No Man Is An Island

Unbelievable people butt in
Like man is an island
With no one to thank but God
For the very root of being

When every day wheels wheel,Birds Sing
and Deer die to feed you and me
And a poet bleeds

Everyday a man or woman is praying for peace
A monk is meditating for peace and love
And a squirrel is nutty over love and understanding

But who bleeds for the poet,
Who is thankful for their carpet,
Why does the sun shine for all...
When little is as it appears

What keeps them warm
When lost but their own insanity
In this crazy mixed up can of nuts

Not the snake that tempted Eve
But practically everything and everyone else
In all of time and all of space through the lives lived
And the small deaths each night we each pass through in dreamtime

With God and each other

In a world blessed...
BY God and each other.
So thank your brotherman and sister
Thank your mom and aunt
Hell, thank your dog.

For if we were lost on an island each to a man ourself,
It truly would be our insanity that kept us warm.
But alack, we are our Mom, our Dad, our Brother, or Sister
We borrow from our friends and live in second-skins so we fit in.
Who don't we have to thank, except the haters and players
And backbiters and liars and thankless jerks.
We'll make a good world despite all that
And we'll have each other to thank
Both over horizon and from sea to shining sea.
For this land is my land, and this land is your land.

Dislike For The Absurd

Modern Life is complicated
The more I actually do
Seems to accomplish less

Like as in knowing
I've learned: how to nail two boards together
Grind off a speaker magnet and make a screw fisher
Keep my cats fed and happy
Or even write a poem
But houses do not get built
Or checkbooks get lost
Or cats beg for treats
Or people's minds remain isolated
And enigmatic and distant

I can't grind that bean.
Every morning I wake up and hammer dust
And let it soak in cold water
To drink in the sights and sounds
Over a steaming cup of rocks,
Separate from the reality of flight and Stardust cars
Separate from hearty breakfast and energized cities.

There is no trickledown, there is no bleedover
There's no fisher king, or awakening, or fifth element
Just the wind, snow, sentinels, and occasional animal, plant, or mineral
That knows not any hot-tub and cold-beer next to the remote control
That doesn't know silence imploded a long time ago and does not serve
That knows not companionship or love.
The world is indifferent and we think that absurd
At the same time in awe for what that can accomplish
While jealous of those that become mountains and hills themselves
    of vanity and hubris in their lives, buried in our same graveyards.
But we would all share in grace and peace as we wend our way onward
                                                                              through space and time,
A force known to ourselves as a reckoning with communities of love and understanding.

But I don't live there,
Daily I eat and drink canned water and partially stale food
On the morning after with midnight ticking closer and closer
To the smashed rocks and cracked nations splintered from illusions of sanity.
This is not the end of the world, but you can see the greed and jealousy for it from here.

Inna Sense

Ages come and Pass
through seasons lasting
as Farmers sow and plant
we burn oil, changing planets.

We put carbon in the air,
why would nothing grow?
We put carbon in Earth
and everything changes.
For it is the skeleton
in all life of carbon cycles,
but don't forget the silicon cycles.

Domains of chaos ensue,
when that stability is uprooted.
And all life is chaos
especially in Syria,
where fire burns their collapsing house.
And Obama wants to bomb it?
to put out the fires' eerie savagery
While people yet live inside trying
to quench wars conflagration.
God forbid nudists protest wallstreet.

But water is scarce
and food getting scarcer

And because a government didn't support its people in Syria
but instead treated them like criminals
when things went bad from possible climatic change

due to bloodless corporations.

May we plant perennial peace,
perennial grains, perennial trees
to feed electric machines
as well as bellies.
It will grow soil,
and take less water
when our fields dry.
But then again there's money in
Annual wars to strip InnaSense.

The Painted Picture

The painted picture
Isn't the picture I painted.
I painted: constructivity,
Living with one's mistake,
Making the best of a bad situation.
I painted an cubicaless rubric
Explaining what the solution for X is.
I painted a reflection.
I painted an inspiration.
I painted some work.
And the expression of it between sky and earth.
I was trying to paint ecology at some point, too.

But what I see and feel is just this turnip
Slowly drying beside my near wet paint brush.
That will return again to my blank page
When the ancient Romans again crash into the Moon,
For my turnips are living things...
And nothing is like as it was before
When all was Jerusalem artichokes and Bell flowers.
May corn one day be perennial and wheat, too.
I shall maybe paint a potato or two.

Soul's Endeavor

The stars, so succinctly distinct
Gleaming like rays of dayshine, so Gold
So cold like sludgy snow
But brighter than a squirrel
While much more immaterial
Than that Bedouin of the Cedar and Pine bough
The Aspen, the Ash, the Hackberry, the Oak

The spirit ascendant would aspire to a point
In both Space and Time, but also life
For life, too, streams through valley and vale
Life, too, curves around obstacle and carves out floodplain
As stars curve around and carve out empty Heliospheres.
What it knows is next to nothingness.
To that the squirrel has the advantage
With his pine nuts and acorns
So he too may glow with an inner warmth.

We too come as stars to squirrel
We might feed them stuff we grow
Or make them a fine and empty house to winter in.
And we wend our way through the universe at 200 km/s
As that is what our star is traveling
And we with it as we shelter within heliopause.

The hard reality of traveling that fast seems immaterial
A spirited factoid of a Sun spiriting us along with.
And where our lives cross with others, we nest there,
In the material heart surrounded by the spirit of stars
Living day by day, looking out for danger, and foraging constantly
So we have some cash at days end when we're cold and hungry.

A Horizontal Blue

The pen, it weighs a thousand tons
I lift it up and try to remember something other than its burden
My spirit it wings and is crushed by the weight of the ocean
My life, it sings, and is sundered by hooks.
My words, they plead, let not the typewriter echo
Let not the hush be unhushed
Or the winter crow be uninterrupting.

I must ignore... the chains moribund, the stones being thrown,
the weight of my indecision.

I must elocute the abstraction
for the abstractions are all the same color white
and hide blackly all in the same of night

I must but for a lack of peace wait for the next train
to drag by, the next car to hum through
The next breeze to wash away the rain dripping from eve
I have to wait again for time to come back
and remember the abandoned cabin with rose colored glasses
left in the forest to worry about a plowed road
and flooded speech

------

The forest wants me not
The deer flee, the trees ignore
And still I cast nets out into the sea of indifference
If I should be so indifferent to myself.
If I should say thank you and please to myself
I might like myself better like all the baristas
whom I support by buying coffee for people they try to kick out.
Like all my women friends, whom keep giving an inch of their hem
Like all the deer and woodpeckers starving with me in this January sky
Starving and letting go of expectation.
If we expect nothing, I suspect nothing good will come of it.

I respect the circumspescious or is that speculative insight
of my intuition.  It could be both... at the same time if I suspected right.
Little is heard of the world except of joy
But is that to say, less is worded of grief.
The scarce grace of love would say it is.
And the less scared of friendship would attest to it.
but Lies and liars, they know not sometimes things they don't know.

----

Little is said of time.  Yet that is all there is
The clouds block it diffuse into white sky crap
It refuses to step lightly into room
And start ticking, slow tricking, veiled picking
Of the known joy keeping watch over airwaves.

The house creaks under its weight.  The trees slouch
from its embrace, but when it comes lay sullen and rain sodden
like my cat except for where it's carried in slow tumble by towel.
I know not if it exists, really, and at night even I disappear
Into the broken silence of it's paranoid ticking of disinterest
And indifference, fleeing upon approach and largely unaware
As trees are unaware of the green and gold of their flesh
Always growing up and out into heaven
To end as they always end, slaughtered
As moments are slaughtered to alleviate suffering
As sleep itself sacrifices the pain of living.

The revolution continues.  A tree dies for your salvation.
But love alone is worth the fight.

Entitlement

On a day of atonement
I know I'm unforgiven
But it isn't what I did
Or what I didn't do
Or failed to amend
Or failed to live up to
Or was beyond reproach
Or had the authority to do
Or encouraged someone else to follow through
Or help someone in thinking about
Or spell out to someone
Or what I bought off amazon
Or what I sold on ebay
Or gossiped about
Or if I did what I needed to, to survive
Or if I listen to the right music
Or I eat the right food
Or have the right friends
Or drink the finest juice
Or have the funnest parties
Or drive the fanciest cars
Or buy from the proper markets
Or whether it was a want or need

It is about admitting to myself
perhaps before God or simply me...

I am human, and I should try anew
To do my best.
Both for me and/or my family.