After the treasure has been stripped, here we stand. Disintegration of what remains here in the deep sea which is more alive than we ever were.
Quiet, too deeply fallen for sound and fury to penetrate, matter. Unlike the fallen tree in the mystery of forest, we feed none, have no future beyond wasting away. Yet, look, we have a story, too, to be told.?
Who among us is worthy, has that elevation
to see and judge?
Our power of judgement, of discrimination
to know Truth or Consequence as if from above, beyond
the fallacies of everyday immersion
begin and end within self-talk.
If we love, rejoice, embark upon trails sought for peace,
balance, not evaluation but embrace of this eponymous
best friend, extend that blissful grace, what need have we
to question worthiness?
unite into vibrance
with each unique partner
make Peace The issue
mastering literature with inspired old friends
a happy semester to contemplate
the occult of art
magical sparkle – directed intention
We can’t be loving everybody – attraction, attachment,
takes too much attention.
We wouldn’t have time for anything else.
And we have so very much to do.
Ever urgent problems to solve – Mountains
to imagine as molehills. What does a molehill
look like? Is it a small hill in the shape of a mole,
Problems. A simile for equations.
Equality, a quality we have learned to admire.
If I am equal to the task asked of me, how much
of my time is required
before I can safely retire
without constant fear of penury?
Is this a problem I share?
And yet kindred I share with don’t care about
my agony, my misery, my serious disease.
Why would they? They are busy expecting
to succeed, with no notion what that might mean.
I’m not complaining (well, I am, but that’s a far
different tale; long, complicated, without redeeming
social value). I have no credible explanation.
Just jotting notes on arms that grab my mind like
Quietly comfortable while at all times adaptable.
Too many variable to be specifically prepared.
Ready to act, or disappear – as clarity commands.
Unclaimed expositions, not abandoned; held in
abeyance for compelling cries.
Curled on waves
a romantic notion
not cold, wet destruction.
Details we’ve never known.
Talking because a mic’s turned on;
because a deadline for yet another dead-end
job demands display for advertisements to
pop and smirk.
Work as obligation to perform to specification.
Riding wild waves because to fall ends hope of landing.
Storm spit, dazed and bruised on hot, cutting sand.
Where to walk, after that energy spill, valiant effort
I note people who take fantasy flights with which
they expect me (as they may explain, based on something
they have heard or read me say) to act/think/behave in
loyalty to some side in their perceived war. Since it
doesn’t seem to occur to them to simply ask me,
let me try to make this clear.
The ideal urgent to my mind, behind my speech
I have too endured sure frustration attempting
to engage in conversation with people proudly
fixed in ideologies rather than bother with acquiring
People throwing words they’ve vaguely heard like
What do they talk about among their cohorts
that makes adamant ignorance a desirable norm?
Is it a feedback loop of entertainment choices?
Are popular artists’ voices pitched to entrain a drone
sensibility, skewed rationality, busy brutality;
emotions firmly enclosed build savage cultural fire,
fuel the engines of self-destruction?
To what benefit? I blithe idiot ask. Too world
weary for your cynical blather. I wonder off some
wastrel edge beyond response.