Natural humankind does the primate thing looking for tools and gadgets to weaponize to lord it over the have-nots. Some want to be royal over the rest. Whether fire, iron, oil, atomic energy, or AI, it is just the same crusade for world domination by big money politics fused with big science & the criminals of these, add the snooty academics with their politically fawning one-sided philosophy and soft science, paying attention only to the smudged ball of their swollen craniums -- it's all a power hunt with the outcome of population reduction. Don't imagine that eugenics went out of vogue with corn flakes To these masked enthusiasts, the survival of the fittest accelerates by burying others.
Category Archives: Poetry
Natural Selection
Little Bunnies Marching
Massacring the innocent snow-bunnies with barely a word Do you know their names? yet you knew George's for months on end the girls don't fit into the agenda slots for the woke daily news cycle a deadlocked predator with a blood-red club will lawyer up and take internet donations for bail criminalize the victims, excuse the perps what follows is more repressed outrage on both sides of the argument where the children pay
Holding the Torch
I contemplate the you I've dreamed and write my thoughts in poetry I sing of you with my whole being, believing a most pleasant dream Why is it you enthrall me so to put you on a pedestal? If I should sing your face so fair your sienna eyes, your lush green hair Your mountain range's misty rise your plains, your hills, your azure skies it'd be more than I could ever bear to fully sing your vast grandeur before these lights of mine go dim I want to walk Mogollon Rim and on the Canyon wide and grand to shout my song, to take a stand This land I live, of you, I sing In broken rhyme, I prance and sing look out upon your myriad trees and chant of all your living things aged 5 thousand years and some Prometheus and Methuselah Sing grizzly bears, sing caribou sing flying squirrels, and masked raccoon your crafty fox, your coyote's howl in the night, your wise hoot owl I praise your soil, the loam, your fields I sing and praise your fruitful yields the ground, fertile, with faithful clime make all rejoice at harvest time Your every part commands my song My contemplation is deeply drawn to fall in love again, and swoon from night and dawn and sun-drenched noon sing Great Lakes and riverways both ocean coasts and scenic bays I sing your people to honor those originals who carried bows their love for you & Mother Earth from your soil, they've had their birth ancient spirits who knew the trees when the Red Woods were but saplings I sing the poetry of cataclysmic change of those who came to you as strange aliens who were searching for the promised land, but grasping more of Crazy Horse, his battles fought his unfinished horn now embossed I sing the sorrow of your land when blood was on a brother's hand and the lines of your fair face were subject to war's rude disgrace I sing the wars, the hate, the lies that blinded everybody's eyes the struggle for this glorious land spanning years from sand to sand I sing of slavery, I sing of those shanghaied to you from Africa's shores I sing of the inhumanity endured far worse than what we've ever heard I sing the merit of their cause their contribution giving pause I sing of your different people now who stand for all, and take a vow to protect what's yours, home and abroad to be one nation under God I sing America--her theme her vision I sing with my whole being You, freeing land, enthrall me so I put you on a pedestal.
Left
there is a wound that heals there is a sand that soothes there is a cloud that clarifies the bumpy road that smooths truth telling can be lies What's called wisdom may be dumb there is a fame to ostracize, the familiar royal bum what looks to be in one way in opposition may be found the enigma defies what it is & how you may expound from jumping to conclusions and interpretations that impound I'll take my leave this autumn day to ride my muse unbound
Dark Messaging
Some of what passes as poetry or art is as incomprehensible as speaking in tongues. A tattoo artist doesn't employ the same wastefulness. After all, putting a Jackson Pollock on a customer's bicep probably wouldn't give a special message. Nor are they likely to needle into someone's back "During ramification caracoleos descends pressure" framed by a heart. Today, a tattoo artist said, "It sounds like the revolution has started; ... ." There are no deep poetics here.
Fractal
Isn't every end the child of a beginning? Isn't every heartbreak the trophy of your love? Isn't every change the cloth that life is cut from? Isn't each today a present from above? Isn't every sight a reflection in a mirror? Isn't every word the effort to explain? Isn't every thought changed by your perception? Isn't every pleasure seated opposite of pain? Doesn't every death allow for a commencement? Doesn't every dream prove to be the dreamer's worth? Isn't everything the dream of a creator? Isn't everything a gift on planet earth?
Pure
a pretty lady sprawls naked on the bed sheets
she is an unwritable verse on my pillow
by my side is a demolition derby, a risky challenge--
breathing rhythmically with tranquil eyes--
words of an angel - she's the highest peak
my half-century would ever savor.
I watch, hours slip by--
Still, I want
With Pine Needles in Their Hair
Who knows when desire germinates? It stealthy enters through all the pores to reach a receptive heart. Mutual feelings forge an electric connection, uniting both to respond in wordless agreement. Home is not without, but rediscovering the evergreen moment; deliciously resting, turned on together in the heady fragrance of a partaken now. Feeling as if no Christmases, Thanksgivings, or Halloweens existed before theirs - with everything filtered through the prismatic lens of their unfolding bliss... Playing, dancing, teasing, and necking mistletoe overhead then, lying side by side beneath the lit tree - breathless from the innocent laughter of lovemaking.
Where Is the Counterculture?
On the cusp of the 60s and 70s, 68 went down as the year of cultural revolution. Psychedelic shirts with LSD phosphorescent eyes. I know. Saw the living colors myself Walls inhaled and exhaled scents of patchouli and cheap strawberry incense from India. Saw those grimacing faces above the long-haired crowd twisting hideous. I was the youth then. "Down with the establishment" was the chant. Government? What a downer. What a bummer. "drags" were for "squares." The institutional church reeked as did the communist cult not into being reduced to a number for a system of power claiming my own good more into getting naked rather than getting put in a straight jacket Politics proved to be only good for starting wars. I met Pisces Tom partying in Coyote Canyon near Joshua Tree. a genuine Haight-Ashbury hippy who went off the grid to live in a bamboo forest smack dab in the middle of the Mojave desert. Tom raised a hog painted eerie space mandalas and made LSD from soaking marigold seeds. When he was tripping thought he could pan gold from the desert sands of ancient seas. Some of Tom rubbed off on me. How different today dancing to the establishment's dirge while pretending not to be.
Crack On 