Easter Blues...

Without sheep,
there's no need for a shepherd,
without a shepherd,
there's no need for sheep.

Collective momentum builds,
conscious streams overlap,
and the shepherd schemes for war
in the name of some one's holy.

And the more sheep in the flock,
the more fodder for the machine,
and the sheep honor their fallen
by bowing to the shepherd,
and the shepherd smiles
a validation supreme,
and the sheep give thanks
for the path to salvation,
and the shepherd smiles
as fervor builds into elation
and the rule of law is anchored,
and the shepherd smiles.

the gathering...

The mountains are damp with rejuvenation,
residuals on the canopy floor of decay turned fertile,
and we lightly tread over, through, and under,
to feel, smell, and remember our connection
and we forage in search of the spring offerings
and we remember why we came

It's cold but it's not,
It's wet but we don't feel it
as there are ancients all around,
and the mountain peoples press past the foothills
with notched out clearings big enough
for their scavenged booty,
and the rust still creeps across their ornaments
draping their yards and porches,
and the signs of attempts at eked out livings
hang in various forms of dilapidation,
and the mountains don't seem to care

a void in the vortex...

Vonnegut had been talking to me the past couple of weeks. If I could give due diligence to the workings of the cosmos and the potentials of the inter-connects about such things, I would say there was something significant about the timing, given the announcement of his death the other day. Some things are so vast in depth and scope, it's best to leave them incomprehensible just for sanity sake. Reading Vonnegut was spiritual for me. He could connect dots I never new existed, seemingly non-relational data spewed about the universe he molded and grouped into humorously bizarre yet sensical realities. There were many times, and still are, that I would prefer existing in those realities that only Kurt could transcend. The world would make more sense within those alignments than it does in its current one.

Me thinks it's time to go on a re-reading binge.

poo...

I've been paid the blue collar dollar
those songs I've sang all full of twang
I've respected the redneck lines of reason
no matter what the time of season
but bible belt punk
is nothin' but a funk
where I'll not go paint
for philosophy flies above where ideology lies
and the invisible man ain't.

flash...

Sometimes I wonder about the future of light.
I wonder if it has evolved,
if it ever has changed, adapted; ever morphed
or has it always been simply either on or off.
It has so many variations:
dim, hazy, bright,
but is that really light?
or the effects of something else--
fog, smog, reflections,
dimmer switches, shades?
I wonder what light looks like in it's purest form:
untouched, undirected, unfiltered.
I wonder if light is really God in disguise
for light is everywhere--
simultaneously penetrating, emitting, connecting.
If light is what it is and always has been,
a true constant from the beginning,
and without it nothing else exists,
is that not the Divine?
I wonder if light has an agenda beyond illumination,
to possibly reach it final destination.
It has been traveling really fast for a very long time.
And what would that destination be?
What comes after light?
What is the next phase?
Will we ride with it like binary digits,
billions upon zillions of nano messages
hanging on for dear life?
Will we recognize that as what we do,
and all we do
and the rest of our existence is but irrelevant filler?
Bummer.

shroonin...

chanterelles in the fall
morels in the spring
no matter how hard I try
can't seem to shake this fungi thing
smokey earthy porous punk
by themselves they taste of wooded funk
but toss them about in oils and herbs
as noted in the recipe blurbs
then wallow in the goddess's stew
food for the masses not just a few
and our laurels we will not rest upon
lest we forget the tarragon

the loft...

sensory muffled walls
and I can think clear without spectral collisions
creaking old building
and the wind is my only audible disturbance
the phone rings but I can ignore
the door opens and the dog keeps them occupied
and so it's me and my loft
and I still can't write a damn thing.