Sunday, July 20, 2014

Are You So Very Innocent

I'm a sinner for writing on the Sabbath
I'm a sinner for having a cigarette
Or I'm a sinner for mixing the lemons life dealt me
With someone who's been dealt Vodka
It matters not I'm going to hell Seven Ways
A Million if you count all religions, past and future
But know this,
It's going to come out okay in the end.
We'll get there
Together

After Receiving Caribou Hardback

You and I can not help but grow
If my belly is not growing fat-like
Then my wallet is growing buddha-like
Or my ideas take on weight
Else my name grows like Jabba-the-Hutt's pedestal

I'm a tree and can only store sappy ideas.
Seven years saved up after seven years to
Replace seven unwanted famines, It is predictable.

Unless one is a space cadet watching worlds turn,
One never knows when one has nothing and wants less.
For it is our destiny to grow fat and grow tired of bending.
Some just like to get there a little early
And others are willfully ignorant.
While others groom it, adding twelve ounces around the belly
Six ounces around the thighs, an ounce to their fist

Buddha went all out, and parlayed with death
So that his ears, too, grew fat.
And Jabba, he spread that shit around like he was sexy.
But both Jabba and Buddha dwell in the darkness
That reaps the silence of unused light.

But at least Buddha could have walked away, and walked it off
Which he eventually attempted, but never made it home.
His kingdom met him half-way, and the starving artist died
Then and there after a great banquet in the hills, outside.
While Jabba died a movie-star.

Picture in C Major

She got a picture.
It wasn't fully framed
It wasn't anything
A weird twisted tree with some fog drifting
And mountains in silouhette, blue and cloudy
But it wasn't you.

And now I may forget you were with.
That we spent that time painting and picnicking
Talking about our lives under sky and amongst weeds,
During the moments of our lives

I will remember that in my VR diary
I will remember that in my mind palace
I remember the sharing
We made for the picnic.

It was always the picnic
No field in fog nor twisted memory
This is another
But a silent echo of the food, folks, and fun

Friday, July 18, 2014

If I Could Be a Home for Hearts

Inside the tree is the savagery of the world
Inside of a tree is also the world's hope and peace
It sits quietly out my window in wild orgy
Never quiet, yet never quite loud enough to act somebody.
It Stands.  I sit, and contemplate
And slowly it draws water from my pondering
In minute scrutiny it appears to be a machine
Grandly though appears the model citizen
And on human scale appears to provide nutrients
As a marketplace for shade, oxygen, firewood, topsoil, and perch
While industrially greening worlds for ages gone by,
And competes for a living as all wild things do.

Trees, little do they do
And little do they not do
They bend in the winds and rain
With roots deep in hell
While their crown resides in heaven
And home for many birds and squirrels, too.
 

The Meso Harmonic

Maybe we don't need the microscope
Nope, too small to poke
      The dead thing with a stick
Maybe we don't need the skycraper
Papers are always saying
      Empires come tumbling down
But what we need is a working love
To drive our industry for competent markets
In a competitive world with a sustainable love.

Man can climb a mountain with no legs
And tame the wildest tree
Our cats and owls protect the garden
While our lives simplify me.
The smoke has escaped the electronics
Moore's law breaks down
While Colossus at the harbor
Has long fell into frown

Maybe our problem isn't the robots
Maybe our stars aren't the cross.
Perhaps illusion spells the disconnection
With Karma splitting good from dross

And on a human scale of things
Love makes the world go round
Take stock in what you need
For we can feed from sustainable Upcycles
      Beyond Outrage of climatic changes.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

After Odering Hardcopy of Charles Wright's book Caribou, Being Unable to Lend an Ebook

I am the son of a step-child myself an orphan of the world.
It matters not that much he, my Grandfather, lost his farm
As my Dad lost a father, as I lost a living in subsequent transubstantiation
We already know history repeats itself, as life repeats itself
Both in manner and in form
A square house has square rooms with square T.V.'s

The birds are of a tree upon a mountain.
And each has a stream of flowing and connecting
Them and you to life, learning, laughter, and love
Together so strong one might think a mountain grows
Or a tree brushes wings against the wind
Or a mere chickadee sighs like a giant in the silence of winter's crushing slumber
     But to see that in a mountain's feathered bough silently crying in winter
          A wilted rain of survival.
But to see that connection of repetition of space as well as history.

Exhibit  V displays we have four fingers on four arm-like fingers
And life would be a game of seek and eat if our heads weren't as useful
As our thumbs.
While at the same time, if our heads didn't find or create meaning and purpose
We might lose opposition to all our hopes and dreams as well as the hope
We might grasp what we need.
For useful and useless as it is, I continue to swim in an ocean of air, flying nowhere
While Earth itself will drip into the next vector of empty and useless outerspace.
Our lives. learning. laughter. and love, when together
Enough to use head and thumb to better our lives,
Useless and wonderful as it may seem sometimes.

Talking About Problems

I would not inherit garbage
For I, too, am not insanitary.
And even those that are, insane
Are not to be blamed for junk jeans
Transcripted and weaved improperly

It is we that are insane by thinking
We perhaps are above such monstrosity
As simply wearing holey jeans.
But I'm left wondering
How to swim apart from all the complexity of worlds
When problems are garbage.
And problems have overwhelmed even the soundest minds.
Unless we call for help, and with help
Some still suffer in silence, unknowingly
Ignorant
        To the fact
               Their problem isn't real.
That it is the narrative by garbage,
             Telling them its problems.
And so slowly inner ear turns gold into quartz
     Till it is apparent, that is what happened
            And it is quartz that is our dirt
                     It is our beach we sun on
      And it is the bones of the world
Yes, this digital world, too.

Which all makes me think it is not getting dirty that worries us.
      But the angels and demons that are playing there, too.
      In the dirt, and the problems, and the garbage pinning someone
      For so long, they lose use of legs or arms or what-have-you
And have been eating whatever they could for a great lack
      Of a square meal in life.

It happens, the fish are dying
From eating that plastic you use to live a modern life.
But not your plastic, don't worry be happy
And live on to upcycle all the Williams Mcdonough in the world
to survive... beyond outrage of our problems.