Sunday, July 26

Must We ? (Revised)

Must We?


Standing on the hard ground of my own center I have discarded the desire to prove myself right. In a similar, yet vastly more strenuous task, I have wrenched away from my heart the choice called; prove others wrong. What is this need for evidence? How does proof, prove anything? Are we better for it? Without previous malice in his heart, our brother, after reading scripture, has been instructed to hurl a stone at his sister. Someone “wiser” than he, has told him it must be this way. I find it odd, scary, frightening even, that our sister, filled with anger fueled by years of violent hatred, can read the same scripture, and choose to put down the brick, that she had already intended to heave at her brother. I ask you, is this an example of proper evidence, for either behavior? Let’s be honest here. Do we really need some document, historic, sacred, profane or otherwise to tell us what we already know? Simply put, why waste our time looking for justification to bash each others head’s in or try to dignify bombing our neighbors into the stone age. When we all know it is just plain wrong. Despite all the reasonable reasons, that our Gods give us, and their sinister and sycophantic bootlicks proclaim to us, implore us, demand of us to believe, there is another choice. Yes, the Books tell us to kill. The gods joyfully give their approval. Must we listen?

In the Middle of Central (Revised)

In the Middle of Central

Gracious and grand
convenient and central.
Spacious. Splendid. Station.

Busier than, ...

(sorry)

Swarming pan-directional legions.
Thousands swell to tens of thousands.
Myriads of wasps from the ivory towers above mingle
with the phalanx of army ants from the canyons below
A tsunami of work-a-day burst
through every door. North. East. South. West.

They come! They Crowd!
They mass! 5:03 Flash Mob, five days a week.
They are HERE!

Shuffle step, one forward, two to the right
tightly bound still fiercely independent
forage they must the
tunnels of ordinary sameness;

Lackawanna, Chappaqua, Mahopac, Webatuck, Naugatuck, Wappingers Falls, Ossining, Matamoras! Departing in two minutes!

Close, so very close. Too close. Aqua-
Velva mixes with Chanel
shaken and stirred,
trenchant, pedestrian, urban sweat!

Throngingly, the mobile mosh pit must run
Boob to back & nut
to butt,
daily they make their quest for home.

The Way of Verse 21 (Revised)

The way of verse 21

Those who proclaim to know the way
have obliterated it, and become lost.

The delicate weave of a spider’s web carried on
the breeze rewards the patient ones with beauty.

Unraveling that which is already complete, the luminous
hues of delicate tapestry transfigures into useless chaotic threads.

The unskilled attempt to build more of what is already
too much. Skill innovates from the not yet imagined.

Surrounded by the present. The empty, the not present,
the infinite void caresses the midwife of creation.

It is common to name a child at birth. Can we be certain that
the Name is water for a seed and not the first death knell sounding?

Every day we murder each other in dispute over
ideas. Time now, for some ideas to die.

A Scorcher (revised)

A Scorcher
I
sweat

Ahelgany and Monongahela
scorch down my face.

My lungs toil
as woefully inadequate
bellows
enslaved in the blacksmith's forge.

Air is exchanged
Breathing but a memory,
as the Sun continues its
aggressive  interrogation.

My body
blunted

in somber devotion
chisels fiery granite
blocks of heat
with each lethargic step I take.

Pressed to my brow
water and rocks fill
the goblet.

Precious droplets of well chilled
soothing elixir

Water.

More precious than Sovereigns.
More intoxicating than Absynthe.

Truckee and Shasta
resuscitate my soul.

Random? (revised)

Random?

none
empty

one
two

Three, six
sixty-four

Stardust from the elders
wraps a delicate living
thread of yarrow.

unnoticed. Powerful. weaving
together the disregarded past
into now.

At harvest they were lemon
green yellow. Coarse to the touch
flexible.

Through my fingers they run, stiff
rose petal soft after two decades of
hard labor.

Fortuity engages serendipity. The
fifty yarrow stalks and my mind
in elegant precision

dance
right hand to left hand and back again.

Synchronizing the treasure of the ancestors
into the now. Assimilated.
Seeding metamorphosis.

Turbulent water above
Calm still mountain below
Thirty-nine

Swift rapids
rushing obstacles

The mountain must
focus
remain still
in active silent watching
ever changing flow.

one

empty
none

Note: The time honored casting of the Yi Jing while typically done with a simple and expedient coin toss, has for thousands of years been done through the manipulation of fifty thin stalks made of yarrow. In the poem the hexagram is number thirty-nine, Water over Mountain. Which can represent challenges and obstacles.