
A horn to bellow I had solved a riddle,
Then suddenly Danu whispered to me,
Go on hero it is time to be free,


As I suddenly erupted back to my size,
My quiver and bow came along for the rise,
Until I sat on the ground surrounded still,
By all the nature forces of will,
I picked up the snail shell pressed my lips,
The sound rang with hollow resonance,


I cried out lets us strike out on the hunt!
The echoed my cried and then I saw,
Danu Lugh Ethniu Birog Dagda,
Fionn Cessair Manamac Partholon Nuada,
Oisin Oscar Cermait Grian Mac-Greine Ferdia,
Eriu Banba Fondla Maeve and Nessa,

All the gre.at heroes of all the ages marched out,
But before I charged a group came to shout,


Stop oh man of the middle world,
We have much to tell you of what will unfurl,
For just as Lugh did prove that he could enter,
You have passed in ways that hunting shouldn’t hinder,


We have been waiting for you to return,
The next wheel spoke to turn,
The Morrigan sat grinning as she seemed to ripple,
Her composition sitting almost fickle,
I could see her split apart to Babd Macha and Nemain,
I was truly taken back by her beauty almost driven insane,


You realize that the only other time you come here you die,
She glided up with Finn-Eces Cathbad and Tua’n by her side,
For in the land of Emain you find yourself,
Can you harness like Finn and Tua’n the ultimate wealth?



As the old druids did in the Naven Fort,
Can you sing the song of the gods consort?


I replied no Formorian have I slain,
I do not want to be Fionn’s bain,
If I take on that what will the heroes say,
I don’t want to be stuck forever to stay,

She laugh and said you are just like Fionn,
You don’t realize a greater option,
For he was the key for Finn to find truth,
He needed the honesty of youth,
For Tua’n my oldest friend had grown,
Under branches and near to stones,
Like a salmon swimming against his own culture,
He watches invasions and rulers of cycles to endure,

But hidden away was the truth,
That when breaking down he came back in youth,
For eat of the nuts and you know,
That it is not the end where we go,
Back into the trees and into the growth,
In animals we spawn in different oath,
But so Tua’n stood watching Ireland,
Brought back in the trees sucking up the land,
His body long gone as a tree he smiled,
Until Finn and Fionn picked up him in the wild,


For off of his roots and beautiful breakdown in sued,
A bounty brought by morning dew,
To make it ok they cooked it in clay,
It was the safety from fungi they wanted to play,
But as Fionn thumb did come to burn,
Into his mouth the truth came discerned,
Raw they then consumed the next round,
In sonic rooms with ancestors abound,
You are to try to give out,
The secret not given with invaders about,
Yet you live now in a faraway land,
One that is hard for us to understand,
So toxic your lives we of the land do cry,
And wish to give you the next step of why?


For you have forgotten the plants voice,
You have been minimalized without choice,
Your hearts are challenged on all you damage,
A sad jest to what you call a modern age,
Yet you act as though we ancients are your toys,
Ripping up your fathers and burning through boys,
Forgetting that each is your forefather,
Willingly they submit like your carrying mother,
Yet too tied up to talk you seem,
Not just to us but other human beings,







I thought for long and then started singing this song:

Great memory of old do return,
Though the ancients of our fathers we have spurned,
Doomed to be led by many a child of ignorance,
Around this planet our lives do dance,
Long forgot the days of entering trance,
Brought on through conquest smashing through France,
I wish to hear of all the heroes,
A breed long gone by our own woes,


So please dear Danu hear my song,
It’s the fruit of your body I ate all along,
That led the religious to singing their rhymes,
Put in charge different genders and leaders of time,
A million different names the same being inside,
Androgyny the secret of shamanic mind,





So please great mother hear my voice,
Take me back to reality to new choice,
The Formorian’s now known as an older voice,
I shall not slay my ancestor in vain,
I will try to be creative and nondestructive in name,
For my lovely mother showed me the way,
Even in ancient old plays,


That life is only what we make,
And to be a great being inside of it,
For now the time has come to be of sage,
The salmon of knowledge re-entering our age,
Like McKenna before me I might not be first,
A teaching so ludicrous it is hard to converse,



But sharing the gift is what the plants want,
Since silly apes burn through them for worthless font,
The header page to a business used a great being from before,
Something to consider before you print more,
They want to give aid they love to help us,
Yet spit in their eye we do back to re-growing trust,
But elimination of ourselves is the great revelation,
But elimination of divine plants brought in stagnation,
See the Christian playing the same game ended up in the same place,
That we are finite held into our space,

To reach out to another world we need their faith,
As even air we breathe is their ghostly wraith,
Bring the plants up with our glory and then you rove,
And understand why our ancestors walked out to the groves,
Where the ancestor’s voice was growing anew,
Made only to consume by the healthy few,

For my sweet mother wants our health,
And by balancing with nature we’ll gain true wealth,

So pick the silver shield,
To the Fairy Cavalcade bring your mind to wield,

Grab Bran’s purple head wavy and brown,
Into the earth your body goes down,

Let her absorb you into her womb,
A trick so scary you think it’s your doom,

Find in fields of the cattle and sheep,
That did once make strong men out of the meek,

For gender a societal obvious toil,
That is clear as ignorant from reaching to the soil,

That when I die and am laid to rest,
Hopefully suckling Danu’s great breast,

I will be brought back in foliage,
To be the messenger to next coming age,

For from the tree that eats my soul,
Hopefully saprotrophic me will grow bold,

And as temperature and season make the right means,
I’ll spring to be picked by the next sage who leans,

On an amalgam of all the other souls,
Sits my body regrown from all my toils,
My intellect getting devoured by fungi growth,
I will bring inspiration to next who take oath,
To showing the world to be seen,
From inspiration from older beings,












With that my eyes opened up before me,
It was light outside and still laying at my tree,
The wind blew once more as if a kiss,
From sweet mother Danu’s lovely lips,


I got up and went to walk home,
Knowledge gained outside of some medieval tome,
But a message I come to put down in bold,
That in this world we humans are not alone,
The sun kissed my cheek,
As I lumber home to try to get sleep…





Sean Stutzman

The Fae Folk

Lords of the uncommon space,
Between waking dreams and natures face,
Of dreaming power and intrinsic faith,
In the land in which our ancients bathe,

For you do not see them with the eye,
Unless biting the flesh of their housing and to die,
A feeling of heart required to sift through time,
Until their twilight world comes singing rhyme,

Though tricky and tough they still catch our hope,
A idea villainized from removal from folk,
From a land built by forests with trees you knew,
And where in the breaking light a friend sat in the dew,

From beautiful queens draped in bountiful light,
To the snatchers and pilferers that only brought strife,
Yet polarized to an end our minds made prejudice,
And made our friends around us be tied to injustice,

Yet the fae folk love us and the land,
If real the guardians of life in its natural stand,
Even the stories brought down seem to give us insight,
That when mind matches land opening of mind is not fright,


For though some evil might be where they played,
Often the protectors of wild places and animals they stayed,
Much like Shintoism they seemed to be framed,
On the actions of people set to a world untamed,

For we should hear the value of truth,
That still much like ancients we are connected to,
And although not seeing the world in a skew,
Of nature singing back and talking to you,
That our friends of this world are there to sing view,
That a piece an ingredient man is in the stew,

For when matching intoxication to this frame,
We grab up the milk let it slip into our brain,
The kiss of our mother’s lips red with white contains,
That a different reality sits in mind of daze,

Matched to silent sitting in natural sights,
The action of the wild can still bring frights,
A lesson which echoes the place we do hold,
To take care of the wee folk and to guard their homes bold,

Yet more and more we let slip our beautiful friends,
Saying the inspirations fake yet continually destroying glens,
I dream of a lady on which we sit on mountain tops and wish,
Her power to grow and shrink and make our legs rubberish,


Bouncing atop familiar mountain range,
A bounty of Muscaria to take care of and change,
For rotting the mountain cried out the pillars need saved,
Of which I tried to step up and help her a fairy unfazed,

For they know of being next to us even when we don’t know,
And spreading spore on mountain we bounced so bold,
The moment so beautiful I woke up and rose,
The feeling of the untouchable world of before,

For this spirit every time we have seen each other in dream,
Treat each other with respect and help each other’s needs,
Her advice giving a real idea to a problem in reality,
Then shouldn’t I give thanks to a subconscious determinate,

For I am skeptic I always have been,
Yet when in these dreams I never feel outside of my skin,
As if it were more real than the waking me walking to fringe,
For the beautiful blue lady sitting in my dreams,

Gave context to place inside reality,
Gave thanks when we did try to mend fatalities,
The breakdown of a world from heartless men,
That forgot without our father trees even soil dies to our erosion,




Our ancestors gave animation to the stones and the wild,
An idea that we start losing after being a child,
So if co-operation even in dreams is healthy,
Then their reality is met when a natural face sings us free,

For if each aspect of a world doesn’t have science,
Then the things we call laws had a natural face,
A fact if we keep alienating them will end in disgrace,
As we are trying dominate the field without partner in three legged race,

I hope that the feeling that said we control,
Gets tossed out and riddled by fact all its holes,
And a life that brings the great queen back safe,
So she can walk in spaces of trees in future tense,

For I am a speaker for the lips of my lady,
I visit her when I lay down in the wild in a place shady,
For she united and bounce with me over mountains,
And I saw that it was pain from us they couldn’t mend,

For when young I was told when looking in books,
That a man in an animal head urinated sooth,
And when back then I asked how did people come through,
Into the new world earlier with ships said my dream truth,




A practice that almost made me in trouble,
Because I even had urge to share this to my mother,
Yet I went to school and learned all the facts,
Told myself that it was all a bunch faulty thoughts…


Yet years later I found out of the cults of the wheel,
I learned that urination was reserved in usage of commoner feel,
I learned that the baring straight was having trouble holding weight,
And I began to question from whence these thoughts came,

For still a skeptic I may be,
But I feel nature majesty,
I never question what was said to me,
And I know that now my life is free,
No longer forced inside societal cavity,


So be they real or be they false,
These little folks help us boast,
Of situations that might be tied to hope,
Of what our ancestors truly worshipped,
A relationship based on alternative grip,
That used other to let the mind slip,
To in-between gaps of determinate,
A place we call crazy and indeterminate,
Where our friends may just be ways of saying,
Inspiration has face inside your own maze,
Their labyrinths of how your life plays,
Then shouldn’t we listen when dreams give us days,
Of ways to create happiness and help for our lives,
Then knowing that trickery is also in mind,
We can lay down paths of opening inside,

So I leave this saying that the story in this poem did happen, the dream I had growing up and the answer given back to me when questioning history. I was 8 or 9 when I asked reading the book between the lines, I laughed off until now when I find. That never anything they said was a lie, and although dark figures came in my dreams as well the friendly dreams seemed to direct my life well. I hope all who read this do not judge for I am still a man of science but I think the forefathers we call barbarians were playing with a subconscious science we have just recently become reconnected. For I don’t think the dream cults of old were there just for funny religious pose. No a tapping of mind into dream may be there and one they practiced knowing how to steer, so who am I thousands of years later to sneer at a faith that gave feeling back to nature so clear. The more I study the more options from different sources seems to be there that when living on land forever made faces out of hills, castles out of mountains, and friends bouncing in the fields, real, imagined, or brought through mind from substance or thought the place in the mind gives a reason like Jungian discourse I traced this feeling back and give its voice a new source.


Sean Stutzman

The Crushing Wheel of Time

As alone I sit looking into dates,
Of Alexander’s and Vercingetorix’s fates,
A thought comes from social clause,
That destroys the mind of genius pause,
For like ants on timeline we get the feel,
That we will be rolled over by the wheel,

The trouble of our cultures mind,
To use the ideas from only noted kind,
Yet this is a lie of all times,
The greatest of humans are forgotten from rhymes,
For only the conqueror lays the story,
The peace loving giants framed as boring,

Yet this blatant disregard for those forgotten to time,
Leads to savage tactics of hell and horror in their own minds divine,
Yet this is a tragic side effect of utility of humans in question,
For in obscurity of concept these mad men rest their bed,
Not goodness to bring back to man,
But destruction the preach as if others understand,
Yet what cause could ever justify killing an innocent,
What heartless malice breeds malcontent,




You mad men of the modern bare no connection to me,
As your choices are vengeance without any mind to see,
For your cause leads to terror no lesson to be seen,
So no wisdom from craze,
Just the highest point of idiocy,
For who would listen after causing such wrong,
And how could you cause that to another in outcome,
You perverters of justice and concept,
For you I hold the greatest discontent,
As you are no better than inquisitors,
Or slayers of the righteous,
Just manipulating truth to cause horror,
Pathetic,

To miss the mark so far from wisdoms shelf,
That by sacrificing people you think you bring attention to yourself,
You shall be the greatest forgotten,
For tragedies stick for but single generations,
And the choice you made from mind, religion, or malice shall fall,
As the lowest of all societies mental recall,
For those who think they will make their name,
By causing horrors and pain,
Know of no hope with the slain,
And recall any murder from ancient claim,
Not a single name comes to brain…



For even the lowly in the myths,
Are secondary to heroes and great minds lived,
Then realize the goal you choose to aim for,
Is long outside the borders to score,
And horror not peace is forgotten,
Only with societal backing are they remembered,
And as a ghost of a terror to never relive,

Than to all those who mean to kill I say this:
No mark on history will you leave,
Just passing sadness is all you can achieve,
To yourself you have given the greatest deceit,
And no power is gained through ideas of concrete,
For the greatest minds on hilltops never were read,
The greatest heroes their stories remain dead,
Then you shall not ever rank to be heard,
For even the glorious are forgotten and never in story served,
And if culture is where you meant to disturb,
The great wheel of time will crush your malice unperturbed,
And return you to nothing which is what you created,
As terror does not echo without administration,
So do yourself a favor and save yourself from lunacy,
And find yourself in love to find a peaceful creed even in insanity,
For life is not meant to squander experience to horror,
And love is a tool that should be shared to all of every flavor,
Let us remember those swallowed by terror as the true memory hold,
And steal from your craze your thunder to return back to part of the mold,



As we are all part of the same species to live,
And although critique can be made what right could ever justify what these men did,
Just like fanatics social game should never give you right,
To sacrifice others and blame it on your strife…
You make no impact just fall away in the night…

Much Love To All Who Read This,
May Man One Day Show Love To All,
Let All Of Us Know We Are Part Of The Same Game,
And To Treat Life With Respect For All,
Sith Co Nem




Sean Stutzman

The Carnival of Reality

The pink lights burn deep inside my skull,
The feeling in the air has changed as if energy were building up round me,
I looked up to find a menagerie of different faces,
Different glances,
Different spaces,
As if moving between the stalls was changing lives,
The interaction a super surreal world of spiral splendor,
Step right up! Step right up!
You have made it to the carnival of the modern,
It is very fun, it’s fancy and always classy,
Look up to see rollercoasters of daring do,
The sign towards the coasters are lit up too,
Dancing with light it spirals and swivels,
Like insects crawling the arrows point inward,
Yet I look and see that at the booths the common worker stairs at you,
His eyes dim with light as all day long he looks up to ride,

But don’t worry my friends you’ve come just in time,
Although there are five thousand people in line,
The coasters called the Corporate Express with lines lining up to take the test,
The common people scramble for they want to go where their lives will have comforting flow,
Yet what’s this I see as I walk to the sign your income level must be this high,
The sign points up to the upper few and I looked around for what to do,
My heart starts to pound as if in a race,
You don’t have that well your family should have been here to start this magnificent place,
I walked up to the line but had to turn round,
As the people at the back mocked and belittled me with sound,
What waste, how sad, and he never would do,
Look at how he looks of course he can’t come through,
I walked back from the line sighing and crying,
Yet there was a man with a clip board beguiling,


Oh so you can’t make it on yet,
Well cheer up work hard and to the front you’ll get,
My parents are riding I want to be with them,
He laughed and whispered forty years it took to mend,
Then smiled and said from the bottom you start,
I’ll give you a job to get to the top,
Why don’t you start working the carts?


So daily I sat with people like me,
They would get off their shifts and come up to see,
I would say don’t you need to save to get up in front,
They would reply I just so burnt out,
I stand and let people on rides all day and at the end of the day just one ride I desire,
I would nod and let them on,
Then feel just as compelled as my shift end came,

But getting up to the front I had to succeed,
Well then I start to coerce my feeling,
I started to pay to get on the rides that took two weeks to save for and strive,
But a new group of people I met and did find,
They also wanted to get to the front of the ride,
Jobs they offered me and new rides,
But a weird feel I got right from the start,
Playing like you had the cash was where these people acted smart,
They never wished to be looked at like my friends on carts,
No, no for ambition they held in their hearts,
But funny the same frugalness I brought to go higher,
Was railed against like a peasant trying to make it up to the emperor’s choir,
I remained the same and made some friends,
They always would talk how good they had it,
Yet question them on getting on rollercoasters,
And a single interaction most could give,
This place I called the corporate corpses,
For most had tried to get there themselves,
Some even starting their own coasters to avail,

But they all seemed to settle back in,
To circle of trying and then with no success to binge,
The idea of their precarious position seemed to undermine their dreams and aspirations,
Funny though they always picked on the carts,
Made sure that their lives seemed “better than that,”
Yet almost identically they seemed to live to me,
And the irony that their trip on the ride wasn’t a reprieve,
They would complain when they couldn’t ride the fancier ride,
Not just be happy they could even enjoy life,
I got a nostalgia for the bottom again,
But that ambitious mind kept me in,
I made to the back of the coaster line,
Though scrimping and saving made me outside,
But soon it would be worth it I said to myself,
I have an idea for a ride that everyone will want,
I sat in line with the thousands of waiters,
Make conversation and watching out for idea snatchers,
Then finally after what seemed like forever,
I stood in front of what I thought was the man with the clipboards brother,
Maybe his twin I don’t know but when he saw me he grinned,
State what ride you would like to be on,
I said I am looking to open one not ride upon,

Well then go in that line over there,
All the while I was using money waiting for the line to keep moving,
But finally I stood in what looked like a hive,
With hundreds of clipboard men standing with dead eyes,

Name Number Address please,
They were processing humans like meat packing,
Each person would walk up and tell them a thought,
They would either tell them no or in a new line they would start,
I finally got my turn and said my idea,
And a light lit up on the clipboard man’s face,
“Really,” he said, “Now isn’t that quite a novel thought,”
A light went off over his head,
Into this line please he said,
I had never heard a clipboard be polite but I wasn’t going to question it and stepped right,



Into a line of maybe ten,
I stood smiling a thing I didn’t notice no one else did,
We walked into a giant room,
The giant clipboards with arms stood watching our moves,
No longer would human faces or bodies do,
No these men had turned into giant number sheets,
They couldn’t open their mouths without ticker tape pouring out,

The first five guys walked up to the front,
They said they would help each in turn,
But ironically only one of their features turned,
My eyes got wide as the slum coasters pitcher body got broad and wide,
He laughed as ticker tape came from his insides,
And like a new brother they ushered him come inside,
Immediately he turned to judge my idea,
As if every memory of the effort it took no longer gave his ship models steer,

I stammered and said all the ideas you’ve heard come nowhere close to what I’m concerned,
I said people want to make coasters and ride them all the time,
I see you clip board men kicking people off every time I ride,
People want that feeling inside,
Like what they are working for on the carts gives them luxurious ride,
Why not make a luxury ride that the middle people could sell and the poor could ride?

Marvelous they echoed an idea of nous,
Well of course we will charge them more for a luxurious tax,
Right the middle won’t like that the poor can ride,
So we will charge with brackets that say they pay more cause greater risk is their ride,
No I said you aren’t listening to me,
I want to give this ride altruistically,
Not multiple of them just one they can have a surplus of you guys a good feeling to share,
Preposterous you want us to do this the clipboards sighed one even grimaced,
We don’t do anything that doesn’t make back the cost,
But I said you all get benefits that would justify this,
Every time you kick off a regular guy we all defend your importance and let you ride,
Of course they said we deserve it the most,
Yet we as the operators could tell you no and make you get in line with other people,

We have no free time to wait for others,
Our time like now is wasted by others,
But you have nothing if the others never played the game,
Your whole empire is supported by those lowly (as you see them) cart hands,
You bastards would have nothing if not for the horde,
We explained this to slum coaster a minute ago they retort,
He made the right choice as we know you will too,
For secretly we can’t be on top unless others are screwed,
Well what about the carnivals in other places,
They laughed and said same principal different style orchestration,
He laughed and said the others say they give aid,
But only choice families and the top really get to play,
And they give less opportunity then us playing our game,




My world crushed I said you all are insane,
You realize they will kill you if that still remains,
The biggest board laughed and said not if preoccupied on look for ways of making a ride,
My anger shot through the rafters,
A facial expression which to them brought laughter,
Well then I repeal my idea,
I don’t you bastards to have it that’s clear,
They laughed more and said too late remove him from here he starting to stink,
I said well at least my ideas safe,
He said oh I came up with that doesn’t everyone here agree,
Well yeah wouldn’t be possible without you Mr. Clipboard,
The voice coming from slum coaster made my nerves run,
I mean I don’t even remember this guy,
Send him back to the middle portion rides,

I screamed and yelled their all crooks,
But the new ten line gave me sideways looks,
So caught up on smiling and escaping to clipboard status,
They saw me just as a rejected husk,
A cautionary idea of what not to become,

So down I went and study the carnivals past,
Lists upon lists of rides that were had,
And at the beginning I saw Mr. Clipboard’s forefathers,
But a different idea of a carnival they shouted,
For they had just broken free,
From the Barnum and Bailey of back in the day,
They said that rides should be for the most,
And that the game should played so that cart men can boast,
More and more I realized that the circus they left,
Was looming more and more over our heads,
A feeling that gave me an internal dread,

For if they were dreamers a hundred years ago,
Then what does it say that machines again they’ve become,
That man is trapped in a cycle of desolation,
So longer back I moved to start of the Circus,
And realized that because of bad interaction the trouble started,

I cried eureka I can inform the world,
I said everyone look at what I discovered!
But the middle riders clung to their ambition narratives,
And the lower class people said our belief is what is needed,
I stood back and said I proved that’s false,
But they replied but it’s not what the clipboards told us,
I said because they are feeding you into a machine to profit off of,
But suddenly they put me in a new group,
One I never had seen or related too,
Ah here you belong with the rest of the loons,
They scream there is problems with our perfect view,
Some have no control and can’t work the carts,
We put up with them but they can’t really be apart,




But I yelled I did my research and this group before was in charge,
They used techniques to control their mental scars,
But they were better at trying to help others,
Because their lives from the start were naturally challenged,
Remember the little groups that cared about each other,


You mean those primitives that don’t even have rides,
The clipboards tell us they are behind,
That’s why we pitched and put circus tents,
Up where the trees and flowers beds started,
We give ourselves props because middle ride people,
Contributed a lot to helping those people,
In fact you see that’s the charity we need,
Why do you think with your idea we don’t agree,
We already have paid our comfortable amount,
To trying and helping those poor people out,

But you never gave them the toys you just changed them to carts,
I don’t see benevolence I see you feeding clipboards hearts,
Well do you have a better idea to run the circus?

Yes but the clipboards will need faces,
The loons will need care,
All these things you say we can’t spend time on we can begin,

Sounds wonderful but what is the cost, what will it take?
Well the clipboards will willfully have to give up their stake,
And the middle will bounce and take a hit,
But then more money for everyone like when the circus began,
But this time no megalomaniacs allowed,
We set the rules so that advancement abounds,
Not for everyone that is impossible,
But for the cart riders and loons to not be starving,
I really don’t think it is that farfetched a dream,

But too my amazement they went back in line,
My position and my ambition they chanted in time,
Not effort to put to help another,
No for that idea had been fed off by others,
And no authority model seems to go,
On terms that benefit the mold,
Something that saddens my eyes so,
When examples of my idea I found long ago,
With people who didn’t just make more people,
To lead them inside and strip them of equal,
Hierarchy may always be needed,
But this poisonous identity was a modern preceding,
Only changeable if all the circuses were agreeing,
To play without the clipboards heeding,
Yet if even one machine man is left,
No other circus will compete with him,
And as his power rises the others change,
To do the exact same thing as they detach their brains,
Until only pieces of paper not men remain…
Sean Stutzman

The Carnival of Reality

The pink lights burn deep inside my skull,
The feeling in the air has changed as if energy were building up round me,
I looked up to find a menagerie of different faces,
Different glances,
Different spaces,
As if moving between the stalls was changing lives,
The interaction a super surreal world of spiral splendor,
Step right up! Step right up!
You have made it to the carnival of the modern,
It is very fun, it’s fancy and always classy,
Look up to see rollercoasters of daring do,
The sign towards the coasters are lit up too,
Dancing with light it spirals and swivels,
Like insects crawling the arrows point inward,
Yet I look and see that at the booths the common worker stairs at you,
His eyes dim with light as all day long he looks up to ride,

But don’t worry my friends you’ve come just in time,
Although there are five thousand people in line,
The coasters called the Corporate Express with lines lining up to take the test,
The common people scramble for they want to go where their lives will have comforting flow,
Yet what’s this I see as I walk to the sign your income level must be this high,
The sign points up to the upper few and I looked around for what to do,
My heart starts to pound as if in a race,
You don’t have that well your family should have been here to start this magnificent place,
I walked up to the line but had to turn round,
As the people at the back mocked and belittled me with sound,
What waste, how sad, and he never would do,
Look at how he looks of course he can’t come through,
I walked back from the line sighing and crying,
Yet there was a man with a clip board beguiling,


Oh so you can’t make it on yet,
Well cheer up work hard and to the front you’ll get,
My parents are riding I want to be with them,
He laughed and whispered forty years it took to mend,
Then smiled and said from the bottom you start,
I’ll give you a job to get to the top,
Why don’t you start working the carts?


So daily I sat with people like me,
They would get off their shifts and come up to see,
I would say don’t you need to save to get up in front,
They would reply I just so burnt out,
I stand and let people on rides all day and at the end of the day just one ride I desire,
I would nod and let them on,
Then feel just as compelled as my shift end came,

But getting up to the front I had to succeed,
Well then I start to coerce my feeling,
I started to pay to get on the rides that took two weeks to save for and strive,
But a new group of people I met and did find,
They also wanted to get to the front of the ride,
Jobs they offered me and new rides,
But a weird feel I got right from the start,
Playing like you had the cash was where these people acted smart,
They never wished to be looked at like my friends on carts,
No, no for ambition they held in their hearts,
But funny the same frugalness I brought to go higher,
Was railed against like a peasant trying to make it up to the emperor’s choir,
I remained the same and made some friends,
They always would talk how good they had it,
Yet question them on getting on rollercoasters,
And a single interaction most could give,
This place I called the corporate corpses,
For most had tried to get there themselves,
Some even starting their own coasters to avail,

But they all seemed to settle back in,
To circle of trying and then with no success to binge,
The idea of their precarious position seemed to undermine their dreams and aspirations,
Funny though they always picked on the carts,
Made sure that their lives seemed “better than that,”
Yet almost identically they seemed to live to me,
And the irony that their trip on the ride wasn’t a reprieve,
They would complain when they couldn’t ride the fancier ride,
Not just be happy they could even enjoy life,
I got a nostalgia for the bottom again,
But that ambitious mind kept me in,
I made to the back of the coaster line,
Though scrimping and saving made me outside,
But soon it would be worth it I said to myself,
I have an idea for a ride that everyone will want,
I sat in line with the thousands of waiters,
Make conversation and watching out for idea snatchers,
Then finally after what seemed like forever,
I stood in front of what I thought was the man with the clipboards brother,
Maybe his twin I don’t know but when he saw me he grinned,
State what ride you would like to be on,
I said I am looking to open one not ride upon,

Well then go in that line over there,
All the while I was using money waiting for the line to keep moving,
But finally I stood in what looked like a hive,
With hundreds of clipboard men standing with dead eyes,

Name Number Address please,
They were processing humans like meat packing,
Each person would walk up and tell them a thought,
They would either tell them no or in a new line they would start,
I finally got my turn and said my idea,
And a light lit up on the clipboard man’s face,
“Really,” he said, “Now isn’t that quite a novel thought,”
A light went off over his head,
Into this line please he said,
I had never heard a clipboard be polite but I wasn’t going to question it and stepped right,



Into a line of maybe ten,
I stood smiling a thing I didn’t notice no one else did,
We walked into a giant room,
The giant clipboards with arms stood watching our moves,
No longer would human faces or bodies do,
No these men had turned into giant number sheets,
They couldn’t open their mouths without ticker tape pouring out,

The first five guys walked up to the front,
They said they would help each in turn,
But ironically only one of their features turned,
My eyes got wide as the slum coasters pitcher body got broad and wide,
He laughed as ticker tape came from his insides,
And like a new brother they ushered him come inside,
Immediately he turned to judge my idea,
As if every memory of the effort it took no longer gave his ship models steer,

I stammered and said all the ideas you’ve heard come nowhere close to what I’m concerned,
I said people want to make coasters and ride them all the time,
I see you clip board men kicking people off every time I ride,
People want that feeling inside,
Like what they are working for on the carts gives them luxurious ride,
Why not make a luxury ride that the middle people could sell and the poor could ride?

Marvelous they echoed an idea of nous,
Well of course we will charge them more for a luxurious tax,
Right the middle won’t like that the poor can ride,
So we will charge with brackets that say they pay more cause greater risk is their ride,
No I said you aren’t listening to me,
I want to give this ride altruistically,
Not multiple of them just one they can have a surplus of you guys a good feeling to share,
Preposterous you want us to do this the clipboards sighed one even grimaced,
We don’t do anything that doesn’t make back the cost,
But I said you all get benefits that would justify this,
Every time you kick off a regular guy we all defend your importance and let you ride,
Of course they said we deserve it the most,
Yet we as the operators could tell you no and make you get in line with other people,

We have no free time to wait for others,
Our time like now is wasted by others,
But you have nothing if the others never played the game,
Your whole empire is supported by those lowly (as you see them) cart hands,
You bastards would have nothing if not for the horde,
We explained this to slum coaster a minute ago they retort,
He made the right choice as we know you will too,
For secretly we can’t be on top unless others are screwed,
Well what about the carnivals in other places,
They laughed and said same principal different style orchestration,
He laughed and said the others say they give aid,
But only choice families and the top really get to play,
And they give less opportunity then us playing our game,




My world crushed I said you all are insane,
You realize they will kill you if that still remains,
The biggest board laughed and said not if preoccupied on look for ways of making a ride,
My anger shot through the rafters,
A facial expression which to them brought laughter,
Well then I repeal my idea,
I don’t you bastards to have it that’s clear,
They laughed more and said too late remove him from here he starting to stink,
I said well at least my ideas safe,
He said oh I came up with that doesn’t everyone here agree,
Well yeah wouldn’t be possible without you Mr. Clipboard,
The voice coming from slum coaster made my nerves run,
I mean I don’t even remember this guy,
Send him back to the middle portion rides,

I screamed and yelled their all crooks,
But the new ten line gave me sideways looks,
So caught up on smiling and escaping to clipboard status,
They saw me just as a rejected husk,
A cautionary idea of what not to become,

So down I went and study the carnivals past,
Lists upon lists of rides that were had,
And at the beginning I saw Mr. Clipboard’s forefathers,
But a different idea of a carnival they shouted,
For they had just broken free,
From the Barnum and Bailey of back in the day,
They said that rides should be for the most,
And that the game should played so that cart men can boast,
More and more I realized that the circus they left,
Was looming more and more over our heads,
A feeling that gave me an internal dread,

For if they were dreamers a hundred years ago,
Then what does it say that machines again they’ve become,
That man is trapped in a cycle of desolation,
So longer back I moved to start of the Circus,
And realized that because of bad interaction the trouble started,

I cried eureka I can inform the world,
I said everyone look at what I discovered!
But the middle riders clung to their ambition narratives,
And the lower class people said our belief is what is needed,
I stood back and said I proved that’s false,
But they replied but it’s not what the clipboards told us,
I said because they are feeding you into a machine to profit off of,
But suddenly they put me in a new group,
One I never had seen or related too,
Ah here you belong with the rest of the loons,
They scream there is problems with our perfect view,
Some have no control and can’t work the carts,
We put up with them but they can’t really be apart,




But I yelled I did my research and this group before was in charge,
They used techniques to control their mental scars,
But they were better at trying to help others,
Because their lives from the start were naturally challenged,
Remember the little groups that cared about each other,


You mean those primitives that don’t even have rides,
The clipboards tell us they are behind,
That’s why we pitched and put circus tents,
Up where the trees and flowers beds started,
We give ourselves props because middle ride people,
Contributed a lot to helping those people,
In fact you see that’s the charity we need,
Why do you think with your idea we don’t agree,
We already have paid our comfortable amount,
To trying and helping those poor people out,

But you never gave them the toys you just changed them to carts,
I don’t see benevolence I see you feeding clipboards hearts,
Well do you have a better idea to run the circus?

Yes but the clipboards will need faces,
The loons will need care,
All these things you say we can’t spend time on we can begin,

Sounds wonderful but what is the cost, what will it take?
Well the clipboards will willfully have to give up their stake,
And the middle will bounce and take a hit,
But then more money for everyone like when the circus began,
But this time no megalomaniacs allowed,
We set the rules so that advancement abounds,
Not for everyone that is impossible,
But for the cart riders and loons to not be starving,
I really don’t think it is that farfetched a dream,

But too my amazement they went back in line,
My position and my ambition they chanted in time,
Not effort to put to help another,
No for that idea had been fed off by others,
And no authority model seems to go,
On terms that benefit the mold,
Something that saddens my eyes so,
When examples of my idea I found long ago,
With people who didn’t just make more people,
To lead them inside and strip them of equal,
Hierarchy may always be needed,
But this poisonous identity was a modern preceding,
Only changeable if all the circuses were agreeing,
To play without the clipboards heeding,
Yet if even one machine man is left,
No other circus will compete with him,
And as his power rises the others change,
To do the exact same thing as they detach their brains,
Until only pieces of paper not men remain…
Sean Stutzman

The Beauty of Everyday

Can you see the mountains from where you are at?
Can you feel the sea with each wave as it spat?
Can you drive to places that were hard to reach before?
Can you feel the hum of the trees and see the sky reach down?
Can you feel the rain as it impregnates the ground?
Can you feel the dawn as the sun rays kiss the clouds with colors?
Can you feel the world as your feet touch the other?
Can you smile when the worm crawls into alien lands not cover?

Can you whisper in your head hello as the wind blows through branches?
Can you breathe as you see the farmers and their trenches?
Can you smile as the sun leaches the water from the ground?
Can you feel the pulse of everything that’s around?

I love to do this at least once each day,
To feel the “me,” pulled back into the play,
And as I stare at the sky and think of the unending thought space,
I feel myself calling like a beacon to worlds face,
And if this place is another layer of entity,
Then we can all sit back smile and laugh at absurdity,
And know that this whole game is a never ending epiphany,
Always changing and learning we grasp that we never have pure certainty,
And if you ever feel that your thought is right beyond rebuttal,
Then lost to game of human recording like a record skipping you fall,


Then let us go back to the woods to hunt,
Let us give thanks to the world inhaling the blunt,
Let us dance in the moonlight like spring heel jacks,
Let us move to pulse and give emotion back,
For these lands of trees and hills fields and streams,
Is a paradise for the continual place of carbon in extreme,
But then it always has violence and death at its seems,
A duality of horror and miracle from the exact same things,
Then perspective should love what all is about,
And the things in life we need to protect are just as much within as we are without,

Then love the land, the animals, the otherworld,
And feel its sweet breath,
For it is not the only place you could meet your death,
In a house alone you might greet the end,
So why grasp fear and run in the world you’re in,
Hike in the hills,
Run through the fields,
Dance in the open,
So the earth can feel your cheer,
Laugh at the seriousness of how people tread,
And know that truth only will be sought when you are dead,
Treat others with the same regard,
And fight for the wild with words like the bard,
For monsters at the seams make the city scarier in dreams,
And use the greatest understanding man ever gained,
And go and see the untamed…
Sean Stutzman

Shezmu’s Toil

I am the guardian of the great,
I am the judge of the physical,
The roaring din of my press,
Squeezes and wraps the wicked,

Those who know me truly only guess of me,
Those who see me fear me,
Those who are afraid of me demonize me,
And those who patronize me cower from me,

I am but the tool of Osiris,
His law my command,
But all of his laws only come from the land,
Its order brings good men bliss,

For am I the punisher or the instrument?
Am I the chosen or one who is in agreement?
Am I justice incarnate?
Or just the flavor that justice does onset?

Alas I will forever be seen,
As fearful and frightening to human beings,
For if they are justly hearted and have not been a fiend,
Then I am the greatest of old friends the pod with two beans,

But if you seem to cross a line,
Then punishment is coming from the divine,
But punishment itself has a face,
Often by country, grouping, or race,

Then am I judging the world to be,
Off of doctrines that were passed down to me,
Then all the world’s ideas are marked,
By who, what, where, and when the ideas were sparked,

So then all of our morality,
Just simply is what was comfy for mom and dad,
On running and ordering our great city,
Who hit them on the wrist to tell them it was bad,
Even if it was from instigation a falsity,
Will we be doomed to forever be led?

For I am a creature trapped from a time,
When lion heads and animals divine,
When thoughts of heaven had scales in tow,
And the holy worked on in fields of gold,

Who is the lion demon meant to be?
What has he done to be thought of as free?
Where does he sit to judge you and me?
When will his judgment come through and again be seen?
It is only a matter of words to make anything true,
And far too often a truth is something generally assumed,
So let the old teach the new,
But let it be a guide on what not to do,
Leave the violence of before and grow anew,
Then we will be champions of the great lord Shezmu,
Me
You
Us
/Them\
They
We
Are all of the land and laws that generate so keep them well balanced that’s all we can create…



Sean Stutzman

Personification

The truth that held the heaviest tide,
In the past hidden in allegory wise men would ride,
And look to what behaviors and ideals he wished to personify…

Yet Fundamentalism in all forms crushed the truth that universally did bind us,
An understandable mistake as from nature and the world ideas were made,
The allegories were given faces…

These distort to concept of god but we forgot why they sold the façade,
For a kings behavior could change with inspiration,
The archetypes are real but not,
A beautiful mind of paradox…

But the reason behind the mind was lost,
For men didn’t want an idea of ideal,
He wanted a face to find catastrophes healed,
Which lead to fundamentalist identity…

For good and bad polarity is the only discourse to explain calamity,
But that is a farce of the mention of mind,
Why the pagans and animist personified,
It breaks the world away from difference and changing tide…

Then sitting inside you start to see that the outside of life is god’s only domain,
Why heaven supposedly only can exist to be there when you are dead,
For how else can you reconcile terror and wonder?
It forces you to pit one against the other,
But that is not how the world operates…

It makes me wonder how if we used the old mind,
How our Personification would look inside our time,
I find that an oil machine driven monster may be more our ride,
No beautiful deity moving us from emotion inside,

I am not the first to say this for the belly of the beast was long before me…

And you wonder if you actually frame the dreams of Babylon to our days,
Would we not be the Colossus of metal so defamed?
I think this would destroy the faithful,
Realizing God is inside not inside a fabricated temple,
So it changes flavor from shepherd’s naturalist view,
To a city state condemning another for a material and societal directed view,
To a savior to help people forgotten from the model the society provided,
To super churches that do little for their fellow brother no contemplation on reality invited…

I respect the mode of what we know but inside the folk traditions is a real view,
Of personalities of difference not being consumed,
That the competition of gods was a battle for ideals of supremacy,
Yet the loser still had points to make at reality,
His play just did not work for the times and then a mess of paradigms is all that remains behind,
Then it makes sense that when we refuse to look at the whole,
We sit in a fabricated world wondering what is outside the fish bowl,


For am I just another incarnation of the dog?
NO he would rebuke my luxury as fatal,
Am I just the next prophet from dream?
NO the inspiration has been ripped from its necessity,
Am I just the fool who stairs into new rivers?
NO the change is too repetitive with history documented,
Am I but a simple man played into a world of shadow?
Yes but the shadow never lifts,
It pulls to infinity as I drink it in…

Then am I the radical who gives sense face?
No for no feet will I move or change,
Am I the thinker relieving his boredom?
Yes but it is simply an action that seems toilsome…
Am I poised to be buried like all before me?
Yes and sink back into the complexity around me I see…

Then personification is of the nature its movements and what surrounds,
Not fundamentalist drabble of an absolute,
But a play of people and bodies inevitably consumed,
The detritus being the controlling edge,
We are motion of the already dead,
And all I say and think today will be criticized by future aspects with similar heads,
Let the cycle repeat and ambiguity will always rule,
For technicality brings fecundities power of infinite absolutes,
Then all we do is try to order the few we can keep in our heads,
Details upon details until one is misread,
Made to only see where experience in persona has lead,
And then back into the ground we all will be bled,
Diogenes laughing he asks for the stick…
We of modern mind crave that stick which makes our mentality sick…
Robot savior will supposedly be the mediator giving new place to begin,
No like all things made by man it will probably just be a new face of an old river to stand in…




Sean Stutzman

Passion of Riastrad of Berserker-ganger

Passion sits at the edge of life,
Its fruits do sparkle in dew and light,
Its expression is one not controlled,
To how spirit takes mind and body in bold,
To dreams where the lady of Elfame sits,
Brought on through eyes of those before us fits,
For Odin’s group speaks of rage,
An unspoken lineage of dis brought out from cage,
Where from spirit and ritual ingestion came,
Timing the bounty into the fray,

For this beautiful lady imparts a gift,
The sweet kiss coming from mother Danu’s lips,
The power of the earth being drawn in,
To put Odin’s mind in place of even kin,
And showed warriors gnawing shields and mind gone dim,
To a frenzy a releasing of the animal within,
From Danu’s sons matched to Cu’ Chulainn enraged,
His absorption of earth power changes his skin,
Like the werewolf legends to clans that formed knights,
The fairies bounty brought great strength in fights,


Something that shamans of Siberia say,
A traditional held longer than just some few days,
That only great bird could accomplish his tasks so great,
By eating the gift with which reindeer you race,
For the energy that comes is unbridled emotion,
Even if just human you dance under a wolf skin,
Then what more earthly thing could you go pick,
That could turn you to animal magnitude and cause dreams din,

Something that when seeing pottery of Lambayeque,
You realize was a tradition that stretched oceans,
For is it not interesting that were jaguar face,
Often comes adorned with Muscaria’s on taste,
Showing that lycanthropes have a common skin,
That has red and golden skins,
The Moche have men with them on their face,
Something that echoes the telling of fate,
A trade item sought to be brought in large,
Distributed to the men in charge,






Then we have all lost the gift of the world,
To illusions they say the men of these cultures were sold,
Yet their feats and achievements are something of power,
Showing that inspiration comes on and gives life to dark tower,
A force so strong that they could barely handle mind,
And with Krampus showed it would only allow purity and being kind,
That respect was a bond to anchor the force,
That from Danu’s and Hulda’s bodies gave Odin his choice,
Cu’ Chulainn a incarnation mighty Lugh’s voice,
Shows that Riastrad was an old power form,
That would drive men mad and only the chosen could adore,
For an unparalleled frenzy would overtake minds,
To a point were friends were unrecognizable through time,
And give inspiration to leaders of fianna’s and perchtan’s,
To go putting on the earths shapeshifting gift,

Funny that this in Middle Eastern mind,
Was so precious a gift much harder to find,
That more like the priest of Siberia’s gift,
Used it for festival more than war time lift,
And then when Allegro’s translations brought sight,
The new religion more tied to governing with might,
Rejected the halo’s that from great men of mind,
Had only parallels with raiders and witch queens in find,
And lost that all played sweet with gift,
The power given by the august harvest,
That led men of strength to un-paralleled might,
With historical record and myths of the fights,
That a single berserker held an army at bay,
The same feat held by Cu Chulainn at Cooley cattle raid,
That when under influence the Morgan challenged him,
To prove of earthen power he was worthy to change skin,
An eel the trickster he broke its ribs,
The wolf the distant predator he blinded and cringed,
The mighty Heifer came running down from wolf,
A strength he wrestled and broke the legs thereof,
To each feat and challenge he rose,
And then finally mercy to the old crone he showed,
And as his mind came back to real gaze,
The boy troop on the ground their bodies were laid,
The men of Connacht had killed them in fray,
And a monster of Cu’ Chulainn came to claim:

The first warp-spasm seized Cúchulainn, and made him into a monstrous thing, hideous and shapeless, unheard of. His shanks and his joints, every knuckle and angle and organ from head to foot, shook like a tree in the flood or a reed in the stream. His body made a furious twist inside his skin, so that his feet and shins switched to the rear and his heels and calves switched to the front... On his head the temple-sinews stretched to the nape of his neck, each mighty, immense, measureless knob as big as the head of a month-old child... he sucked one eye so deep into his head that a wild crane couldn't probe it onto his cheek out of the depths of his skull; the other eye fell out along his cheek. His mouth weirdly distorted: his cheek peeled back from his jaws until the gullet appeared, his lungs and his liver flapped in his mouth and throat, his lower jaw struck the upper a lion-killing blow, and fiery flakes large as a ram's fleece reached his mouth from his throat... The hair of his head twisted like the tangle of a red thornbush stuck in a gap; if a royal apple tree with all its kingly fruit were shaken above him, scarce an apple would reach the ground but each would be spiked on a bristle of his hair as it stood up on his scalp with rage.

The body he came to challenge them with,
Was an amalgam of the forces he conquered within,
The imagery of the red gives point to the thing,
That he ingested and took on the mantle of the queen,
The thorn bush metaphor for a single stalk,
While the apples falling on hair give mind stop,
To a thin stalk with red head sitting on top,
And no man could stand in front of riastrad,
Why even to Berserkers a mythical note is attached,
And people who have never tasted the sweet flesh,
Do not know what kind of boundless energy is had,

To dance for hours without fatigue is a point in the trance,
Then into dreams and visions you’re tossed from the dance,
And if you can maintain your composer,
A twilight world of the fair folk shimmers,
For you have ingested their umbrellas and tables,
A sacrifice to which you must make equal,
By giving thanks and gift to the Queen,
Who from earthen power gives men esteem,
A lady I bounced on mountains with in dream,
And told me truth when growing mind needed frame,
A truth now I know is a real call,
Back to archetypes of mind we fall,
For the age of Ragnarok consumes,
And Badb’s warning came true,
Then we are in an age of the rejecter,
Where spirit is few,
And Wisdom wanders,
Then we should take back in the gift,
And heal the wound to world we shift,
To realize a mother and not demon she is,
Something legends of Arthur forget,
As religion was monopolized and industrialized by men,
To forget that their father just like all came from the glen,

As even when nature’s fury consumes,
It is like a stomach motion when eating poor food,
And the heat in the seas brings terror to coasts,
Where mangrove barriers saved earlier hosts,
And then you see that we punish ourselves,
For the world is just living and moving its shell,
Like a gut bacteria we can be formed,
Into the lands champion or more disasters will be born,
The catalyst in our minds makes the beneficial bacterium,
And a little madness for not so long is worth understanding the storm,
And then with modern creative mind we can save,
And hope to deal with powerful plays,
So that horror is not spawned,
But some form of Tesla dreams unbound,
To see maybe a collective of energy,
The galling winds and the storm of the sea,
Might just turn out to be,
A collective point of potential energies…


Sean Stutzman

Passion of My Blood


Come here my pet my subtle thing,
Your heart outstretched in palms shaking,
The smile crawls up my cheeks,
Gently brushing your hair makes you weak,
The romance comes in sacrifice,
The eyes of both glittering like fresh ice,


For centuries we have been misunderstood,
The darkest path of heathens leads to good,
For can you sit with Zotz’s brood smiling,
Knowing that all good comes from timing,
The darkest world must bring forth the light,
A feeling of raw passion coming through the night,


For from the bleeding of the age,
The gods play out a new cage,
One tied to plants and trees,
One no longer beset with greed,
They believed it was a holy seed,




The doctrine of the small gets prostituted to the large,
The doctrine of the large comes to eventually condemn the small,
For pagan once meant those on the fringes,
The common people were last to dawn papal figures,
For St. Nicolas holds the clue that the answers from our ancestors,
Meant to be as far from the money of the power as possible,
Only vilified for answers the church refused to give others,



For this some condemn the priest,
But pity from my view is the approach to place,
For who in a dystopic story do you feel most screwed?
The common man fighting back,
Or the idiot leader thinking he’s creating truth from terror,
A sadder existence in my view,
One so wrapped up in the schemes of the top to see his own ancestry is shot,
Put to ropes and stakes and feuds,
The original bird flu lies killed them too,
For peasants sitting in the fold,
Thought killing outsider helpers meant spiritual gold,
An idea even originators would see as callus and cold,






So grab back the common man’s fight,
Hear answers from those not brainwashed solely in light,
For as the Daoist say if too much is given to one side’s views,
Then the one in power becomes the evil pro-generator,
Not by choice but by simply not hearing any other voice,
So in history we find that when looking from the victim allows reversing lies,
Something we ignore too often by only believing in what gave us options,
Options often poisonous to another that you do see,
You do not spend time with,
Common people feel the pains those claims,
Why for so long they were reluctant into game,
Yet by colonial times when seeing another attached to the mother,
Nasty misunderstanding of person bleeds our story,
One we never give reflection but condemn others,


For sadly if even a little of the old was left a common tie to a thread,
Then treating others unjustly would have cross stamped on it,
And Christian wouldn’t have to shake their heads remembering it,
For every man, woman, and child claimed in those debacles,
Has little or no voice in side of our models,
So sacrifice is condemning to the old,
But I ask this:





If you were inside of Celtic observation only sacrificing in times of terror,
When resources die out and famine is in action,
Why say the Romans are better in faction,
When their world churned out hundreds of “criminal sacrifices,”
On timeframes that make our courts luxurious,
Mechanical structure feeds off the common today,
At least not to death most offensives have been swayed,
Then the common people are forever who is screwed,
And instead of convincing in times of horror to choose different discourse,
The powers at be went to eradicate the source,
Using terror on their own people to sacrifice others,
On piers and stakes the common folk mothers,
Then never has western society helped the common,
Until radical commons were using half of each option,
For the mason’s knew of how they would have been treated,
If openly they had manifested their belief systems,
Same with all the groups pushed to the outskirts by terrible few,
Yet the church speaks to the occult as still devils brew,
Yet they have slain millions and said that will not do,


What day will be when men and women here truth equally,
When people remember the church claimed women no souls,
When their art shows women mainly passing on their doctrine,
For the mosaics being changed should tell the Christian their true game,
No gnostic hold of god on high being pious, loving, and cleaning the poor;
No the main church shows how little they achieve on those goals,
Apparently popes find it more gosh to sit back with golden staffs and release criminal holy hosts,
I see then that my heretical ideas that seem crazy to them,
Do not damage another person though their beliefs did,
So as my opening seems scary to some,
Hear the voice inside the image drawn up,
For damage of another my beliefs will not allow,
Yet argument gets played that without the moral background of church,
That the heathens would ripped society apart,
A song sung by those pidgeoned-hole in seeing that most of what society was made by them,
And all the Christian game gave us was an ability to target the lower class,
Without giving them aid they lend to your crusades,
They enlist in armies the only thing seemed worth giving glory in your world,
For omnipotent forgiveness seems to con great strives for societal help,
Yet never reaching their targets they pat their backs and go home to palaces,
Separated from those they claim to want to benefit,
How many mega churches without taxing need to be?
When one in five children go hungry in the ultimate country of luxury…



I ask how long until we hear a true voice from our past on that even in Genesis warns of the Powerful controlling few,
Who try sitting in their cities arguing against strife?
Then you are as blind as the conversion groups acting benevolent yet punishing the construed,
For the name synagogue comes from pagan root,
The idea of nature as our overview is not new,
The stories of poisoned minds lash out in violence as truth,
Then ask what do I believe and what has done for me and for you…

Sean Stutzman

Our Understanding of Position

This world is but a tiny bubble,
Proven more vigorously by the Hubble,
A beautiful gorgeous bearing mother,
We just the lack an understanding of each other,
Yet we are all so funny and dull,
To believe that creation came from a single null,
In fact a thought from voice I heard,
That humans are so wonderfully absurd,
To think that all this majesty,
Could come from but a single being,
We have so many forces,
That man takes as simple voices,
So funny and stuck to standard choices,
Like crowds of un-looking blinded by poor discourses,
Yet we are jaded to how beautiful it is to mind,
That comes back at dawn and sunset hidden to the blind,
That every force of the land,
Is beyond any human hand,
We are part of little amount,
A tiny bacteria of only billion count,
I hope that one day man will dance,
With heart unbound in sudden chance,
In moonlit field and revel in it even,
And give back to the land which we have everything given…

Sean Stutzman

Odin’s Fruit

Great Force-Sucker do not for me set a trap,
Oh Dwarven Vampire of the gap,
Entropic master of the universe,
You feed from our experience as if imprinted by our curse,
Bring to me,
So I can see,
The Urlog of the ages,
Spoken from only the mouth of sages,
For the great dimension is held on a pull,
Of duality in motion to keep from being dull,
Moving the world to your vacuous Nous,
I realize these things as I swallow my dose,
For all things build on other things,
All things balance on other rings,
Until spheres meet and make the place, the time, the person, the space:


My mind will rush a dash un-steered,
Until the great song heralds of mighty Sleipnir,
Riding the worlds to find my place,
On Mimir’s steps I scar my face,
Hanging myself on Yggdrasil,
Control can come to that I feel,



But the rule and joke of the Norn’s damns my cause,
Knowing the world makes my mind pause,
For eat of the fruit her flesh red and white,
Soon you will see,
That in the end the world is not free,

Doomed to end in crashing chorus,
The Wod I learn burns out for us,
But the Thunder wizard screams out Odin lost his mind,
He seeks for things he might never find,
The blessing is getting the ability to change it from inside,
Something that shows leadership is not trustworthy of pride,
For to control takes sacrifice to go outside your rut,
Know you as yet? …….. Or what?

Do we trust Odin?
Do we trust our minds?
The answer unsure,
The answer lingering as humans mature,
For logic can give you the answer that leads,
To helping of others the balance of things,
But for every rational well founded thought,
A dark counter-balance breathes back and is sought,
Because absolutes are fool’s gold blinding our mind,
Playing out different roles in different worlds but you are you in different kind,

So let Freya’s bounty bring a smile to your face,
Sleep with the Muscaria giving you grace,
As Freya’s blonde angelic face comes within your eyes,
You will know the true balance to all those who live with strife’s lives,
Let the price come to be your help to others,
The dust speck that reaches out to another,
Giving the roles of characters to each other,
Take heed to be listening to each of the three great brothers,
And the Norn’s will smile and upon new life they will stack,
The will to bring our great Yggdrasil back,
Laughing and smiling man will stand in the end,
Trying to restart and breathe life into form once again…



For our Will brings the world new novelty to form,
So as our ancestors did by the river we mourn,
The thoughts that may never be,
Or the thoughts that we will always see,
But tie the white ribbon above the stream,
Imagine all of the world as a great tree,
Think your thought and repeat after me:

Ye Worthe Min Willa
“Worth my Will,”

Maybe the random voice of the wind in the trees,
The subtle teachings come from staring at trees,
Seeing her bounty in your belly,
Will play out your thought into reality…


Sean Stutzman

Nozick's Nightmare

I often find myself awake at night,
Half asleep in remorse and dying of fright,
Counting interactions of universes on the side,
What selves I might discover on true sets of lies,
The self of me,
That is me,
That isn't me,
That would be me,
That could be me,
That should be me,
And that wants me to be me,
The me that's oblivious to me at all,

This is all well and fine playing in the folds of my mind,
Not afraid of the of what I might find,
So no callous idea might be sought,
No contradictions allowed,
No explaining empty husk,
But why choose a outward choice on what is all the fuss,
Ideas of some seem way too miraculous,

Yet the six year olds doubtful icecream world complex,
Is as structured and well thought as any religious text,
So is it all confounding drabble we vent,
This shows in us real inherent truth of malcontent,
That Nozick's argument must be taken seriously without rebuke,
Not some wishful thinking easily seen as a fluke,
For never is our universal shell so apparent then in other ideals,
The opening grounds for belief battlefields,,

The Norse would scoff and laugh and holler,
Saying Mimmir's price is a hard offer,
For seeing all in one and one in all loops the paradigms over again,
Dogs chasing our tails our heads do start to swim,

Should we give up the chase instead,
Excepting our fate as soon to be dead?!

No! he screams in roaring cause,
Its the paradox that is the beauty in all,

For we can not rebuke the thought,
That our views are skewed standing inside the parking lot,
Describing the things that come in our minds as lust,
Amazing to us standing just outside of our sidewalks crust,
So is the romantic image a simple girl in frills,
Sitting gorgeous on pedestals never climbing the hills,
Uselessly beautiful we hold true yet due to cause out unfavorable ills,
The unending crash scenario seems to send us a note that shrills,
Will tasks become more daunting still,
As we begin entering the vacuums eternal chill...

The price of control is finite response,
A doubtful dogmatic materialistic reproach,
Does less to stop the leaking of idyllic voice,
For if the natural can be super- with just a change of view,
Does that mean belief is just as fragile too,
Are all the ideas just throwing up thoughts,
Of random junctures in random husks,
Does the universe have direction,
Does the universe tell jokes,
Is it so serious a game,
Are we here to have the ultimate free lunch?
Is it that we are from the outward perspective,
The one who is set in scene doomed to take the punch directive ,

This is truly a scary idea,
The product of our nightmares fear,
Are we all the ones who are doomed,
Our message weaved to destructive looms,
For if we are able to see in chemical inflection,
Absorb in the new data in energy direction,
Are we just scrapping the surface of our senses,
Playing director and smiling in our own intentions,
Always finding higher and yet taller fences...


Not so simple a glass one might hoist,
I think the true tone is consciousness holds choice,
We direct our flow off of intrinsic voice,
Finding opinion then impending nous,
Well standing in shells of thousands that would not damage,
Until the right ideal takes us to the final ledge,
But thousands of beliefs playing out thousands of other realities,
Could we really ever call the final point in all the subtleties...


Like others before us giving in,
So easy now to see it as the end,
Realizing we are the brightest but least held true,
Yet we hold no responsibility on the worlds view,
To purpose in time and direct in total,
On a ball who's purpose is still on call,
We play our games and drink away our times,
Dance out theories never actually met in our minds,

So lets sit and think on secular oblation,
For the shaman knew that life was simple survive and move in obligation,
Yet we are in argument of differences in nations,
Too tied up in all the newest sensations,

Man has forgot that differences can make the hardest bonds,
For those who are different but share similar cause,
Not just accepting things for them as they are,
But challenging how many conceptualization's can we have in far,


For people can argue with there own mind,
Challenge in truth,
Challenge it in time,
But the Zen master will tell you,
And it is truth culture lacks to find,
That for each step forward six new thoughts open up behind,


The real action is to have us move on deeper impulses,
Not just stories of different poses,
On larger truths we can stew,
For if one is content with ones personal view,
Then the days of one challenging are numbered and few,


The presumption of god lays down the line,
That if he or they existed in our reality then we would be blind,
So unless the pagan dance display,
Wins out on top in nu wave,
Then we will simply label and boast,
On something as identifiable as ghosts,
For it seems to me that just the fact,
That we buy into sentient existence is where its at,
The argument isn't what universe your in,
But what rules you must play with so that in the end,
Carbon life forms in whole will be a successful win...


Fecundity is the paradox in the root of itself,
That roots for our successful health,
Splitting into individual and grouped out towns,
Maybe it is the difference agent itself finding fractal in its clouds,
For are the connections aren't the same for those without our bounds,
From a negative universe,
Only discovered by the ending Hearse,
That drives us towards what our mouth does sing,
An unending ultimum of destructions and beginnings,
Singing to us just in a way that we can listen,
Even from our some what small pathetic position,
Just for the din to sit, play with, and judge,
The material points no better than a fat kid with fudge,

But this I see an immature jaunt,
Or are we the accident the universe never did want,
With unending possibilities come unending answers at most,
Our culture the best montage of thousands of perspective hosts,
So I feel I'll end in this real time without the desired "truth" so desired,
From this most would want philosophers fired,
And while the answer of paradox at times,
Is too crazy for some while it dances between lines,
The unending qualm of us, a universal laborer's song,
To ride the wave of chaos has been real true order all along,
For what else can we do,
But try to smell the fabrics natural glue,
The only glue known to me and to you,
Finding answers from our point leaves you frustrated and shrew,
As no man has ever truly relinquished his natural Que's,

For are we the ape that can propose this ideal,
Or the rabble of a horde speaking out crazy ominous feel,
For no utopia sought will be enough,
No for perfection is quite an abstract thought,
One who's missions are too soon forgot,
For the things you long for and cling to today,
Will be your bane in sight of coming actions and plays,
So can we all seem to hum,
In unison of one reliable sun,
One reliable moon,
One reliable world who cleans up our messes,
And tucks us in too,
Letting us know the spring will be there in the end through,
For we are all using the phrasings of root,
And forgetting they were once Pan's chaotic-al flute,
For we will remember when overview is small,
That we created the labels we speak of in total and all,
So lets admit the defeat that we are all trying our best,
To understand where and when we should fest,
Find ourselves truly giving it a real test,
Shell off the luggage,
Take off the clothes,
Remember were in the end we all go,
For I wish to dream on true intent,
To speak my words and challenge my wit,

And when the reaper comes to claim,
I'll say what an achievement I put into that game,
I played with others and accepted my falls,
Rolled the dice hard or never rolled them at all,
For I would like to find "me," at the core,
Like the most lustrous gold in the massive vein of ore,
For when I glimpse him just for a moment or four,,
That lets me know hey it just isn't as scary anymore...

Sean Stutzman

Nefertem

God of the gap of eternity,
Like an unending pod,
Rising from waters,
Resting in pools,
Cresting your face from your folds to start anew,

"Rise like Nefertem from the blue water lily,
to the nostrils of Ra and come forth upon the horizon each day."

I brew your petals,
I plant your pods,
I smile when drinking you,
I dance without pause,
Your inspiration comes on like beautiful muse,

"Rise like Nefertem from the blue water lily,
to the nostrils of Ra and come forth upon the horizon each day."

Sex is your story,
Beauty is your truth,
Motion can’t stop my body,
A couple paired into action,
Her skin glows like the suns haze on a flowers petal,

"Rise like Nefertem from the blue water lily,
to the nostrils of Ra and come forth upon the horizon each day."

Your brother brings death,
But you breathe in life,
New beginnings and ideas,
Taking away all my strife,
Your amber glow flows through me on the next day,

"Rise like Nefertem from the blue water lily,
to the nostrils of Ra and come forth upon the horizon each day."

So don’t make me forget,
Give me peace to my day,
Allow my dreams of sexual play,
You are the beginning of the world and its inevitable game,
Great Lord of the lily allows with me you stay…
Like the lily I raise my face to the horizon each day.


Sean Stutzman

Lessons of the Greats Before

Low I Odin did swing on the great ash tree,
As the Norn’s around chuckled at me,
I hung until the blood swam in my head,
And the thought of 9 days makes you think you’ll be dead,
My body did swing as I looked down below,
On the ground where the roots show,



Low I am the Yogi who contemplates Mt. Meru at the seams,
As Kali grips and Vishnu dreams,
I give great ascetic sacrifice,
And the thought of 7 Shesha comes to mind makes you think of Shiva unrefined,
I look to the pillar of unending size,
Realizing that thought is a play I’m inside,



Low I Merlin did walk out into the woods,
As the Morrigan crowed out where the old tree stood,
Alone I sat then and had to hunt so soon,
And the thought of 9 years in solitude makes you think I’m a loon,
My body did sit under the tree,
Until the tree stood up to dance for me,




Low I Imhotep did sit inside a temple,
As Isis and Nephthys guarded my ritual body ample,
With incense burning my mind lets go,
And the thought of 9 in symbolled ankh makes you think I resurrect from low,
Wadjet brought me to stare at the walls of old,
As the pictures move and the story takes hold,




Low I Zarathustra went out to the hills,
As Ahura shines down his blessings and takes away ills,
The lonely moment sings me glories,
And the thought of 7 six helpers and one great god makes you think of happy stories,
As my perception gives targets anew,
I order the world into good and bad too,




Low I am Aeschines who did Sabazios’ rites,
As the horseman inside to serpent I did fight,
With ecstasy reaching its highest height in ritual,
And the thought of 8 from the bronze hands might make you think I am infinitely whole,
As the drums ring inside me,
Am I still only just me,



Low I am Fintan who did wait for the fish,
As the Morrigan makes me wait for my dish,
With booming mind I create the invasions stories,
And the thought of 7 from the years might make you think I am of older root,
As the visions ensue I feel madness,
But after bring back wisdom in grandness,


Low I am Orpheus descending to hades after long sail,
As the guard dogs of Hades give rise to my tale,
With poems beautiful I tell of the doomed in omega,
And the thought of 7 speaks of my harp might make you think harmonia,
As the quest takes me to the edge,
I know who and what I really am,


Low I am Christ hanging on the cross,
As the legionnaire stabs me I sigh with great loss,
With blood trickling down to where grows fungi clear,
And the thought of 12 speaks of my disciples might make you think of the months of the year,
As the curtain rips in the great temple,
I bring religion back to of the people,





Low I am Itzamna old man of the boundaries,
Where I take men to animal forms like metal in foundries,
My eyes dazed in trance do look to the horizon,
And the thought of 3 speaks of times gone makes you think of lost eras denizens,
As the trance drum beats into my ears,
I lose all concept of primal fear,






Low I’m Lao Tzu as I journey west,
Where I argue tao as like a jester makes jests,
My words echo truth from natural flow gained,
And the thought of 8 sets of universal frames makes you think of 64 pairs in your brain,
As thought becomes only a vehicle to breathe,
Like a human being trying to find life concept esteem,


Low I’m Siddhartha as I realize my trap,
From emotions of entanglement I make my personhood map,
My words say there is a place to obtain in thought,
And the thought of 9 virtues so strong makes you think of nirvana and what was sought,
As contemplation becomes my tool to perceive,
I find my way back to be universally freed,


Low I am Medea of the old goddess,
When hero appears he will make all a mess,
The marriage the start of my beliefs enslaved,
And the thought of 3 brings up my children makes you think only 1 of them lived,
As new heroes kicked out the old heroes help,
A punishment for breaking an era’s time belt,






Low I’m an early hominid as I walk over plains,
As I seek more vision I go into caves,
With thousands more years I will play all those stated above once raised,
But in hindsight will be looked down on for cultural praise,
As food and hunting mixed language and action,
I will build the legacy of following traction,


I am Shaman in all of these forms,
I am Mystic hear my roar,
I am the sorcerer man of outside at my core,
Though I have barely changed over time,
I bring in new ideas in form and kind,
So when the last me falls away,
A new prophet stands to say,
That man will not slip back to ruin,
And will gain the advantage of thought going through it,
But always metaphor and concept my speech,
Should limit my power and what is believed,
But always this breakthrough seems to be received,
On which experiential chaos is a need,
To mimic death and make the seed,
Of restoring life in the being,
So models of afterlife in hindsight sought,
Maybe the common theme tie not,
Of cultures strung so far apart,
Maybe similar towards the start,
And the humans learning in today should see this as an inspiration game,
To find that we are part of the same,
And creating these people with politics instead of prophet named,
Then of course the common people feel the bore,
Of all the pressure brought from before,
Yet in this game they never scored,
And when they did were killed once more,
Like Zeno’s tale make score,
Of how intellect made a stand,
In not one but thousands of lands,
And at the end we still route lies,
Because one answer they say is the only truth,
Like a bad narrator who only can move,
By repeating the same over to you,
Then in the end they are all partial truths,
Leading to the scientist today and what they do,
So question the preacher who says it always was,
Question the historian for his anachronism loves,
Question the skeptic for being skeptic,
Question the moment and what is in it,
And when the questions get to be too much,
Look back at what you’ve learned all of,
And laugh for any man above was just as lost in bacterium,
The thoughts all add to single sum,
That we are just as magnificently and in all spectacular-ness dumb,
Just as lost now as when we were before,
Just fifty as many facts entering our door,
And then we realize we don’t know what’s in store,
Because cultures message doesn’t blind us to overview of all any more…




Sean Stutzman

Lady of the Fabric

Have you tried to find her name?
In every country she is the same,
For nothing but the entirety,
Is in that title in which to see,
With weaving looms and distaffs she always was truth,
That the sibyls would sing of in every one of the sooths,
The lady who grouped the hunters in large,
To politics origin and societal stars,
Yet our ancestors had trouble with this wisdom,
As why our after stories blame woman there in,

For best preserved tale is mighty Gullveig,
The archetype witch from the start of the play,
The great lady of seidr who all gods fear,
As before them she was and her power unclear,
For as with the Norn’s she was primal,
The ideas of her only being found in festival,
For as she gave the gift of craftiness,
They questioned if bonds it would break in home nests,
The togetherness of the god’s was challenged by her perception,
Something that was intended from her giving direction,
For they thought she could change their very minds,
Just by acting in certain ways and kind,
That made the societal lines blurred with contraries,
And Odin in his rush to keep inside his boundaries,
Burned her three times and killed her dead,
Yet beyond him she was manifested,
Coming back she cursed his folly,
In Ireland the same happened with the king Arthur or his predecessor of holly,
Saying that from his actions lead to the ending,
Later learning the runes he heard his own damning,
That because his choices from when he was young,
Were rash and ill-founded by what had been sung,
Even with him causing the first war he was too young and dumb,
To know he would undo himself when all is done,

For problems of vengeance and nemesis are built when you’re young,
When your attitudes brash and trouble comes controlling your tongue,
And Odin built the problems if we find Loki eats her heart,
Although conflict legends are inside that part,
A fruit which I claim to be the mother’s fruit,
Maybe because it makes sense to the experience I have been through,
Something Loki plays the bad guy in route,
Of what the Norn’s fabricated in the beginning dew,
Carving in to the fabric so none could undo,
That the primal nature of man that which is of the wild becomes the doom,
As we forget that we have come from there all too soon,

For all the giants are representing natural force,
Even why they have to help the god’s by choice,
Like when Thor needed Grid they wouldn’t survive without them,
A fact that the female Giantess’s have the meads with which bring god send,
And points to idea that the chieftains of long ago woefully accepted her bow,

The vehicle that Odin hung nine days for,
That he wooed the Giantess in the mountains deep for,
That he drilled and risked his very life,
Against her father’s powerful natural pride,
Gaining the mead of poetry that only had been around,
When Gullveig brought it or when Kvasir was found,
That sang poets to heights that was unattainable by all,
And you realize that from nature and wyrd come these calls,
To the primal song from the world mother,
The source outside of humans a force of the other,
For if Asgard is the idea of human regulation,
And Odin is spirit in constant contemplation,
Alfenheim the seat of the natural god’s and forces,
Who from catalysts vehicle for divinity were riding hogs and horses,
The Giants were the terrifying force of the outside,
Why the witch goddesses seem to be on both sides,
Matched to the thought Midgard and Asgard are in human bounds,
Then the Vanaheim and the Jotuns are the wildness around,
So from this outside the kings were wary,
For the ladies of galdr had power beyond any,
These witches could steer the world to order,
Even though for their wisdom they were at nature’s border,

Yet this matches Ma’at and Demeter and Hecate too,
The women of the early age traveled and gave us truths,
That heroes would base there real life journeys too,
An action that meant they needed the witches is proof,
And that this was why all the meeting places match their power too,

For isn’t late Athens funny in such great irony,
As they banned women from their company,
Yet who was the lady that got honored always first,
Even sharing myth to Roman’s who gave Hestia her dues,
Who was the being of law and justice?
Mighty Zeus or Jupiter in all his auspiciousness?
No for they all are the primal mothers,
Females control all that was,
A thought with Rhea makes you understand,
Females gave us freedom from the bondage of powerful men,

For often we forget to hear,
That she hid Zeus away clear,
That she was the changing force that made the god’s overthrow the Titans,
By being the sentimental mother to care for her kids,
The next age of god’s came to begin,
Something Mother Mary did for new sin,
That the masculine forcing of religion did send,
Then no wonder the men tried to hide women away,
Because the kings realized how much control they can sway,
For theirs is a bond of love that cannot be severed,
Though Middle Eastern disruption made her an evil queen of heaven,

Yet forgot that once Yahweh married her with blissful lyre,
Then cast her out when influence could come from rival sire,
Funny that her trees were the gift that could have helped the west stay sane,
And instead they took up Alcohol and then Dionysus became her bane,
So then even pagans made her rites have male face,
Funny when Apollo takes over Gaia’s home for myth to track the chase,
And then Pan the male to marry for her becomes more of a figure,
As the rites of her initiation become more and more obscure,
Becoming the entire identity to the idea of nature,
Something that was always feminine even with Artemis holding place,
And showing that male religions had taken a domineering face,
Something understandable as war became life’s function,
Too sad we pushed more to kings at this juncture,
And the ideas of fertility no longer had heroes making journeys,
For the cults were the last strongholds of her gift,
The places the Christians converted demolished claiming sin,

Yet if only their heads could have been turned to see,
What in the myths of their rivals preserved in theme,
They were the next Odin’s burning Gullveig just with new skin,
And for this reason they had created Baldr to die for all to weep,
Yet without meaning to in doing birthed the new Loki’s in there sweep,
For yes Loki is simplistic in view,
Topically in flyting,
Yet he is the Jotun force left still in our mentality called Asgard,
The force that will undo the world at large,
Yet Odin and all play out what is fate,
For the primal females knew of the date,
That Odin would try so hard to be past Ragnarok,

That without meaning he would create his problem from within,
Loki when coming in the time of the god’s is nothing but irritating corrective sin,
But when the god’s have left all of nature to fend for itself,
Took all Idduns apples and drank deep the meads,
Had put everything into only human beings,
That primal man in us all becomes the greatest bane to the gods,
A warning that should scare us,
As we deal with religious extremists,
For the Norse’s warning system should make us recall,
To a scary idea of when society falls,
That because the giants always lose up to the end day,
That maybe in the myths a warning was hid in this way,

Matched to the Irish with the Formorian’s gives Badb’s warning,
For the great lady has much better words then I,
When she speaks of a time when the world entirely wants to cry:

I shall not see a world that will be dear to me.
Summer without flowers,
Kine will be without milk,
Women without modesty,
Men without valour,
Captures without a king.
... ... ...
Woods without mast,
Sea without produce,
... ... ...
Wrong judgments of old men,
False precedents of brehons,
Every man a betrayer,
Every boy a reaver.
Son will enter his father's bed,
Father will enter his son's bed,
Everyone will be his brother's brother-in-law.
... ... ...
An evil time!
Son will deceive his father,
Daughter will deceive her mother.[11]





We sit inside the trap we set,
A cushy plastic fast holding net,
The ending speaking our Freudian web,
That says inside the mind subconscious gives revolting bed,
That means we’ve all been put into being,
The bane of all the nine worlds in meaning,
The old blaming the changing ideas of the youth,
False words from prophets at our cultural sooth,
Money making us all betrayers,
And ambition making the young reavers,
We turn on computers and see those enter beds,
That are unimaginable in real life heads,
Then a horror show of the primal is what we have,
Even if polished up by medicines and baths,
The build up to the Norn’s setting Loki and Fenrir free,
An idea matched to Global Warming,
For once resource becomes strain in the halls of the gods,
Then the challenges of the wild will come back a hundred strong,
And poor Freyr trying to give us food,
Will fight the fire giant that used to rule and consume,

As they both die the Amazon comes to my mind,
And as the world comes back from great conflict,
The new man and woman now sit,
With survival all that governs them,
Inside what has always been the natural glen,
Underneath the great ash from where we began,
Where Gullveig’s bounty grows,
Where only heroes dare to go,
To heal the world and save its soul,
From the violence and primal nature man unfurled,
And as the god’s are built again she will be burnt anew again,
For she has seen this pattern before,
To histories we have no context for,
And again she will give us through reaching down to pick the root,
For our societal dance to again reboot…


Sean Stutzman

Hollow Man

Hollow man sits judging all inside of stores,
Hollow man sits seeking what are inside their doors,
Hollow man finds beauty in things he can use,
Hollow man doesn’t like certain things but never creates his own dues,

Hollow man can you only feel pain anymore?
Hollow man can you only be tame and in chore?
Hollow man can you really only act like the common?
Hollow man can you treat even your family as demon?

Hollow man I see what you really are,
A fool who no longer is amazed by the stars,
A fool who no longer enjoys little things,
Like speaking and hearing different ideas to sing,

Hollow man can you change if I give you holy tool?
I am afraid it would crush you into a frenzied drool,
I am afraid that feeling of wanting others to act like you,
Would unravel your context as the world spins around you,

Hollow man why can’t you let others be different,
It might be a problem of your own discontent,
And if you could release from the tortures placed on you,
Would you then be able to treat others with kindness too?


Hollow man we have finally reached an age,
When those beat down come back in acceptance with cage,
Where your behaviors look ridiculous dressing up in a play,
And then the reaction will be worse then what you first say,

Then Hollow man your duty to the world,
Is to learn adapt and start to mold,
And your ideas can try to moderate,
But your voice is no longer a dominate fate,

Then difference will be a blessing,
Culture will go back to the individual in passing,
And Hollow man you can finally feel full,
Not feel the need to lash out when it’s dull,
And then the infinity cavern of a hole,
Will be a small dent with a fulfilled soul,

Let the Age of the broad mind come back,
Let the Hollow feel whole from any ideas slack,
Let Balder out of his eternal rest,
And keep blind strife from slaying what we all love best…


Sean Stutzman

Heretics Dream of Truth

More change can come from the crazy few,
The dreaded end of societal views,
The modern born of the Dyson’s and Feynman’s,
The questioners of what there all is,
For we should erect and mold a counter group to large of a whole,
The check of balance to societal goals,
The Elders of the world untold,
So for the actions we side with are bold,
That truth can come through the smallest folds,


For as a creature we like to agree,
With the general peoples mentality,
Seeking order through dictatorial choice,
Yet minimizing individual voice,


Apollo’s order is our horse blinders put on in full,
To deft to hear Dionysus’s rebuttal,
For from the heretics chaos can begin,
Yet without them Majority can be criminal without sin,


Do we all wish to be more controlled?
Vlad Tepes’s wet dream manufactured,
No crime No poor No feud,
But you sure need to kill off those who “Just won’t do,”
Free will dies with perfect stats ringing truth,

Or should we be Laissez-faire,
Only looking for individual cares,
No demands No arrests No responses,
But then you can’t care for one another’s needs and wants,
Free will makes most things impossible taunts,

Well fine the middle must be the right truth to stop at,
But then the Buddhist problem rises up the vat,
Enlightenment can be reached but never clung to,
And middle ground landscape only lasts a minute or two,
No arguments, No division, No radical action,
But all the individual action becomes non-existent,

Ironically this makes Heretics new,
For which ever format out of those we choose,
Always clinging to the single we miss the big view,
And by looking big we neglect the few,
We strive for balance and middle ground truth for dictation,
Then break down the stability with humans living contradictions,

At best it makes us good in small groups,
At worst our machines of government concentrate people with troops,
But all the while the radicals smile,
Knowing they’ll be first to die,
First to defy,
First to strive,
The true martyrs moving history’s lines,
But our world destroys them from in front and behind,
For ask the common man to recognize the Rockefeller days,
Where the anarchist’s heroes don’t even have names,
Where the tyrants are called great innovators,
Yet the labor-march leaders are never spoken out for,

The people who setup what protects me and you,
Their names are lost but to only a few,
Their enemies built to look good from afar,
Get more respect from poisoned future political stars,
Lied to that we need them all,
Yet forgetting they need us or they are half as tall,
Half as strong,
Half as voiced,
Half way viewed,
And only having half choice,
Then they are leading us without our voice,

Shouldn’t we question that position like every power given?
Allowing checks and balances to spread within,
Protect us from megalomaniac voice,
Helping the common man by invested choice,

But now you see the Heretic has sprouted in me,
My truth will hold until the next seed,
When if my truth makes it to the top,
The next new me will go and rebuff,
Challenge and change my view,
Filtering the waters of culture by the few,
To allow the Heretic’s is our best que,
Yet listening might help hold us together like glue,
Either way we stay in the same kind of game,
But its beauty is when we enact to help what we look at with shame,
Our insanity of trying to solve every problem,
To solve it and novelty creates more stems,
The unending hydra comes from its den,
Let out the Herculean kind of men,
Then the heretic’s become our greatest god-send…



Sean Stutzman

Grim Reaper’s Symphony

As things did begin and come to be,
In universal symphony,
They seemed to seek an ending of self being,
Features changing like paintings rearranging,
When their point became unrecognizable to all others,
A change of traits to make fractal mothers,
We the apes claim it to die,
Maybe not getting our perception is why,

But what does that mean,
To think of things not yet seen,
Does a star falling apart not still exist?
Isn’t something there even after smashed by a fist?
In particle nebulas of dust,
The can now lays in the trash though holding is now bust,
Scattered over planets and pockets and place,
Discarded to break down in its final resting space,

Then the ape does too,
We are no different than the universe’s dew,
Breaking apart as festering rot seeks our flesh to come off,
Breaking down to dirt and pressuring to rock’s now aloft,
The insects feed on our bodies so slow,
Or we burn ourselves up and spread ash like snow,


So we don’t leave even after we are gone,
Your body sticks around after shot face down on your lawn,
Maybe that shows minds highest capacity in chemical,
Only seen now is that spirit is manageable,
We control life and can even choose to kill,
As endings are seen coming we put down wills,
This endless pull towards the fin,
The ending of the “Us,” that is in skin,

So there for the stars her skull shines of bone,
The perspective idea of the ape in form,
As super nova’s echoed she takes up the bow,
Striking each string with resounding flow,
Each change in feature she plays a new tone,
Each death brings on a fast flash of bone,
A picking begins with human life’s start,
Picking up speed at the creation of art,
The ape causing the greatest drama micro ever has brought,
The fiddle rings out chorus with screaming wails of thought,
The universe dances in new creation of form,
As it cast down the model dreamed up before,
The skeletal angel with wings deep as an abyss,
Looks down on each ape and lands a beautiful final kiss,





So that you can go back into the land,
Giving back strength to the land where you stand,
Energy to energy and notes continue to play,
Life’s making stories like a microcosm game of charade,
So don’t fear death join into her songs beautiful chords,
Create a sweet note so she is not bored,
One so different she never heard it before,
Long after the little ape isn’t recognizable anymore…
.



Sean Stutzman

Gothic Lullaby


Drink deep you lovers of the dark,
The rotting festering husks of spark,
The archers shooting down the lark,
The loiters of dark corners and groves sitting at parks,


We are the evil to those who seem,
Ok and complacent with reality,
Like Candide they are doomed in chasing the dream,
Never realizing their body was their true scheme,


Allowing for others to choose their woes,
Hating others for choices in clothes,
From this our strength grows,
As independent thoughts make our choices show,


For we are the dreamers who march dream to reality,
The deep thoughts from our heads become personal uniformity,
The paradox of death a muse to the soul,
For don’t Suicide models show beauty un-dulled,



Returning the deep thoughts from darker sides,
Breathing in our own ideas to our third eyes,
Black is for the true kings of life,
For we can gain inspiration from our strife’s,


We can be the devils, heroes, or vampires too,
Knowing the character inside needs let out from his zoo,
Too rebellious to sit back and except our “Normalcy,” doom,
Like spiders webs making identities from dark dreary looms,


So sing with me to the night:
Blood on my lips,
Dance in my hips,
Culture my foe I want to eclipse,

Night is my friend,
Darkness my end,
Death is my privilege not a fear to transcend,

Do what I want,
Drink deep my taunt,
The crimson in us all brings true desire in font,

Dark is my place,
Odd choices for my face,
It will be you at the end feeling like your land is disgraced,

Life carries on,
Death when I’m done,
Hopefully my drinking can go on and on,


So let our voice carry the world by what is true,
From perspective given from a negative view,
Could heal the lies brought by 1950’s life ques,
And abolish the absurdity from the modern view,


For we help those destroyed by experience,
Giving backing to the downtrodden and alleviating guilty consciousness,
We give new support to unpopular ideas,
Giving interesting plays on classical ideals,
So let the black lace fly,
Let the darkness die,
And let all in the darkness find each other in life,
So the freaks,
Ravers,
Emos,
Goths,
Bloodsuckers,
Witches,
Ghouls,
Warlocks,
Wizards,
Wolves,
Zombies,
Witch-doctors,
And even demons too,

Know our place is among one another,
And we are no longer the heretical few,
So stand up for true freedom inside,
And toss out their society driven convenience lies,
Find happiness in our dark little pride,
For we are the showing of personified mind.


Sean Stutzman

Fungal Reign

Have you felt the touch of the real lord of lords?
Have you felt the glow from the dark?
Have you found in death answers must be sought?
Have you felt the touch of the Forest?
The touch of the quiet Plains?
Where the end of life plays minds game?

Have you felt the kiss of the lady?
Have you watched them appearing after the rains impregnation?
Have you heard their voice like a shutter of the dead?
Have you felt the touch of the land?
Have you realized they shape the land we take from?
Have you felt them give you vascular and structural form?
Splitting from our ancestor millions of years before…

One point eight million years of different yet similar form…
From which the rest of life springs forth…
Like neural nets they give brain to world…
Give mind to the land and all its forms…

Have you learned the secrets of when we die?
Have you received the words trapped inside?
Are you still afraid of what lies beyond?
Or do you hear the voice from those before as they say fight on?


I wish that language comes to minds,
And gives birth to a new era of life,
With a passion for this blessed place,
Where rot brings life and death brings chase,
To an idea of giving humans wings,
Flying over lands only met in our brains,

So do you feel the fungal reign?
The fungal lords and their game?
Do you hear something beyond our touch?
For they built the other we try to clutch…
And gave saviors to hold dear when men lost much…


Let the hermits wander the woods,
Let me lead my path to the land once more,
And fear not their power over my body but grasp the illusion was only our story,
When thousands of other lived about and we chose to dominate and ignore…
And reach back to a life where religions were born…
But no longer punish actions people can’t adore,
We are all the children of thought,
Then ask if it was created consuming the rot...




Sean Stutzman

Following the Madman and the Forerunner

Mastery of twisted thought I came across your text long,
I saw the words I came to dream flexed in your songs,
I love the words for they come to my heart like fire,
Gibran you genius from before I hear your words and smile,
For almost what I had sung in heart in poetry your words beguile,
For intrinsically anyone as a single man you think your first to have your thoughts,

Then listening in to thoughts of past blows the lid right off,
And your ego smashed you realize that a mirror your voice is aloft,
The masks the same the scarecrow framed in metaphor I wished so bold,
A gift given by living with biblical tale a rebellion I myself sold,

But should I be shocked that a man before seems like minded in voice,
Even more in line I give praise as his life could be challenged by written choice,
I back this light for sage insight as Lao Tzu even said,
That even when a message of intelligence is wiped out and made dead,
The message doesn’t matter from in the same game you play,
So the truth will come back through from intrinsic forte,

For we are all the madman at a certain point of life right?
His message of 7 selves’ show where he thought the sage brought insight,
A message matched to classical wisdom,
As the people of the mind never do well in cultures kingdom,
The rights the wrongs the rules in full limit their imaginations,
The voice behind the sages mind is from hermitage of social instigation,

So why then if this voice echoes through histories halls,
Does the message get construed the learning made psychotically small,
For without those outside how do you know what inside,
How without the hermits of old do learn secrets from the tide,

For who else put wild-hermit-persons have time to watch the stars,
Who else but the man in the woods knows what lies outside the cultural jars?
And if removing this identity then the human frame because domesticated,
Something that steals the natural birth right of men into societies indoctrinated,

But Gibran gives hope for the future dopes,
Ones that many call anti-social lopes,
Bounding from knowledge to wisdom like tight rope walking daring,
Calling out the established frame like Shiva’s destruction blaring,
When brought back to societal frame he comes off as insane,
An insight in his title he owns with full acclaim,

For like he says of dog to cats how dare you pray for mice,
For when don’t they know the bones are what you need asked for when rolling dice?
A brilliant frame to say we are in the same game,
The deaths of thousands of mismatched beliefs now tracked can start to be tamed,

A message that we should look at in its first stage as its base foot,
For the bronze age never claimed they weren’t from the same root,
Just said as neighbors died and language changed they all forgot too,
Especially when priests from then never a single commoner was let to do,
The holy work or know the secrets except in smaller form,
Then when the empires fall the cults of ecstasy are reborn,

For this I lean back and laugh as he states the grave digger’s tale,
For who else but philosopher steps back to laugh as life fails,
Not in general of course,
But to his own frailty he recognizes the power in force,
That death is a thread that every man has,
Making trivial long time dreams and material to be had,
One that shows the heretics forever bring discourse,
For as with Nietzsche the word must be from all class,
Or else the one sided arrangement of Pergamum makes civility an ass,

More built on title and fancy made up shirts,
Lost are the people of the outskirts,
Like medieval premise damning the common serf as pagan,
Yet blessing fields and waving staffs acting just like them,
A motion that when tracking popes makes your skin crawl,
For the power mongers of old still hide and condemn with brawl,
Then ask in Europe no Christian togetherness is found,
And realize that the elite of before killed the other St Bartholomew’s Massacre unbound,

Then see the names that match the industry like Medici show their style of faith,
That god was for nobility the early Christian apologists made wraith,
For all they had read that the festival were of old,
All of them knew the symbolism and lives lost so bold,
All of them controlled the serfs with words hiding concept,
A trick that should be watched as it has roots from before Imhotep,


So I align with Gibran a man of outside stance,
The man running to the future by more than happenstance,
But the future from models so very old has to burn down the presently formed,
Meaning that even by looking to the past the new ideas are adorned,
And that when in reference you create new concept never thought before,
A thing so normal it seems impossible as then from where comes lore,
But totally inherent when you realize it is you imprinted to the words,
Why when using his writing I build my thoughts his words trees the writing my brain the birds,
For insight is built on the revelation of before,
So by greatest build up downfall is instore,
And when falling down the greatest potential is re-engorged,
Probably why most men of thought were at one time idiot servant from books stored,

So to the man I tip my hat an outsider from before,
And build in his legacy a model of the same score,
Maybe my words are different,
Maybe they are same,
But the of course have different flavor coming from out my brain,
For men have thrown out those of the wild inactions they said were bold,
But without the hermits of the world how will the future be foretold?




Sean Stutzman

Existential Chaos

We build our worlds on patterns and play out their game,
Like cyclical motors of behaving collections acting the same,
Yet each of us has our own responses to how to be tame,
Based on
Race,
Size,
Employment,
Religion,
Philosophy,
Up-bringing,
Chemistry,
Geographic’s,
And Life Content,

Yet moral’s do not withstand time and space,
The same rule given 2,000 miles away has a completely different face,
So then we stare the monster in the eye before we are chased,
That freedom of choice has staggering pace,
Fecundity itself has a funny place,
Only limited by patterns of physical space,
So anything is possible is definitely quite true,
Yet absolutely absurd to me and to you,


The damning part where our brain sits in argument,
That infinities are possible yet beyond determinant,
So then we are crushed with what is really true,
It comes down to how much control you give in to,
And how much comparison our primate brain can do,

Then really knowing we have barely touched introspect,
The greatest vehicle of the existentialist,
We know that we have barely scratched the crust,
Of the possibilities of the groups not so robust,

For if we could all live in Epictetus’s view,
While balancing Epicurus’s living for you,
Why a great world would be there for me and you,
But would then be swallowed by the ignorant few,

For great wisdom comes from Laozi,
Telling Confucius you are a genius for peace and truth,
Yet the other governors around you don’t hold your same views,
So inevitably your utopia will be diffused,

For anything is possible,
Yet some things are not,
Then life should be held from a virtue tie knot,
Unfortunately policing soon will ensue,
And duality’s chaos will come back a new,
That is why sages seldom do,
Work directed to the few,
For cyclical action is a pattern of truth,
That means change is the only constant,
Only our perspective can be renewed…

So then comes the hardest question:
If this is my life,
What do I want to do…

Sean Stutzman

Drums Do Call


When I hear their laugh it calls me back,
To a dream of a life in my dreams,
To a land that makes my mind shudder,
From the beauty I can’t recall,

Let my mind dance as my body would move,
Let my inwards view become my out,
Let the world hear my inner voice,
Calling hello to the trees as I pass,

For though they stop their chuckling,
My brain never loses their reminding call,
That life is a voyage,
And that my player is of it all,

I hear my elders call to me,
In languages I can’t recall,
But every voice shimmers like the striking head,
Answering my soul to their stories,

No I am not one person,
Not even in design,
A million images and cells create me,
My mind built on ancestors faults in time,

For should I answer back,
Play out their droning calls,
Or should I move to embrace them,
As each mallet falls,

I shall move my rhythm to the world’s song,
Though only one man in influence,
A demonstration of character to all,
For in my world so far from their song,
I move to answer them in turn and call,
Let all who were and all who will be dance to the drums song,
And from all will come one species song banging into the vacuum,
A symphony so brilliant it only sounds as one planets bond,
Like a page of sheet music from my dream world,
How many others abound…



Sean Stutzman

Druid’s and Thunder Wizard’s Call

Inside my modern walls of white,
Under florescence I sit with eyes so wide,
Like a pawn of some distant game,
So low down I couldn’t complain,
But panic I feel inside my mind,
For escape out to the wild it searches to find,
But time ruled over me I am sure to fall,
Short of this primal call,
For we of the modern heed no song,
From when birds gave directions even if wrong,
When great gifts were given up for the earth to fell something back,
A sentient guilt filled emotion sack,
For though terror was a vehicle to be displayed,
Think of what went from their angle in play,
Giving up today what tomorrow could give plenty,
Unfortunately when panic gripped a human they believed gods envy,
The life force back but never it saved,
A testament to the human mentality being raised,


Then the modern lords of the storms fall,
Should heed the old trinities call,
For spirit gives motion to all that is fun,
Yet mind steers the ship to what needs done,
And still passion is the goal the ship sails for in sum,
All are needed for great men’s actions to be run,

So see the actions from Odin’s spirit,
Heed the mind of Thor inside it,
And let Freyr’s passion give you courage,
To take on the day to day with all its mirage,
For let any opposition feel your strength,
Like the Irish trinity and their rank,
So Dagda’s spirit gives you an endless well,
Ogma gives you writing and learning to dwell,
And Lugh lord of craftiness and passion will be you,
No matter what calamity comes to pierce through,
Built on the best things that make men free,
You will be the intertied comb of the Morrigan’s bee,
The great weaved net of Ran,
The Norn’s web of reality held together most grand,
So even as destiny gives you breathe,
You remember that you are finite a soon to be death,


Then life is beauty like none could know,
Yet every day before their eyes the scenes are shown,
Like lost ants we scramble out to the mountain tops,
Where the wild and wyrd flow right through us,
Fool’s called the action unmanly during horrors reign,
Yet our ancestors were threatened and so into the waters they were shamed,
And killed for being what nature always asked for,
A thought to consider her part of our life force,



For the Morrigan gives you how we steer,
On modern thought connected to Morrigan Le fay it is unclear,
In Arthur she is made to be a demon,
A force that temps and then does him in,
Yet this is patriarchy acting without calling the man’s faults,
For with the Lady he laid of his own need to under waltz,
His male drive leading him to primal insight,
The experiential queen took revenge on his mind,
And when he had risen to the top,
Well Mordred stood to make his reign stop,
A problem he himself did start,
Yet it shows in leaders we do not make them smart,
Until matured to the ways games impart tactics,
Yet funny their culture made nature a villainous faction,
Yet shows how unlearned being in a church box makes us,
The problem of all belief with no experience makes a tease to so called lust,
Yet ironically the bastards obsess while repressing it,


For a balance should be heard from these great Dukes of the past,
When the skalds and the fili’s sang out with bards at their grasp,
When always men who are mystics have been held down by those,
Who barely dip their toe as into the deep they can’t go,
Then we will forever be the alchemist outside,
The Isis of nature our beautiful bride,
One who gives everything yet takes our bodies inside,
Her beauty shining through the darkness of death,
Yet irony to the modern a skeleton is her other half,


Like ladies of the mead cup being hidden away,
With our heads laying down and intoxication in sway,
To my lips I raise the horn,
With sips I’ll be reborn,
Like heroes of old,
I’ll make my mold,
Merlin’s gift will be my shield,
A sword in which I only wield,
To the likes of Oscar, Oisin, and Bragi I will become,
The poet sitting under sun,
The breath of speech,
My ladies of muse give me reach,
My hour done I hope they beseech,
The gift of Emain and Avalon’s gates,
Immortality given with silver staff raised,
Though no magic paradise just an imprint of I at end phase,
As I risked what they did on the fairy mounds daze,
As the feeling takes hold hearing the starting calls of the hounds,
Where the dead give voice and the hounds let out howl,
Is the point of dread with dead I find the owl,
Great teacher of knowledge she smiles out bright,
Tied to the runes and magic of subcultural might,
The ladies who like great mothers gave the world voice,
As through the trees their herald brings choice,
The dis and fylgja sing your heart to action,
The inter connections of your web require your impaction,
Let the song of Untamed sing my Fox spirit connection,


For though smart enough to understand that sacrificing men,
It is not the game of the wild or a way to win,
Then Bran and Arthur need not die in caves of mountains deep,
And wicker men no long blaze in nights so disdained in steep,
Then why did we forget the beauty of the groves,
The entire idea of why they sacrificed in the stoves,
For we only need to wonder back into the light,
Sitting in a mountain valley we tuck up for the night,
The stars around and fire growls as twinkling specks of sight,
And in the silence with only us we feel the pull inside,


We are the hunters the walkers in the wild,
We are the wild men no longer let outside,
We are the metaphors of Tom Sawyer’s and Merlin’s,
We are the wilderness breathing life back in,
For as I sit in my special glen where no one barely goes,
The creek bounces off the rocks and the spirit seems to flow,
And I sit back to the side as fungi greet my eyes,
For in gulches like these are where tears fell from our ancestors tries,
And a calling to give back the guardianship of what was meant from strife,
The sanity given back into the mind of sacrifice,
For now we wander out into the trees,

But each outing we hear more in the breeze,
Realizing our place is not in a box of manly needs,
Like the druids take silver branch to Manannan’s creed,
Like the Thunder Wizards hang for Odin’s fate,

And then you’ll see her the maiden of the mead,
The reason for great poets,
The reason I wish to keep apiaries,
The maiden who after great turmoil through dead halls,
Sits inside the otherworld waiting to be called,
By the man who tries to be more than himself,
The man who through even death he seeks others health,
And by bringing back wisdom hides the gift like the volva sang,
For this gifts secret was to be lost as Odin in spirit could not contain,
And the passion of Freyr gave up his sword his great rage,
As passions love finds bed only with threat not creating cage,
And Thor in mind will die as the serpent of knowing is challenged,
The end a given weeping for poor lovely Sif,
For Thor knew his duty and still wrestles death,
Even in halls not of his father’s breath,


And as Bres was beat by glowing Lugh,
So we must find truth,
That oppression is not worth efficiency in long,
A truth poor Nuada died from Balor on,
As drought beat rain inside the game,
And the heroes have to rally past shame,
And a beaten Bres is lying to save his own skin,
Saying that forever super production can win,
Our passion Lugh smashes his lies with his spear,
Something that won’t tolerate cruelty, lies, or sneers,
Or the falsehoods of leaders who terrorize the common,
As Lugh was to become the hero of the Tuatha Dé Danann,



So may I be a man to reach to the mounds,
Where sea eagles ate my ancestors and where spirit is found,
To the mountains where the meadows crown,
Our mistress of the wild sounds,
Where entry seems to remain,
To Avalon or the great Emain,
And as I sacrifice doubled vision,
By giving physical initiation,
I will sit in the pose,
The one Freya taught and the Morrigan chose,
With silver branch in my hand I will walk to go,
Where few are allowed and only the wise chose to know,
To the gates of Tech Duinn to the hall of Donn where all men will be shown,
Past the Bull rock into the earth you will flow,
And as the darkness comes to claim,
Whisper love to balanced ladies of Emain,
The Lady of the Lake and The Lady of the Fay play their chess to compete,
And Lugh if champion brings back the seed,
So all men can know when to plant and be freed,
And the balance of our favorite Brìgid,
Cannot be the soul mentality made rigid,
She needs her balance a lady we threw out with spurn,
Stabbed with spears and tried to burn,
Cailleach may scare me and you,
But a fair rule for all worlds like Freyja balanced by Jord in poem known as She-Wolf,
One needs the other or else each other they would consume,
And all men would fall to ruin,
The fianna’s call rings in my ears,
Perchta’s groups put on masks to counter fear,
And the rays of Aine also named Sol gave us the word for what is inside our hearts,
The Soul given beauty from Flidias’s fruit,
From the Aurochs dung the first poems came to root,
Something I ponder on but I grip like fog,
And hope that my action my poetry will imprint me in Tír na nÓg…


Sean Stutzman

Dróttkvætt (Lordly Verse) of Reason for Nature



Cultures Culminate,

Culling Cults Causing Pain,

Controlling Conscience,

Condemning Counselling,

Yggdrasil draw downward,

Draft Dramas Deeming Truth,

Beacon man Back nature,

Acknowledge Actual life …

Drink

Her beauty is that ^ of legends of old,

So soft I am almost damned to touch her,
Her eyes dart as the cut glistens,
She bites her lip as the flow comes,
I twitch with unimaginable love,
She is the taste I cling for,
She is the life,
Love,
I,
Drink,
Bite,
Lick,
Her life a trickle,
The passion moves from her to me,
My passion brings her to me my minds ecstasy

Dreaming The Dream Back To Life

As splashing hills meet rolling waters,
Forests of mountains mixed with mountains of forest,
I often find myself dozing,
Dancing lazily in the sky,
I feel it is still more than what people say and lie,
For dreams echo the choices contributed in our minds,
Yet I question the material of my mind,
For if only for a second I start to see the blending of symbols,
The construction of ideas,
But instead I find the moral,
The lesson,
The agenda from inside,
For I think we are made into an agenda of the mind,
Dreams can be a requiem inside of our own minds,
The insistent buzz of questions hovering just inside,
Built as a cover to deny the real world and life,
Sad thoughts creep but cannot leech me and I look back and see,
The rainbow trees the chimpanzees,
And our friends on the inside,
But there is a goal to make theft our dreams,
Immature response to feeling real things,
There is an agenda of the waking to control the subconscious,
To use chemicals to ostracize inspirational contact,
How arrogantly we hold to materialistic things,
For if there were a goal of what we need to be,
It sounds from our subconscious in one phrase:
"Are you feeling guilty?"

For even the killer has nightmares,
The Sadist still gets scared,
And the sociopath takes drastic action to keep it in the means he cares,
Just lost lights dancing out shadows from inner despairs,
Our lack of control is true beauty,
Our undertone realized,
That your brain is optimizing your most intricate,
And simple desires from inside,
For if the man does watch his acts and does not reason action in time,
Stuck forever in an instant locked to memory is his mind,
So let us claim back the circle of last nights dreams,
Lets realize that hallucinations of culture are never quite what they seem,
Let us hold the messages to be outside,
For in epicurean discourse we find true natures mind,

So the waking wish to conqueror the dreams from inside,
But only through letting go do you finally walk with the tide,
Your feet teaming with delight,
As cheer brings metaphoric sunlight,
For courage echoes feeling,
Feeling echoes love,
And the dream world is the playground of our illusion world,
I say this in opinion,
Because what I see is now that I love my dreams I keep asking,
How is it I inspire to be,
The very me inside the bubble tossed by the sea?
For each day I try to be the one who echoes out with life,
For I will dance with our psyche generator and balance living strife,

No defined path can access the correct means for any person,
Your road is your road,
Your thoughts your thought,
And while we claim to be real and here,
The dreams seem more accurately poised,
Not for reality but the hidden sight behind it all,
You can't call it intent,
You can't give it form,
It isn't some deity,
For you to try to absorb,
It is purpose the underlying call,
Even the simplest ant has survival on its call,
So guilt then echoes the beauty of our minds,
To self correct define and understand our root desire for life,
The animals act the personal charms,
The people can act like animals living on farms,
And all the while the sandman smiles,
Knowing that we see how we would like to see,
We feel how we want to feel,
So this dream me is more me than myself,
Beyond hunger,
Beyond survival,
Beyond the normal constructs simply aligned,
But instead I feel the dream is real,
The champion is me,
The story sometimes is not even mine,
But my true form rises with each victory,
Recycles with each loss,
Yet all the while my phoenix resurrects my emotions that come at cost,

For the dream is more real than me,
The archetype is true desire,
For our brain works as a story,
The story is hard to find,
But if we can find it the good in us revives,
Yet modern man thinks that dreaming is so dull,
We did study after study to ratify a chemical reaction for sure,
Yet this dispels the magic point of how to still explain,
When your brain goes down at night,
No loss of function for the drag,
Instead of resting why does it then defrag?
Psychology cannot except in the evolving mind,
Because it would have to except internal subconscious insight,
A path that leads back to that not explained,
Something we should all agree to disagree now that religions are tamed,
But we will keep up the quarrel,
And use microscopic arguments on both sides,
It seems that partisan politics are bleeding into our minds,
For we stand divided on issues never known at all,
Forgetting that prophets rise as civil morality falls,

A single voice and message can act like a glue,
But accepting diversity in actions make opposites bond to you,
So resurrect your phoenix and discard the faulty lies,
We can only hold opinions up to opinioned eyes,
For if the story echoes from each others messages spreading,
Then accepting how special these things are is a needle in need of threading,
For I claim my ideas to hold up all at once,
But others would see me as a lazy anti-socialite dunce,
Too caught up in the long term,
To linked to dreams and sights,
But I would challenge them on any topic,
Devil’s advocate any point,
And the absolutist’s greatest dreams disappear to dust,
Showing their actions were not hearted but born out of reaction for power lust,

So be your dream realistically and hold yourself composed,
Those that are unmoving are already half way closed,
We can hold the world to oh so many dreams,
And see how even through the bad a new world seems to gleam,
But megalomaniacs are the demons that sit between the seams,
Needed to change,
Needed to upset,
But the actions of a few despond the sustainability of most,
Those evil actions linger like unresolved ghosts,
They will only be nightmares if we supplement them with boasts,
Claiming effectiveness in action,
While legislating the problem to a fraction,
No civilized state is forever,
The pride of those that claimed it almost always brings disaster,
For humanist dream and act without hearing the other side,
Do we act on everything?
Does that make every action alright?
Should we sacrifice the planet to some deistic force?
Because that is what we are doing in many different names,
The message is the same past the pagans ending with Yahweh,
If he said do anything yet listen to my rules,
What contradicting idea do we display the most,
For you can want your dream to play out and be real,
But in the end it’s the system of ordinance not divinity you feel,
I could be wrong I'll state that fact without even a flinch,
But tell me this what can you say when Ragnarok ensues,
When revelations is upon us and the world is in constant feud,
The lord or lords would descend ready for the fight,
Only to discover that human corpses are left with dust shining in the light,

For will our mother turn and croak?
Not a chance at all,
She'll frown for a million years and then smile as life regrows,
Her endless life springing back from cellular repose,
For bacteria can withstand the chill of space,
They only need good conditions in the right place,
Our mother the natural arbiter of both,
DNA refreshes with new improved growth,
It would almost seem that man did agree to stay within the boundaries of our world’s life tree,
But dropped responsibilities of bringing the animals up to be free,
But allowed shallow panic to allow for cities made of death,
Supposedly imbued with a force of divine breath,
Instead I see casualties in a war,
The burnt up bodies of rocks, deer, and wild boars,
Like Hitler's graves the skyscrapers stand with human guards about,
Self-consuming they are hoping to justify their right to power,
Imprisoning and killing those with doubts,
For what else then a politician calls his opponent a pessimist,
When his whole view comes from gloom and doom but likes promoting it,
Just as brainwashed and reluctant of the power battles within sight,
We will continue more action out of pure fright,
We are meant to leave we are meant for flight,
But sprinting at the beginning of a marathon leaves all muscles overly tight,

Your vision gets telescoped and your mind becomes impulsive,
That is supposedly the responsible discourse for advances?
Again I laugh and smile and say you will answer the question to make it feel right in your brain,
Yet the ending of species the crashing of riots insane,
You tell the Bushmen they are irresponsible,
That they have no idea how to play the game,
Yet they are sitting back laughing knowing we will end the same,
Back to the beginning for rushing through the play,
So here at this point I marry in my dream,
To bring up the animals in evolutional being,
To bring all animals to sentient,
To survey the planets malcontent,
To raise up carbon life to be,
The poetry that our myths speak to you and to me,
Not the arrogance of creating a human paradise,
That of a loss,
But instead allowing the flow and movement of the progression of life,
To create the aforementioned garden of no strife,
As we generate new ideas new thoughts,
We must balance and handle the old,
For life is a pro-generator for capacities,
To handle the new novelty the world must utilize more human beings,
Which would suggest that we are natures answer to the gaps,
It breeds conquest for our own new conjectures,
Yet disregarding all forms of real stability,
For if our life is meant to be,
A job, a car, and family,
Then all life is losing is its desired flavor,
Like penned cows and pigs we live inside our lives,
The highest obesity levels,
Yet not enough money on the inside?
So soon we will blame all on our poor "Disaster," bringing mother,
When really we should be hearing what’s wrong with one another,
For beauty is true trust for what can I say,
The most beautiful women ends up being the quick lay,
The simple approach braggadocious at most,
For when in nature do you see the chimpanzee cry,
Where does fear and loathing boil up inside,
Truly it is the archetypes of our own minds,
That allow them to move readily while we are caught inside,
For death has no exceptions,
He is a friend to me and you,
He is the one who recycles our world opens it anew,
To justify another idea is to be singing to the pews,
To make others operate on preconceived intensions,
For don't you think Paul's job easy,
To stand against the world with heart out beating,
Yet its easiest to remove your enemies argument with feud,
One that is way more easily poignant the more you demonize their view,
And allow for imperialist dictation we bitched at the British we do,
But culture will be the dying throws,
Of a life of living in others views,
Forgetting how and when all our ancestors got screwed,
For food will over produce and cause war,
War will activate patriarchal and matriarchal lore’s,
And again we will stand in broken response as the prophets push their inglorious words,
For all people can reach to insight even most subservient,
And one day they will stand over their masters,
Knowing every intimate detail to lead him to disaster,
For our country and lives will only go faster,
Leading the weak to damage the strong to sum,
So what kind of man will you become?
Giving that we are in the "Greatest," Empire of our sun,
What role will you have played when the masquerade is done,
Those who know that systems are faulty will continue dreaming past authority,
For we are the twenty percent unchallenged in schools and left for dead,
Called to be the problem but knowing what is instead,
I call for real progress with a clear head,
And dream the dream I know is really there instead....

Sean Stutzman