Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Who kindly stays just out of sight?


who rides up quietly behind to place a gentle but firm hand on my shoulder
          who works without smiling but with all his teeth showing
who dresses in black and hides his face from the light
          who walks right beside us, though just out of sight

who finds us with ease no matter where we travel
          who takes only his due which is all that we have
who comes filled with mercy for those who have suffered
          who frightens the widows as they lay under the covers

who laughs at the devil and jesus alike
          who is with us at night and in the strongest of light
who helps us to hurry and then stays our hand
          who leads us back to the void from where we once sprang

who finds us our place at just the right time
          who keeps us moving from dust back to dust once again
who answers all questions with only silence and shepherds us away
          who singles out every one of us on our assigned day

who does not discriminate between human and animal
          who keeps track of all living things place in the line
who at last relieves us of all of our suffering
          who leads us so gently away from ourselves

who is always there in spite all of our loneliness
          who kindly stays with us until we are quite finished
who cannot be imagined but is neither forgotten nor remembers
          who knows only the mercy of random number generation

who knows us, one and all, in an anonymous but intimate way
          who is the one that none of us can ever know at all
who may come here for us but cannot linger
          who takes us off somewhere that we never experience

who takes us away but carries no burden
who else is so natural but fills us with such fright
who can we know only in our imaginations
          who cancels our debts and takes all our money

who does not listen and has no need to see
          who never speaks except with our voices
who rustles the curtains and obscures the moon
          who plays no part in any memorial service

who do we welcome while crawling in pain
          who speaks to the children who cannot understand
who can surprise us so completely we leave without our farewells
          who deliberates for months as we waste away

who do we think that we never shall see
          who knows the date we cannot escape
who touches but once as we grow stone cold
          who is gone long before our faces turn gray

who gathers us together though working alone
          who does not live but always exists only where there is life
who handles the details as we slip away
          who takes the wheel as we lose our grip

who nudges us back to that unknown we sprang from
          who does not conceive of where we are going
who answers no questions but keeps us awake with our asking
          who ends each one’s sorrows in just the same way

who must we prepare for, though we cannot know how to plan
          who comes with the predator but does not stay for the feeding
who joins hands with us at birth and finally peels back their grip
          who bars the way back but can never go with us

who leaves us with shudders after coming quite close
          who abandons us to nothing after just one short meeting
who lights the grim pathway of our last steps
          who leaves us just as soon as his promise is kept

who renders our dreams into faint echoes
          who delivers a cryptic message to the living as we pass
who sees us through a dark portal and then turns away
          who never forgets us while we ignore him during our short stay

who sits up late with us for just as long as it takes
          who leaves that sense of calm behind in his wake
who counts every creature from microscopic to whales
          who helped the dinosaurs as they slipped away

who has an ironclad contract with life itself
          who may be faced but was never meant to be conquered
who works with life to energize the entire earthly food chain
          who depends totally on all forms of birth

who do young maidens sleep with when lovers go to war
          who joins the great circle for all of the life forms
who comes quite randomly yet with a guaranteed certainty
          who gives no answers but raises doubts and further questions

who rides at my shoulder, faithful and true
          who always forgives but never forgets

Monday, December 6, 2010

Let Your Gods Strike Me Dead


Strike me dead if your musty books and archaic mouthings are not just empty bullshit
See me off to some fairytale eternal perdition if only I won’t ever have to see you again
A pox on your fictional jealous final judgments and everlasting rewards
Your comical vestments do not awe me and your pomp is way outdated

Do not try to explain the world to me with your antiquated inventions
Strike me dead if you do not just prey upon the feeble using dusty fairy tales
These Christian and Islamic myths are but especially virulent forms of thought control
Your expensive shrines are merely tools in your delusional self-promotion

Can you ensure that I will not share a place in heaven with the likes of you?
Your theological studies at religious universities are a useless waste of time
Strike me dead if all your learning is worth even one day of honest community service
Foolish debates over fictional scriptural minutiae do not constitute research

The brutal wars you sanction time and again are evidence of a deep sickness
Your uncritical promotion of man’s separation from nature is truly evil
Your moldy scholars have not advanced a new thought for a thousand years
Strike me dead if love, mercy and understanding flow from your actions

Strike me dead if a woman cannot equally serve God alongside men in this life
Torture me in hell if humor is not just as holy as your dark and brooding grimness
That natural catastrophe is punishment for non-believers is simply sinful nonsense
Mumbling that our misfortunes are signs of his mystery is but a smelly crock of shit

Demanding his retribution on the infidels by the faithful is a heinous crime
Strike me dead if your large part in the New World genocide was simply god’s will
Purporting to interpret god’s word on social issues should land you in psychotherapy
Saying that god requires beards and burkahs is pitifully comical, at best

Fondling frightened boys in your church ought to have brought on His lightning
Mumbling obeisance five times a day only impresses the poor, ignorant and stupid
Strike me dead if dietary restrictions have anything to do with heaven
Your criminal sales pitch is solely based on calming a fear of the unknowable realm of death

Fomenting deadly sectarian violence over ancient nonsense should land you in jail
Declaring the primacy of one faith over any other should be treated as truly feeble humor
Saints and their miracles are merely a transparent form of childish fiction
Strike me dead if self-serving pre-masticated dogma is not the source of all your wisdom

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Nothing Can Do All Of This


        Everything in the universe comes out of Nothing – Tao Te Ching     
          nothing can prepare you for the afterlife among the stars
nothing can make you understand the meaning of a billion years
nothing can change the speed with which you return to cosmic dust
          nothing can teach you more than you knew when you were born

          nothing can only calm you if you ignore nothing at all
nothing can stop the decay that is your sacred birthright
nothing can defeat you even though there will never be a battle
          nothing can persuade you more completely than nothing at all

          nothing can hide you if there is nothing left of you to see
nothing can protect you since you remain here quite willfully
nothing can be part of you before well you learn to think
          nothing can hurt you if you hold on to it too tightly

          nothing can be forgotten until it is finally time to go
nothing easily assumes the place of everything you know
nothing can disappoint you when you still have expectations
          nothing can satisfy you given enough time and distance

          nothing can convince you that you have had too much
nothing can destroy you before you understand
nothing can identify you from the other faces in the crowd
          nothing can hypnotize you if you look it in the eyes

          nothing can delay you when you are in a hurry
nothing can be left alone if you really think about it
nothing can feel the same once you have it realized
          nothing can spoil the dreams of even the evangelical

          nothing can escape even the keenest of vision
nothing can evade the collective wisdom of the tribe
nothing can ignore the strength of our beliefs
          nothing can help you in your lonely vision quest

          nothing can relieve all of this earthly suffering
nothing can be counted on to be there in the end
nothing can reveal that for which we seek
          nothing can remove the sin they say emerged with birth

          nothing can cleanse us after all the sins of our lives
nothing can console us once we have lost it all
nothing can please those which nothing satisfies
          nothing can change our lives if we simply recognize it

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Not Going To Make It


there are times when I realize that I’m actually not going to make it
          in the afternoon when it is quiet, save for the ticking of a clock
then it’s twenty years ago or twenty years from now, but it is all the same
          and I’ll be gone for a long time, quite soon, in the larger scheme of things

the sun is shining across the mountains and on down into the room
          and things just pause a moment as I work upon my knees
I know for sure just then that I am not really going to make it
          and although I might shed a tear, it’s not for the fear, but for its beauty

in those unexpected times when we pause within a short reflection
          we sometimes catch a glimpse of, as far as we can see
then I saw myself as if it were from a different point in time
          I saw again the boy, this man thought was gone so long ago, elated

and in that same moment the sunset gently faded
          as the man now weak and old tried to remember from where he came
then I knew with certainty that I was not going to make it
          but still, time had passed me by quite slowly and left a quiet comfort

while the measured clock ticks guide the afternoon sun across the room
          I have nothing left to say, save a long and drawn out sigh
though there are many times that this illusion still vibrates complete
          far stronger are the moments when the real light shows me the way

in between the ordinary and the things which change our lives
          flows a deeper river that we must ford from time to time
as we stretch our legs to start upon another journey
          the shadow of the hand of time momentarily sweeps across us

so what time have we really saved even as we count it and where is it even now
          since in a stream of disjoint instants, we see that we cannot make it
there are those brief and lucid moments when I realize who I am
          a small boy frightened by not remembering never being of this world

slowly do the dust motes float through the slanting sun
          they have always held a place for me in their silent dance 
in between my feeble wheezings there is a parting of the clouds
          and far off in the distance I see clearly that I could never make it

in the quiet stillness that moves in to soothingly surround us
          after all the mundane chatter dies away, then it becomes so clear
in the million years before I came here and in the first million next to come
          I see that even those times are lost in the billions piled up on either side

as I realize that the sun never really pauses in my little room
          so I note with some sadness that there is also nothing I can stop and hold

Friday, December 3, 2010

Everyday Senseless Slaughter


As they are sitting quietly
Reading and relaxing in a friendly coffee shop
A man with an automatic weapon opens fire by the register
          killing a young couple heading out the door
         
Strolling through a produce market
          On a pleasant Sunday morning
A truck bomb explodes just up the block
          You note the blood that mixes in the gutter
with the ashy residue & water from the fire trucks

Enjoying the comfort of your cozy beach hotel room
          An explosion rips the air
Screams mix with the sounds of collapsing stairs
          A man walks by in a daze
So much blood streaming from his head

Children crowd around for candy from the friendly soldiers
          Suddenly a trucks pulls up and explodes right into their faces
Though it makes no sense to us, these martyr bombers are those that go to heaven
          Killing children who dare take sweets from the hated enemy

In the dark of night jets howl in and rockets streak the air
          Innocents within their paths are simply collateral destruction
Young men left alive but deafened do not share the scripted vision
          And rush to join the righteous folly of the deadly orgy

Smiling in a nightclub on a balmy night
dancing without a care while on a dream vacation
unexpectedly a tremendous explosion all around
          and uncounted screams pierce the smoke-filled air

snarled once again in the endless traffic
          between burned out vehicles and military checkpoints
the insurgent in a truck that stops unexpectedly up ahead
          becomes a blessed martyr as her body parts rain down

eating with your company, safe within your post
          the bomber’s body does not shield you
from its thick wrapping of nails and ball bearings
          propelled by the explosives strapped snugly to his tummy

teacher starts a lesson and the children pay attention
          freedom fighters enter, punctuating praise of god with explosions
teacher takes a bullet and screaming parents gather in the street
          troops storm the school and little children jump from windows
cleaning up the bloody carnage there comes an overwhelming shame

gathered together in an ancient shrine on a holy day
          fifty die and hundreds bleed when an infidel blows himself apart
wailing survivors scratch through the debris in search of their fallen
          and vow revenge for the loved ones lost in their defiled sanctuary

low-level micro-manager returns to the break room for more coffee
          dissatisfied ex-worker somehow  gains entrance to the building
shots ring out in carefully planned locations bringing on a pandemonium
          manager and former worker share bullets over their spilled coffee

loyal members of the gang must avenge the latest killing
          there is no room in the ride for the brother in the wheelchair
driving by, their shots ring out and citizens scatter
          a dirty homeless vet and a little schoolgirl lack the proper moves

mourning another loss at the too-familiar cemetery
          the howl of rockets descend both on the dead and the grieving
the black mourning clothes of a young woman soak up her blood so well
          old and young alike commence a gruesome, helpless wailing

she sits chatting in the auditorium, her assignment has been done
          sound of popping gunfire from somewhere close behind
she stands and looks around and takes a bullet in the head
          he was a quiet former student they said, but he’d gone off his meds

Thursday, December 2, 2010

What Would You Do

What would you do if you learned it would only be a year
          Could you do everything and then sum it all up, if it were so very near

What if right now you knew you had to leave in just 30 days
        How much would you try to experience and what goals would you raise

Would you find something different in the beauty of every sunrise
          Would you note all the last times like each was good for a prize

Could you possibly place everything in order and be prepared to unwind
          Perhaps you might simply determine to fight and to somehow survive

Suppose that you were convinced you would be dead by tomorrow
          If the colors seemed so much brighter, would that be simply from sorrow

Should you rush about trying to do all the things you had promised
         Or maybe spend time dwelling on something you knew you had missed

Would you consider their memories of you and try to change their tone
          Would you bother to get rid of those many things you still own

Consider that the plane is falling straight down and gathering speed
          How could you prepare yourself in that awful panic, terror and need

How much time would you ask for, if it were forced to be decided
          At that crucial moment, by what principles would you be guided

Would you even bother to watch your beloved TV anymore
          Would you pray for salvation or consider the void as never before

Who would you contact and what might you say
          What affairs would you attend to and which ones would you let lay

What should you do about your children’s future
          How might your spouse do without you to help and to script her

Would you sadly realize that you had wasted so much time
          Would you mainly miss daily actions of the most ordinary kind

Are there those you would tell the things to, that you have always known
          Would you expire inside or outside, far away, or in your own home

Would you keep on working until they carried you away
          Could you remain quiet or would you tell anyone who would stay

Would you turn to religion and let faith be your true guide
          Would you just end it all early and leave the priests feeling denied

Should your family interrupt their lives as you are expiring
          How could they understand the way your neurons are rewiring

Does it make sense to ease your anguish with pain medication and religion
          Why bother to keep up with your physical education

In this strange light, what message would you prepare for your children
          Should you spend money furiously on dreams to try and fulfill them

Would you sleep dark nights through or lie awake counting every moment
          Could you draw any meaning looking back on the blur and the foment

Should you take some time and write out your own obituary
          Does it make sense to fuss around cooking and keep being handy

What activities could possibly sustain you as you counted down to the nil
          Would you donate your organs and finally make out your last will

Would you still strive to keep your lawn well-trimmed and green
          What could you share with your grandson so he would see what you mean

Do you think you could extract some bit of wisdom from where you have been
          If you find ways to maintain will they conflict with what you have seen

What would you do first and what would you try to be doing at the end
          Would you swell hotly with anger and then collapse among friends

Would you choose peaceful narcotic fantasies or the blunt edge of reality
          Could helping others possibly ease the pain of your imminent fatality

Could you consider the fate of everything that you have been taught
          Could you conceive of a universe completely devoid of your own thought

Would you be able to draw any real satisfaction from your old recreations
          Would it help those you hurt if, near the end, you had some revelation

What would you choose to be the last thing that you say
          Who would you have stand by you as you finally slip away

What would you do if you had only a few short years left on this earth
        And how would you react if that time began the instant of your birth

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Faux-Golden Years


For now I am ready to retire and become that cute and cuddly grandpa
But my prostate has swelt up like an orange and I need that quintuple bypass
I wish to take my time now and to stop and smell those lovely roses
Yet I am 30 pounds overweight and my blood pressure is way too goddamn high
I look forward to the things I worked so much for all those long, hard years
But I have lost my hair and my back just plain hurts me every day and all the time
I plan to see all those places I have only dreamed of during all my work-filled life
However, I cannot walk, even quite slowly, without wheezing and turning red

I want to take some time to sort things out and make a bit of sense of it all
But my memory fails rapidly and I find simple explanations really are the best
I look forward to great adventures in the freedom of the open road
I poke along in my bloated RV between those safe, costly and sterile campgrounds
I finally get to spend some time with my family and my grandchildren
Turns out I don’t really care for them and they don’t have much time for me
I am excited to make new friends and live a rich and rewarding social life
I wear little diapers because I leak a bit after each of my 15 daily pees

I want to travel lightly, looking for excitement, like I did so long ago
I go nowhere without several pairs of glasses and all of my prescription meds
I collect my thoughts and refine my experiences into a unique vision of my own
I am viewed as a simple dodderer, quite inconsequential and totally irrelevant
I will finally spend some time communing with nature and learning of myself
Hopefully, my hearing aid does not feedback too loudly or have its battery go dead
I plan to hike to the many places I have noticed driving by, where people never go
My cardio and knees are simply gone and I tire quickly in the grocery store

I will hit the hot spots and go to all the famous beaches
Laws may have to be passed to keep my ugly body safely hidden from public view
I hope to gain a new perspective regarding our lives and our times
The world moves so fast around me I just want to keep out of its way
I will stand up for my rights with the others of my storied generation
I mean to attend those creepy Day of the Living Dead demonstrations
I can spend my time helping teach the children to know right from wrong
I am just another body to be looked after, according to their teachers

I try blending in, but my wrinkles and my thin white hair set me far apart
People blow right by me though I walk just as fast as I deem it sensible
I can easily fall asleep by friends and family with my mouth lolling open
If I have a good bowel movement I judge the day to have been a pretty good success
My thin and shiny skin has large dark blotches in among the spreading wrinkles
My yellow toenails get cut twice a year whether I can see them or not

I love getting out of doors and riding in a golf cart while smoking a cigar
I prefer eating dinner at 4 pm to avoid any indigestion when I try to sleep at 9
I talk to people I haven’t seen for years but they look at me quite strangely
Each new diagnosis yields a flood of flattering attention that brings meaning to my life