Seated upon your vast pile of gold
Overseeing the ultimate destruction
of everything and everyone
you engaged to make it --
what will you do now?
Gently strumming
a Joni Mitchell tune.
Quietly warming fire.
Bare wood, waning Sun,
early Spring country room.
Why do I feel you?
A presence from deep past,
gentle, fiery, warmth that lasts
as ambient music.
The essence of poetry -- words
never capture, but we try.
People who never leave, somehow keep,
encanted home, carried in
this traveler's mind.
We need gods
to give our suffering meaning.
But suffering has the meaning
of creating who we are.
God, the Creator,
author of fantasy -- these stories
we act out as lives.
Most people have no interest
in excellence, in doing more
than the rest, in being outcast
as better, as elite.
We (humanity) don't need any
specific industry -- going back
to our basic uberpower of
adaptability. If our
habitual
world dissolves, that creates
possibilities to invest in,
for better or worse.
Why should anything ever be easy?
Why would I think it might?
This dirty old world, concussed,
not quite right -- I feel my heart,
my guts, my every bit, crying.
After the flood of tears?
Again and again like destiny --
no way out but through?
Who survives each knife, each
overdose of poison, each prayer for
oblivion, each enchantment into
fantasy to deny all those hours and years.
Somehow I've surpassed, skated through
falls and scrapes, vomit and tears,
highways and bridges, fog,
destructive decisions that ought to have
killed, but just mortally weakened,
made less by degrees, by lauded
experience, by humanity's world
and rules.
Screech that I'm the fool without a clue,
unworthy to breathe your rotting air.
Lost, the power to care, to understand
how to continue to participate, despite
exhaustion, constant longing to sleep,
perchance to dream, become one
immersed with ecstasy; unbound to
duty that only I perceive.
4/2-7/23
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