Ameliorate

There is food inside this fruit
Inside this room there is a heart that you
or me or he or she can see
if we turn the knob on the door
that connects the room to the rest of the world.

Rest in comfort knowing the lines on your skin
are roadmaps to the untouchable, intangible
the space beyond which we imagine
may allow you to
Stretch out your hopes and dreams
so thin that they will not be seen
only felt by you deeply
from the space in between.

I stepped behind the omnipresent eye
And, my friends, I died. I died.
The connectivity of our hearts proclivities
did something trigger the ghost inside.
The one dissimilarity between this world and the next
Is the one where we connect.

Crazy catch phrases, locking in
Elocution of an entire nature
Responsible for the death of a language
Once used to commune-icate, Ameliorate
Yet, here, now, as sun splits the clouds
The sky can’t help but wonder
Why we rape, pillage, and plunder
as if our time is going somewhere.
And that, if time is what we were really concerned with,
Wouldn’t we be trying harder
to work together
to sort things out
Before time runs….

An Ode of Sorts

Pop, Lock, Drop
To the beating drums of the Underground
We are makers of the
humping thumping sounds
Rattling upwards
through the wayward roots of trees
Through the leaves
and Carried by the breeze.
And the rhythm blows
where the pressure goes
High pressure Low
Like a storm on the Horizon
Like the mist blown from the sea
We are the music makers, so
Let it be, let it be.

Extrails

I just sit and watch the grotesque patterns play out

like shadows on a wall…

shadows of marionettes,

their strings dangling like severed entrails

Images of war and human on human hatred.

I can no longer make out where one limb ends and another begins

the shapelessness of the bodies twist and contort before me

my mind unable to make sense of the sight.

I insert blood and water and mud in an attempt to reduce it

to reduce the image to earth.

Earth, my mind understands

But this carnage is more than my understanding can bear.

Why the terror

The sheer terror takes hold of me like a beast

Hungry after days without food

With young ones whining in the den.

She must rend and tear my spine from my back

She must be sure

There can be no failure here

Lest the blood of her children pour from her fur.

I am not a victim.

I should be proud.

I am a savior.

The next sustaining meal to a family

neither poor nor rich.

Only elemental, living on the Earth.

Earth, my mind understands and yet the voice screams

“this is unfair, unjust….not ready to be kil-”

Not ready? or not willing?

My mind can’t make itself up.

So I cut away the strings, the extrails parading as vital organs.

I cut them away and willingly give my life to the mother beast.

But she does not take it.

I don’t look like prey any longer.

Were the sky’s still blue you would see her eyes glint

And would ascertain her meaning.

But the grey saturates and I am left standing

With only a guess and a breath that tastes like that of a newborn’s.

Cold and unsettling

But with the full force of life.

The Short of It

(It takes)

Two to Goodbye
One to Third Eye
Some to admit
We’re not afraid to die.

A Page in Ink

Won’t you fall asleep with us tonight?
my friend?

The stars are sure the sun is down
no longer frightened of the man
with the fiery breath
who walks amongst the concrete slabs
in search of that which melts
Saving each second of slavery for
the savory destruction of the memories
kept in the softest, coolest part of the
confines aloft the consciousness
of the hopeful collective of loose fitting
individuals caught up in the midnight dance
flirting with the moonlight
Hungry for the soft flesh of fruit to tear
between their teeth while the juice stains
their cheeks with the evidence of their fervor.

There be no solace here where the wind
takes charge of the branches and the
trees watch over the man like mothers
guarding their roosts
filled with mongrels who may steal for their food
but only because the food was kept
under lock and key & key and ring
deeply buried in the pockets with the money
of the key keepers, who dare not share
the food lest the initial flow start the
inertia of a river that was standing
inert as a lake-still-breeding
decaying-manifesting the life that death may birth
if left unattended as if the boatman
was asleep. But he’s just a man really
what more to expect? A man must sleep
and eat and breathe. What more? What more would
such a man need? Provided with work, food, breath,
and rest? And being one of these needs,
food begs to be stolen by those who are kept
without it. Begs, like a traitor for his
life as death begins to waft around his
nose like a candle long since snuffed.

Not to worry young traitor for the churchbells
will ring in your honor And should you look east
You will find what they call reincarnation
Much like the life of a grape that then
becomes wine, that turns into vinegar that
is used to disinfect the bodies that fill
the hole in the earth made by man, filled
with men, filled by men only to be displaced
by nature and never to be found again.
One can not hope, ever, to bury one’s
treasure in the same manner that one would
bury a body . One cannot hope at all
unless he invests his hope in that which
cannot be buried. Perhaps then he will
have invested wisely, by widely or not
an investment is never ‘sure’ and thusly
requires faith. Hope a commodity comes along
that one need not leave to chance.That
one need not bury.

These are not the words of a dying man but take them as you will.
Words invested on paper in hopes of finding
an eye, being elevated to image in hopes
of finding a thought to be recycled again
into a consciousness that will conceive such
a thought and aspire to be etched onto
a page in ink.

We Are Explorers

We are not masters of our environment
we are explorers
We must think beyond
as we once did
We became content exploring the land
this mighty planet provided
Losing sight of the infinity of the universe
Became locked into the idea
that exploring required our physical presence

The environment is the master
and now the king
Victims of our own limitations
laid down by a history of self-boundedness.
That feeling of emptiness described by man an
author, poet, artist, philosopher, businessman, mother, husband
is not the hole for a god to fill
It is the will to explore – not being fulfilled
Endless punishment awaits those who remain idle.

We are the neurons of the Universe. The micro-matter
The electrons, neutrons, protons…atoms
Let us see if we can be matter
Let us see if our vibrations are real
Let the naysayers come. We are ready.

Why we should forget everything that came before

It just occurred to me that the past is sexist. and we have all been duped. for all we know it is the very core of sexism and it’s undeniable to our subconscious. History. is nothing more than His Story. The moment we hear it, we wonder what “he” was doing and how he did it. But I say no more! Down with History and let sexism be vanquished once and For All!

Duality, my friends, has entered the building….

If you Fuck-Up, you might as well enjoy it. Because God knows that’s what our modern day concept, nay, THE Concept of religion is… Of turning a simple way of life into a set of rules to be followed or broken. Dulaity, my firends, has entered the fucking building.

How could you possibly do something “right” withought knowing the “wrong” way as well. If you didn’t, it remains a benign action. Then some other Human comes over and “fills you in.” Hence, the Forbidden Fruit -But wait, who forbade it? and by what right? Now, the conundrum….

God is bloody brilliant, you see. The only way to afford Humans “free-will” was to provide choice. But if He.She.It had just put some people in a garden and said have a heyday everything would have turned out peachy. But when there is ONE thing a Human cannot do, things get interesting. Questions are raised. But via free will, are we not allowed to choose either way no matter what? no, I think not. Implied within the nature of free will is Consequence. Sure, you are free to choose to do what you were told not to do, but then the entire paradigm shifts. On the Seventh Day of creation, the contract was handed to us, and we made some serious changes.

It seems like a good idea to put a conscience on paper so no one forgets….Until you think the thought that everyone has one. A conscience that is. and no matter what it is, it is implicit within humans, much like animal instinct. Fact: no Human is 100% the same. Therefore, Fact: Everyone’s conscience is different.

I would encourage all people to cease the use of qualitative words: better, worse, almost as good as, etc. and see what happens. It’s about time Mr. Singularity had a turn.