Friday, October 24, 2014

Your Love is Like Dirt

When time is worth something
You realize... you realize.
In this air of environmental protection
(or at least realized value)
We glue our eyes to squares of glass
And frame appealing nerve endings
To our institutions and past lives
Of unending curb and bank
Stashing away tomorrows sale today
And selling yesterday's dream
As something new, I hear say.

And in That library of Congress
What is gone today is silence
And the seeming eternity of a forest
Or praire that stretches on forever
Where people would swaddle babies
And Swat them if they were white.
Which originally was preferable, in those days,
To being exposed and left for prey of wolves
Or vultures, or even the common dog
With cats gnawing on the leftovers
All because Dad had little patience.

But we would work for things
Shinier than peace and love
So we might have everything in our world
Instead?  It would seem
When interest is the only thing free anymore
Where time is money
And speculation drives up the cost
of our everything peace.

I can see the origin
The origin of a brick
I toss it to you to look
And you think it dirt.
It is pure dirt I have to give
That is worth anything.
But instead you take my time.
However I only have as much as your own
And I would use it on me.
Why won't you instead play with dirt?
And make your own bricks
But instead steal my beautiful ones
I play with in time
And let bygones, be the bygones they are
And have been... for like forever.
I have but ground down nothing but some dirt,
which you claim but leave to rot
Which I must say have more fruitful pursuit
Than pining over something that adds but ambiance
To your mental, physical, emotional, social, and spiritual

Wellbeing!

and would build castle over the grave,
a really tiny castle
Your ego would never fit, for it would choke on,
"It's mine, I built it,"  or "I paid for it."
And of course, this too offends I imagine.
Cause it's your brick, but it isn't and never was
And I never did any of it to you.
Your imagination finds and creates the meaning and purpose
In the confines of that castle you built on concrete steps,
Destroying your sentimental love, even of the very dirt
It's made of. 

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Freedom Always

History beckons
us to answer questions
The echoing interplay
between light and shadow
balanced in opposite
with us in between
In the now, but someplace else
accessing the library

Reading about who won?

We did.  Because we remember
Our mistakes, and seek to correct
for better lives
and seek to preserve ways
that engender life.

Our lives, our love
Build a bigger house
For we would and can live
to learn from our mistakes

But the questions are often lost
The answers are often made
better, best, and better than
and questions remain, too
but in our memory
as some obscure need
or wire in the blood

Giants sleep with hearts
of Gold, stone, and silver
and where the worms sleep
Trees must grow,
and return their love
Of valley and city
which keeps off cold days
and colder hearts.

And if we should hate
out of jealosy or greed
May we both find better lives
in a bigger house
built of compassion or empathy
to shelter our soul's journey
through time and space
and find company in a good book or two, perhaps.

And learn from our mistakes
As others learn from history
for often our problems repeat
and more often than not... ourself the enemy
that causes any of them, and perpetuates
the discomfort we would relieve

We would seek needs and wants
for victory over sin and death
But if the point to life is to simply live
Jesus may have shown us a good way
in Answer to forgotten questions and oppressive solutions...
rescue then love in your heart and life and others
to find heaven in the next world
at the right hand of God, if you like
or beneath his feet, if you must.
For today is a good day to live.

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
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.