Recollections
Leftover Bits and Possible Pieces
from
1980 until 2003
Hugh M. Lewis
Leftover Bits and Odd Pieces
The only sounds
At 3 A. M.
Are ticking clocks
And electric static
Chirping like crickets
Lost in the walls
It is so silent
Only snores are heard
Between the tocks
And all the clicks
The stillness lies heavily
like a warm blanket
Pulled over the head
In darkness protecting
Even this night light
So pale and yellow
Boxes
Living in boxes
Becomes squarish affair
Four corners and straight edges
Flat sides and hard bottoms
Things stacked precariously in corners
of over-priced hotel rooms, small apartments & tiny
bedrooms
Miscellaneous things buried beneath other odd things
Lost haphazardly in the darkness of bottomless
boxes, suitcases and storage lockers
Shut off in darkness
from the world of sunlight
Living always in a box
Is a boring, matter of fact style of life
To find one's way, amongst and between all the boxes
Is a puzzle without a simple solution
First Rain
We waken slowly
to a wet cold world
The sound of rain drops
Splashing upon the deck
As we open the curtains
To a full window
Overcast skies sullen
Dressed in light grey
The dew laden grass
Green in the shadows
Of the low rain clouds
And low somber mists
Peace reigns this morning
As distant cars glide
Washing through the gutters
Mockingbird
Sitting upon the overhead line
Singing a strange tune
A solitary serenade
A song of nature's solace
And the sun's place
In the skies
As I secretly spy
Beneath the leaves of this fig tree
I cannot help but wonder
If you are the same bird
That used to sing to me in the morning darkness
so many years ago
And if you are not the same baby
I picked up from the ground
To return to the nest
So long ago
And if you are not the same parent
Who built the nest in the tree out front
Who use to dive at my head
Every time I came to close
I think to myself
As I listen to your song
mixed of both sadness and happiness
That you are perhaps indeed the same
And that the years have made no difference
Your song might be thousands of years old
And your soul is no different
Than the one who serenaded the Indians
And who mocked the Romans
Night Shadows
In mid-October,
when the moon is full
The night is over-cast
in bright moon-light
and dark strange shadows
and even feint gray colors
splashed here and there
and in these shadows
in the short twilight
of the vernal night
happy enchanted
spirits play hide and seek
Dancing and playing
Running and jumping
as evil spirits lurk close by
waiting to frighten
or taking fright
fleeing and shrieking
back into the night
In the wee morning darkness
As I lay half asleep on my bed
I listen to the sounds of the stillness
As it hums gently in my ear
The dark tones shift slowly in a soft harmony
And though my eyelids are tired and closed
My minds eye sees through the darkness
Guided by the feint echoes and pulses of the silence
Reverberating across the empty black spaces
And though I am alone the room is full
And though it is dark, it is full of stillness
And the imagination is free to see and believe
Whatever it will construct
Though the clocks are ticking
It is true that even time stands still
In the mute silence of the room
And though the silence is mute
It is true that it is not dumb
That it knows and feels and hears and sees
And it is the littlest things that are the most noticed
I
am
adrift
all alone
a
solo
castaway
adrift
lost at sea
upon the tides
of stormy humanity
There is no port or harbor
For brief sanctuary
no place
To put ashore
without solace
Without an anchor
Or a beacon light
or landmark
In humility, Greatness glows
In silence, Understanding speaks
In patience, Wisdom learns
In darkness, Truth seeks
In tolerance, Peace knows
In solitude, Courage keeps
In hope, Faith earns
In secrecy, Honesty sleeps
In love, Life grows
flotsam from a foreign land
cast adrift upon the warm currents
junk blown across by the winds
rising and falling like the tide
coming to rest upon the shore
a rotting, swollen plank of wood
planted upright in the muck
covered with barnacles and crawling crabs
between the ocean and the land
motionless against the rolling surf
paper boats
little white wind boats
folded and fashioned by nimble fingers
set into the lapping water
floating off into the sea
sun waves burning on the surface
mysterious flames
dancing deep underneath the water
growing into dark stormy clouds
rising upon the horizon
lightning flashing
in thunderous heaven
we walk alone
hand in hand
down the crowded, chaotic street
the anonymous faces of abandoned people
dirty hands reaching out for some shillings
the fast motorcycles and cars
we walk on
past the temples and the coffee shops
around the drains and the many obstacles
by ourselves
we walk
without illusion
we suffer
only the silence of the burning sun
past the mourners dressed in black
past the open doorway
and the old photo
and open coffin
we walk on past the roasted duck
hanging on hooks
past the hawker
sharpening his chopper
without words
we walk
down the street
Old aunt
lights the joss and sticks it in the urns
and burns the paper money
in the large pot outside
spirit bound smoke
sent heavenward
Old uncle kneeling on the ground
shakes the joss toward the baby God
mumbling a low monotonous prayer
under his breath
the ritual fires are burning
the spirit smoke is curling
the ti koay is collecting mold
and ashes from the burnt joss
An old auntie cleans out the tea cups
an old uncle replaces the wilted flowers with new ones
the winds blow through the open windows and doors
the paper lanterns suspended from the ceiling
flutter and twirl and start spinning about
Old aunt is mopping the red tile floors
Old uncle is checking his ledger again
the same rituals quietly performed
a thousand and one times over
only one day or one hundred years
Old uncle is dozing off
Old aunty has gone out to buy something at the market
The dragon slumbers
the phoenix has flown
I turn another page of my book
As I glance into your dark face
At first I see my informant's funny look
With tears in the corners of yellow, bloodshot eyes
I turn to the next page
And I look again into your face
To find the lines of lost youth
The wear and tear of age
And the blemishes of another life's vicissitudes
Beneath the rosie blush
And the blue-green mascara
Brushed faintly over epicanthic folds
My informant no longer appears tearful
And a smile soon breaks upon the swollen purple lips
Covered by glossy red lipstick
Revealing a mouthful of crooked white teeth
I turn the next page
Then I look again into your face
And find dark eyes of sadness
A puffy cheek that's been abused
A bump upon a low forehead
And scratch marks around the neck
My informant's face is hiding her troubles
Behind an innocent smile
Beneath the front of feline grace
Yet another page
I once again peer into your face
And there I find beneath the feminine mask
The tell-tale signs of advances you wish to make
A silent question you are too afraid to ask
Symptoms of suffering you cannot fake
There the lonely look of a lost child
Longing for the warmth of a dead mother's embrace
The image of a young adult grown suddenly old
From a new page
I see into my informant's face
A foreign past full of strife
Without the full flowering of life
In a world you've somehow missed
and again the next page
I look again into my informant's face
And there discover a touch of my own humanness
I peer into the puffy red eyes of my informant
And find the small reflections of my own face
In the black orbs of a dark distorted world
As I turn another page
I look back into the eyes of my informant
That look back through a world of lies
And there I finally find you looking into my world
I come to the last page
I look one last time into my informant's eyes
And there at last I find my friend
Waiting patiently at the other end
for me to finally close my book
sitting in a gold shop
talking about old acquaintances
of people long since passed away
of names forgotten
with glassy looks in our eyes
of the times since past
for an instant their is a strange silence
and stillness over everything
outside a baby is crying
and shoppers walking by in the hot sun
no one notices the spirits that hide in the sharp shadows
who fill up all the empty spaces between the shop houses
and who glide down the streets between the cars
watching us from the infinite corners
in all the wall mirrors of the shop
we are not alone with our audience
we make a joke and smile
the gold seller makes me a special deal
on a small gold bracelet for my daughter
the door closes once again
spirits rushing back inside
a few remaining
stranded outside
Then the barking dog was near by
and the ghost was far away
now the dog is barking far away
and the spirits are close by.
the earth wind that carries all
from every corners
penetrates every nook and cranny
cleaning every crevice
wearing mountains down to plains
drying oceans into deserts
souls that howl in the barren trees
dried leaf spirits twist and turn in the corners of the
buildings
wind spirits whisper to me plaintively
through the window closed window
the empty classroom is filled only with cold memories
the names of forgotten student carved in wood
the hallways echo with doors slamming and distant footsteps
flotsam from a foreign land
cast adrift upon the warm currents
junk blown across by the winds
rising and falling like the tide
coming to rest upon the shore
a rotting, swollen plank of wood
planted upright in the muck
covered with barnacles and crawling crabs
between the ocean and the land
motionless against the rolling surf
paper boats
little white wind boats
folded and fashioned by nimble fingers
set into the lapping water
floating off into the sea
sun waves burning on the surface
mysterious flames
dancing deep underneath the water
growing into dark stormy clouds
rising upon the horizon
lightning flashing
in thunderous heaven
grandparents calling, grandchildren crying
feint spirits of the dark morning wind
blowing through my open window
where did you come from?
And where are you going?
beckoning from afar
So many forlorn faces
peering through the empty spaces
So many restless hands
Reaching to embrace me, to gently touch me
Calling me to a strange and distant place
Beckoning me to join them in their reveries
In some strange forest glade
Forest grandchildren
born of the bear, the world, the eagle and the beaver
fleet as an antelope, silent as a fawn
you stalk the midnight
across the desert hills and the mountain streams
you dance by the moon light
amongst shadows and shimmering leaves
Grandchildren of the forest
the soul of the whole nation walks where you step
and rests while you sleep
the spirit of a mighty people dreams about forgotten deeds
we trace our destiny in your stars
we count the days till you grow up
and go off to seek your dreams
upon the plains and prairies of the world
Midnight wind blowing
past my bedroom
like a freight train
rushing by the building
walls creak as the winds moan
pressing upon every corner
unrelenting and restless
leaving a hollow, empty stillness
in its wake
Grandparents long gone away
conjuring ghosts get back
go home to your final resting places
across the seas, lakes and steams
through the many trees of the forests of this land
leave this hallowed ground alone
restless people dream and remember
awaken and forget
one
solitary
saffron bonze
burning silence
one lotus blooming
fires of defiance
world to see
flame
a prayer
a petrol can
unspoken protest
black and white dressed
sitting in the street
posture of protest
bald peace
serene
redemption
beyond retreat
last rites of salvation
spiritual immolation
parting prayer
suffering
transcendent
frozen forever
on gray newsprint
buried in white lime
black blood and charred bones
seeking forever the flat sea
where every thing flows
against which winds
always blow
alone
like a new mother who in pain screams,
like a new born child crying
who in purity beams
like seagulls far inland flying
like a trickling stream
and the roaring waterfall
like the currents that ebb and flow
the tides that rise and fall
and the waves that endlessly roll
like a stone smoothed all round
and the wood that drifts ashore
like the invisible wind that whistles all around,
and the dust that always settles
like that tiny ants that abound
like the heat of the sun
and darkness of the night
like the ugly cawing crows
that flock and take flight
within the labyrinth
of many twists and turns
hunting for the menotaur
becoming lost within its guts
in many different directions traveling
without a clear sense of start or finish
guided only by the fear and uncertainty
by the instinct for survival
stumbling somewhere in the middle
upon the beast behind the barred door
its bloody fangs want to devour all human flesh
forced to fight and die or else flee
in madness and insanity
without even a spot of light to illuminate the way
but once dimly discovering the way
finding the distant light
slowly growing in brightness
around every corner
finally leaving its internal corridors
forsaking whatever is left behind
forsaking illusion and suffering
forsaking hope and promises
forsaking love and friendship
forsaking understanding
forsaking knowledge
forsaking existence
forsaking all
even self
Such a long and hard journey
Just so that I could be here now
To meet you face to face
So long to wait and so difficult to struggle
Without ever knowing the reason
But here we stand together
And without words we know our intertwined destiny
The ways of the world wind all about
Whichever direction we decide to take
Still leads us to our final destination
We do not need to speak to know the way before us
Though we soon part
The journey will have been worth the trouble
We may meet again next time around
and still require only the silence to know our souls
A
bare barb
stinging touch
thorn among the roses
blooming in all seasons
hearts always open to the world
enduring, happy and sad, ever-lasting
ever inviting, enticing, romancing
your patiences long lasting
through rain and sun
yet blossoming
then wilting
falling
and
fallen
one by one
from off the hip
petals stirring in the breeze
colorful flames float upon the water
perfume drifts between heaven and earth
and blows with the leaves between mountains and valleys
lost within the lengthening shadows of the twilight
between the rising moon and setting sun
ephemeral moments so enchanting
brief spell finally broken
simple serenity
and beauty
all gone
but
tell me
if you can
where are they now
my daughters of the soil?
Blown by the winds upon foreign shores
The old cow's day old carcass lies stiff in the earth
bloated and rotting
the lions, the hyenas, the rats, the vultures, the ants and
maggots
all get a share
the photographer and film maker got their share to
it was a fine and fitting kill
an agonizing and obviously painful death
choked by the lion's powerful jaws
one can even smell
the nauseating red flesh through the Television screen
nature's laws fulfilled once again
on prime time
a primal scene
recounted again and again
in a never-ending series of stalks and leaps
and failures and successes
the great cycle of life comes again to another completion
as a commercial comes on
and I go to make some pop corn
Old mother is now dead
She died naturally
Silently and slowly
Each takes its share
The Hawk sib, the Wolf sib, the Snake sib
and even other tribes
all carry off parts and pieces of her body
in separate directions of the compass
to make sacrifices and offerings
to feast and celebrate
there is so much of her to remove
else they would all have forgotten where they got it
and still so much more remains
that the carcass is left to rot and stagnate
and flies are allowed to fester on it
and then seeds will germinate and weeds will sprout on it
and in its forgotten place,
perhaps a tall tree will grow.
rain is falling
falling, falling
spirits are crying
crying, crying
cats and dogs are calling
calling, calling
thunder is booming
booming, booming
lightening is striking
striking, striking
Gods are fighting
fighting, fighting
ancestors are mourning
mourning, mourning
people are dying
dying, dying
children are laughing
laughing, laughing
palms are growing
growing, growing
worms are crawling
crawling, crawling
clocks are turning
turning, turning
earth is rejoicing
rejoicing, rejoicing
Wolves far-off prowling
across brown sage-brush seas
prairie wind howling
high up in creaking cottonwood trees
rhythmic spirits chanting, distant screaming
ghosts of children long asleep
restless souls a-dreaming
dreams of buffalo grass and six horned sheep
nuggets of gold lying in the ground like half-buried bison
bones
along lost winding trails
among rattle snakes and prairie dog homes
wind spirits calling, telling old tales
of buried treasures, lost gold mines and gem stones
of nameless graves and forgotten Indian braves
If you touch the elephant,
feel all over.
It's greatness is higher
than one hand may reach
It's substance is too much
to hold in both hands
by these human standards
of measurement,
perhaps it is fitting
that the proverbial Elephant
should be old, wise
and have a long memory.
I need now to reorganize my life
let go of some things that have long been bothering me
unload a few meaningless memories that plague
my every waking moment
I need to rethink the unthinkable
and reevaluate my point and purpose
for being in this world
to regain my bearings
I need to come to terms
with what I've now become
and to forgive myself
for my many past mistakes
to try and make up for all I've now forsaken
and to grieve once and for all
for all that's been lost
I need to make peace finally
with my tormented soul
and to liberate my spirit
from the fallacies of a false and bitter ego
to forge ahead renewed
with refreshed vigor
and restored hope
I need to reset my compass
and to change directions for a new tact
to separate the mirage from the mountain
that looms so ominously upon my horizon
imagine a moment in time
when people's petty egos and frustrations
are no longer permitted
to take away others freedom
or destroy human potential
when all living beings forgotten
are remembered and considered
important to the scheme of things
this would be the coming
of a paradise on earth
a world without violence
an honest history without lies
a society without competitive struggle
without enforced exclusion
deprivation or exploitation
without privileged parasites being allowed
to promote their petty pride
at the expense and sacrifice
of the whole host of humanity
Though no one else
may still believe in me
I yet believe in myself
though no one else may help me succeed
I must continue to help myself
though everyone else may strive
to thwart my efforts
I must strive at all costs
to preserve my purpose
either by evasion or active defense
this is the promise and my purpose
Though no one else
may still believe in me
I yet believe in myself
though no one else may help me succeed
I must continue to help myself
though everyone else may strive
to thwart my efforts
I must strive at all costs
to preserve my purpose
either by evasion or active defense
this is the promise and my purpose
the conspiracy of authority
the complicity of conformity
the obfuscation of uniformity
the deadening silence of the system
the triumph of the number
the only crime of poverty
the only sin is joblessness
money has become the only morality
making more of it the exclusive purpose
of existence in the modern world
having more of it
to improve oneself
charity, humility, generosity
the false conceptions of the dispossessed
the bane of the poor
no more wars
no more revolutions
no more violence
no more victimization
no more exploitation
no more inequality
no more authoritarianism
no more totalitarianism
no more imperialism
no more unconstrained capitalism
no more princes
and no more paupers
no more haves
no more nots
Snow Trails
Snow Trail
The snow trail is white
With trampled snow
It is long.
The snow trail is cold.
The snow trail is dark.
The snow trail is lonely.
The snow trail winds
From my front door
To the Classroom Buildings back door
It winds beneath trees and around bushes
Through a primeval forest
Spotted with squirrel burrows
And the urine-stains of foxes
I take this trail everyday,
Going from where I want to be
To where I need to be
Everyday I start off in hope and expectation
Of what the other end will bring
Everyday I return in frustration
At what the trail brought to me
The snow trail winds through my life
From day to day and month to month
It interconnects the moments, the dreams, the days and
nights
Snow trail begins in the darkness
And ends at the dawn
It traverses the margins of this earth
Following the shadows cast down in the snow
The Raven
The trickster raven
Black and gray
Off set against the white snow
It crosses my path once again
And flies directly overhead
I here it calling plaintively
In the snow silence
From the tall alpha tree
There does not seem to be another soul
For some distance around
He talks in guttural sounds
That eerily penetrate the still forest
A few clumps of snow fall from the branches above
From whence there is a sudden movement
From its flight
It swoops down low overhead
Harbinger of some future fate
As he leads me down the trail
I know not what its interests are
Nor its sadness
I only feel a shiver
Of the cold
Running down my spine
As hurriedly I turn
And trudge ahead
The phone range early
Waking us up
My mom had called
To tell us that terrorists
Were attacking America
We rushed sleepy eyed
Downstairs
And tuned in the Television
To see a smoking skyscraper
In Manhattan
Time froze that morning
It stayed still forever
The day was as if a dream
Somehow everything
Had suddenly changed
It was all different now
And would never be the same
Ever again
Thoughts about the loss of innocence
And the education of children
In the crueler ways of the world
The tide had suddenly gone out
And there would be no more returning
To the way it was before
It rained in September
It woke us up early in the morning
And consumed the air waves
It rained so hard that day
There was nothing left over
But rubble, broken bodies and bits and pieces
Of paper fluttering in the smoke
It rained cats and dogs
And people and firemen and tears and blood
It rained businessmen and secretaries
It rained passengers and airplanes
It rained policemen and pilots
It rained even more paper and people
It rained over the cars
Over the streets
And the rain
Falling like steel and concrete hail
Shattered windows and lives and spirits
It rained ceaselessly
And it rained thereafter
Day after day
And all that rain
Fell complete on one small spot
In downtown Manhattan
But from that spot
It quickly became a torrential flood
That engulfed the entire earth
Academic Gatekeeper
Academic gatekeeper
Sits within her office
Waiting for the next naïve student
To stumble through the threshold
Her lair is a simple chair
In front of her well ordered desk
Her hair is hung in grey curls
Like hydra's head of snakes
She seems permanently seated
Behind her executive desk
Her dwelling place and the center of her existence
Her secretary feeds her coffee and pastries on demand
Authoritative maxims and commands
Roll dryly from her tongue
And, pressed between thin lips
Manage to eject out like smoke rings
The young student is an innocent sacrifice
Unwitting of the ways of the world
But a youth full of dreams and desires
Dashed like pumpkins on the road
His intelligence turned upon itself
He casts for some larger reason in her words
All quite rational and sensible sounding
And yet completely off the mark
The
Cost
Of 9-11
At least it
Seems to me
Was something lost
No amount of money can buy
Something hallowed beyond value
Buried in the dust of ground zero
Spread over Manhattan Island
Like an unnatural cloud
Call it our innocence
And leave it at that
Or call it simply
Liberty
It was a price too dear
That no politician can pay
That no party or lobby can buy
No administrator can mandate
Innocence lost
Like a child
Come of age
The forest trees are my friends
The Spruce, the Birch, the Alder
They talk to me plaintively in the wind
Standing together and stretching from afar
As I walk down snow-covered trail
Hoping to spy a bear, a moose or night denizen
Seeking a way out of my existential travail
I cannot say that of the human race I am a citizen
The dog knows things the master forgot
And natural death knows no bounded cruelty
Suffering comes and goes in a day
And lasts a lifetime
Snow Trail
The trail of snow
Winds compacted and white
From our front door
Down the steps
Through the trees
And across the Road
And then along the snow-bound way
Behind the campus
Every day I beat the path
Back and forth to my classes
And I mark its gradual shifts and twists
With my unsteady footfalls in the ice
In darkness and cold I make my way
And this trail that I have made
And Christianed with my scent
I know not its end nor its beginning
As it winds back and forth
Between the many periods of my life
Paper Professor
I met the professor upon the elevator
A young and somewhat fine featured man
He told me he was going to the sixth floor
Without inquiring whether I was the elevator person.
The professor dropped his papers in the corridor
They fell willy nilly to the tile floor in a disheveled pile
He looked irritated and slightly embarrassed
Perhaps he expected me to pick them up as well.
Eskimo Mary
Mother Mary
Makes her living
Lying upon her back
Up and down the stairs
Her children bounce about
Like elastic basket balls
Banging against the thin dry walls
The different men quietly come and go
And come again
In the afternoon
And the state and the corporation and the village
Make sure that Mary's children
Have a new truck to ride in
So proud she is in her roost
Her crucifix hangs upon both doors
And a special teacher to give them
A little extra attention
As I contemplate the possibility
Of immaculate conception
Rosie's Poesy
everything and everyone using and being used
producing and consuming without end in sight
just awaiting in nervous anticipation
for our next turn
upon this magical carousel ride
upon our everlasting carnival
the golden sands of precious
irrecoverable time
meanwhile slipping so subtly, so suddenly through our
fingers
falling forever from our momentary lives
letting go the albatross of future opportunities
to fly forever away and never to return again to our hands
relinquishing the right to merely work and live
meaning vanquished in the quest for material security
with only an expensive insurance policy
a specious guarantee against a grand, uncertain future
promising to protect us from our own
final, inexorable fate
at the edge of existence
living upon the margins of the mainstream
like sitting immovable upon the banks
of a broad span of river
without a visible beginning or end
just a long slow bend in a big flow of water
gradually turning out of sight upstream
disappearing downstream upon my horizons
watching many boats floating by
the passengers partying
or fishing or relaxing in the sun
living without a life
futureward hopes floating by
drifting down with the currents
vanishing out of sight
out of mind
it is a class difference
without privilege or prerogative
without any corner of the vast market of authority
denied any access to all the many material resources
refused any spiritual succur
like a zombie among the living
a pariah amidst the prejudiced and proud
a homeless derelict in the shadows of skyscrapers
a vagrant at the side of a busy road
like a ghost in a crowded, busy place
alone and unfelt
anonymous
unseen
squeezed into and out of existence
by cold, manipulating hands
and nameless, unsmiling faces
what is this new blindness?
to look, but to be unable to see
what is this new deafness?
to listen, but not to hear the sounds
of mournful, wailing souls
and spirits quietly crying
what is this new ignorance?
to experience so much
but to learn so little
about living and dying
what is this kind of apathy?
born of prosperity and ambition?
to bombard the senses
but to fail to feel
the sympathy of genuine sorrow
the empathy of authentic agony
what is this new disease of modern comfort?
that conveniently uses up contemporary reality
for the ephemeral, vicarious brevity of the moment
substituting sensuous satisfaction for soulful meaning
merely to throw it all away like so much rubbish
the marvelously functional structure
of our new man-made reality
the miraculous madness
of megalopolis
the megalomania
of modern mythologies
no longer the impoverished poet
no more the productive painter
now just an anonymous no one
the visions have all but vanished
the imagination gone for good
soulful energies all but dissipated
dessicated beneath the burning sun
words hang hollowly
upon the empty atmosphere
too many days of pointless depression
too many moments of emotional exasperation
too many long hours of nervous desperation
joys and angers drowned
in too many bottles of beer
mellowed out to nothing
by too many fruitless years
penniless, jobless, without any proper place in life
now just another illegitimate nobody
an anonymous anybody
where do all these super-people come from
every year a fresh new batch
every generation a better breed
so new and so improved
so much energy
so much vitality
so much competitive spirit
to succeed
so smart
so good
superiority demonstrated
over and over again
jobs all belong to them
they belong to the jobs
proven by the very highest standards
of our System
but I can no longer keep up
with this "human" race
the days fold into more days
crossed off upon the calendar
weeks go by in a vicious, unrelenting repetition
then the months change names
and the seasons wax and wane
and then the years pile up
like so many pieces of paper
and soon one loses count of it all
the ticking of the electric clock
taking its toll upon life
losing count of all the hours, days, weeks and months
year after year slips effortlessly by
with new calendars hung upon the wall
yesterdays full of distant memories
scattered haphazardly over the forgotten past
and the relative importance of tomorrow
diminishes in its turn
now I've come full circle
to where I began a decade ago
once again I am back to where I started
so many years previously
my life seems like circles within larger circles
enclosed by even more circles of larger size
always continuously closing upon themselves
containing cycles within even more cycles
always encompassed within an every enlarging cycle
forever closing, completing, never-ending
always enlarging to encompass the immediate tomorrow
starting out again just like before
still incomplete
only a little different from before
a bit worse for wear with my life
still not complete
passive in life's changing changelessness
always subject to its imperative like before
not escaping from the inextricable paradox of life's circles
without commanding them
predicting them, altering them
always lying upon the furthest boundaries of our horizons
episodes ending only to begin over again
a never-ever-ending process
of ending and beginning
again and again
and over again
the final solution
to the persistent problem of poverty
the official eyesore of the fabled fabulous city upon the
hill
formulated in the files of big Brain Bureaucracy
first imagined in the computer-electronic visions
of the academic plants of artificial intelligence
concocted in the laborious laboratories of almighty
technocracy
older big brother of the establishment of the status quo
lending a helping hand to younger little sister
of the ethnic order of the fifth world
in the ghetto, in the slum, in the barrio, in the parking
lot
Bingo boingo, pachinko pinhead pinball
the new lottery game of contemporary living
legalized, systematized, organized, administrated,
formalized
manufacturing the brand new Brand Name of Sub-Sub-Urbanism
of the Paper Proletariate Force of the
Quasi-Semi-Underemployable
Manipulating the poor People of the Poor
who are impatiently standing, ungraciously waiting
in the long, interminable, single file line in front of a
single window
without any signs, announcements, directions or instructions
waiting endlessly in a line that never seems to move
stretching around the building corners way out of sight
in a line that never gets any shorter or faster
introducing the new Permanent Residents of of the ignonimous
new Industrial-Government Welfare State of Poverty
in the midst of the affluent, effluent Televised Video-land
of Pastuerized, Homogenized Milk and Honey, White Bread
Margarine, and Free, Funded Sex Education and Illiteracy
Programs
new Mass Media Families of Fatherless children and Homeless
adults
and stray dogs and abandoned cats all waiting
for their turn next in the long, long line
in order to purchase for a dollar a new State Lottery Ticket
to win a trip on board the Lucky Luxury Train
of the Los Angeles-Anaheim-Las Vegas Express
Club Fed Triple X-rated Fantasy Vacation for two
all the multitude who play unwittingly against the house
advantage
ingeniously built into the blue-print by the city corps
of Civil Engineers and Sanitation Technicians and Health
Officials
playing against overwhelming risks and an infinitude of
secret, unknown, hidden variables
just behind the closed, locked, bolted and barred back door
so many hapless suffering from the epidemic syndromes
of the Gambler's Fallacy, AIDs, AFDC , AAA, EOE, Drugs and
Cancer
without ever realizing the really real odds of a billion to
one
against survival in the Twenty-First Century Real Estate
Country Club and Country Home for Retired Cadillac-Mongers
just waiting indecently in line for just the rare
opportunity
of the next-to-impossible chance to get a decent job
just to work the system, play the game, and finally beat the
odds
against pulling themselves up by their own bootless straps
and strapless boots
just in order to win the privilege of not needing
to work so hard just to earn enough money to not be able to
live
to eat, pay the rent, pay the bills, insurance, buy clothes,
etc.
unable in and out of newscasts and videos to follow
completely
the over-extended, over-determined vicious Logic of the the
Lie
ignorant of the inner Sanctum of the Grand Circle of Deceit
and Intelligence and Complete Domestic Security and the Bomb
and the Pill and the I.U.D. and the Rubber and Condom
Trick tests, Holy writ, Sacred speeches, Authorized lectures
Official forms, Formal Competitions, Equal Opportunity
Discrimination, Oral Interview and Anal Intercourse
continuously aping and uppin' the ante and Image of Success
for becoming a Progressive, Aggressive Young Yuppie on the
Move
on the make, in the wake, in the quake
raising the stakes of living and dying in a used Toyota
on the super Freeway to Nipponese heaven
entranced by the magical flashing lights of the Dreamland of
Success
desperately driven by the flow of traffic
to immoral extremes at the edges of euphoria
in the margins of mania-land
by the inexorable guilt of being poor and fear of failure
the Perfectionist's Upper-Middle Class Fantasy
of Fortune's False Hopes in Southern California
with the Few Winners denying the lost lot of the many Losers
blinded by the base, vulgar illusions of Mass Media
Mentality
Sublimating the unbridgeable Gap between Mr. Want and Ms.
Need
denying the stress, the emptiness, the sordid materialisms
of the meaninglessness of the all-consuming modern lifestyle
of Making It In The Fast Lane All The Way
to Fat Consumption Super City
the shared elusiveness of the Good Life of Over Consumption
and Good Times of High Cholesterol in the Shared Company
of Good Friends orgasmically acting out the miserable
make-believe orgiastic mythology
of the Rich and Interesting Plastic Life of the sun-bleached
Beautiful People in their private, perpetual psychological
State of Boredom and Repetition-Compulsion
while reality is slipping rapidly through one's fingertips
like so much loose, petty change
the Grand Lottery Game of Modern Living
The Imperative of Making It
the Final Solution
another Form to fill out
another Test to take
another over-priced six-pack
and Anti-Abortion
God is on our side
the System's Final Solution
to the Problem of Poverty
as one matures with the years of experience
ripening in the wisdom of the ages
extremes lose their exciting, dangerous edges
and the more solid middle ground
is sought for its substantial character
one then seeks the golden mean
cultivating the sense of balance
and proper proportion
in all that is done and said and thought
in how to present oneself
to others in the world
to find harmony between
thoughts and actions
between private and public
involvement and refrain
subtlety is cultivated
with spiritual involvement
and soulful movement
extravagance, exaggeration, loud expression
all extremes become disdained
respect becomes more important than truth
appreciation more valuable than criticism
giving more worthwhile than mere receiving
reciprocity and compromise
better than power and control
refinement more preferable to vulgar experience
education and maturity
better than the lessons of life
and simplistic superiority
growing up in spite of the hard knocks
and not because of them
one reaps what one sows
the Kharma of giving and taking
no matter how far-off
down the road
poetic returns
becoming one's final lot
just deserves the final measure
of the soul
a miser with emotions
selfish with the soul
if one is a drunkard
a narrow-minded bigot
and alienates people from one's love
always flowing around
if one chooses excuses
for things said and done
or left unsaid and undone
if apathy and antipathy
become substitutes
for natural empathy and human sympathy
then one cannot blame others
for eventual losses
at the anti-climax of such an empty life
or find fault with the entire world
for finally feeling cheated and robbed
of life's simple pleasures
but if one is generous
with heart and soul
then though many may joke
and call one a fool
at least others cannot lay blame
or find great fault
if further down the road
one is no longer a stranger to oneself
in the world
living to impress only the self
there is security about my small typewriter
nothing fancy
not a big word processor
the chair with its big soft pillow
is warm and comfortable to sit in
upon its keys I type away
the entire day
ordering my scattered thoughts and feelings
onto a single scrap of paper
expressing the stacatto rhythym of my life
I type to the ticking of the clock
seconds turn into words
words into minutes
minutes turn into pages
and pages into hours and days
and I grow gradually about my typewriter
like a lone, solitary tree
rooting to a rock
I embrace it with my entire being
in spiritual love
and practical hate
when frustrated I pound the table
when it doesn't do what I want it to do
my fingers have read through volumes
my eyes have written reams
my wisdom is deeper rooted
than the mere mechanics of the machine
deeper than the surface of the paper
it has become my medium
and I have become its vehicle
our intelligence flows through my body
like electricity
through my fingertips
onto the keys depressing
leaving a permanent impression
of black ink on white paper
upon an ephemeral, delicate tissue of paper
as fragile as the leaf upon a tree
many such leaves I grow a little tree
and many such trees I plant my forest
and in my forest
my imagination runs wild
my heart and soul dwell in the freedom
of a separate, private sanctuary
The final solution to the grand old system
puppet people with well coordinated performances
with wooden faces and plastic smiles
politeness made into an art of conceit
becoming the effrontery of emptiness and meaninglessness
a nice way to keep at arms length
the real and important issues
a convenient way of avoiding
important points
modern existence refined to a process
an exact science of behavioral prediction and control
propagating the deceit of the Golden Rule
the official delousing ceremony
deliberately creating the illusion of false hopes
instilling an obedient attitude
of silent, passive conformity and complacency
the final proof of the success of the Program
more than twenty-two catches in Passing the Almighty Buck
isolating the human, alienating humanity
atomizing the psyche, eradicating nature
beyond any single person's horizons
robotrons and humanoids efficient to the nth degree
unquestioning to the everlasting end
obfuscating the truth of a false, contrived sense of
security
behind the flood of forms
a deluge of secular writ
hiding behind the reality behind the mechanical beast
the Gates are shut and locked forever to the uninitiated
the ranks are closed tight to all outsiders
one must pass through the secret rituals of the back door
to become a rubber-stamped official member
of the Inner Sanctum of the Established Elite
deprived of token tickets for entrance into the bowels
for passing through the bureaucratic barricades
the Final Affirmative Action of the Operational Positivists
to sacrifice the many for the sake of the untouchable few
in the name of justice and equality
without any appropriate means of financial support
to slowly die a living death of Walking Poverty
attempting desperately
one last show
to gather together
all about myself
those many remnants
those bits and pieces
once filled with so much
meaning in my life
so many things have changed now
and I am no longer so sure exactly how
but I know they are no longer the same
as they once seemed to be
It all seems much less to me now
than what it once was
like so much more
no longer the vigorous young man
the strong human being
my lost lot in life
cast aside
in the sands of time
in spite of many wishes and hopes
and many futile efforts
here now I am
confused
no longer knowing
who or what I am
or why
I have all but given up hope
upon my misbegotten world
and the big world
has all but given up hope on me
perhaps it is too late now
perhaps my die are finally cast
my fate determined
my meager destiny
all but played out
to no avail
no one notices
no one seems to care
any longer
freedom at last
from the fetters of life's inconveniences
from the bondage of brotherly love
ended now the ceaseless distractions
the torturous day-to-day details
of routine compliance and conventional conformity
unconscious restrictions of petty responsibilities
undermining every effort at self-expression
determining every act of self-sacrifice and charity
in this tragi-comic melodrama of life's mediocrity
here today, gone tomorrow
the past becomes grand confusion
misbegotten memories and lost motivations
time now to don new clothes
to shuck off the tattered threads of worn-out times
whatever valuable may remain
surviving remnants of yesterday's dreams
tomorrow's new wardrobe
one cannot help but become impressed
before all knowledge of humanity
by the endlessness
of many book-lined corridors
one cannot help but express
utter humility
in the sublime presence
of so many forgotten texts
neither prostrating oneself in divine worship
nor demonstrating arrogant, haughty pride
but merely mindful play and innocent jest
curiously strolling down the many aisles
as the spirit so desires
stopping now and then
choosing interesting titles
but not taking too long
with this or that interesting bit
not remaining in any single spot
moving on to the next point of interest
perusing many volumes alone the way
why have we been so blessed
in this time of our history
by some mysterious power
yet misunderstood by our naive science
how shall we spend the little time
we have left in our lives
squandering it, miserly, wasting it, mindlessly
in endless obsessive perseveration
and inner toil of frustration
pursuing hopelessly false values
or shall we try to make the most
of the mind we have been blessed with?
warming our hands
by the glow of the fire
not daring to draw too near
fueling the forge
of mythological being
master blacksmith
reworking his magic metal
pounding its molten meddle
into suitable, malleable shapes
quenching the heat
in the sizzling broth
tapping, rapping it
for the volcanic touch
testing its temper
for mystical strength
striking it against
the magical stone
sparks flying in a cascade
from the spinning wheel
touching its sharpened edge
with the draw of a thumb
pumping the bellows
of spiritual breath
we the apprentices
of black magic
stand about
in hypnotic fascination
awestricken
by the golden transmutation
humankind divined
in the forge of being
divinity commonplace
in the molten metal
cast more coal
into the furnace
steal the heat
from the bowels of nature
work our miracles
into human shape
make magical weapons
to strike at demons
as another day begins
time to start afresh
another new life
dreams of yesteryear
all vanished
with the rising
of a new sun
hoping tomorrow
will be different
somehow
better than yesterday
expecting
only more disappointment
suffering unexpected distraction
every morning
a new lease on life
flying out my open window
forever
every evening
just another day gone by
in the preoccupation
with everyday things
feeling a failure
of a decade of self-deceit
every little error
becoming enlarged
every mistake magnified
beneath the lens
of existential introspection
no longer really knowing
what it's all about
now not knowing anymore
how to begin again
like before
problematic issues
perplex my mind
producing cacophany
hodge-podge delight
mosaic of confusion
tattered dreams
bright ideas
boiled by the sun
now sunken
into unconsciousness
only vague
mental meanderings
muddle mosaic
of miscellaneous things
creative spirit
dissipated
conformity of intellect
thoughts of many others
invading the psyche
flooding the conscious
no longer really defining
a clear division
thinking continually back
upon the many years
events so composing
this muddled life
never having know
tomorrows prospects
worldly plans
dashed
who can keep up?
who can compete?
no matter how good one might be
there is always someone better
waiting to prove themselves
on down the dirty road
especially when the odds
are set against you
and the rules really don't seem fair
even though they are telling you differently
what kind of a game to keep on playing
only to know you'll lose in the end
no matter how hard you may be trying
a game without a real end
a life without real success
a joke without a real conclusion
better to play a solitary game
with one's own rules
better to compete against oneself
to try to become better than one was
not to worry too much
about success or failure
amongst all the others
better to be left alone
to create one's own success and failure
no matter how petty
no matter how personal
no matter how private
no matter how naive or trite
this is the only true road
to authentic self-satisfaction
the only real odds for consolation
from the misfortunes and unfairness of life
the only real odds for defining meaning
of one's own success or failure
this is the only real chance to win the game
in one's own terms, on one's own ground
rather than pay too much heed
to the projective criticisms
of selfish, envious others
what is the measure of human greatness
that so stands apart from the common lot of mediocrity
that serves as a guiding light for others
is all of it mere a fiction, a myth of history?
What are the essential qualities, the elements
the necessary workings, the circumstantial factors
of that characteristic we call genius?
how to rise above the field of sundry undergrowth
to flourish freely in the fresh air and sunshine?
How to measure the superlative by only standard means?
How to comprehend the exceptional by only rule-bound ways?
Is it not enough to be merely different for difference sake?
Is it not enough to simply be exploratory, creative and new?
How to create the subtle complexities, the sublime
qualities?
How to perfect the relevant, the appropriate
To achieve the power and profundity?
Upon what factors of life, what decisions of existence
Does becoming great entail?
How to overcome the tremendous inertia
The clinging dependency, the gravitational attraction
of the law of averages
of the demands of consensus and the baser pleasures
how to escape the historical momentum of the great mass
of common humanity and to achieve the momentousness
of individual meaning?
Humankind
born, living, procreating and dying
in anonymity
so many making chicken scratches upon the earth
only a few leaving an indelible mark
upon the human record
have moved so many times
I now do not know any longer
where my home really is
only a sense of spirit
drifting ghost-like from place to place
blowing haphazardly
with the direction of the prevailing wind
wandering with the vagaries of unpredictable fate
have changed my clothes so many times
have stepped into so many different shoes
I no longer really know who I am
or what I'm all about
the center of balance of my mind
has suddenly disappeared
no longer do I honestly feel a center of being
it has become all entirely situational
meaning is now no more than relative to circumstances
an orientation, a continual reorientation
in constantly changing places, constantly altering times
no longer with a center point of gravity
a common ground for meaning, for communion with others
no longer a fixed frame of universal reference
no longer with the security of a place to call home
which isn't only ephemeral, temporary, vicarious
can no longer honestly admit what tomorrow may bring
now my life is filled with only disjointed memories
a disparate series of fragmented moments and momentos
no longer with any sense of unity about my being
or a common theme of meaningful purpose to my future
displaced feelings from another period and place
no longer relevant to here and now
not appropriate for making a new future
only a personal history quickly receding upon my horizon
a prodigal son who's gone too far
a human without a home
a man without a country
a sheep that's strayed too far
from the common fold
a pray to wolves and demons
all these many people
toing and froing
coming and going
hurrying about
busy being busy with business
striving for power
moving toward greater perfection
making more progress
making it all happen
in the name of progress
staying busy
keeping busy
so busy with progressing
every year better than before
more than before
a new improved version
of the world
a better brand of progress
so busy with progressing
so preoccupied with power
so obsessed with perfection
making it all come about
in the name of God, Gold and Glory
in the name of the nation of perfection
in the name of the land of progress and prosperity
in the name of the new state of power
prosperous people, people prosperousness
not knowing what its really like
to be Godless in the land of God
to be imperfect in the race of perfection
to be powerless in the state of power
to be regressing in an age of progress
prosperity--plenty of perfection, plenty
progressing, plenty of power, plenty of poverty
isn't it so wonderful, so marvelous, so miraculous
this new land of plenty, prosperity
poverty
and people
mental-vicariousness
meta-vicarious
to talk of the greenery
making reference to the shores
upon the other side of the sea
mentioning some meaning
about happiness
delighting in the happiness
of the meaning just mentioned
passing away the moments
whiling away life
just sitting on top of a wall
to have to choose between
reality and fantasy
is there some
poetic necessity?
or merely a definitional turn of phrase
a tricky twist of the tongue in the cheek
muttering some nonsense about justice
is the deed of the word any less decisive
than the word of the deed?
is the power of the pen and paper
any less vicious than the life of the sword?
is living in the act any less by proxy
than dwelling in the dominion of the thought?
exaggerated existentiality and emphasized meaninglessness
of a modern lifestyle carried to logical extremes
tainting everything experienced
with a feeling of alienation
the negative of the positive
tarnishing values with distance and difference
the detachment of attachment
who's to equivocate
and expound upon ultimate truth?
who's to question the existential imperative
of the final authority of living and dying?
when the little poet writes for all Poetry
when the small critic speaks for the whole world
when the miniature mind moralizes for all humanity
mental midgets casting giant shadows
moral morons enacting great things
small mouths spitting out large words
tiny talents mimickng great genius
petty egos emulating big souls
then the meaning of living and dying
comes full circle in the dialectic
of trivia and beauty
man and woman
rising together and falling apart
love and hate
joining hand-in-hand
dancing to the dialectic of life and death
on the way to heaven and hell
indifference awaits impatiently like a wall flower
for the anti-climax of the final closing act
speak to me about final peace
and the progress of civilization
and the prosperity of the people
when there will be no more wars
when there will be no more poverty
no more inequity
tell me about paradise
when you wipe away my final tears
nothing seems fair or just
no one seems to really care
everyone is caught up in their own situation
no one wants to be reminded of too much
of their own plight or misforunate
enough it is to know such problems are there
much less to worry about it all being fair
people like to pull up a few flowers for the weeds
when you call me on the telephone
complaining about all the unfairness and antipathy
how can we change these things in life
beyond our own existential dilemmas
and when people do care it is merely token
or guided by selfish motivations
how to change the world for the better
when so much of the world is so resistant to change
when so many so adamantly refuse to change their lives
who are afraid of unintended consequences
such different changes might bring
no matter how many times or how hard we may try
always there is someone in the way
the grass is always greener on the other side
the weeds have always overgrown this side
poor poet
trying to make some sense
a few disjunct lines
of utter nonsense
collecting together
many scattered thoughts
if only he could make some cents
for his sparse and meager words
to pay for his full fare
a small stipend
to make life seem a little more fair
searching for things to write about
searching for words to express those things
searching for lost meanings
hidden somewhere in those words
searching for some kind of success
behind the story
of an unfinished life
easy enough to call oneself something
a painter, a poet
then a woodworker, a writer
even an "anthropologist" somewhere between times
how he manages to do so much
with such little effort expended
trying to invent another new line
trying to think up a different turn of phrase
trying to reinvigorate his creativity
heedlessly ignoring the conventions of the trade
trying to recapture some lost spirit
of a youth that's suddenly vanished
that's silently stalked away
another average poem of medium length
nothing too unusual, nothing spectacularly outstanding
just another fragile, thin page in a poor poet's life story
just another small addition to a growing pile of paper
building a life from used scratch
building a house from used paper
making a mountain of used scraps
many little piles of used pieces of wasted paper
just something to do, while waiting to find a job
just something to waste one's time with
while waiting to look for a real living
an excuse for not earning any real money
making mythical paper money
to buy a third-class ticket
aboard a common train
carrying all the average people
to somewhere inbetween
middle-class
heaven
wishing only to return back home again
without really having a home to go back to
standing resolutely at the edge of history
suffering the infinite vertigo of groundlessness
a quivering fear of falling over the edge
into the dark abyss just beyond
both feet planted firmly upon solid ground
the winds behind me are blowing heavily
bearing strongly upon my backside
nudging me, forcing me closer to the edge
there is no turning back the clock
time has pushed this encounter with eternity
past the point of no return
poetic justice must be served
great depths must follow upon the heals of great heights
beyond the chasm there can be no clear vision
no illumination of what lies upon the other side
only a single, deep, dark sense of discontinuity
a momentous break in time and space
a momentary hiatus of timelessness
at a long journey's end
where the bottom rests no one can know
forward, downward the paths lead to my future
over this edge of final departure from the past
onward our common destiny shall lead us
whatever our trials and tribulations
into the great disparity of the darkness
where no light illuminates the unknown
the years have made their mark
upon this restless soul
spirit is crippled
brains are addled
hands scarred
creativity dissipated with bodily strength
fat and bone and skin only remaining
sexual vigor is a thing of a slipping memory
poetry is at a loss for words
only wisdom gained is a substitute
of a lost, unlived life
the lessons of many mistakes unlearned
the experiences of many losses forgotten
love and devotion become a prison
a web of entanglement of despair and disillusionment
hate becomes a sordid joke of honesty
taunting false idealisms so youthful
tainting humble realities so tarnished with time
never had a real name to call myself
a true social identity I could sincerely, genuinely believe
in
or get lost in whole-heartedly and unreservedly
commitment is no longer just a four letter word
a perverse fetish of the power of love and hate
but it becomes merely the irreversible process
of day-to-day living in a common world of humanity
my intellect clouded over by a haze, a glaze of booze
in a permanent daze of semi-conscious awakening all my days
perennial unemployment has left its vicious mark
like a crude tattoo across my face
like some victim's mask I can't erase
following me like some guilty shadow
moral misdeeds of my youthful mistakes
haunt my memories and torment my dreams with violence
stalking my future success
like some dangerous, wounded animal
friends and enemies wonder amongst themselves
What kind of damaged creature is this?
Like some common conspiracy against a monstrous aberration
the misguided spirit of an all too common Humanity
what becomes of a common humanity
when it becomes merely anonymous
without some sense of personal, collective moral identity
without a common hope for a better future
better than a tragic past
without even a penny or a chance in the present?
Reflections
The world suffers from acute socio-moral dwarfism
A few intellectuals and revolutionaries have bestowed
Upon the moral midgets of humanity
the megalo-maniacal self-appointed leaders of human
civilization
A new toy to go to war with--the bomb
Yet it will be too late
It is like giving a child a loaded handgun with a
hair-trigger
It will inadvertently commit suicide
Racial suicide is the higher fate of humanity
Atrophied in their educational development
There is no hope for humanity
As long as it continues
To wallow in its moral pigsty it possesses so dearly
Radical pacifist and humanist revolution, from inside out
On the part of every human as a conscientious objector
Must be made to happen quickly
Before some adled moral midget
Gets his fingers on the controls of humanity's destiny
Human rights is the problem
Of the world
Life and health to each
Human born
Liberty and freedom to grow
The capacity to pursue
That which makes such happiness
In each person's own world
Without threat of transgression
By others
Slavery is the problem
Of the world
To false beliefs
To political organizations
To society and ignorance
The wisest course is one of
Strict noninterference
In the rights of others
And one of self-emancipation
From slavehood
Humankind knows too well
How to be slaves
We must now learn about
Human rights
Which are natural, inalienable
And sacred
Violence is learned early
When a young child
Who can barely count
Or even tie his shoes
Knows to throw a stone in contempt
What of my art or my poetry
When the world unrealized
Dwarfs reality and makes us seem so small
Who is the fool who wishes
By his actions or his thoughts
To upset other people's worlds
To force upon them the unwanted
To bring upon themselves their own problems
To live in each other in neglect of the self
The higher destiny alludes human possession
Every person must have the space to grow
The freedom to decide
The time to learn
The solitude to contemplate
The solidarity of the rich experiences of life.
Malcontent and restless my should resides
I have been between without some lifelong purpose
Without some religion or some external dealing
To which I might sacrifice myself
It has all been ad lib art to try to define some
Of the real reason's of life
Without which all I would have would be
To commit suicide or just to live half-heartedly
As if I were dead
Imprisoned in my mind
And my soul a slave
I look at my art and think
What a waste of time
And think life a waste of time
I realize then that for all my hardships
There are people worse off than I
Without the same wealth or chances
Why must I play games with my soul?
Most people are led through life by desires of the flesh
Instead of leading their lives with reason
My heart has been compensation and sublimation
Of other people's unsatisfied desires
Why can't I just let it be
Contentment is divine
Of all the titles and degrees of importance
To attain and have conferred upon one's reputation
There is no better title than being a whole human
Of all the ideals and creeds
There is no greater nor higher belief
Than in being one's own human
No matter how humble or how noble
The human element gives to live
Meaning and sustenance
Nonmaterial and nonsocial
It can be the dearest and the cheapest
To exploit and propagate
The intellectual's grand dilemma
I saw a doodling by a master artist
A unique piece on notebook paper
The only one of its kind
A true collector's find
That sold for six grand
I thought how many mouths six thousand might feed
How many human lives might be worth more than that
I thought of the millions of unique people of the world
And wondered what could possibly be in a name
To be worth so much and so little
Though there may be thousands of cheap imitations
And though most of human existence signifies
Nonsensical and temporary business
Just one successful human in a million
Makes it worth the expense
That people must be free do do those things they need
That is most important to their lives
Normative freedom in living as they choose
Though their choices be in ignorance or prejudice
However much one may wish to interfere in other's lives
The meek unpresuming hands-off attitude is always better
In honest and open social relationships
Ony one person is fooled and hurt by dishonesty
And that is the self
Honesty is all
No matter how distorted or perverted
Life has a natural right to persist
No matter how much they are lifers
Humans have a right to live
People must be left alone to do their own thing
Whether it be good or bad
Always the best policy in the long run
As long as it harms no one but the self
The mark of true greatness
Is in being human
Open and honest with the self
No other value or belief
Has the same measure of importance
Than the belief in being human
The subtle power of creation
So deep in soulful movement
In song, rhyme, melody
The visual inspiration
Subjectivity that transcends
The philosopher's relativity
And limited visions
Of a small world
Making seem too weak
The scientists methods
A timeless value
To reach across seas
And through the ages
To make seem two strangers
Lost on a sea of loneliness
Physically separate
Soulfully together
The hear of love
What is this of death
If not for that precious jewel
The real wealth of humanity
Then death is just another statistic
Such artists are immortal
Yet in this particular death
As singular part of me has died also
The anonymity of the should
Tender memories arise
Unique entities
Gone forever
There is no need for a God
When one has learned to live
content with oneself
let me not hear of despair
Life maybe a game
Of which death has the final call
yet it is a reality to be played
A responsibility not to be shirked
Truth is also a reality
As a part of life
Not to be denied either
The courage of life
the volition of rationality
Not the dishonesty and the irrationality
Not the fear of death
But to die in a violent manner
To perish too young to know
all the secrets of life
Not to be able to live to a ripe old age
And pass away quietly and gratefully
The game lost or won
Life fulfilled right or wrong
That is the crime
It is the violence that is so unnatural
And not the death
Why is this cruelty
When will this violence cease
And in its place reign peace
To make the complex
seem simple
To make the simple
seem complex
That is the value
Of the artist's creation
The philosopher's reason
The scientists deduction
Life has an end beyond itself
Life is integration
No need for divination beyond
Negation of life is self-defeating
Affirmation of life is natural
In all the fine progress
The wealth that civilization has blessed
Upon humanity
To enable fuller expression of life
Something is yet missing
Something lost
Or worse yet never known
That the aborigine and the native
Understood full well
To live content within one's own nature
A dilemma of a dual dichotomization
For all the destruction and death
That which has accompanied
That which we honor as progress
The murder and violence
The persistent ignorance and the prejudice
The alienation and the lonely despair
the malcontent living vicariously
Values in negation of human nature
Two divergent tendencies that
In a quickening acceleration
Threaten to tear humanity apart
Into the oblivion of the primitive condition
On the brink of paradise
And the paradox of all this human story
Like so many grains of sand
So many atoms and drops of water
The resolution of the problem
Is in a single entity
Human nature
To be able to look inside oneself
To reject the insecurity of fear
To recognize all one's own negative tendencies
To shoulder the responsibility of courage
To acknowledge all one's positive tendencies
To deny the first and fulfill the second
To achieve integrity
Never despair of one's purpose
Against a tide of many
That purpose is all important
It is the ultimate solution
I look inside myself
Survey my past record
Question my future
Experience the moment
An integrity never to be repeated
Alone as an island
Despair and hope
I have not given up the fight
I yet live
Enraptured in narcissistic self-expression
Forever battling negative regressions
Losing ground and winning only small victories
Too limited and weak
To convey adequately
the higher emotions and transcendent rationality
Words, in mimicry of true intellection
Make seem of the infinitely complex
Reductively oversimplified
Prejudices spoken and thoughts influenced
What is the point of these words
To convey meanings of truth
While overcomplicating those things
Which are in reality very simple
Knowledge of which is ever evasive
Simple paradoxes, dilemmas and ambiguities
Made into difficult problems
Without any definitive solutions
While surveying my own existence
I see many diverse contradictions
Between my thoughts and my actions
The casual resolution of which
has been my central effort
While the worst prejudices have been
Those unresolved and unrecognized contradictions
Disguised by the apparent
Facility of living
To think only in terms of tendencies
Possibilities, probabilities and patternings
Of interference both destructive and constructive
What is this of a holo-universe
And a holographic soul
When each individual is uniquely spontaneous and
instantaneous
Every action forming a different entity
Reality is diversely omni-directional
Composed of many directions and interrelations
While thought remains in a single orientation
Many people speaking and thinking
In many different words
In argument destructively interfering
Everyone meaning the same thing
Without realizing it
Only through concise, objectified constructs
Formalized self-expressions
Achieved alone and without the interference of others
May prejudice be transcended and reflection of truth
attained
Fame is the illusion of social recognition
A substitute for inner identity and complacency
Fortune is a compensation for lost time
That cannot be bought or relived
Faith is the crutch of an insecure soul
Reneging of individual responsibility and leadership
The motives are the important factors
In all human actions
Motivations are the richness and depravity of existence
I've been searching for the proper motivation
To enable myself to constructively utilize my time
and my thoughts
in a personal manner
To achieve self-maturation
Dependencies on other people
Selfless narcissism
Social exploitation
Authoritative prejudice
Arising from ignorance
Breeding fear of the unknown
Around which death-motivations grow
These things can never attain transcendent maturation
Learning to cope with loneliness
While transcending the imposition of others
The fate of human existence
Greatness is in name only
True value is only within oneself
Never talk about others
Except to their faces
Never argue any issue
Allow only congenial discussion
Through open, two-way communication
Listening and speaking
Never criticize, categorize, or dichotomize,
Never speak of truth in self-righteousness
Never verbally express an opinion
Except when asked
Or when the situation demands correction
To protect the self and others
And except through literal transmission
If every human lived by the commandment
"Thou shalt not kill"
Then there would be no wars or murder
Of any sort
And yet why do people
Continue to ignore this most ancient and reverent
Teaching of human culture?
No rationalization can justify war
Without first denying this first principle
Humans have progressed in the technical aspects of living
The technical aspects of death have evolved concurrently
Revealing to honest and simple inquiry
The failure of human values and educational development
To keep pace with the proclaimed "progress"
"Modern" humanity is more brutal than its ancient
ancestors
A case of mass mania
by a majority of overgrown children
Immature adults atrophied in youth by the lack of proper
schooling
The climactic revelation is fast approaching
The catastrophic fate of a democratic humanity
the majority has failed to live naturally with themselves
Striving in many distorted and unnatural ways
To live vicariously in death and self-destruction
If all people should consider the first moral teaching
The precept of human culture and values
And throw down their weapons
Then civilization would become truly human
this is the starting point of peace and paradise
Pacifist revolution by the conscientious objector
The first moral precept of culture
Is the final human imperative for survival
"thou shalt not kill!"
Have no expectations and you will not suffer disillusionment
In your plans
Make no value judgments and you will not be dissatisfied
Be satisfied with the results but always try to do better
Never give up trying
Even in the most desperate moments
Success and failure follow each other
both are continual and temporary
Always pursue your ends yet never carry one
In fixed behavior patterns to the point of absurdity
That you become self-defeating
There are always alternative courses of action
However much hidden or unknown
Only by trying, experimenting, experience fully
Will these new alternatives
Hitherto unknown to you
be discovered
Never fear to initiate new plans of action
The most you can lose is your life
And when you are dead it won't matter anyway
Caution is the crutch for the crippled
Others will cast you in roles you do not fit
Only by yourself can you find your proper role
Let no one stand in the way of your plans
And yet make no one but yourself the ends or means of plans
There are very few true best friends
Do not be fooled by the fakers
A person must learn to be his own best friend
Before he can truly befriend an other
Life is a game meant to be played
Work hard, play hard, live hard, die hard
Drink to the wealth and health of living fully
Experiment, explore, experience and express
Satisfaction is guaranteed.
There are three kinds of love
The first is an inner form
A self-centered love
Giving itself to narcissism
In mind and body
It is a stillborn love
Of immaturity or the atrophied
That leads to hate
For the weak and wounded soul
And eventuates in corruption
And destruction of everything
That is not the self
There is a second form of love
An external kind of romanticism
That has its roots in sexuality
It involves relatedness to the outside world
A giving of oneself to something else
It is a growing and fulfilling love
Yet it is only an interface
A pathway between the self and truth
Leading to the third kind
Yet if growth of love
Fixates in this interim
The results are a total selflessness
A neglect of the self
And misunderstanding and confusion of reality
Ending in self-sacrifice
The third form of love
Is the most difficult to describe
Because it is the most rarely realized
And the least felt or understood
Yet it is the most beautiful
And the most powerful form of love
That a human can hope to attain
It is love full grown and mature
It is simply a love of life
a sublime and intuitive understanding
And reverence for the infinite experiences
Life has to offer
the self is transcended
To a superior sense of being
Neither completely selfish nor selfless
But of a much greater essence
A self at one with reality
A oneness from which neither the subjective
Nor the objective can be divorced
This third form of love
Is at once the highest goal of self-fulfillment
That any human can hope to achieve in life.
I have learned the hard way
Of all the many things
That I do not like
And that I do not want to do
I have found in life only a few things
That appeal to me
And only fewer that I want to do
All the conventions which pervade
Every facet of life to an unconscious degree
The subtle biases that slant our thoughts
Intellect can be as much a hindrance and a menace
As it is a value to discovery
Insofar as convention is well established
And taken for granted
Theory and thought must conform
And ensuring action made very predictable
Behavior becomes self-limiting
and un conducive to invention and creation
It is the revolution against this convention
The trespassing into the forbidden realm
Of the ignorant and the unknown
The temporary suspension of logic
The acceptance of the apparently illogical
That mysterious process known as creativity
Is allowed to occur
Knowledge and logic alone are sterile tools
Incapable of discovering the unexplored realm
That alone is the means of virility and progress
Yet without these sterile tools of science
The intuitive quality of creativity is blind
And discovery of the unknown is useless
It is to the extent that a person
Rises above the culture in which he was born and raised in
That he behaves as a sentient and worthy individual
That he is truly human
There are many different and inherently interesting cultures
Each with its own self-limiting set
Of conscious and unconscious conventions of behavior
So many people have come and gone
And the world is such a big place
that it is very easy to lose a sense of personal purpose
And to become apathetic and insensitive to the needs
Of other humans and to learn how to neglect
The fundamental responsibility of being human
My single soul is relatively unimportant in this world
I suppose it is my fate to be lonely
To be withdrawn and abnormal in many ways
I must content myself with my lot in life
Those very few things that make me happy
In order to survive.
What is this nonsense about the beauty of love?
That it is the all-important part of our lives
A romantic infatuation with the ideal
Blinding to the reality of an ugly world
People live so much of their lives
In vicarious notions of wishes, dreams, hopes
Of fantasies of the past and future
Dreaming of some other world as if in a trance
and when these vicarious states of existence
Come into conflict with the reality of life
They become the source of much anxiety
Fears, regressions, inner dissonance and introspection
The only real evidence of love
that I have found in life
Is the love that springs from satisfaction of needs
It is a completely selfish and utilitarian in this sense
It is based on our dependence upon others
On the practical necessities our lives entail
It leads to dependency on others
to the extent that reality determines our fate
And limits us through our need-dependencies
Does romantic love take over
As a means of compensation for the poverty
And consolation for the depravity
This is the extent to which love becomes realistic
the best course is to resist our ever-present urges
to digress from the present situation
To desist from many vicarious behavior patterns
And to try consciously to glean from moment to moment
The most real love we can from our limited lives
to do one thing at a time
Concentrating every effort into a single direction
And never to procrastinate in our self-fulfillment
To integrate the divisive tendencies of living
This is the only means of spiritual transcendence
Of personality growth and the realization of true love
Improvement is slow and tedious
But it is a sure result
Of real love
When the voice of inner confusion
Becomes so overwhelming
That one cannot accomplish
Anything objective
What can be done?
I have given up hope
For those who will not change themselves
When they have so many opportunities
Change is such a difficult thing to accomplish
But I do not believe it to be impossible
There are so many people
Who have made a responsibility out of irresponsibility
A religion of selfless sacrifice
And institutions of selfish gain
Structures of belief
By which convention and conformity
Become a means for making money
And a standard of worship
Why is it so--
What is the origin of our common strife
That is so deeply rooted
In human nature?
How can there be so many selfish and blind people?
There are no simple solutions to such complex problems
The answers evade my consciousness
And I am left hopeless
My own ignorance overwhelms me
The origin of man's competitive nature
Keeps him from attaining his higher destiny
Suicide is the final act
In this human tragedy
Some say it's there when you are born
Others say that you acquire it when you are young
Some say that the world gives it to you
Others believe it comes from within
Many do not know they have it
Until the come of age and their eyes open wide
To the world which surrounds them
Yet others go through the whole of their lives
Without ever knowing that they have it
And thus die ignorant and if not happy
then some would say at least content
It is something hard to define
And as hard to get rid of
It is not quite a disease
And something akin to a monkey on the back
It can lead a person down many stray paths
That end in cul-de-sac's
In search of something undefined and unknown
It can lead a person into many unhealthy behaviors
No matter how hard one may try
Or how hard one may want to get rid of it
It seems almost impossible to do
Somehow or another it always seems to creep back inside of
us
Sometimes it makes one question
Whether you possess it
Or if it really possesses you
And wonder how vile and ugly it must be when exposed
Naked embarrassment when cast from its natural abode within
Often it makes one throw up his hands
And say "that's life"
The more I go through this world
The more I realize how many people have it
And never have I found one without it
Such lucky people must be very rare indeed
Remember this
Whatever it may be
Or feel like inside of a person
The more one can define it
That is the solution to the problem
The more one controls it and can rid oneself of it
The happier and freer that person will be
To give up on it
Is to give up on oneself and let it control you
It is to give up on life
And to eventually die
What is this nonsense about love?
True love is an end in itself
That must not be adulterated by petty human desire
There is nothing romantic about real love
All the sacrifices, pains and suffering
Al the selfish desires and needs
The costs one is will to be subjected to and endure
Is real love worth it?
True love is rare
That much more precious when found
Seldom does it ever occur
Like two distant bodies on a collision course
The chances against it are great
More often love is muted and distorted
A thing of chance or of happenstance
An imperfection of human engineering
That has not transcended the corporeal flesh and bones
The spirit of love imprisoned
Dependency is a better name to call such baser love
When a boy and a girl love
Intimacy and curiosity brings them too close
Ignorant of their own nature
they live together in their shared infatuations
For only a little while
Then both boy feels trapped
And the girl feels cheated
They both loved each other unfairly
But neither can be to blame
both have lost their innocence
They loved a little but not enough
In time they become a man and a woman
With many such loves come and gone
And for new love to endure
Often requires a sacrifice of one for the other
Or to forsake themselves for the sake of their children
Who become their parent's whole love of life
And thus a different and purer kind of love is born
all the petty things that stand
In the way of true love
We either love ourselves too much
To be able to truly love anyone else
Or else we have not yet learned to truly love ourselves
So that others may love us also
To love and to be loved are not the same
Every human being lives in a completely subjective world
And each person's biggest problem is how to know
Other people's worlds and reality
they are often mistaken in thinking such knowledge
Comes from self-denial or overcoming that inherent
subjectivity
Yet this is humanly impossible
the biggest problem is precisely how to know ourselves
To feel whole within our subjective worlds
And to gain that feeling requires complete isolation
From the knowledge and world of others
We can never hope to learn to be ourselves
As long as there are other people
We need to worry about or consider
And yet when we withdraw into ourselves
The feeling of loneliness soon commands
We find ourselves missing others
While at a loss of our own knowledge
Loneliness is no the only feeling
We need to be subjected to in our solitude
Love overcomes loneliness
No matter how much we may fail in the attempt
We weill always try to overcome our subjectivity
this is the grand human dilemma
It is the heart of humankind's greatest problem
One we shall never completely solve or escape
I have no friends
And I hate most of this world
I am stingy and stubborn
Many think I am despicable
And worthy only of their contempt
I am worthless to anyone else
I am worthy only to myself
I am cowardly and arrogant
My values are strange and distorted
From the social norm
I do not find the same meaning in life
That others find in it
I am selfish and take for granted
My few advantages and attributes
The older I grow the worse I become
And my existence becomes stranger
Even though I think I know everything
I always find there is more to know
Ungratefully I eat my own words
And yet the more I experience and learn
The more intriguing and interesting
I find my selfish world to be
In spite of al my decadence and corruption
The lonelier my life becomes
The less need I have for others
Their thoughts, opinions or needs
The more I come to understand and know
The greater is my feeling of love for my life
Life is only a game and death is its end
Without death life would be meaningless
Call it what they may
Respect my life they must
We are born innocent and ignorant
Into a world full of apathy and antipathy
And sympathy and empathy are second-class virtues
What a crime and pity it is
to be over-sensitive
In a world so brutishly insensitive
It is better to be dull and uncaring
To give up on oneself
And to allow one's soul to become molded haphazardly
By chance influences and the whims of jealous, selfish
people
It is all too easy to become a true believer
In some superhuman delusion
It is not as easy to remain a non-believer
And to just accept disillusionment as logical fate
The price one must pay for wisdom is innocence
The more knowing of truth
The more guilty we become
And those who remain insensitive in ignorance
Elude themselves about their innocence
But they are just as guilty
Of the crime of being inhuman
Simply because we have forsaken an insensitive world
And have refused to give up on our souls
to let ourselves become victimized
By the selfishness of others
Simply by refusing to be insensitive
By being human and not inhuman
Are we guilty
What more eternal hell is there
Than to be boring in a boring world?
Only forty years ago, Japan and Germany
Were a hated enemy
And now they are our unquestioned allies
And the USSR, was was then our ally
Became almost overnight, our hated enemy
What kind of idiocy is this?
To what honorable purpose has all this murder been?
To absolutely no purpose
And now we rest complacently
On the brink of global holocaust
While primitives still control our destiny
What is this about marriage?
For years a brother-in-law and a good friend
And then after the divorce a complete stranger
And the friendships made and lost
All the struggles fought, won and lost
All the work without purpose and play without sense
all the silly games that at one time seemed so important
People will readily sacrifice their lives for any illusion
And yet they cannot just live and let live
they will sacrifice so many other's lives just to keep from
dying
and what is this inconsolable fear of death
When death is nothing but the end of the game of life
All the behavior that seems so normal and natural
Upon closer scrutiny revels itself to be alien and
pathological
How can so many people live their lives out so
unquestioningly?
People are like isolated ships passing in the night
They can live so physically close to one another
And yet in ignorance and apathy remain complete strangers
Those with whom we are so intimate and physically share one
another
Often, all too often we are still foreign spiritually
And emotionally separated by a gulf of misunderstanding
I have a pair of sex organs
That I have rarely used
And I feel deeply that they have been wasted for nothing
I look at most people and they are utterly alone
And I see so many lonely eyes craving fulfillment
I tell myself to be satisfied with my lot in life
And yet I can't help thinking that there must be more
That which is humanly normal is very unnatural
How much greater alienation do we need tolerate?
We are willing to live with ourselves
As if to live with the unknown
Whenever I accomplish some task
I feel like I should celebrate
And I discover only that I really do not know how
to be nice to myself
I could go out and get drunk, but that is not being nice to
myself
And I realize that I don't know how to make myself happy
though I am so selfish in so many ways
Happiness comes and goes like a tramp
The lack of honesty and the tremendous hypocrisy
So many people are trying to fool each other
And are only fooling themselves
I return to my lonely cell
To sit and stare blindly at the walls
Once marked for a loser
In a game one never had a chance to play
There is no escaping from that prejudice
Good or bad
A person is what he is
An end without need of justification
For other's sake
It is not the people themselves
That re so despicable
But their unchanging behavior
For which they are irresponsible
There is no arbitrary choice of birth
No one every asked to be born
In such a world as this
And yet here we are all the same
With every right to remain
Once fate has decided the wealth
And poverty of our lives
Then all the illusions vanish into meaninglessness
And we go on living without question
Life runs on empty dreams
Schools run on illusions
A machine that feeds us
Undigested and partly processed knowledge
Crammed down our throats
And we recurgitate it on demand
When the proper buttons are pushed
When people leave school
They think and act like they know a great deal
To find that they know very little about life
School is insulated from the harsher realities
But without believers school and life are nothing
Once upon a time one played the game so hard
So determined to be a winner
Only to discover the infinitude of chance influences
That go into the modeling of every human life
And go beyond any human's capacity to alter
We are by-products of a system we can never understand
Games are good in proper perspective
But when life becomes a game
That is only too bad
How can one compete with others when he is a non-competitor?
How can one lose in a game he doesn't play?
Who started this grand game?
One soon discovers that much is lost when he gives up the
game
He loses contact with all those who still play foolheartedly
And finds out that most human behavior is geared toward
destruction
The price of human existence is a difficult one to pay
Most people are unwilling or unable to change their behavior
And persist in behavior that fills the tremendous gap
Between birth and death with wasted time
This is a tremendous poverty that is difficult to overcome
Many people have nothing better to do than to sport illusion
And these people that waste their precious time
Are the least likely to honestly admit the unimportance of
it all
All the superficiality, trivia, waste
Imagine it all banished by a single act of collective
willpower
No more religions, no more politics, no more wars
No more making a game of living and dying
No more killing by selfish people
All the great majority of humanity are alienated, intolerant
and unquestioning
One discovers in truth that there is nothing new in reality
Its all been here long before humans with our petty
ignorance
Happened upon the scene
It is only in the mind that the gap exists
Between ourselves and reality
In the many theories and ideas that define the limits
Of human ignorance and prejudice
If humanity could learn reality overnight
In the morning most behavior would cease
People would go on living
Without the need to murder or even control others
But it is well that while there is only one reality
There is a tremendous diversity of theoretical possibilities
For these possibilities generate new realities
I have given up projecting negative emotions upon myself
Except for the guilt that is my responsibility
I have given up trying to understand other people
Trying to change them or to influence them in any way
People are too caught up in other's problems and destinies
Things that they can only negatively influence
When they neglect their own self-made souls
Independence from other people's dependencies
Is the only path to freedom
I will sit contentedly in my lonely cell
And let the trivial world pass me by
Without too much regret.
The individual is a phenomenon of growth
That when separated from the main stream
By the sanctuary of some small and quite pool
Can grow like a flower blossoming
And while for many the current of life
Is far too swift and strong
It is the blooming of human nature
If left for a long enough time
Unaffected by the eddies and whirlpools
And so rarely has such development
Been left completely uninfluenced and independent
That whether or not it has an end
Is a question open to debate
It is enough to have faith
That it has no human end
Except death
This is natural culture
There is also an artificial culture
The collective influence of many such individuals
The contributions of many people's immortal efforts
Have built a great temple
Of philosophy, science, knowledge and art
It is intangible and immaterial
It can only be entered by reason and intuition
This temple has become so immensely grand
That it is quite incomprehensible in its entirety
A person may spend an entire life-time
Just appreciating the beauty
Of only a small portion of it
This temple
Which is shared by all humanity
Is much greater
Than any temple
made of stone
And whether there is any limit
To the extent of its construction
Is also a question
That is open to debate
It is enough to have faith
That it is truly unlimited.
I always wonder about myself
Whether I am a paranoid artist
Or an artistic paranoid
Or just a hypcrite fooling only myself
Our more deep-seated prejudices and biases
Are clues to our inner weaknesses
We project on others those qualities
That we reject within ourselves
To find ourselves the greatest perpetrators
And the merciless victims of self-manipulation
And what good actors we really must be
Able to fit many parts with ease
To put on any face, costume and fit any character
From our hidden treasures
Whenever occasion of need arises
And who do we strive to impress most
Ourselves or others?
It is not well
To be so certain about the world
Or aout one's own nature, life or destiny
To be so detached from one's emotions
It is a very sick state of being
To know oneself too well.
On paper or canvas
Always beginning my art
On a clean surface
by the time I'm done
I've done more erasing
Than drawing
So it seems with existence
Life becomes delineated by the mistakes
Two steps forward and one backward
I have so little to show
For all the planning, worrying and tiring effort
And yet to question whether it's all been worth it
Is to foolishly beg for an impossible wish
As I become older
The more my past mistakes and success stack up
the more accepting I become of my fate
The fewer are the possibilities for change
Time shortens a my character becomes more inflexible
Yet the fewer become the trivial worries
And the lighter my burden
In the final judgment
Whether the strength of wisdom
Or the weakness of infirmity shall prevail
If this is what maturity is
Then it has been worth the losses
Maturity is meeting the loud audacity of inexperienced youth
With a generous and simple smile
Needing only silence to express its profundity
The days, weeks, months of the years
The holidays and seasons
those cycles by which our passing is marked
Quicken in tempo
As memories increase and excitement wanes
Growing old consists of changes
Sneaking up from behind
And being unexpectedly surprised
It means bearing witness to many strange feelings and
experiences
That leave one in bewilderment
It means finding that world of which you were once a part
slowly fading out to become mere memories
While reality has suddenly changed
It means becoming bored and restless
And yet being to tired and weak to change
What a fine line
Separating the good from the bad
That differentiates the natural from the pathological
Which distinguishes greatness from deviance
And genius from insanity
Makes one wonder if it might not be contrived rationality
What a thin cord
Between life and death
The callings and elements of all extremes
Are to be found in each and every soul
And the conflicts that consumes the interior world of the
soul
Find expression and reflection in the exterior world of the
other
The key to every kind of human power
Rests within the heart of will power
The core of all the worlds most pressing problems
May be found within the solitary individual
The solution to a better world
May only be realized in solitude
To perish by intention or accident
Would be to please others
Who despise my self-respect
to give up and to take one's own life
Is an admission of defeat
And a victory for the conquering worms
It is to allow the many losers in life
Who do not have the courage to realize their potential
And who exploit the energies of others like parasites
To become the winners in one's death
And yet to allow my brief life
to be consumed in frustration and despair
to quit trying to improve myself in the things I do
And not to attempt
To achieve some golden balance
To glean a little happiness
To feel a little love
To understand a little truth
It would be just as well to be dead
Than to suffer the other world that does not care
And that persecutes the world of the self
Never listen or follow other people
The self will always be misled
Life will founder upon the shoals of hardship
and the future will be a dead-end
True sacrilege is for those others
Who live life as if they were dead
Who neglect the callings of the spirit
Lucky I am to be born and live
In this place and time
For in almost any other place and time
My lot in life would have been
Most difficult and different
When the holocaust is done
What will it be like then?
When the amount of death and devastation
Have set a new worldwide record
What use then will be these politician's promises?
When the few desperate survivors
Wonder in dazed bewilderment
And suffer the shock of traumatic disillusionment
Who would believe it were possible?
When children and pets are incinerated and blown to bits
When all traces of civilization and culture
Have crumbled like crushed dust
Who will accept the diffused responsibility
For the resurrection of the primitive?
When the world is beset by the holocaust
Like a thousand earthquakes
A thousand tornados
A thousand tidal waves
A thousand typhoons
A thousand floods and inundations
A thousand volcanic eruptions
A thousand firestorms
A thousand pestilential plagues
A thousand infectious diseases
A thousand disastrous accidents
A thousand natural disasters
A thousand draughts
A thousand famines
All within the brief span of a single day
What good will then be the personal power
And petty selfishness of those
Who refused to believe that it could happen?
What good will be all the denials and refusals
To confront and solve the problems beforehand?
What it is all over and the problems have just begun
When then will be the divine and holy intervention
And the salvation of the devoted
By a messiah, a Jesus, a Mohammed, a Buddha
Or any other demigod or false idol
The megatons of mega-deaths that will rain down
Torrentially upon the megalopolises of this brave new world
And reduce it swiftly to its most primitive elements
the return to a cowardly world of fear and ignorance
The reign of an unnatural selection
Thousands of deadly bombs ready to be used
What can happen eventually will happen
To entertain a false sense of pride
to believe in a false sense of hope
To trust a false sense of security
To acept false promises and praise false leaders
The consequences of such minor mistakes
Are unacceptably self-evident
The continuing persistence of false delusions
Will only lead to holocaust
To believe blindly is to commit a crime
To deny the truth is to transgress upon humanity
to be deceitful is to crucify the future of civilization
And yet who will be punished for this general
irresponsibility?
Our posterity.
There is no more generous consolation
Nor more relaxing respite
Than gentle unsullied slumber
To forget all the worrisome trivialities
In the illusions of a well-contrived dreamland
What wondrous machinations are our dreams
Veritable holographic programs
Strange and intriguing confabulations
An endless series of possibilities
Drawn from a multifaceted holographic memory
It makes on wonder who directs our dreams
We are not just a passive audience
We become the main characters
Actively alive in all the senses
True to life drama
No better way to act out
Our most vicarious fantasies
And yet in our sleep
there is another dreamlike state
Midway between deep sleep
And full wakefulness
A semi-conscious state of awakening
In which the mind
Content as it is in such harmony
Resists for a brief time
The complete interruption
Of the confusions of reality
It is in such a state
Only vaguely felt and strangely indefinable
That the truths of life a most intensely felt
With a sense of whole indulgence of emotion
And in a complete sense of confident certainty
It would behoove ourselves
To bring greater clarity and understanding
That transition state of being
Into closer touch with awakened consciousness
Then might reality be improvable
And be rid of all these confusions and anxieties
That so plague and hinder all our wakeful activity
As it is description cannot even come close in comparison
Except perhaps in a few rare exalted states
Of super consciousness and semi-consciousness
What strength has the hones and simple soul
Against the many complex devices and tricky weapons of the
world?
What power to overcome the prejudice, ignorance and fear
To defeat all strategems of force and terror?
With what may the greed for god, gold and glory
Be confidently confronted and completely disposed?
There is only one way
That is the power of love
Love is adulterated by many disguises
Stripped of all the ill-contrived deceptions and romantic
illusions
True love is a naked baby
That has not label and knows no condition
The object of true love is an end by itself
That needs not to be justified, forgiven nor forsaken
Nor subordinated to any other end
the human capacity for true love
Is the best sign of hope
For the salvation of humanity
True love shall eventually triumph
Over all manner of lesser human power
Hope for future success
Resides within me
I place complete confidence
In myself as a person
I gamble my whole life
On that trust
In my own integrity
Others derogate what I am
Or who I may potentially be
They fit me into narrow contexts
Of their own small worlds
Without consideration for my feelings
And unwisely pass judgment upon me
About which I do not agree
I have become tired and impatient
Playing useless games
I have written my own
Declaration of Independence
And no one can take it away from me
Except by murdering me.
Human existence is caught in a dilemma
In every aspect there is a double meaning
For our behavior
And sometimes in stress
Our standards become double-crossed
By our actions
there is plain common sense
And then there is an underlying meaning
Only available through reflection
The final interpretation
Be it good or bad
Depends upon the consistency and accuracy
Of those theories of deeper understanding
They does not alter the truth
It only determines our understanding
And interpretation of it
Read the writing on the wall
And those books that re like so many bricks
That construct our world of conceptual world
In any painting or poem
The artist's soul is plainly revealed
With honest and clever interpretation
Glean the most essential elements
And fit them in with the artist's life
That is the best means of interpretation
Take a long look
At those things I have done
Though they may be simple and few
Yet to the honest observer
They allow a glimpse
Of the direction that I have come
And an intuition of the way
I am headed
And a brief understanding
Of ourselves
Our world so neatly compartmentalized
Into so many opposing views
With an obscuring veil
Blinding us
From other worlds and lives
And separating us into lonely citizens
Survey the vast immeasurable reaches
Of our incomprehensible universe
Consider the diminished meaning
Of being a human ant
In a redundant and wasteful world
Those ideals we once believed so true
Become suddenly foolish fallacies
Of strange and newly discovered realities
Making our actions seem so futile
Feeling strongly the debilitating impotency
Of a sorely shrunken comprehension
Witness the birth of a new world superman
With such hopes and expectations of greatness
Immune to those human weaknesses
Insensitive to those humble feelings
Of the old world man
Sense of purpose, honor and integrity
Squashed by the shear magnitude
Of boredom, apathy and namelessness
Space voyager and mountain mover
Noble warrior and strange journeyer through time
Overwhelmed by an inundation of artificial harmonies
Wounded ego crawling into a shell of make believe
Hiding from a fragile paper world
Frightened by imagined shadow monsters
So much of the way we think
Seems so dichotomized
Into opposing worlds of belief
A division that seems so evident
Coursing through every mode of life
Coming between every word and act
And yet so difficult to define
To sacrifice seems so human
Whether to sacrifice oneself or another
Whether to opt for fulfillment of desire
And the closeness of family
Or to struggle against loneliness and despair
Through an uncertain career of self-gratification
Who can be to blame for such difficult choices
When there are so many little considerations
Each individual born into a unique set of circumstances
Each with a different set of problems to solve
To make the poor rich
To make the rich happy
Such easy words to write
So hard to be born to a fate of poverty
And so difficult to sacrifice for change
Where does the money, time, and energy come from?
Where does the motivation, concern, hope and willpower
materialize?
Why should people opt for things unknown and unrealized
When it is so easy to despair and quit
And to accept one's own fate
The difficulty is to maintain a balance
Between security and sacrifice
Between dependency and integrity
Between desire and deferment
Between liberty and responsibility
Between freedom and justice
Between living and dying
An ego problem
To create means of compromise
And not to tip the scales too much
In either direction
Life is not fair
No one ever said it was fair
Life is extremely unfair
And for many it is very unhappy
Much more hardship than pleasure
Too bad all people
Can't have their fair share
Of those few simple things
That everyone deserves
Love, health and a little contentment
Not to need to spend their precious lives
Searching for things
That were never there
We are witnesses
To only the beginning
Of many new and unusual problems
To be solved
So weak is our understanding and foresight
That in ignorance we have slipped into them
Without seeking prevention
The illness of this new way of living
Has not yet manifested itself completely
A generation born with unsurpassed expectations
Of having fun, of an easy living, and material wealth
Of growth, and achievement unending
to face a difficult life of difficult times
With learned dependency, helplessness and laziness
The good times are fading slowly away
And those who must face them
Have not been prepared to do so
To be born to stupid parents
The wrong color or in religious ignorance
to be too fat or too ugly
To be handicapped or stigmatized
To have some disproportionate feature
Or idiosyncratic behavior
Or just to be plain and unexceptional
These are to be part of a social disease
That must confront an inbred racism
that cuts across social groups
The fate of not being born wealthy, beautiful or powerful
To be condemned by heritage and birthright
To a meager and disproportionately dissatisfying life
What a pity to have expectations too high
For one's own lot in life
What rational and sane person
Would not seek improvement in his life
If that person were given the opportunity?
What person wouldn't stand in line
If he figured the chances were good?
Who doesn't want a chance to prove himself?
Who doesn't want a good job
and success from working hard?
And yet what are people to do
When they are not allowed those chances
When their luck is down
And no jobs are to be found
And no support is around?
Peel off every label
And underneath there will always be
Only pure human being
Running on empty
This world is so well controlled
That few people ever realize
that they are actually playing a game
The people on the top
Want to remain on top
And the people beneath
Struggle against one another to climb higher up
In all their competition they keep bringing each other down
The people at the bottom
Face insuperable odds
Withut help from above
Their chances of success are nil
Their chances of survival grim
Truth is the key to success
Understanding is a tool well guarded by the system
Innuendos, musical chairs, illusions
trivia, delusions, sensationalism, commercialism
Propaganda and enforced ignorance and prejudice
Are all used to overwhelm the senses
And sap that psychic power
Of those who get behind
Yet once knowing that well guarded secret
There is nothing to stop you
Except that no ne around you
Will listen or believe in you
And the price you must pay
For writing it all down
Is with your life
And who in the system pays the highest price
For acceptance, respect and gratitude
It is the young men who bear the burden
Who go to war or go to prison
Who pay for their food with their sweat and muscles
Who aren't given credit for their brains
Who in laconic fashion are left in poverty
Who work hardest for little satisfaction
Who are left without emotional security
Or the chance to fulfill their own being
Making human rights seem a joke
I would gladly lay down my life
If it would save others
And make me a hero
I wait patiently and resolutely
For any little chance to prove myself
And yet such opportunities are few and meager
I vie for a chance for excitement
for any opportunity for self-improvement
And yet to face a life
Of petty frustration and unending boredom
And in my despair I have given up my wait
and have decided to make my own opportunities
to give up playing other people's games
To become good at playing my own
Exceptional as my strategy may be
I am not sure of where it will get to
But it can't be much worse than it has already been
No matter how bad things get in the future
Trying to return to some yesterday
Will only make things worse
There is no returning in life
Learn to encounter wholly
Rather than to be controlled by a plan
Start from scratch
And resurrect the shambles of ignorance
To make a decision
Ride it out to the end
Learn from the many mistakes
And try it all again
Turn a deaf ear to the crowd
Rely upon one's own experience
And one's own best judgment
Improving that decision-making ability
And turn it into a talent
By which to impress others
Learn to listen to the noiseless callings of the heart
And let the visceral feeling of intuition
Become the guiding light
Develop a unique style of self-expression
Normative development is stemmed
Very early in the flock
Transcend the abject poverty
That abounds and surrounds the world
With competent self-reliance
It is intuition that
Has lead humanity for the darkness of the past
It is intuition that creates the arts, sciences, mathematics
and philosophy
Those things that are humankind's pride
It is intuition that brightens
Our stormy future
I am so burnt out
So irretrievably lost
Ignorance engulfs and stifles
A frightening curtain of blindness and illusion
To figure it all out
Why we don't think
The world is much harder
Than it really seems
Everything is too complex
There are no easy answers
I'm so lazy and believe in play
Other's think I'm nothing
And yet I find no recourse
there is so much to thing about
So many directions in which to go
There is so much t do
I play so many games
A confused hedonist without pleasure
I am so ungrateful
And yet I am so lucky
The overwhelming majesty
Of being alive and life all around
There are so many difficult choices
You do not need to look for problems
They will come to you by the dozen
All you have to do
Is to sit back and wait
When I am old and experienced
Then I can say how it really is
And I can tell everyone how I feel
But then they won't listen to me
I never stop moving forward
The world never stops changing
My mind tells me to change
But my body doesn't want to move
I put the dog into my prison world
And I didn't even ask it
A world of love and hate
Married and conceived humanity
Admit and apologize
Mother I have murdered father
And now I have become enslaved to his memory
Trying to resurrect his ego
Crucified on the cross of holiness
I don't see how I'll get too far
Doing things like I am
People like me never get very far
There's no evidence of people like me
Always burning bridges behind them
Day in and day out
Week after week after week after week
I keep doing the same old thing
I keep going in the same old direction
And don't really know why
Why waste time worrying
About a few moments of a long life
When in the vast incomprehensible universe
Time is without end
When the bleak and cold expanses
Are measured by many lifetimes of instantaneity?
The whole human event is but a brief and passing phenomenon
That diminishes a single human lifetime into utter
meaninglessness
This petty human existence is not so meaningful to me
To require the effort of pinching every second
To squeeze the most juice from life
The importance comes in being able
To meet adequately the unpredictable train of events
In a consistent manner
To work from a stance of a well unified sense of integrity
So as not to have my senses and rationality
Be so overwhelmed by unexpected events
That I lose control over my behavior
And lose foresight of my final goal
To live life as fully as possible
If it means sometimes appearing
Slow and awkward to others
It is their misconception
From trying to take things too fast
People can believe what they want
And can maintain any value system they desire
So long as they do not harm others by their behavior
Or try to force others to accept those values
Isn't that the problem of the world?
People forcing values upon others
Without regard for personal integrity
Without the grant of individual liberty?
For people to choose their own value system
It begins with a selfish parent
Who tries to govern the life of the child
By dictating every little choice and decision
Not giving that child the chance to develop normatively
It becomes an integral part of the vast and complex social
system
The individual being forced to accept
A regimen of preclusive values that he did not formulate
Or else suffer rejection with all its insufferable
consequences
People so unwilling to relinquish to others
That necessary freedom of expression
Whose own petty fears and frustration
Become debilitating for others about them
The worst part of this human story
Are the tragic consequences
Of so minor a neglect of personal responsibility
The sorrow and the hurt of so many lost souls that goes
unmended
The crippling dependency and stifling conformity
The lack of self-confidence and the need for crowd approval
All the most despicable characteristics of human nature
To improve their own world and the world of others
People must help themselves
But they must be given the chance to do so
But the grant of freedom by others who can stand in their
way
It seems so strange
Sometimes feeling so happy and elated
Other times feeling so sad and depressed
The littlest unexpected event
Triggering a whole multitude
Of adverse or positive overreactions
So finely tuned to the nuances
Of the varied environments one encounters
So sensitive to the slightest
Sign or symbol of change
So easy to be knocked off balance
So easy to become astray and be set askew
By some pessimistic or optimistic indication
Often in the bet of times
Encountering some little fault or foreboding occurence
Often in the worst of moods
Such a minor encouragement
It doesn't take very much
To set in motion a whole train of responses
Without intention
Without even awareness
Of one's own rhythms
Dreams
Thirty
Burn Out
(sitting in my little apartment)
Have reached the end of my proverbial rope
Search aimlessly for new ideas
But return empty handed time and again
Past memories intrude on my freedom
And the only security left
Is to crawl inside a bottle
To wait for the soul
To come home again
Or else move to a new address
Thirty-Three
Hair
(musings on my first non-military hair-cut)
The mythical symbol of masculine strength
And of feminine seduction
Grown long and care-free in easier times
Or in rebellion against the custom
Cut short in times of strife
A sacrifice to some higher deity
When short a symbol of slave-hood
When long a symbol of autonomy
An independent way of life
Autonomy has a curious meaning
A precious thing when hard fought for and not given away
Taken for granted and abused when it comes too easy
As if it cannot be lost
Spoiling many by its great wealth
But the source of creativity and progress
Heart of liberty and equality
The power behind human rights
That must be exercised to remain strong
Forty-Two
Leadership
(among men)
Too many self-proclaimed leaders
In dress of arrogant disguises
Showing off masks of authority
They will say almost anything
But are of superficial interface
Very insecure underneath
They know almost nothing
About the truth
But they'll do the job
As compromising magicians
They all value their paychecks
More than your life
Families in all shapes and sizes
Social units of law and order
Close knit with strong ties
With togetherness enduring
Almost any crises or dilemma
Affiliating with some religion
Possessing characteristic dogmas
Insulated from changes
Blessed with a sense of belonging
Hopes in definite form
In possession of love
Comfort of the home
Till death do they part
But families are entrapments
That tie the individual in the game
Who must escape the nest
To explore the risky world
And discover one's true potential
Alone as a human being
The true leaders won't solicit
The needs of other people
They look only to themselves
For guidance and impression
Their creations serve only
The best examples of inspiration
True leaders are rare friends hard to find
But they all come from some kind of home
Forty-Three
Cruise Control
(L.A. to Chicago and back)
Beer in the lap
Roach on a clip
Three way stereo
Jamming to an oldie
Air conditioner cooling
Scenery fleeting by
Through smoke-stained
Windows
Miles of highway
Uncrowded stretch
On a full tank
No cops in sight
Cruising contentment
65 miles an hour
Humming minutes
In the fast lane
Reflectors on the left
Old farts on the right
Tolling death
Of city dogs and cats
And country animals
Reciting stories
Of near escapes
and classic accidents
Fate of modern living
In languid illusion
Of complete control
Cruising in comfort
To a speedy death
Forty-Five
Artist
(writer and would-be genius)
Life divided unrelentingly into many episodes
Of unsuppressible desires and loves acquired
An insatiable perfectionist endlessly exploring
To discover something a little better than before
Torn apart from the bloodstream of society
Heart in sentient creation transcending mere subjectivity
In a lonely world with few good friends
Wondering in ceaseless amazement and critically examining
The true value of his labors and himself
And at the subtlety of ulterior motivations
To ride the crest in the vanguard of progress
Giving form to revolution and new wealth for humanity
Frustrated writer who dreams of being an artist
And to photograph instead of yielding a weapon
Writing in waiting poor didactic verse all of similar vein
And can't make it rhyme or dance through the imagination
Torn in two by the emotions of having and relinquishing
To please himself with outward satisfaction
Or to be left alone with inward reflection
Questioning always with pen in hand
Is it a crutch of insecurity and fear of reality
Or only a self-defense against some latently felt
inferiority?
Believing rhyme to be the non-spontaneous limitation of
freedom
Remembering that an artist seeks to please only oneself
Forty-Seven
Empty
(another end of a day)
Devoid of content
Empty without ideas
Vague dissatisfaction
Formless inspiration
Like an empty glass
Waiting to be refilled
With another beer
Or to be knocked
Off the table
And shattered
Why the anxious desire
For something better
Continually frustrated
As time slips slowly by?
Why not some final contentment
Or just give up the game?
It's so easy to ask a question
It's so much harder to give an answer
That makes real sense
Cheap talent reeking of self
Pretentious allusion of easy truth
Mocking perfection and hard work
The best things in life are free
Lonely thought of death
Leaves one empty inside
A wasted moment of life
Add another to the list
Quantity with no quality
A contempt for critics
A deep glass when empty
Is only very shallow
Not like some ancient proverb
A mere fragile vessel
Of transparent reflection
An empty self
Waiting until
Tomorrow
Fifty-seven
Grain
(contemplation of sand at Huntington Beach)
Single miniscule particle
Unique reflection of wisdom
Question, answer and question
Strong force of love exploding
With immediate bonds of trust
Rebounding in perpetual flux
Spiraling far downward
Weak force of fear imploding
In a foreign bondage of mistrust
Pervading the whole
Composing all matters
Creating eternal contention
Of continuous cancellation
Death steals from happiness
In the creeping moments
Of living in remembrance
Imaginings of vivid reality
Of those entities who were
A part of us
And are no more
Making all endeavors temporary
Superficial and repetitious occurrences
Casting doubt on even the most important parts
While making life too valuable
Not to be wasted or squandered
By matters that prove afterward
So unimportant
You who have all the answers
And know what is best for everyone
Have never gleaned
From this single grain
The truth of silence
Only those who have best communicated
Alone inward reflections of feelings
Have done anything
Of lasting value
The stars that shine tonight
Have shone for the ancient primitive
It has been but a handful of grains
Amongst an infinitude of many
That has been the only truth wealth
Of petty human existence
Fifty-Nine
Anonymous
(in a big city)
Trying to break out and to change
Growing tired of the same old scene
The game is dragging out
While talk is cheap
And effort must wait for seconds
Wishing to return to the beautiful dreams
Of times past when things were better
But think that its too impossible
Then it seemed like such a big world
When one was so little
Everyone telling you what they think
And feeling guilty about being so selfish
While dividing up the pie of life
Without thinking about the whole
And what might be better done
Talking about the things one hates
To find oneself the greatest perpetrator
Without acknowledging the responsibility
For the things that are being done
In living so many wasted lives
Rationalizing on a beer
Life is the same anyway
So it doesn't really make such a big difference
When it comes down to the line
Everyone covers their own ass first
And why not rationalize on beauty?
And where has culture gone?
When dying so lonely a life
The same mysterious way as being born
Wishing to leave something behind
It need not have a name on it
But it can't be just any old thing
It must mean something to someone
That makes life worthwhile
Even if for just the moment
So tomorrow is the time for change
Radicalizing out and becoming different
Want nothing and they cannot take it away
Transcending the whole world in some self-creation
Putting aside the primitive irrelevancies
Caring for nothing but living
Sixty
Changes
Changes are happening
So subtle that I couldn't say
What they might become
But definite and irrepressible
While reflections of the environment
Are in a state of continual transience
It is but of superficial make up
Hiding the essence
That's unchanged
Thus is the experience of living
Forever in forward motion unstoppable
Leaving behind irretrievable pasts
To stop changing
Is to slowly
Die
Sixty-Four
Short
Life is so short
As so many other things
Are so short lived
Brief moments in love
It sometimes seems
That the best things
Are always
Too short
Like this poem
That makes no sense
Is so short
Is this some joke?
Sixty-Seven
Cross-roads
The human pilgrimage
Has reached a cross-roads
Unlike any before
Where unstoppably powerful forces
Only vaguely discernable
Are on a head-on
Collision course
Like some gathering storm
All that's left is hope
That the human travelers
Will survive the accident
And weather the storm
To be able to continue
Their age-old journey
Seventy-Two
I. D.
(putting it together)
Dichotomize the world
Subject-object tendency
Outside subordination
Inside pedestal
Unquestioned fear
Disintegrating frustration
Integrate living creativity
Becoming one change
Transcending conflict
Of high essence
Courage being
Inner complacency
I must renounce one
Can't relinquish the other
Consuming passion of life
Toying with insanity
Selfish ugliness
Social creation
A part of myself
I can't amputate
Seventy-Three
Revolution
(the changing of the self)
Revolution has a bloody history
Dirty implication of four letters
A proverbial fate of humanity
A nature to be long suffered
Until some peaceable kingdom
Can be created synthetically
The body politic has disgraced it
But it is blind without a mind
The future to see like some mystic
Nor without a crutch to carry it
Forward to its destiny
Let peace reign in revolution
Fomenting inner rebellion
Seventy-Six
Sacrifice
(once more)
It seems to me
Time and again
That I'm doomed
To suffer
A peculiar fate
To be lonely
Without companionship
To be frustrated
In what should be
Naturally mine
My life unfolds
Before me
And I feel
There is some
Wisdom to this madness
A governing purpose
That led me
Unwittingly through
Too many dangers
But I can't say
What it really is
Something like Deja vue
In patterns growing
And cycles repeating
Happiness and sadness
In perpetual dance
To live only
For myself
In the things
I do
And to love
The world by them
Others think
That I am strange
But I've given up caring
If I must sacrifice
A part of myself
Let me do it
Alone
I think about suicide
And decide
That it's just better
To wait around
To see what happens next
But when I die
Make music
At my grave
And drink a beer
In celebration
Why can't I love
Outside myself?
Eighty-Five
Critic
(At six o'clock low)
As I sit in my space capsule
With seat belt unfastened
Ready to blast off
But my juices
I can't get them flowing
My drive motors
Have petered out
They must be replenished
With another beer
And some more music
What will the critics
Make of this lousy verse?
Who loves a six o'clock critic
Who makes it a profession
Not trying to do better?
Critics can say
Whatever they may
I got that to rhyme
This should be written
On the wall
As far as I care
This five minute
Concoction
Is a masterpiece
Still in the making
I thought that maybe
My stuff would get better
In due time
But it's only grown worse
I guess its time to quit or make some changes
Eighty-Two
When?
(asked the interviewer)
He asked me
With decisive authority
When will you be respectable?
When will you get a good job?
When will you learn a profession?
When will you grow up?
Never
I replied
Off the top of my head
I'll die first
Eighty-Four
Fool
(myself)
I think back
On all the foolish things
That I have done
And all that I didn't do
These things frighten me
I want to isolate myself
From this complex world
But when in inspiration
I do the things
I like best to do
I feel good afterwards
And forget my anxieties
For the time being
Success and idiocy
Follow each other
I remember the past
And as I see the present
To promise myself
Is all I can do
To try to do better
Tomorrow
Eighty-Six
Nowhere
(very fast)
Where are my friends now?
I know happier people next door
And I know sadder people next door
I return to this sterile place
From all the fabulous places
And I know that fabulousness
Is just an expensive illusion
For I have known starving people
And I have starved for love
Too long to be fooled
By cheap imitations
Of neurotic emptiness
And the children pay in the end
The world teeters
With man against man
But the woman
Who is behind the man
Goes unnoticed
In all the stories
Except McBeth
Behind every great man's soul
Stands a mother's conscience
I wonder who rules
This small world
The great human dilemma
Is only a simple paradox
When it is solved
But it is just as complex
Like a circle going nowhere
The big world is not as it seems
It is bigger yet
Humans are natural specialists
Any expert can tell you that
Everything fits properly
Then why all the speeches
And the articles of faith
In all the written words?
They are the people's illusions
And not what is real
When will be the grand disillusionment
Life is a rock and roll song
and life is death
So what draws me here again
Like a growing animal
That I must feed?
If I can throw my hand outside
Then why must I be so lonely
And where do I fit
In this lonely world?
Where do we go from here?
Eighty-Eight
Portrait
(in pen)
I picked up a pen
But not to write
To create another way
One which I have
Long neglected and frustrated
A part of me
Atrophied in my youth
What is the immense power
Of the self
To be capable of compensation
My dear family who loves me so
Have stolen parts of me
Over the years
And I am left without anything
But fragments of myself
Scattered to the winds
I have listened too long
And have felt too much
Of too many other's needs
To the neglect of my own
Everyone is neurotic
Neurotic people must frustrate
And disturb other's chances
And people try to change in others
What which they fear they can't control
Money has had a transient quality
And time has been in temporary quantity
I no longer care
About all the officiality
And titles of certitude that surround
Everything with trivial importance
That schools so educate
Most of what I have learned
I have not needed nor used
And have only forgotten
Teachers too often avoid and critically repress
That nebulous void of spontaneous creativity
With which they cannot cope
I have had to relearn how to be myself
I have grown tired of being belittled
By other's sanctimonious self ratings
I need prove myself to no one
Except to myself in reflection
Greatness is really incompetence reversed
And goodness is only hypocrisy fooled
While love means ignorance neglected
The self is only lonely
As I look into the mirror and see through
All the vicarious fantasies to find simply, only myself
I renounce the game of life
And vow to reach out beyond this world in exploration
Most of my time has been wasted
On dead ends and toil without purpose
Nothing that I have with me now
Seems of any meaning
If I can condense what I feel is important
Down into a single word
That would be myself
A single life consuming instant
Not a consumed lifetime
A silent picture can speak very loudly
in deed
Ninety
Foolish Perfection
(or the Perfect Fool)
The fool plays games with perfection
Creating with minutest detail
Vibrant lines of tension
Question the inner motives and emotions
When in frustration all that has been accomplished
Is swiftly destroyed
Not good enough to have served an imperfect end
Perfection is a fool's game
And imperfection a rebellious note
The weekends convolute around my life
The same time of the week again
In repetition through a meaningless existence
And people want more than they ask for or deserve
But will never give for nothing
If I were at this moment someone different
The whole world would be otherwise
What are these silly notions of rationality
When we are all so subjectively ourselves
The world is all relative
And humans can't put themselves
In other people's shoes
No matter how much they may try
Or desire to be different
I see my limitations as my loneliness consumes me
Why people hold so tightly to empty illusions
Like measuring sticks to give dimension to emptiness
And scope to limited imperfections of forgotten pasts
I am more or less the same stuff
As when I was different
Common clay that can be shaped into a thousand forms
Yet neither more nor less but always the same substance
The void of being is all pervasive
And it makes no difference
Where I may be or where I am not
Or what others may see in me or say
As underneath I would be the same human as I am now
Too bad that I can't be just that
Human being unviolated and naturally imperfect
Even if I were a different being
Underneath all the superficiality I would still be only me
So why must I try to hide it
There is a single common line
That holds the subjective world together
And people feel it inside of their souls
Full of nameless emotion and pent up energy
It can't be crossed without upsetting their lives
To try to touch it is to threaten their security
As they will not relent to their inner nature
I am tired of shooting at the stars
I think I will bring my aim more earthbound
If I could extract and condense
All the unlonely moments from my whole life
I could fit them all into a single month of real living
So why should I put off that which could be now
The jealous expectation of some inhuman perfection
The fool plays a game
To create, destroy, and create again aimlessly
Jealous of perfection
Silently smiling
Saying too much in stubborn muteness
Ninety-Three
Comp-Soma
Plans always become compromised
Expectations frustrated
By unforeseen limitations
Things never work out
The way they were designed
But liberty is being able
To compromise with life's realities
And still be satisfied with the results
A healthy sort of lifestyle
Coping with imperfection
That is the beauty of creation
The simple elegance of living
Being able to turn inwardly
Completely ignoring life's demands
And unlimited freely do the things
The way one wants to do them
To work hard in spite of limits
Or not at all because of limits
Complete freedom of objectivity
The limits then are from the self
Only subjectively suffered
The only way of defeating
The universal tyranny of authority
Transcending temporal being
Infatuations floating from face to face
And spatial habituations
Fantasies transporting from place to place
Days and hopes adrift
On an open and stormy sea
Restless for some point or port
To find sanctuary
From the froth and broil
And to rekindle one's tomorrow
A somnambulate dance through life
I barely know you
But that little knowledge
Begets an ancient story
Ninety-Four
Frontier
(generations over space)
Generation upon generation
Of hardy pioneers
In the protestant spirit
Of hard work
And spiritual rebellion
Have built upon this land
A great civilization
In unsurpassed wealth
Of humanity's idealism
In culmination
Of the lives of many
In what gratitude
Is the new generation?
Young rebels who love music
With little appreciation
Without concern for themselves
An anticlimactic revelation
Life in the fast lane
Is a lonely place to be
In disheartening realization
Of a different kind of being
In a slow cumulative living
Without worry for time
Lines curve into circles
And the path is ancient
In harder times
Selfish people come out
From the woodwork
Ostentatious background manifestations
Usurped by a different breed
Either great inner listening
Or greater outer obedience
A cacophony of dissonance
As the word issues from every breath
Explaining everything in simple terms
A path that leads to both
Greater wealth and stagnation
Always forward motion
Looking backward
Ninety-Six
Somewhere?
Where are the artists?
Where is the culture?
Who around here appreciates
Living for one's work?
We value defense
To protect our belongings
And our liberties
We value our jobs
And our professions
We value hard work
And physical recreation
Of every kind
We value our cars
And our color televisions
We value high living
And fast competition
We value what we wear
And how we appear to others
But what good is all this
After you are dead
And your grandchildren
Inherit our world
What good is an artist
And the value of "culture"?
What good is just being human?
Where is the divine inspiration
And the cooperative solidarity?
Ninety-Eight
Prophecy
The ancient prophecy
Is now in the process of revelation
Of utopia or decadence
In a shrinking world
In war or peace
The ultimate climax of history
To prove a tragedy or comedy
The grand finale
Of the epic human odyssey
Through the dimensions of universe
The gulf is widening
While no savior has come
To walk on the quaking waters
Separating human existence
And the island of paradise
Only poor messengers on high
Scoundrels of ill-betiding
Mystic soothsayers of scientific cleanliness
And what will be our fate?
Children of a peaceable kingdom
Or adults in a hell-hold of anguish
To realize the prophecy of life
Or to wait for the executioner's song
While the conqueror worm is well-nourished
By diseased souls forsaken by their Gods
I am the volition of becoming
The self seeks its reflection
Integrity, unity, divinity
I am truth
as I am
one
One Hundred and One
To a Toad
As I sit here and dream
I think back to the monsters
That rolled across the land
"Let nothing stand in the way"
Was their death scream
Noise deafening and dust blinding
Huge mechanical toads
Little ants hiding inside
With nowhere to run
Steel ships on a gentle, sandy sea
Charging into a rough storm
Of fire and smoke
A hundred guns sounding off simultaneously
In distinct and different tunes each
In volley and thunderous noise
A calamitous, deafening dissonance
Of inner confusion
On line together
Trying to hear a subtle note
As I wake up each morning
I am confronted
With a special mission
My task was not finished
With the end of a normal tour
It is my fate to quest beyond
Without any clear or rigid answers
Formulas there are many
Each a game for the mind
And nothing more
Too serious to play the common games
To break free from the usual path
On a different course
While gentle music assists me on my way
In search of some golden key
To eternal freedom
Or spiritual harmony
Or just the illusive resemblance of peace
Words are only conceptions of the mind
This poesy must await further invention
As I sit here and dream
Why all the answers?
What is the problem?
Please tell me
As I toy with my sanity
Moments
Imagine all the weighty titles of authority
And all the officious heirs of nobility
To be but false illusions of human ability
Disguising lives of weakness
On top of a mountain
Of existential pettiness
Imagine the only true nobility
To be found in life
In the absolute loneliness
Of the self
In utter humility
Imagine all our glorious efforts
To help others
To be all in vain
and all our selfless sacrifices
To end only in hurt
and the only means of helping others
Is to turn away in selfishness
Imagine all our petty defeats
And dreaded plagues
Supplicated by our friendships
And our individual responsibility
Transferred upon others we call friends
And as it is in each person's life
So it is with the vast crowds
Imagine responsibility of the whole of humanity
And for the self
Diffused into nothingness
Displaced by the crystallized and permanent
Power structures of authority
And in the end
There is nothing more to do
Than to perish in holocaust or famine
Imagine all the friendships
To be but secret conspiracies of entrapment
And all the polite courtesies and intimate expressions of
love
To be but seditious and slanderous sarcasm
And insulting lies
Imagine every word spoken
To have a double meaning
Every sentence written
To end in deception
And every face to bear two sides
Imagine the only true reward of life
To be had in death
And the only real hope
Is to dwell in disillusionment and desperation
And the only good help
Is to be found in lonely subjectivity
Of selfish motivation
Freedom is an illusion
There is nothing in life
That can be freely taken
Without some price
That must be paid
The cost of political freedom
Is social responsibility
The cost of moral freedom
Is ethical obligation
the cost of spiritual freedom
Is material impoverishment
the cost of a free life
Is self-determined death
Freedom and determination
Can never be sundered
Or reversed
Without causing
Unnatural harm to life
Nothing is ever said
That has not been said before
In some other manner
Nothing is ever thought
That has not been thought before
In some other person's silence
Nothing is ever done
That has not been done before
In some other way
Our individuality is but delusion
Our sense of self is but reflection
Of other people's expressions
As we entertain fantasies
Of our own great images
And glorious future becoming
Feelings experience by many others
In many other places
And in many other times
The only thing absolute about our existence
Is the extreme relativity of our willpower
In time and place
Our prejudices are our intelligence
Our beliefs are our ignorance
Our causes are our wills
Our responsibility is our guilt
In the peaceful interlude
Our passage is our inescapable paradox
We stand witnesses
To yet another tragic episode
In our continuing human epic
Some lots are cast more fortunately
Many others are unfortunate
Scratch the shallow surface
Find disappointment
In the imperfect distortion
Reach underneath the interface
To gain only shallow disillusionment
Fathom the depths to reach the bottom
Find only the absolute darkness
Of the labyrinth of insanity
Break free from the bonds of sanctuary
To find only abandonment
In endless void
This art work you call merely meretricious
That you degrade as unmeritorious
Evoking feelings that are merely salacious
It was not painted by a critic
But was the earnest work of an honest poet
To understand the meaning of this masterpiece
It is not enough to simply open one's eyes
But you must open your mind as well
An artist's understanding is different
From the scientist's
Photographic reflection of reality
Is not the artist's goal
It is a private world of imagination
So do not try to scientifically analyze
This work of art
Learn to simply enjoy this masterpiece
And perhaps you will also learn
A little bit of truth
The artist's pathway is not a happy one
It is a lonely and abandoned route
But it is a very fruitful one
An artist's masterpiece is like a piece of fruit
One of a vast many of an artist's rich fruit tree
Each fruit must be viewed in relation to all the others
The tree has its roots in common ground
And itself is the product of artistic seed
From a long lineage of many such trees
And each piece of fruit in its turn has many such seeds
There is nothing new under the shade
Of an artist's fruit tree
I wonder if it is worth
Suffering the rude crudeness
Of the common crowd
Insulting such fine virtue
By their base vulgarity
But there is nothing like seeing
The colors in their full intensity
And the forms in their mighty proportionality
The statues in all their naked dimensionality
Revealing the imperfections of the artist's personality
Counterbalanced by the power of his spontaneity
Turning everything he touches
Into a spiritual and priceless form of gold
Creating life
From lifeless clay
As great is the scientist's objectivity
Equally power is the artist's subjectivity
Opposed on the ends of the rainbow
That spans our common world
And carries our dreams aloft
In search of some magical treasures
To enrich our common lives
Science has no absolute claim to truth
Or to the great evil that besets our exterior lives
Art has no monopoly over beauty
It suffers as much guilt in disrupting our interior lives
An artist can be as equally corrupted as a scientist
But the only thing worse than poor art and bad science
Is the intolerance of distasteful art
And the burning of bad books
Philosophy has only as much a hold on ignorance
As religion as a firm footing on understanding
Philosophy has no sovereignty over reason
As religion has no possession over goodness
Art, science, religion and philosophy
Stand in uneasy relation to one another
In regard to the self and the other
Each is comprehensive in our lives
And yet none is complete without the others
A master of imperfection
An imperfect painting
An impatient poem
Is this my final judgment?
Am I not worth
One penny or minute more?
Too difficult it is
To dwell without satisfaction
To live without security
To achieve without proper motivation
To exist
To merely exist
And nothing more
Outside of the all powerful
Social system of reward
And never-ending punishment
To exist as perfectly as possible
Along the edge of sanity
In order to live to completion
But without falling off
Into the abyss of shadow
Is this a sad or happy commentary
Upon a meager and petty existence
Of one single human being
Dwelling among a multitude of many?
Does this existence rate criticism
From strangers
Or authoritative analysis
From superiors?
Existing without guilt
Existing without innocence
Passing ignorantly future ward
And yet I must
Come to terms
With myself
to achieve inner sanctum from insanity
To avoid the corruption of competition
And the pollution of dishonesty
To find peace in solitude
To comfort the pains
Of a distraught heart
And to quell the storms
Of desperate desire
And if this final understanding
Is achieved through self-destruction
Then I have only to ask
Whether it is to be an act of courage
Or an one of cowardice
Or merely the simple cessation
To a meaningless existence?
How shall I combat
The ills of this world
If I persist in harboring
Deep within myself
That secret weapon
Like a spoiled child
Who hides his precious toys?
What good are my strengths
If I allow others
To make them my greatest weaknesses?
Do not insult me with your ignorance
Do not deceive me with your prejudiced thoughts
Beware my secret weapon
That in its revelation
I might jump into your head games
And leave you absolutely bewildered
Where are we headed?
What is next in store for us
In this grand scheme of things?
Is it to be a tragic fall from grace
Or is it but a small jump to yet grander heights?
To a new glory
With an astounding panorama
With love and beauty
And hope abounding to the furthest horizons
Malingering malcontent
Malicious martinet
Bellicose and truculent
With martial manners
Contumacious of just authority
Manipulating and misusing power
To force your perverted niche
Upon nature
In a new world
That no longer
Has any need for your kind
What is your place now?
Where will you go?
When the many people you molest and enslave
Awaken to protest and shrug you off
Like some bad habit?
My children born without
In sad poverty
Wasting away to an early death
Do not fear the darkness
Do not relinquish hope for happiness
Though love is destitute
In this irrationality of human society
There is mercy yet to be found
Dwelling deep within the hardened hearts
That mercy will yet triumph over evil
That controls our behavior
Do not cry my little children of the world
Though misery and hunger
Stalk your sorrowful souls
Even in your mother's womb
All life is composed
Of but an infinite amount
Of minute details
To look for meaning
Beyond this mosaic
Past the images of reality
Is but mere human folly
In truth
Life is meaningless
Absolutely relative
To search for meaning
Beyond existence
Is to go against
The very nature of life
And to delude ourselves
In our beliefs
In the beginning
There is only nothing
In the end
There is still only nothing
In between there are but petty games
That we will play or not
Some lots are cast more fortunately
Many others are unfortunate
Scratch the shallow surface
Find disappointment
In the imperfect distortion
Reach underneath the interface
To gain only shallow disillusionment
Fathom the depths to reach the bottom
Find only the absolute darkness
Of the labyrinth of insanity
Break free from the bonds of sanctuary
To find only abandonment
In endless void
The moment of reckoning
Has arrived upon this scene
And now I must choose in solitude
What weapon I shall sacrifice
Whether the pen
Or the brush
Which shall I make my shield and arrow
In my daily confrontation
To carry both is to divide
The strength and loyalty of the heart
Against the soul
In ineffectual conflict
And to tear my being apart
From the inside out
And yet I cannot find
The courage
To relinquish one
For the other
And so in my unsolvable dilemma
Render both muted and spoiled
Thus I ponder my self-defeating travail
Wandering down the mysterious forest trail
Wondering when shall be my final passage
From which there is no return
Dwelling alone
On an abandoned island
In the middle
Of a vast sea of humanity
Braving the storms of misfortune
Animistic artist
Conjuring to life images
Poet that composes
Living without rhythm
Without rhyme
Writer who creates
With words and pictures
New worlds and the lives of many
Philosopher who conceives
The meaning of silence
And comprehends the vastness
Of an empty universe
Meaning forced into being
Through the eyes
Through the fingers
Sharing kinship
With the prehistoric
Cave dweller and star gazer
Estranged from afar
With the contemporary lifestyles
Muttering privately
Under one's breath
A strong contempt of critics
Working alone
A whole lifetime
Spent in toil
From dawn to dusk
On works for none to ever see
Working until the final parting
Perishing in the desert fires
In vain pursuit
Of mirages and strange visions
Of mythical paradises
Passing into oblivion
Unknown and unimportant
Fulfilled lifetime
Of an estranged artist
The crippling burden
Of beguiling uncertainty
Carried upon one's back
From day to day
All the difficult choices
That confuse one's efforts
And turn all plans
To frustration and failure
When all days
End in depression
But what great relief it is
To finally make a decision
That is straight and true
Unloading the indecision
Turning subjective nonsense
Into objective rationality
It makes the fight so much easier
To stand up before all the others
Now I have conquered my loneliness
And do the things I like best
In solitude
Away from other's influence
and now they must bear
My new found freedom
I have myself
I have nothing else
And want nothing else
To make me happy
Others who like to see me down
Have not yet defeated me
And I have scored
One more small victory
In this game of life
You who know so much about me
Without even asking what I think
You who can plan my future so well
Without even knowing about my past
You who say you have me figured out
Without even sharing my values or feelings
How can you be so ignorant
Who are these self-important people
That I have never heard of until now?
My art is right in front of you
And you suggest that I ought to advertise
What I do must stand on its own
Its intrinsic merit
Must withstand the test of time
Its integrity shall speak for itself
And these petty strategies
That are so well designed to alter the inevitable
And to hurry the passage of time
Silence your mouth before me
Before I read through your
Shallow disguises
And breach your weak defenses
To uncover the true nature
Of your naked, ugly soul
I do not fear
The regression and hostility
From my enemies
So much as I fear the apathy
Of the anonymous crowds
Who in untouchable ignorance
Claim innocence from their behavior
And shirk their moral responsibility
Who in unbelievable prejudice
Allow injustice to persist
I do not fear
The death and destruction
Of war and murder
As much as I fear the changelessness
And overwhelming pressure to conform
By the living dead
Who in mass
Walk the face of the earth
As in a lifelong trance
I fear the ignorance
That blinds people to the truth
That limits what people think and do
And the distortion of their vision
That keeps people
From living naturally
I do not fear hatred
So much as I fear those
Who just do not care
For it is in this carelessness
That the unmaking of humankind
Is to be most readily found
The problem of truth
Is that in all its relativity
It is humanly absolute
And even though it is absolutely unknowable
All humans need truth
So desperately
The nature of truth
Is a human dilemma
A paradox of being
Inside-out and outside-in
At the same time
Two parallel realities
Unfolding concurrently in the mind
Yet rarely are they allowed to meet
Face to face
And become one
Truth is disguised
By many false pretensions
It becomes distorted and misshapen
And thus rendered impotent
Its natural beauty is mistakenly marred
It appears unattractive and repulsive
Truth is denied and lied about
Deception hides truth
And destroys it at the root
Of its life and effectiveness
So that the happiness of people
Thus unseen and unknown
May be stolen by unscrupulous persons
And its value transformed by deceit
Into a destructive force
That make people into mere material things
And enslaves the soul
Truth is ignored
As ignorance is taught
And in ignorance humans live and die
Without ever knowing or experiencing
The glory of truth
The beauty of truth
Must be shared unconditionally and openly
For its lure and attraction
To take affect
Upon the human heart
The quest for truth
Will never end
It is an artistic vision
Of a grand future
A dream of infinite forever
In a golden paradise of eternal happiness
It is a search for El Dorado
That fountain of youth
By which the old may find renewal
By which the dead
May find revival
And the dispirited
Resurrection
The path of truth
Is a solitary one
Alone that there is much loneliness
But also much love of life
That is the highest
End and means of truth
Our is an age of great things
Come and gone by
Of great experiments and greater mistakes
Of grand dramas played upon many stages
In many corners of the globe
Ours is an age of grand schemes
Of revolutions turned sour
An age of great excitement and climax
Of great anti-heroes and disillusionment
Ours is an age of great disparity
Of tremendous material belonging
And unprecedented human poverty
An age of unrivaled potentiality and achievement
And of disheartening calamity
Ours is an age of great diversity
Of great ignorance and great wisdom
Ours is an age of many great changes
And of overpowering conformity
Ours is an age unparalleled and unprecedented
In the history of human civilization
What is the worth of a few hundred
Or of a few thousand
When measured against the billions
Who walk the earth and exist
From day to day?
What is the meaning of any single soul
When the voices of millions
Clamor to be heard?
Yet where in this great new age
Is there space for a single solitary soul
Or the time to listen
To the complaints of one unhappy heart?
If secrets are not soon to be shared
Then chances are they will never be known
The fires of desire soon die out
If not fed with mysterious intrigue and curious fancy
And fleeting love will grow wild
Out of control of one's impassioned heart
the closeness of new found intimacy
Will suffocate beneath too close scrutiny
And the attraction of new found possibility
Will subside beneath too late familiarity
The excitement will wear off
Never to share the climactic ecstasies
What could of been becomes mere fantasy
Cast into the well of human imperturbability
And just as with old lovers
New lovers shall never be the same
It is never enough
To take refuge
In the hollow shell that remains
From the ever returning loneliness
Of the imprisoned heart
Fleeting love vicariously lived
Brief haphazard escapades
Mere random distractions
From the inescapable drudgery
Of the duties of life
This game
Is so convincing
If would be
Almost overwhelmingly so
If it weren't
For the simple
Facts of life
And death
And the utter
Boredom
Subduing interest and attention
That now and then
Creeps back onto the stage
Despite our earnest efforts
Uncharitable refusals
And dishonest denials
The story is only mildly amusing
The dialogue is roundly dissatisfying
The settings are all so well placed
The designs are so well contrived
The parts so well played
It would all be so believable
If not for one single flaw
A minor imperfection
That makes the hypocrisy so revealing
It is so like
The usual petty people
Putting so much stock
In first impressions
And superficial appearances
Hiding behind disguises
To push and pull in indiscretion
In this and that direction
The innocent youths
Until in fits of passion
Youth rebels
And in revolution screaming
Stops the whole play short
And upsets the entire stage
This mighty powerful
thing
That we call by so many
names
It is so vast, so
powerful
So complicated, so
enormous and so grand
That in simple truth
We do not understand it
Except in the vaguest
and most general terms
Of our most abstracted
mentalities
It defies the precision
Of our fine
instrumentation
It leaves our system
Stymied and baffled in
confusion
Seeming so weak by
comparison
It lives our lives
Thinks our thoughts
Motivates our actions
Determines our wills
And sets our common fate
It diminishes our
conceived dignity
Into inscrutable
insecurity
It is the greatest
divinity
Possibly imaginable in
our small skulls
In spite of all its
indefinable uncertainty
It leaves me without
doubt
As to the compelling
necessity
Of my next breath
Or as the reality of
life and death
It is the very matter of
our bodies
And the very essence of
our lives
It is the energy of the
sun and stars
And the blood of all
life
To merely call it God
Would be to do it a
grave injustice
For what just God
Would have allowed
humanity
To suffer so much
It is much greater than
our petty conceptions
Of divinity
Copyright © 2003 by Hugh
M. Lewis
August 17, 2006