Capital Call

To partners limited, this is addressed,
or maybe members of a company.
The time has come, this notice that we give.
As partner, general, or as manager.
On partnership’s behalf, or company’s.
(Both in their turn, fed’rally taxed the same.)
Commitment that you made for capital.
Must fund a sum upon a certain date.
If not, dilution likely will result.
If you have questions, please don’t hesitate.
Please call us, then, and all will be explained.
Attorney will, in writing, extra charge,
all questions satisfied, pentameter,
the noun; iambic is the adjective.
The meter of each line that he will write.

Baltimore

My younger son, a story he recites,
of man in seaside town in Ireland.
In long ago, town by the Moors attacked.
From town, one hundred people were kidnapped
Sold in bazaars of northern Africa
as galley slaves, as harem’s populace.
Of them no news was ever heard again.
The story of the man who town betrayed,
a poem that he authored in his cell.
Who saw that through the Moors he could acquire
town for himself and for his family.
They tried him for his treason and condemned
to death. The means of execution strange.
Tied naked to a post near water’s edge.
Tide out, and in, up to his neck, each day.
Was left to die, whatever way was fine.
In spring time, water cold, and air was brisk.

“O’Driscoll mocks me, mercy he withholds.
He tells me of the way that I will die.
In poem form, perhaps, my soul will save:

‘For treason and your filthy grasping hands.
At water’s edge, to stake you will be tied.
Tried and condemned you are for avarice.
The waters rise to level of your chest.
With water, pilchards come to swim around
the stake, your legs. Your genitals consume.
These fish, with spell, enchanted they will be.
I bought a curse from woman in the woods.
The vial into the water’s edge I pour.
Attracts those fish, aggression does instill.
As water comes in with that first day’s tide.
These fish will come. They sense the greed you have.
The death that by a thousand cuts, such pain.
The pilchard trade you wanted for yourself.
Not normally carnivorous like that.
Their tortures you will live with ‘til you’re dead.
Their empty bellies only filled with this:
when they consume the means by which you fucke.
The means by which you thought to gain that trade.
My workmen sold as slaves to heathen scum.
Mistake you made to think your plan would work.’”

Sir Walter said this prayer unto his God:

“This, my confession, hope to save my soul.
My life is forfeit, fact, there is no doubt.
Bites from sardines until my groin does bleed.
When pilchards eat me, this world to the next.
My member gnawed, to heaven’s gate approach.
St. Peter will look down between my legs.
Remember, please, the night the cock crowed thrice.”

My son, each night, in tavern, he did hear.
These words, condemned and gloating, men repeat.
His soul is soft. For Coppinger he cried:

“No man should have to suffer awful fate!
I know that to the Moors he did betray.
Forgiveness we should give as we receive!”

I shook my head, his innocence betrayed.
Of justice, lacking in analysis.
God’s mercy is of course as infinite.
Fish bellies’ volumes: size of cock and balls.

Athena’s Magick Garment

Athena, magick garment sought to make.
My true love asked the goddess for a cloak.
Was woven from that thread as black as night.
Spun from obsidian by secret means.
The spirits in volcano spin and weave.
This thread they spin is woven into clothes
they wear when to the underworld they go.
Thus clothed, their ghostly visage disappears
behind the fabric wove from lava rock.

She asked for garment wove from inky thread.
Would wear it down to Hades to inquire.
Of midwife, doula, of her time of birth.
Astrologer, to question, riddle gave.
As answer to complete predictive chart.
Specific date and time to analyze.
In giving birth, her mother having died.
Once fell unconscious, never did revive.
Her mother, fleeting moment, could not bear.
For endless sleep, would wait to spend the time.
The doula, only one to know the hour.

Conversing with the spirits in their world.
Would not confer if living they believed.
If they perceive that you, alive, are there.
No mortal could obtain the thread they use.
Athena sent the Raven on a run.

“Obtain their thread by subtle means, direct.
In any case, the thread you must retrieve.
If spirits catch you, lava they will throw.
The presence of the living does enrage.
Their jealousy of blood that through your veins
still pumps, and pneuma, breathing, you possess.
They would the lava hurl as projectile.
So fly with haste, maneuver in the air.
Rocks burning, flying, hit you, they will kill.”

The Raven for Athena did retrieve.
In talons sharp, as maniac, he flew.
The thread for my love’s secreting disguise.
She never told me question she did ask.
Unto astrologer, the time submit.
She asked a question I would never know.
Was unrequited love I felt for her.
The question she would never ask of me.

The Dove

The joke: of true love, swallow is the bird.
The Raven’s true love was in fact a dove.
(At any rate, for swallow, was too large.)
In nature, non-enchanted, was this dove.
Her beauty rivaled that of any bird.
White feathers, lovely. Eyes, as doe’s, were black.
Her beak and feet, were blossoms peach in hue.
She walked demure among the temple birds.
Audacious peacocks with their feathers fanned.
Dove’s understated elegance compared.

In temple, lounged on bed, reclined to eat.
Athena’s bowl, with berries, it was filled.
From magick gardens, ate enchanted fruit.
Among them, strange in taste: the schisandra.
Picked from those trees in Asia’s northern clime.
Her careless hand knocked one from bowl to ground.
The berry rolled down steps to temple halls.
Dove strode through temple, with the other birds.
Enchanted fruit, our dove did see at feet.
As birds will peck at ground to eat a seed.
She ate it, and they opened all at once.
Her eyes perceived the world as made anew.
Gained reason as the Raven did from gods.

Until then admiration from afar.
His mind, no conjugation with brute beast.
Now with her reason gained, he did inquire.
He asked her to describe the waking up.

“Dear Raven, all the times we saw you pass.
Athena’s temple, we communicate
in bird-like way, in awe of your enchant.
You are so handsome, walk with her, admired.
With goddess dance, what use have you with birds?”

The Raven, skin beneath the black, blushed red.
Could holy bird love feathers black as night?

“I must confess that when I saw you pass.
Your figure caused my heart to skip a beat.
My curiosity of you was piqued.
At moment when I thought to take some act.
I checked myself, considered intellect.
Alone in world, as bird with mind of god.
Eschew a loving act with brutish beast.
Exploitative, my ethics contravene.”

The Dove, she blushed, attraction he expressed.
For days thereafter, they among the halls.
Of temple, rock was cool, and quiet, soft.
These two enchanted birds conversed in depth.
At last, concluding that the stars aligned.
The Raven told the Dove that her, he loved.

Raven King’s Mushrooms

Upon the bovines’ backs the birds do ride.
Most often color of their feathers: white.
Once, I did look to fields and saw him ride.
Black feathers, Raven King on Brahman’s back.
Wings folded and I knew him well enough.
Could see his smirk despite his rigid beak.
Born on a cow, I knew he carried news:

“Man, look to ground, from feces, dung, they grow.
I know revolting, dig in shit of cow.
With practice deft, from patty, you may pluck.
Small, brown, their caps do have distinctive shape.
Blue, white stems, color change when they are bruised.
Remember flower once carried in my beak?
Plants, sacred, healing, gifts of gods bestowed.
This mushroom on top shelf of pharmacy.”

Before I heard his words in croaking voice,
the fungus camouflaged from casual view.
Now that he noted, millions evident.
Picked bushels, would bear back to my abode.

When I ingest they disconnect that node
that frames my world, and helps me orient.
Some grooves in my brain worn by frequent use,
those paths would take me to a spiral down.
Re-frame perspective and would gain new view.
Let loose the story that you tell yourself.
You must release the narrative that binds.
For freedom, you re-frame with nature’s drug.

My friend, with feathers black, does minister.
Gods’ agent, to discharge his faithful call.

 

14.13

When I was young, he took me with him to the court.
We’re not in rags, those who appear before the king.
Miraculous that we were there but pharaoh never was in doubt.
It was not he who said these words. It was my father.
The king demanded sign to prove the truth of words.
My father did what he was told to do.
He cast his staff upon the ground.
I, by his side, had no idea what would occur.
In instant, quick, when struck the ground, became a snake.
His wizards all in practiced unison
held staves aloft to mock my father’s act
and all at once, to ground, they cast them down.
To snakes, their staves, all of them did transform!
The narrative does not at all relate this fact,
but all who witnessed these acts were so shocked.
Or else, would scream or run in terror.
Their shock or circumspection held them still.
A host of snakes now on the floor.
Aaron’s was aggressive. Moved quickly toward the others.
He ate them up. When finished, was completely full.
Snakes of the sorcerers, time to digest.

Now, upon the seashore, not my father’s voice I hear, but his.
From him, whose words seem always crazed.
Would not bear scrutiny but for the fact the words he speaks come true.
As well as snakes, I saw the frogs.
The water, blood, and gnats and flies,
and all those babies dead.
My God, what god is this who claims me as his own?
I cannot turn away but would.
Now on this seashore, to despair, the place where I would flee.
In my mind, all I see are writhing snakes!
How can it not be true?
It’s what I saw and now here with this man.
My father’s brother’s tripping balls.
(You know they knew of all that stuff back in the day.)
Would never follow crazed or drugged,
but damn, those fucking snakes!
Are all I see now in my mind, insane!
He stands there now on shore with arms outstretched.
It never is his staff he gets to use.
Magicians’ means, as tool for their dark arts.
His tools: his hands, those hands that God did make.

Upon my cheek, the east wind starts to blow.

 

Ceiling Fan Attack

So often lie in troubled slumber in the night.
Insomnia: sleep comes only with the morning’s light.
Sometimes the demons also trouble me.
But this night, my tormentor: entropy.
A sudden crash, from slumber, wide awake.
Uncertain source, my thoughts go first to horror!
Wide-eyed peeking from under sheets to door.
See nothing but of course the room is black.
Intruder, evil spirit come to take my soul?
Say a prayer and steel my nerve to turn on light.
At light switch, second horror: no effect.
Light at ceiling, fan now by a single wire hangs.
From mount at ceiling dropped down about three feet.
It dangles now from ceiling o’er my bed.
That, the crashing, that which sent me praying.
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have Mercy On Me.”
“A Sinner” I omit.  I would emphasize his grace.
A sign of desperate fear I felt while half awake.

Epitaph

Pain had increased, could be no more endured.
Your friends did look to me for missing stone.
Eternal hope no longer is deferred.
The desperate heart sickness you felt alone.
I thought: how would I author epitaph?
Write words that will be carved into the rock.
Again with him on this side would ne’er laugh.
For clients, cost is measured by the clock.
Words writ in stone, we would spare no expense.
Just write them once, you never will amend.
Would never have writ words that caused offense.
The cost is high compared to lawyer’s hand.
That men would die alone, their friends eschewed.
The terrors of botched hospice we both knew.

On gravestone, first we chiseled your full name
and next the days the universe decreed.
Sought simple words to share undying flame.
Words might express the love you gave to me.
Your grave lacked letters, numbers. Friends complained.
I struggled with the words for many weeks.
Your last reward that you at last attained.
“His passing, closure, that for which we seek.”
From Bible, sought some sacred words of old.
For certain, Paul did think of suicide.
For our sakes, he did stay, is what he told.
We pass both gates: one narrow and one wide.
Your friends complained your grave was unlettered.
Upon your stone: “With Christ which is far better.”

Recreational Methods

I, the ghost who does the haunting.
Mine, the spirit that possesses.
Now I move between the pages,
in among these words I listen.
All would speak into the ether.
All would tell their secret yearnings.
Only single page before me?
Spirit fingers straight through matter.
Reading books is not rewarding.
Never see the end, beginning.

Flaming pen that’s isn’t melting,
even though its ink is molten.
Golden words inscribed by scarring,
written by his hand on my heart.

I am privileged with a hall pass.
Here from Hades as a mercy.
Have ascended to commend you.
To give unique apprehension
to words spoken on this stage here.
All these people, they are living.
I discern such through the vapors,
magick smoke that from my nostrils,
rising, scares the Pentecostals.
Wine and beer liked by the Lutherans.
It’s the dancing makes them nervous.
Don’t you grasp your many blessings?

Do not ever stop your dancing!
Don’t you know this of the demons?
In their lifespans, they have heard them.
Under sun, there is no new thing.
Neither are there any new words.
Action that does most surprising:
Music mixed with athlete’s movements.
When they see you dancing thusly.
They can see inside your spirit.

Does inner joy ooze from your pores?
That emotion thus expressing?
Are your actions only mocking?
Dance for joy and you defeat them.
Can’t comprehend the joy through pain.
Once it’s death you have defeated,
nothing scary. What can man do?
What else can man do unto me
that he hasn’t done already?
A little nervous at the challenge.
I’m sure there are many tortures.

It’s the voices in my mind, though,
I believe that I can silence.
With these words, and with some others.
I would share them, but remind you:
you have your words, must be speaking
your own words. They do have power.
It’s yourself you are convincing.
Turn your back upon the darkness.
Ignore all your inhibitions.
Your life is what you would possess.
Tell yourself: keep dancing, breathing.

I am only parrot, mimic.
I repeat those echoes, listen.
There is nothing here inventive.
This is easy. You could write it.

All you do, read each word written
on the side of beating muscle:

“Witness means I use to recreate.”

Thucydides Hilocometoot (“T.H.”) Chalm died in his sleep in the early morning of December 19, 2015. He was age 48 at the time of his death.

Born in 1967 on a Queensland, Australia kangaroo ranch, Chalm was educated in Buenos Aires, Mexico City, and Prague, ultimately settling in Languedoc, France. He loved racquetball, rugby, cooking tacos, and watching television. Chalm had no surviving relatives.

In his will, Chalm bequeathed all his worldly property, comprising his meager possessions and approximately one thousand (1,000) unpublished poems, to his friend and attorney, Roland Wiederaenders, of Austin, Texas, in trust, requesting that the poems be published posthumously in the discretion of Mr. Wiederaenders. Memorial donations may be made in Chalm’s name to the charity that he supported for many years through his time, talent, and treasury, the Multidisciplinary Association For Psychedelic Studies.

Chalm’s favorite poem (that he did not write himself!) was by Dylan Thomas and serves as a fitting memoriam to Chalm’s life and work, which will never be forgotten:

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

Chalm requested cremation and that his ashes should be cast into his beloved Barton Springs, in Austin, Texas. His wishes will be carried out by Mr. Wiederaenders at a brief memorial service to be held there January 1, 2016, at noon. Everyone who loved Thucydides (or “T.H.” as he was known by his friends) is invited to attend!

Thucydides Chalm is dead!
Long live Thucydides Chalm!