Saturday, October 18, 2014

In Our Radioactive Days

If it is progress we make
In an industrial wake,
Thorium is the new coal
And Fusion the goal.

For progress is your peace
In worlds of famine and disease
Wherein all cancers are treated
Better, with better radiation treatment.

It is progress that brings
Simplicity of phablet machines
and electricity to free us
in doing what we need
as we continue in search for fusion
with z-pinch drives and ocean profusion.

The promise of LFTer designs
processing waste of past nuclear mistakes
The actinides that will outlast the human race
And to our boon can produce useful pace

For life is about energy, progress more-so
Where can we get it And what to do with it if/when we do
And we're actually pretty peaceful in our resource wars.
With more gerrymandering happening than counting scores.
Until it is scarce, then peace is scared And scarred
to visit the troubled waters of one blue planet.

How common is coal?  How common is gold?
Uranium is as rare as platinum
While Thorium produces as much
And common enough in our waste products
Mining the self-same minerals for wind magnets.

Where then is closing the loop
If we do not process nuclear waste
If we do not responsibly mine plays
If we haven't the energy to get to work
If we do not...
There's not much doing, going on
Where fusion may be the Hope,
Fission is the Faith,
And Charity I leave up to you,
In our radioactive days.

Saturday, October 4, 2014

My Bad

Stop the lies and realize
You are keeping yourself from life
Where the leaf turns
And echoes in your mind.
Season the hour more than any glint of light
From window or sky.
The shadows are gone,
Payment has been made
Through duplication and piling up the gold coins
That were stacked, bu now pile and pushed into coffer.
The doubt lingers, a fear, a dread
But I drown that
In sorrow saved from sleep and dream
Of the moment.
The very small moment saved and rectified
Through both sweat and savings.

But we are human, we are as weak or as strong as ants
And soar higher than eagles, too,
In both making amends,
And in that of making.

What it is, I wouldn't know.  It's been but a year.
A year of making poetry?
More than likely, I've painted so very little this year.
Yet 12 have passed.
And now one full year realized
A peace welcome
A ration sustaining
Of transient order?
Or of fashion from the mind of the cult of the comet
That Haunts me, this new October.

It isn't golden.
Nor transformative.
But a making isn't ever, lest your the King of Siam
And just totally treading on dreams like Yeats
Shredding it like Bukowski
Fagging it like Whitman or Ginsberg.
But what is gay for shiny happy people,
Ah, to be a yuppy, I know not.

That dream died in my lap when
I chose to walk twixt duality
And fall, as light falls,

Down and around amongst the 10,000 things
That is life.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

After the Lacuna and the Lagoona

The Godhead
Trust it
For it is thee inspiration of Nature
That flows through Universes
Speaking volumes to the turtle and hare
Bound up in the annals of time
And perused by every generation
Since the big-bang.  At times creative,
And others restful
Nature in all its diversity: liquid, gas
Matter and spirit: trees, fjords, glaciers and temples
Palaces, castles, tents, and mobile homes...
Speak in tongues inaudible
But louder than the robust echo of stars or coffee

Where then is this that gives voice to Nature?
It is your competitiveness, that takes it for anything.
It is your humanity, that gives it anything.
And it is inspiration that would learn this,
To fly amongst glowing balls of gas scattered and rarefied.
If you don't believe me, just look to the One!

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

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.