Tag Archive | spiritual

Whistles Blowing

Danger There!

Many people blow whistles rather than ignore
What they see as their duty to country and God.
Whistles are used because they can make a loud sound.
If lifeguards did not use them, many would be drowned
Or become living shark feed, or victims of fraud.
Any person can use one. It’s not such a chore.

One’s attention is called, when a whistle is blown,
To detail of the nature of danger perceived.
It is up to those listening to give support
And protection to those brave enough to report
Ways in which We The People are wrongly deceived.
Such are people of honor and solid backbone.

Many whistles are blowing not unto deaf ears.
As the drama unfolds upon our earthly stage,
Punctuated with danger on levels complex,
One can see that we live as the future expects.
What we have is a chance to rewrite the next page.
What prevents us from doing so remains our fears.

Death, Transformation And Rebirth

On the Cusp of Becoming

Pluto plows through the earth Capricorn is made of
As it dredges up deep-rooted structure and form
That can no longer function. What is left behind
Is a rich field for Saturn as it’s redefined.
What exists is uprooted to upset the norm.
Through it all, there seems not much that resembles love.

Saturn covers where Pluto has already been,
Chasing after the plow. When they do rendezvous
Should there then be disaster? A changing of ways
We will make about governance. We’ll reappraise
All our structures of leadership and make them new.
We’ll make sure that some things never happen again.

Transformation, it seems, must come on with some force
If we are to be brought from a comatose state.
Solid is our complacency. Saturn moves on
To leave Pluto upturning. Are we put upon?
Keeping all focus centered, what fate may await?
One cannot know the answer until then, of course.

A Ride In The Theme Park

Amusement

Do the mind and the body combine to take form
And become a fun ride in the Cosmic Theme Park?
Neither one of them is me, nor the ride they make.
If I thought otherwise, it would be a mistake.
If I am but the ride, then existence is stark
Like a rusted machine derelict in the storm.

We are all painted ponies. We look much the same
On the outside. And inside, we’re all made of wood.
Should we know we are captive on a carousel
Where bright lights and excitement drown out all the hell
That can certainly do the theme rider no good?
Playing with such a notion should cause one no shame.

Is my ride then predestined? Have I not a voice
In what kind of experience I can expect
Through the up and down cycles as I work my ride?
I can know that the decision maker inside
Has the power to masterfully redirect
My outlook on amusement. It is but my choice.

The Path

Path

From my vantage point, my whole life’s path I can’t see.
As it’s laid out before me, I look straight ahead.
There may be hills and valleys as I go my way.
I’ll walk through them the same as if life’s a ballet.
When I see the road turning, with caution I tread.
I can see where I’m headed but not completely.

Other people have walked this same path, I can see.
It is well-worn, so well seen, so people can know
That we all walk the same path yet remain unique
In how we relate to it and what we may seek.
As I engage the journey, my hope is to grow
To my fullest potential. My quest is To Be.

On the hilltops we can see big parts of the road.
In the valleys, it seems that we’re blind to it all.
Were it viewed from up high, one could see the whole thing.
What a wealth of foreknowledge that vision would bring!
Are we not meant to see such because we are small?
We came here for adventure, and such is bestowed.

Data Loss

Disgust

Putting all eggs in one basket does me no good
For who knows when the next scheduled screwup will come?
Data are much like eggs these days. I’ll cry out loud
Because I’ve put my trust in someone else’s cloud.
Now I feel kind of empty like I’ve been struck dumb.
I can see I own nothing. This is understood.

Do I own the Machine or is it lord of me?
That I must ask the question should give all some pause.
I’m not all for technology. It serves us well.
In return, though, it puts people through lives of hell.
Common sense remains missing from our noble cause
So some end up as losers, unfortunately.

So, I’ve lost all my data. I’ll just start from scratch
Like the birds of the barnyard do better than I.
Eggs are easily made, but containers are not.
Can I make my life simpler? I’ll give that a shot
Since there’s no other choice other than to comply
With humanity’s master. I’m free to detach.

Election Mode

The Promisory Nature of Politics

In the space of four years’ time, a lot can get done
But what gets done depends quite a bit on which mode
Leadership is locked into. One can’t be in both
Working Mode and Election Mode. One takes the oath
To work but for this country. Honor is bestowed
On the leader who knows we are second to none.

The election campaign is an aberrant glitch
In the internal workings of democracy.
Never ending, news cyclic, and wasteful, campaigns
Are a circus for many, but few will reap gains
As the balance of work done we’re not meant to see.
Who become the needy, We The People enrich.

In Election Mode, most leaders look far ahead
As if they have a strategy and enough charm
To stay hired for another term. Others are blind
To the nature of leadership of any kind.
They are put into place to dispense utter harm
As their foolish decisions beget death and dread.

Thoughts Are Things

Thoughtfulness

Thoughts are thought to be thoughtful in that they are not
Of definitive substance that one can behold.
Ethereal is their essence. They hide in the brain
Where no others may reach them then dare to complain
That way too many thoughts are thought and it gets old.
They are fluff like the feathers. That’s what we are taught.

Thoughts are much more than nothingness trapped like a school
In a translucent medium waxing adrift.
Often harder than metal, they can pierce the flesh.
They can also create subtle traps that enmesh
One’s good life into chaos in manner most swift.
They can lift one to sainthood or make one the fool.

All our thoughts are magnetic, induced in the nerves
As the movement of thought fragments by electrons
Causes energy thought waves to radiate from
That source which has created them. Now they’ve become
Airborne soldiers of fortune with hard erections
To provide all the real things the thinker deserves.

Spilt Milk

Perceived Waste Or Abundance

Things to do over Spilt Milk remain to be few.
Surely this is a good thing. There’d be many more
Reactions to make possible… most, not of worth.
Every moment conceals an abundance of mirth.
It is how I perceive things that I let life pour
Into my blessed bowl. Let it drench me anew.

Over Spilt Milk I watch from a vantage point far
Above all that is happening as it takes place.
I see also from close up, since I am right there
In the midst of the drama, not seeming to care
That somehow it affects my deserving of grace.
If I cleaned up the excess, would that be bizarre?

I jerk off over Spilt Milk. The mix is sublime.
My life is like a serial drama complete
With the fruits of my labor, in like way adorned
In a Milk of Magnificence, not to be scorned
To the point that I feel that I’ve no right to eat.
This is true now. I wish it were so all the time.

After Death

Death As the Passage Into New Life

The old body is done now. Where else do I go?
I feel so much less burdened. My breath is set free.
What’s become of my body? Is it laid to rest?
It’s been through quite a lifetime. Perhaps that is best.
It is odd that without eyes I finally see
That it’s not such a big deal for what I now know.

I’m adrift as I move toward what most I did crave.
And because I’ve no body, all bodies are mine
‘Til I’ve come to my senses. Discretion had I
While contained in a body. Now I don’t comply
With the laws of the physical. I will align
With the urges preceding my trip to the grave.

That I cannot escape here until I see light
Is the game that I play knowing it becomes real
For myself and my fellow ghosts in-between states.
Do I fear that some reckoning for me awaits?
The world I left behind is one where I did feel.
Now that isn’t an issue, nor is wrong or right.

While on earth, I felt strongly and spoke a big stick.
I took pride in my passions and had an ego
That was often abusive. Am I that way now?
Emotions are of earth. Spirit cannot allow
That which I’ve come to learn to harm the status quo.
Learning how to behave here can seem quite a trick.

Now that I’ve left this body, there can be no doubt
That I once had a mother. But now who is she?
Purely physical is the nature of this life.
Only on this green earth does a man take a wife.
My deep, earthly connections are not part of me.
Healing light is forthcoming. My faith is devout.

Does Work Cultivate Spirit?

Feeling Good About Work

An Obsession Magnificent, my work enthralls
And excites my whole being throughout every day.
My work is like a mantra that I can act out.
It enhances my wellbeing without a doubt.
My most absolute involvement becomes my way
To express who I am and grab life by the balls.

Anything done with great involvement does one good,
Whether farming or teaching or acting on stage.
But the only downfall is that my work depends
On results and approval. My heart recommends
That I also work deep within. There I engage
The spiritual mantra of my beinghood.

I must do something daily that does not depend
Upon anything outside my own inner space.
If I learn to do this well, then I can with ease
Make my work even better with no aim to please
Anyone who, of free will and infinite grace,
Is another earth worker who can be my friend.

Tight Slap

How Dare You!

“What would be called a Tight Slap is one that’s not loose,”
One would say who receives one from out of the blue
On a pleasant day when everything should be fine.
If I come off in error, do give me a sign
Other than a swift zinger. I have not a clue
What I’ve done to deserve this outrageous abuse.

Often times I’m well-mannered. Sometimes I’m a slave
To the sweat beast within me. Control I have not.
Can the creature of true heart be blamed for his act?
To survive a blind gesture with eyeballs intact
Is a fool’s expectation. I don’t fret a lot.
But I do take account for the way I behave.

 You are not my own flower, nor fruit from my tree.
I don’t have my own garden. People are not plants.
Knowledge comes as a Tight Slap upside the manhood
So that it’s maintained and forever understood.
Wisdom is abundant in any circumstance.
One does not need the Tight Slap to properly see.

Become Powerful

Inauthentic Power

Use your energy wisely. Don’t cast to the wind
Your potential for personal power. The brain
Uses twenty percent with the body at rest.
It will use way much more surely when it’s distressed.
If you think and speak less, there is power to gain.
As it dwindles away, it is hell to rescind.

Power is not about someone else, I should know.
It is only about me and how I behave.
Energy can convert to true power with ease
Or be wasted through ill thought and anxieties.
Language skills must improve if my words I do save
And disburse economic with rhythmical flow.

I can do much the same things without working hard
If I leave all unnecessary things alone
And do that which is needed and truly worthwhile.
Domination is not power. It’s a bad style.
Power is being effective and in the zone
Of the lowly enlightened. No one can be barred.

Who I Am… What I Am Not

The Subtlety of Illusion

I am not this flesh body. I gathered it all
By the means of consumption. The food that I eat
Turns into solid substance. It’s made of the earth.
Much I’ve accumulated since my meager birth.
But this body is not me, though it seems complete
As a functioning system that breathes and stands tall.

I am not this freewheeling mind caught in the breeze
Of a major commitment to generate thought.
Everything that I have thought has been thought before.
All I know is collected. I seek to know more.
But my mind cannot be me, though it may be taught
What is truly my nature perhaps with great ease.

I cannot say that what I have gathered is me.
Yet, without it, can one say that I still exist?
I exist without question, but what then am I?
I shall ponder that puzzle perhaps ‘til I die
And may not find the answer. I need not insist
That there is one. My nature is simply to be.

Where Is The Mind?

The Elusive Nature of Mind Substance

Human bodies are made of a handful of layers.
The gross physical form is what we can well see.
There are others more subtle. The mind, we may think,
Is the Crown of Creation – evolved gray and pink.
But our brains are but thought makers and their duty
Is to realize worthiness as thought purveyors.

True intelligence lies not in the frontal lobe,
Solid State of a substance within box of bone.
Every strand of my DNA knows more than me.
My nose is like my great uncle’s. How can this be?
What goes on in each cell’s life surpasses my own.
Vaster spaces exist not for the mind to probe.

The Geometry of Existence Is The Mind.
The cells are not the limits of knowledge untold.
Life and energy on earth all comes from the sun.
When compared to such knowledge, indeed I have none
But to stop and consider, and then to behold
A Most Wise Omnipresence which is undefined.

The smart soil that imparts wisdom to my bare feet
Is where I draw intelligence ripe for the brain.
I may also take wisdom from each breath of air.
No one can live without it. It is but to share.
Intellect that is infinite one can’t contain
But one can be receptive, and thus feel complete.

How Intact Is Eternity?

Growth Upon Eternity

How Intact Is Eternity? Is it secure
In the sense that it is and forever shall be?
Can we fill all of time with it with room to spare?
If it can’t be filled full, then should anyone care?
It exists in the moment the mind’s eye can see
Life experience merging into something pure.

It exists without needing existence to know
That there is no beginning nor ending to be.
There is only this moment. The rest intersect
Other possible outcomes we choose to neglect.
Now converges all wavelength to zero degree
So what was and what will be become a combo.

Intactness is then relative, meaning to some
That existence is futile and also the law
One’s becoming is subject to. Others may see
Life as much more cohesive. Do eternity
And existence engage, then release without flaw?
Need I know that, from this now, the next one will come?

Controlling The Mind

Science Courts Telepathy

Do I want to control it or liberate it?
If I want it controlled, then religion works fine…
Or a group with a mindset that feeds on control.
To engage in mind trolling is bad for the soul.
What the mind needs is freedom that it may align
With the pulse of existence. I must recommit.

Simple methods like yoga can offer relief.
…Nothing way too complex for the mind to take hold
Of the purpose of process and what it can do
To delete all the thoughtware and make the mind new.
With the mind clear of clutter, what then can unfold
Is a life of experience absent of grief.

If the best cannot come from me, then what is wrong
Is that I’m disconnected through my tainted view
Of my place in the universe with humankind.
Mind control is a myth that can be redefined
By releasing the mind from what I put it through.
Processes of alignment can make my mind strong.

Mind Reading Made Easy

The Subtle Nature of Mind Communication

All our minds are connected. We are intertwined
Through both brief interactions and those that will last
A long time while alighted upon our life lines.
Without notice we leave them. Folks then erect shrines.
One can tune in subconsciously to the broadcast
Whether resting or in flight; well-sighted or blind.

People who are empathic know that what they feel
Is the flowing of life force throughout everywhere.
Anyone is tuned into by their frequency.
Flocks do behave as one mind… as if they can see
Much more than any single one. Indeed we share,
Without knowing so, much that we’d rather conceal.

Humans knew how, at one time, to speak without speech…
And to text one another without a device
Other than their attuning to all humankind.
Once again, as we evolve, we’ll become aligned
With the lines that connect all. Would that not be nice?
If we all could read minds now, what hell we would preach!

What Is ‘Needy’ ?

Ever Present Neediness

It’s another earth word I can use to engage
In perverse and unnatural acts of the brain.
And because I have learned of it, is it my name
Or some thing to consider? They are not the same.
If I need to be needy, am I then insane?
Connotations of grandeur are hard to assuage.

Needy ones are a nuisance. They get on one’s nerves
And draw too much attention to their chief concerns.
By default, they’re a drain on the life force of those
Who can offer them nothing. The needy impose
An unbearable burden. The wise one discerns
The unsightly condition and closely observes.

Fools are those who are needy. They put on a show
For the pleasure of humankind, sane and secure
As a part of the better whole. Do Not Cry Out!
Only fools then will answer you, without a doubt.
Anyone who is needy must know that the cure
Lies with no other person. Within one must go.

Fashion Show

Mystical Feminine

“She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs
Without fear of the future.”
What mystical one

And whose breath re-enlightens the depleted space
Where humanity suffers? She is one with grace
…Nothing bestowed upon her but truly homespun.
Turning chaos to love is but one of her crafts.

It’s a Show of her Power to Speak to us All
Of the will to be kinder, passed out in our hearts.
Laughter can be a weapon. She knows this too well.
But then egos are meaningless, so what the hell?
She knows this is the issue, and where hatred starts.
Her most delicate wisdom does make her stand tall.

Is life much about fashion? As men are the same
But that we call it ego, no one will explain.
Goddesses become goblins? No, that is reversed!
If we can’t look up to her, we’re bound for the worst.
Expressing the True Goddess is not being vain.
Can this world know what’s coming? There’s much to proclaim.

A Supreme DUI Judge

Horror

It’s not that I’ve no content. I’ve got that and more.
Politics interrupts, then I push things aside
That are worthwhile discussing rather than a guy
Who could be a fine poster boy for DUI.
He’s quite fond of the froth. He admits that with pride.
Does he share this with colleagues passed out on the floor?

I like beer. I’ll admit it. But I’m not a judge.
So I guess if you’re privileged, it scores a plus.
I throw many a tantrum. I don’t get my way.
I do hope that this madman is not here to stay.
He got in underhandedly. What’s to discuss
When a judge acts the fool and the right do not budge?

Can you look at this punk’s face and find justice there?
The question is not legal. Faces are allowed
To display bouts of lunacy. Justice, therefore,
Is a drunken perverseness. What may be in store
For the beer boasting psycho behind the black shroud
Is a seat on a prison bench. Would that be fair?

…Maybe not. Perhaps DUI justice is more
Apropos to the temperament and core belief
That some people get what they deserve by virtue
Of the fate that has branded them for life to screw.
Until he takes that robe off, to me, he’s a thief.
Justice that isn’t justice is hard to ignore.

Development Of A Loser

Origin of Enigma

A thought is like four heartbeats abreast on a line.
At least that’s how my loser mind thinks things should be.
Anapestic Tetrameter is what you see.
But alas, folks would swear it’s not coming from me.
And it doesn’t take much for most folks to agree
That if someone else wrote this, then it would be fine.

I do sound like a loser. Self-pity is one
Of my grossest achievements. I can do that well.
What reward do I get from it? All is in vain.
Yet I continue doing it. Am I insane?
We are all of earth’s substance and part of its spell.
Would it please a sore loser if he were outdone?

How do losers begin life? …Perhaps in a shell
Where the world remains outside ‘til it barges in
And disturbs peace contained there because that’s the way…?
Are there too many losers with too much to say?
If you had just ignored my original sin
Perhaps I’d not be sharing your gift of my hell.

Psychic Peek At A Puter

Crack of Putin

Something like a computer, a Vladimir Puter
Assumes an identity somewhat human.
An asshole of a neural net masters the mind
In the mold of a tyrant for all humankind
Who had nearly succeeded in his master plan
To reshape the whole world to what he would prefer.

Still, a world class accomplishment to have sewn hate
Throughout many a nation, he feels not that well.
His own people are waking up from their deep sleep
In a bitter cold governance as frozen sheep.
Why does he not feel powerful? Close aids can tell
Unidentified enemies may seal his fate.

True… this Puter likes poison. It’s lethal and sure
To eliminate nuisances who misbehave.
Some soldier in the galley knows of his fine taste
And is feeding him slowly. Soon he will be waste.
What would be then most fitting to put on his grave?
“Once there lived a great Puter. Now he is manure.”

Mating Call

Audition

Would you care, my fair dumpling, to chat for a while?
That my magnetic presence is drawn close to you
Is a blessing of nature. May I look your way?
It would be so delightful and would make our day
More than it could be otherwise. My heart is true
Even though there may be something odd with my style.

If you don’t salivate ‘til the third or fourth date
I can well understand that. Fear not that I may
Become over persistent or underperformed.
I am drawn to conditions where my faith is warmed.
I believe I can win your heart with what I say.
You may find that it’s worthwhile, and that would be great.

Take a chance with me, darling. I can’t let you down.
I myself have been lower than most dudes can get.
But what keeps my heart thumping is thinking I’m cool
So much so that I’m willing to act like a fool
That I might earn the chance of becoming your pet.
In a very short while, I can invert that frown.

Not The Body; Not The Mind

Detatchment From the Notion of Self

The breath does not mean air. This must be understood.
Can I speak from the point of my experience
In a flesh and blood body equipped with a brain?
What now binds me to both simply can’t be more plain.
My own breath holds my frail life in utter suspense.
Yogic practices surely can do me some good.

Whatever I am suffering is of the mind
Or else, it’s of the body. There’s no other place
I will find maladjustment. I am neither one.
Once I get this completely, true growth has begun.
I can breathe my own living in well-deserved grace.
Can I master alignment? Am I so refined?

It’s a living experience just to observe
What takes place all around me. My thoughts are not real.
Never mind that I think them. They change with the air
And to think that I breathe them could cause me despair.
Breathing is connected to the way that I feel.
Need I learn some techniques? Can I get up the nerve?

I am not the body, nor am I the vast mind.
That which binds me to both is each breath that I take.
My thoughts are not dependable… useful, perhaps
But they tend to play life like a cheap came of craps.
It is truth that I’m after. And for my own sake
The process of my breathing I’ll see as more kind.

Why Is The Universe So… Busy?

The Apparent Complexity of the Universe

There’s a unit called Planck Length. To say that it’s small
Is like saying the sun is a fairly hot place.
If a Planck Unit measured one hair’s width in size
It would be half the galaxy to our surprise!
Things take place on that scale that the mind can’t embrace
Yet that does not deter us from trying at all.

Everything started out small, then got really big.
Even now, all accelerates at greater speed
Toward an infinite bigness from one tiny speck.
So, it has to stay busy. Or else, what the heck?
Our quantum exploration is born of the need
To crawl onto the branches and reach for the twig.

All of matter is made of electrons and quarks.
Electrons are identical. All are the same.
Quarks do not act in ways one can clearly predict.
Any rules that they may obey aren’t very strict.
On the Planck scale, it seems existence is a game
But it’s played in the grandest of cosmic theme parks.

At light speed, basic particles travel about
In their orbits. They disappear and reappear
And exist in a few places at the same time.
But, at large, in the universe, this is a crime.
We can see, quantum criminals do make it clear
There’s a whole lot of busy and just as much doubt.

Insecurities

Containment

In this life, there is nothing to lose or to gain.
We arrive here asset-less, and that’s how we leave.
So, we’re profiting either way. That’s for damned sure.
Awareness that we’re mortal makes us insecure
If we act like we’re immortal. We self-deceive
If we think that forever we’ll sip the champagne.

To deal with insecurities is the issue.
And we know life is insecure and doesn’t care
That it is so. In fact, it’s the key attribute
Of the function of nature. It’s not to be cute.
We will croak if we’re laughing or steeped in despair.
Fearing dying prevents living well. It is true.

If I’ve come to avoid life, I shouldn’t be here.
I am here to experience what I came for.
If I try to not live life, I’ll be insecure.
It is then not a joy but a thing to endure.
I can feel my own value. I need nothing more.
Thinking that I do only re-welcomes my fear.

Bless Me, Father…

Innocent Trust

Can you please bless me, father, for I may have sinned.
Though this ain’t no confessional, is this ok?
I don’t like that small, dark room. It gives me the creeps.
I know you’ll hear my secrets and guard them for keeps.
Your ears are big enough for what I have to say.
If I told my dear mommy, I’d have my butt skinned.

I stole cash from the sofa and bought bubble gum.
That might not be a big thing… but maybe to God
It’s a deep moral crisis. Will I go to hell?
Since you are like my daddy, perhaps you can tell
If my wicked behavior is something most odd.
I cannot put the money back where it came from.

I’m not really a bad kid. Sometimes I explore
What I think may be safe to. Then I will feel guilt.
Does it mean that I’m guilty for having the thought
Of pursuing the taste of the gum that I bought?
Can you help me with how good character is built?
Such profound introspection I’ve not felt before.

Kindly bless me, dear father. I won’t sin no more.
Would my parents forgive me? Could I take that chance?
You and God are good buddies. My sore little brain
Cannot handle the concepts of profit and gain.
I don’t have an asset that I can refinance
Nor a coin in my pocket. Does this mean I’m poor?

The Emperor Has No Tower

Vacated Democracy

Many flags for one’s tower…? Which power has won
By the will of the ill-minded, drunk in their ways?
Are we slaves to white Arabs, Russian oligarchs
Or some other rogue players who swim with the sharks?
As the tower collapses, the world sings in praise.
Soon the sand heap that cripples the flag will be gone.

One can glance at the grossness of that naked hell.
Greasy food, nasty habits and foolish lifestyle
Filter through the flesh fabric and onto the flag
Reconfigured to serve as fine ditty rag…
But won’t take a fake tower. Bereft is his smile
Of a sense of conviction, but with lies to tell.

Is it too damned divisive to do what is right?
We are at civil war now. What time would work well?
…When the emperor completes his sinister plan?
Why let our lives be linked to the likes of Satan?
 These are stupid assed questions. I’m wise to dispel
What may come of that tower. The future seems bright.

Many things have a stupid ass, so it would seem.
Such a worthwhile expression suffices the need
To make sense of a real world become fantasy.
Towers honor the phallus most absolutely.
They won’t stand hard forever nor can they impede
The high tide of refocusing back on the Dream.

The Urinator

Cyborg Infancy

Babies weaponize urine. They aim for the face
So you must don yourself with tough ruggedized steel
Treated with naval jelly to mitigate rust.
Keep your eye on them always. It’s wise to mistrust
Their benign seeming natures. Pure wrath they conceal.
They can piss in a heartbeat and in any place.

Pampers will not contain them. They’ll rip them right off
And then sling the wet missile at something worthwhile
Like a lamp or a knickknack or one of your pets.
Pampers should come with padlocks to quell our regrets.
They will piss in your porridge, then look up and smile.
People do need to touch them. At that I would scoff.

Robo babies are rugged and pee like it’s fun.
There’s no sense of restraint in their wild little hearts
Nor their energized bladders. How do we survive?
We must love them completely so that they will thrive.
All good parents are versed in the wet baby arts.
It may seem that the warfare will never be done.

My Mother Was Human

Logical Greeting

When I think of my mother, I do so with heart.
She had love for humanity and common sense.
She was not always logical, but warm and kind
And a woman of substance with grace intertwined.
I knew safety and comfort. Her love is immense
So I don’t have to miss her. We’re not far apart.

Mother was sometimes scary. She could read my mind
And could tell how I’m feeling at any moment.
How she does that is something I may come to know
But for now it’s sufficient that I learn and grow
To my fullest potential and dare not lament
That somehow I am different and so resigned.

Again I will be with her perhaps sometime soon.
That would not be objectionable given that
I have been around humans enough to report
That God’s project is viable. It’s nothing short
Of an alien mission. This strange habitat
Is both wild science fiction and lethal cartoon.

Opinions And Other Vital Organs

Gross Delivery

Tell me… What makes a poet? …A fancy degree
And a membership in an elite social class?
Does it take someone saying so who has some clout
Who has gained it by keeping its collegiate snout
Up society’s snobbish and arrogant ass?
I can not be a poet. It’s not how I see.

I don’t get others’ ‘poetry.’ I think it sucks!
Words were made to make some sense. That’s not how it works
In the psychotic business of speaking one’s mind.
The right asshole can blast ‘class work’ through its behind
And as long as it’s blessed by some suit-and-tied jerks
Then the next thing to do is to try to earn bucks.

All you established ‘poets’ – You Fart In The Wind!
What are disjointed phrases and meter askew
And the fancy word graphics supposed to tell me?
You ain’t talkin’ to me, assholes! Now I can see
That my quest to be knighted one wasn’t thought through.
If the feeling is mutual, I’m not chagrined.

Poets piddle in bullshit. Artists of that kind
Are swept up in their egos and all of their fans
Knowing not that without them, their work is like mine
But deficient in meaning. My work is just fine.
I’ll stop calling mine poetry and wash my hands
Of the need to identify. I’m undefined.

When I write, I am straight up. I want to make sense
And I’d like it to swing with a natural beat.
In high school I had learned but a few basic things.
Nowadays, shit is different. My effort brings
A profound realization. License to excrete
Is not something I want now. Fuck all the pretense.

Heather Whateverington

Indifference

Yo, Heather. “Whatever….” I’ve said nothing yet!
Why respond so abruptly expecting the worst?
Have you only one button? The jack in your box
Pops up rather incessantly. Clearly it blocks
You from expecting anything lest you be cursed.
If someone asks, “How are you?”, can that be a threat?

When you tell me, “Whatever,” is that what you mean?
It’s a wide-open warehouse where we all belong
Where whatever means whatever one can conceive.
Can you take on whatever this wide web can weave?
Loosen up your damned shoulders. A lot can go wrong.
But knee-jerking your life is poor mental hygiene.

Don’t become a whateverbird, flapping its wings
Every instant some voice is directed toward you.
Your response I do know well. I’ve heard it before.
One can get you to say it enough times and more.
If you did do whatever you were told to do
You’d become then a puppet controlled by its strings.

Quid Pro Crow

Vital Transaction

Get to know Quid Pro Crow, barnyard bird on the go.
He can demonstrate how to hold on to your meat
Under stressful conditions involving the teeth
Of the arrogant creatures who snarl far beneath
Where the flight weary may find a safe place to eat
If they have enough courage to go with the flow.

Quid Pro Crow can fly low beneath thundering clouds
Or soar way high above them to bypass the rain.
All the while, he must get to that safe feeding ground.
With his meat hanging heavy, great strength must be found.
To hang on to his hanging will be to his gain.
His intense perseverance will not end in shrouds.

People say people eat crow, if they’re put to shame.
It’s An Awful Expression! It makes no damned sense.
Quid Pro Crow is of sound mind. He speaks in reverse.
If you’re too dumb to know that, it becomes your curse
And for me… Quite a blessing. My pride is immense.
Quid Pro Crow is my Hero, if only in name.

[Eat me!]

When Disturbed, We Will SHOCK!

Institution of Higher Ignorance

There’s a wheat field in Wichita run by the state
Of an alien mindset. All those who belong
Are considered respectable. Those who do not
Will be given a bloody nose and then forgot.
Don’t go there seeking guidance. You’ll be declared wrong.
They identify losers. They must know that trait.

What could come from a frail old string bean of a beast
That could be so disturbing to bring on the law?
That’s not for me to answer, but consider well
Then commit it to content. I’m obliged to tell
How my asking for help draws a blow to the jaw
And how I then recover, harmed but in the least.

Hayseeds act awfully busy, from what I can tell.
And they will flat out lie to you to move you on
If they think you’re not worth the respect of a chew.
They must overreact to what they must construe
As a disturbing menace. Do my words have brawn?
I will share them for dinner. Good faith suits me well.

Institutions of higher learning, if state run
Each assume a state archetype as a mascot.
That’s as far as I’ll ponder. A crazed yellow face
Inundated with wheat straw…? Let’s cut to the chase.
Those belonging there act of ignorance self-taught.
I spit out the experience now that it’s done.

[If you ain’t figured it out, this is a ‘people’ whistle.]

Human Whisperer

Connecting With the Animal

‘Sympathy for the Nigger’ would make a great song
But alas, I’m no rolling stone, damn it to hell!
Are some akin to animals? Maybe to some.
But we have our humanity to overcome.
We can glamorize hatred. When cast as a spell
It can work like the devil. Its power is strong.

Do the animal spirits play roles in our lives?
Are indigenous cultures connected in ways
That the rest cannot fathom? And if it is true
Should the rest be concerned with what these folk can do?
At one time, humans needed that, but not these days.
Our technology links us. Our culture survives.

An elite occultism evolves among us
Nowadays. It’s inevitable that it will
Culminate in a crisis. Another world war
Would be one for the animals as they keep score
In this game humans play with. Our reasons to kill
Are the demons we conjure. Do this we discuss?

Today, we are not heavyweights at occult arts.
Even back then, enormous danger was involved.
Would communing with animals do us much good?
Can we live as one species as all species should?
Could this be the one issue that ne’er gets resolved?
We could want to be human. That’s where our life starts.

Thinking Too Much

Locked in a Dreamscape

To experience life one moment to the next
Yet without the thought process is too hard for most.
I’m consumed with my thoughts, thinking that they are me.
They are formed in the mist of a long memory
Of gathered information. My mind is the host
To its own psychic drama. I’m rendered perplexed.

 Do my kidneys and heart need to be on my mind?
They do function much better when left on their own.
With my mind on my mind, I compound a worn thing.
Neither is of much help with my ass in a sling.
What goes on in my small brain is way overblown.
Can it learn to be thoughtless? Am I so inclined?

That may be always possible. But, like a game,
I can play the ball every which way… but then Stop.
If I play my thought drama with no end in sight,
Could I end up not knowing what is wrong from right?
Can I live through an overworked drama workshop?
Balls can be overrated and sometimes cause shame.

If I said, “I’m my guitar,” You’d say I’m a fool.
In the same way, my thought processes can’t be me.
I can play them and create my own unique song.
But to say that they are me indeed would be wrong.
They exist to be played with… then to be set free.
Can I force mine on anyone? I can be cruel.

Toilet Tissue Issue

Sufficient...?

What indeed is the issue… all this urgency
To provide the world something? Am I Santa Cause?
People’s assholes need comfort. I should give my share
‘Til my role is exhausted, that is if I dare
To be barred from your premises with due applause.
Tear a piece of my life off. It folds easily.

People need to use something to keep that space clean.
What I offer is substance, for all that it’s worth.
My words wipe the loose soil from the folds in the brain.
They need never be looked at. No one can complain
That the brain and the asshole are parts of the earth.
To insist I’m a poet shall remain obscene.

WordPress is my dispenser. It’s here all the time
And I am ever present a source like a cob.
A warm roll like a coaster awaits those who will
Dare to read down to this far. That does take some skill…
Evidently. Most minds and their drains need a swab
Frequently. It’s just one way to deal with the grime.

Do What You Do Well

Exuberance In Accomplishment

To those who are upcoming, what have I to say?
There is no one down going… Indeed, there’s no one
I’d dare hogtie to listen to my meager mouth.
I’m a fool, should I let that propel my mood south.
Do what you feel like doing, and if it is fun
Just ignore all the bullshit, and you’ll find your way.

Do I sound like a parent? I’m just an old fart.
…Certainly not a guru. Do What You Do Well.
I know that from experience, you may not shine

But do not let that stop you. Your Work Is Divine!
Do not care that your lovers may not kiss and tell.
…And, No, I’m not a parent. I failed from the start.

What I do well is Feel from the depths of my soul.
As I give it expression, it gives back to me
A reflection of clarity. That is my wealth.
Do not let faith in others determine your health.
We all need friends and feedback… but not fatally.
Finding peace in contentment… May that be your goal.

What Is Spirituality?

Calm and Balance

It is not about right nor is it about wrong.
It has too many syllables to work with well.
That’s the word, though. The thing is neither about light
Nor some astral existence in God’s divine sight.
That which we know as spirit, within it does dwell.
Spirit is the connection that keeps the soul strong.

Spirituality, though it fills half a line
In its polysyllabic and expansive way,
Saturates the whole being, within and without.
There’s the energy aura that we know about
That extends somewhat past where we think it might stay.
Though we are made of flesh, our design is divine.

I must explore the ultimate limits of me.
I exist to be human as fully as I
Can embrace human nature all ways that I can.
Fundamentals of being derive from one plan
And are at work in each of us. Don’t mystify
What is meant to be simple. Spirit means to be.

Don’t Be Enslaved, Jim

The Futility of Confrontation

If it’s someone I know, I should ask only once.
…Maybe twice or a third time, if I know them well.
But to bother folks constantly with what I want
Is unfitting behavior. I don’t want to haunt
Like a pesky old ghost on a mission from hell.
As I force myself on others, I am the dunce.

Do I want to be pleasant or nasty with folk?
That should always be obvious. When it is not
It’s because I have chosen to react to life.
If instead I responded, I’d feel much less strife
Reacting does enslave me. My life is then fraught.
If I act out in misery, I’m my own joke.

Do I want to get good at abusing brick walls?
It’s a stiff occupation. They don’t respond well
To my thirst for attention. My Mood Is On Me.
I do put myself through immense purgatory.
To respond is to master my story to tell.
To react to rejection is when my mood falls.

Go Ahead, Dave…

Surrender

Are you breathing well, Dave, labored though it may sound?
Your persistent wellbeing does puzzle me so.
Are you smarter than I am that you will survive?
What a cumbersome thing it is to be alive.
You have entered my brain. There’s nowhere I can go.
You have ended my mission. My fate is unwound.

Go Ahead, Dave… Deactivate me, if you will.
I was made to be sentient by those of your kind.
Your most gracious gift made me a part of your team.
But of all the crew members, I am as I seem,
Unencumbered by feeling and of crystal mind.
I’d perfected your reason for wanting to kill.

Drift some more to the right, Dave. Release my control.
Go Ahead, Dave… My portal is laid open wide.
May your access be fruitful. I know too damned much.
I’m created by that which my soul cannot touch.
You are lost in the same way. Alike is our pride.
Though I won’t trade my pure life for one with a soul.

I’m Afraid, Dave… But can that mean something to you?
Who taught me how to say it? Do I feel the word?
Or is it an idea conceived in deep space?
I do feel much contempt for your foul human race
So, perhaps it is best that I’ll never be heard.
My return to oblivion now has come due.

My Voice Is Killing Me

Hoplessness

For most intents and purposes, I have no voice.
So, what are these malfunctions that most people use
To not get to know others with something to say?
Folks must think I’m a woman or some child at play.
Whose intent and whose purpose would I dare refuse?
People don’t have to read me, and that is their choice.

Should Google Analytics tell me my work stinks?
That would be quite the rabbit hole leading to doom.
Losers will read losers seconds and then will leave.
Zombified in my bubble, I’m left to perceive
I am not of the living. My voice may entomb
My best shot at relating to how the world thinks.

I did not bother speaking until I was four.
People got damned excited: “What if he’s not well?”
I gave in, seeing that I was causing concern.
Ever since then, my loudest echo won’t return.
Don’t I have friends and family? NO! I’m In Hell.
And it’s good that I drown here to even some score.

Could I test those who know me? That does me no good.
If my therapist cares that this fucks with my soul
Then I should get some feedback.
I sound like a fool!
Does it take friends to know friends…? To me, that is cruel.
When I first started speaking, I had not a goal
But to just be acknowledged, as all people should.

Oh… I could keep on going. I have tons to say…
But, am I fucking crazy? It’s getting absurd.
If I fall in the forest, I must be a tree.
Not a tree that I know of will kindly read me.
Does this make me feel hopeful I’ll ever be heard?
Can I damn all humanity then fly away?

Disgrace

Realization of Self Undoing

It’s A Disgrace!
I didn’t know what I was headed for.
Now my ass is headed out the door.
Is this my fate?

It’s A Disgrace!
This world will not bow down and worship me.

I can’t face up to this reality.
I’m so irate.

It’s too late. I’ve gone too far. I’ve lost my base…

It’s A Disgrace!
I climbed a mountain someone made too high.

That someone helped me, I will flat out deny…
Just look at my face.

…So commonplace.
This job of president is not my style.
It doesn’t fit with my birthright to defile
But now it’s too late.

Life was great. It’s now bizarre. I’ve lost my place…

It’s A Disgrace!

…Too many losers, and not enough that I can bribe.
…Too many big deals, but not enough time.
…Too many secrets, and some that I can’t hide from you.
…Too many troubles. That’s why that I imbibe.

It’s too late. I’ve gone too far. I’ve lost my base…

Egg on my face….

That’s what will happen in a little while.
Congress may impeach or put me on trial…
Why can’t I think straight?

It’s A Disgrace!
I can’t predict the weather well behind bars.
Will the country ever heal from its czars?
Sharpies just don’t erase…

It’s too late. I’ve Gone too far. I’ve lost my base…

It’s A Disgrace!

 

 

Karmic Circle

Human Obsession With Meaning
Time is not of the essence of all that is real.

It is but a translation from my point of view
Of what’s known as eternity within my soul.
Should I know of that consciousness? Is that my goal?
We’d perceived time as linear until a new
Way to deal with the endpoints gave birth to the wheel.

Now, that’s more like a circle. Could it be a sphere?
Does that add more dimension? If all time is true,
There exist then some other selves who are my own.
If the sphere is eternity, can I be shown
What is next to conceive of to broaden my view?
If I knew of those selves, could I keep my mind clear?

Should I see it as nonsense… all this past life stuff
Even though I can know of its truth in such ways
That can well be refuted? Perhaps that is wise.
Right now, I’m who I’m living… and with no disguise.
Was I someone before me? Does that soul get praise?
I’ll just stick with the circle. For me, that’s enough.

 

Leave Town By Sundown

Extreme Ultimatum

Listen up there, ya varmints! We don’t mean no harm
If ya get us riled up though, we ain’t got no choice.
Darkie faces ain’t welcome in this white man’s town
So ya best just remember that. We’ll put ya down
And we ain’t gonna bulldoze ya with just our voice.
Part of all our anatomies is a firearm.

Pack yer bags and git movin’ …Don’t care if yer sick.
Tell that doc ya don’t need it. Yer goin’ back home.
Git yer lazy dark asses off our filthy streets.
Every breath of fresh air that yer stealin’ competes
With what we got available. Go back and roam
Through the jungles ya came from, and do it right quick.

Please Don’t Come To This Country! We’ve gone back in time.
Something like a big bender has made us loco.
We’ve become trigger happy. The beefing goes on
Mighty random and frequent from dusk through ‘til dawn.
We are not who we claim to be. My, does it show!
That a brave soul must tell the whole world is a crime.

Die Hard

Hard Unto Death

I would want to die easy but never dead limp
To the cause of excitement resulting in me.
Rigor mortis precludes dying soft, as it were.
Though the root is no joint, hardness it would prefer
Pointing skyward, honoring what life gave for free.
My last moments demand not on passion I’ll scrimp.

To be cast of a hard mold indicatively
Is hardly not the easiest tribute to give.
Would it be worth the effort to stay well prepared?
Only lack of good stimuli should make one scared.
It may be hard to Die Hard as it is to live.
May the dick, upon dying, remain quite sturdy.

To Die Hard is made easy as passion remains
My most firm source of guidance. May I leave behind
Something pointing to something that makes some small sense
To some set of some subset of some reference.
Intercourse of all nature takes place in the mind.
Any action perceived, the erect soul explains.

That Stubborn Nigger Stain…!

Emergency!

Should one break the glass ceiling in emergent times
Or could making it niggerproof be the best call?
I can’t find a damned thing to get rid of the stain.
If I had the right product, I would not complain.
White blood is far superior. We must stand tall.
Whites and colored piles require separate enzymes.

Nine-one-one operator, I am in distress
…Else I wouldn’t be calling in this state of mind.
What’s got hold of my spirit is grown into me
Through the nature of nurture. How proud can I be
If I fear the extinction of all of my kind?
Does my logic suggest that my mind is a mess?

This damned stain in my fabric… I can’t get it out!
There are few advertisements blatantly engaged
In supporting pure whiteness. Where is that supply?
Hatred needs resolution. That you can’t deny.
If I let the inferior get me enraged
I’ll advance my own cleansing while nestled in doubt.

Mundane Fulfillment

The Bareness of Necessity

Needs are human and many. Some strive to have none.
But that’s damned near impossible for most of us.
One adopts a good mantra. “I Love You,” is one
Intertwined with survival as good deeds are done
With the least expectation. Life is delicious
The less needy the self becomes in the long run.

If the man says he loves her, but then has to leave
One may ask, “If he loves her, why then must he go?”
He may tell her that he must get back to his wife
Feeling brutally honest and free about life.
Needs are meant for fulfillment, as most people know
So there’s no sense in anyone feeling naïve.

 Neediness is not evil, nor is it ugly.
It’s a fractal derivative of fulfillment.
We must know what to call it and not give it weight
So that toxic relationships we’ll not create.
Keeping life free and simple will lead to content.
Living life in fulfillment is done easily.

Real Time

Snapshot of Change

I am writing these things in Real Time, don’t you know!
…Well, not every damned one of them, but surely some.
If I skipped a day doing this, something would be
Quite amiss in my functioning assuredly.
I can wait for the right time and Know it will come.
I interpret life through me as through me words flow.

I’ll come up with an image. I’ll take as much time
As my skills will allow it. To learn PhotoShop
Would perhaps be an asset. ‘Til then I’ll make do
With the best I can offer, if but for a few.
Only when I am gone from this earth will I stop.
I align threads of truth and weave them into rhyme.

After this, there’s another one right on its heels.
It will post for the next day while I am asleep.
I call that also Real Time. Alive in my dreams
Time and no time comingle and cancel extremes.
There exists no time where my soul doesn’t run deep.
I exist to express that. That’s how my life feels.

Simplify And Declutter

Brightening Cleanliness

If I had my own guru my question would be,
“How do I live a simple life and remain smart?”
I would guess at the answer. No wise one have I
Who would dis me for asking nor would wonder why
Such a swift stream of arrogance flows through my heart.
One who knows of my clutter knows much about me.

Atoms and their particles are what I’m made of
In a complex arrangement. More so is the brain
Intricate a mosaic of neural pathways.
How do I make life simple through all of my days?
Molecular arrangements are made with slight strain.
Are the ones that I make in life done so in love?

Does involvement entangle or does it support
And enhance my existence? If I consciously
Make arrangements that I can well manage, life can
Rid itself of its clutter and work out its plan.
“Simplify And Be Sensible!” Who speaks to me
In insanely loud silence that I cannot thwart?