de-composting...

tears trickle off stripped slick slopes
the mountain cries a little more each day
as silts fill and impede
nourishment continues to recede
and a homeward salmon cannot find its way

poisons doused upon fertile land
makes us strong, not healthy, not wise
and thus we grow
and reap what we sow
benefits perpetuated via someone elses lies

how long can we bleed our mother
how much more milk can she give
we all like a smoke
we all like a toke
it's the exhaust that's the joke
industrial seepage she'll never forgive

so as some sit fat and happy
on heaps horded high and dry
and some wallow in the resulting waste
religion fed, required not to ask why
we some dance the insurgent
more to our palatable taste
surpassing safeguards that quell the urgent
understanding the need for such haste

the intent is not to offend
but sometimes yes, it gets the crowd's attention
of those who forget
that some things are worthy of certain mention
without the risk of punishable time and detention
and so poets get jailed
while repressive zealots get hailed
in the name of protecting someone elses pension

if loud makes us proud
how much longer can we be quite
with so many paid to tell us how to behave
maybe it's time we all change that diet
and so lies this carcass our spoon-fed culture
picked mostly clean by the roosted resident vulture
and if ashes to ashes and dust to dust
we return from which we came
can we at least sprout a new seed
can we somehow see the need
and if not this time who is to blame

spent...

as follows an ode to the econ-bolemic
the unfettered splurge and purge
leaves the body parched anemic
the supply side politique
states thoroughly we must gorge
with heavy weighted plastique
equity drained portfolios we must forge
for that which we crave
whilst on the way to the grave
lies on the far side of the ravine
where the fat is where it's at
and the crossing we will brave
because in the end
who really needs all that lean
not many it would seem

idea...

now a crevasse
once but a fissure
and before that but a thought
a tangle
a twist
a synaptual knot
loosened
released
uncoiled into slack
allowed to plop
encouraged to flop
into the light and out of the black
a wrinkle
a crinkle
a crease then something torn
from something worn comes
metamorphosis
evolution
and something is born
pressure and strain
give and take
unbinding the brain
unplugging the drain
molded clay ready to bake
and the crack begins to run
before the premise is done
momentums of exuberance unleashed
fanatical maniacals unsheathed
distortions
contortions
no end in site
no sense of relief
admissions
dismissals
denials exacting belief
edges rounded
homogeneous truths confounded
and now the cavernous bottomless pit
what it was
that was that
this is it

deseased trees...

a fog coiled spiral-like I'm surprised
fluffy boas draped around
my mountain disguised
and a late afternoon sun
finally burned it away
what's this I see
behind focus fixed on outcomes of the day
a pimple
a blemish
a stain on the northwest slope
what possibly could it be
something simple
a terroir dimple
neither muscle bound or femish
I fear the worst in ways of hope
the trees were felled
now tears overflow once welled
a clear cut strut performed with precision
mindless monopolies existing without vision
carved away a chunk of bliss
something more for me to miss.

Trailer Lust...

I remember once a mother ship,
anchored for too long immovable,
submerged axle deep into southeastern Ohio mud,
rubber rotted away;
an armored behemoth built for the frugally thrift set
whose need for built-in amenities
formed with cheap paneling upon shag rug carpet
fulfilled a visual chic projected in glossy fliers
with printed names like Holly Park and Price-Meyers

when oil made millions before the preferred billions,
this transportable abode was assembled porous,
minimally insulted from bitter cold and stifling heat
in a land where it was never intended to be
and this one in particular,
isolated on a hillside,
raked and shook by March gales,
achingly frozen stiff by January sub-tolerable cold,
and baked August crisp;
inhabitants poached by heat steamed humidity
that was me for 3 years.

I remember loud southern-fried amplifications
vibrating aluminum and glass
while imbibements of the leafy green were inhaled
and chased with a cold fermentation or more;
I remember an upheaval existence of political implosions,
social suicides,
and economic depressions on such a grand scale
where re-entry into the consciously correct norm was not only near impossible,
but really not preferred;
I remember genderless flannel shirts tucked into belt-less Levis,
work boots laced up above the ankle,
hair dangling below the collar,
Dylan on the turntable,
brownies in the oven,
and communal dharma bums lounging about the abbreviated living room,
ragging on "the man" while eating off of yard sale plates
and planning the future.

I wonder what happened to that counter-cultural spasm
that molded into a movement of enlightenment;
one where money was handy but not lusted after,
where intellectual hick in its most cerebral infested form
mixed with primitive application;
how I sometimes miss that single-wide existence
and then I know I could never go back there... at least not yet,
for the circle is not yet complete,
the laws of cyclical redundancy not yet fulfilled.