The weather went a-way one day
Went far and away a different way, but why should it stay the same to stand
For twisted blame, and, our speculaltion?
Memories dip down into it to intuit the meanings we’ve found in and around the ecliptic
The rhythm in the rain trained life on the same re-turning
Patterns lost again, washed away then in acid stains from sky-burning
Twelve moons and a month in a mind
Foregone remains of what was then, and what was time(?)
The sucking sounds from oceans pounding down
A whiteness from cremation
Crater-draining-creation founding unfounded notions within the calculations
Funneling enlightenment’s devotion
Restricted realization reduced to its own preoccupation, I’ll just say it…
Moot questions shown in consequences from chances
We took to (mis)understand the meanings and completeness
Bones broke our fast with winter’s last unrepentant weakness
Exploitation’s will is still the stronger skew that obscures your view to see this…
Maybe winter is tired of you.
Supposda be about somethin’,
Even if it ain’t about nothin’,
That’s supposda kinda mean somethin’…
The only time that means any-damn-thang
Is day-time and night-time,
Life-time and outta-time.
Livin’ and learnin’
And wondrin’ where ya shoulda put-her.
Makin’ machines to make-r faster folly,
Workin’ for that mule you heard-a.
Gotta nat’rul-born chic-kin-herder.
Be done good,
But it wont enough fiya-wood.
Livin’ out so far
Ya see the colors in the stars,
Show-me dose birth-right stars.
Ever-since we met,
I could buy
Bullies we hated.
But itwonta nuff-a could.
it’s just the little things
the bobwhite hopping
in the gravel ahead of me
little things I see
low-browed and proud
bring infinite eyes to me
the colors suffuse for me
spread out and confused
we refuse to see
pure meaning of used
and of unity
he didn’t light up
didn’t fly up in front of me
but he paced me considerably
to the point where i wanted to see
what it wuz that he wanted to say
any message he had there for me
And then there was the path,
The path towards joy…
The genius of doing the stupid work
With clear end-in-sight;
To make y’all see [messiah or me?].
The path of the artist.
And then there is no insanity,
I’ve admitted that I can’t handle it,
And then there’s the truth…
It’s not the music that makes you crazy,
It’s the crazy that makes you music.
It was 100,000 miles of wires,
Routing traits and hate’s archival.
Spec.’ing multi-dimensional flux.
An schematic for individuality…
That which made our familiars aspire,
And sadly not that chimp’s unbeknownst, cross-river rival.
We’ve traced the ore to moons of Saturn’s,
And in that crucible, the crux…
An recipe for duality.
We cannot know the maker’s mind, will never find, the power-higher;
Although you sweat-through venom or poison in tented revival
The why’s, the where’s, the what’s, the when’s,
The chorus of Einstein’s who-gives-a-fucks.
An creative design cannot find the balance-point of spirituality.
Beauty met greed, and it was on.
Fear jumped in, just to salt the wound.
Love got dragged into it, not wanting to see any one get hurt.
Irony seized the opportunity to snatch the last doughnut.
Laughter made its appearance known, playfully slapping each of them in their folly, stooges in their turn.
Enlightenment erased madness and replaced chaos with its confidant, Truth.
Happiness partnered with Music, and they danced…
Justice returned from the brink of extinction and was forever-after looked after by Peace.
You’ve got to get a running start at the right word-
That’s tough to do from in my bed.
Got to get up late at night to write words-
Or lose the right words,
That’s when they pop into my head.
Bring the note-pads and the pens
For yawned-words then,
And don’t forget again-
Yon’ words, was that in English then?
But how much does it matter?, when,
Half of what I do,
Of what I manage to get written,
So, sorry to keep the light on-
To break the silence with my pen, again.
But my words are always brightest before the dawn,
So, I keep on, and on, and on-
To find their song, because I think I know them when,
The words are at their rightest in the end.
Look at that homeless guy over there, out there in the afternoon sun with a trench-coat?
And he’s luggin’ that chest, man.
What do you think he’s got in there?
Poor guy, what if, what if I could just sit down with that guy and set him straight on a few things.
You know, tell him about appearances and respect and keeping a job and shit.
Or maybe I could just like, break him down and analyze him.
Maybe that’s what I would need to do to reach out and help this miserable muther…
But what if the guy’s not as crazy as he looks, right?
What if he’s lookin’ at me, thinkin’…
“That twisted monkey never even had a chance”?
What if all those voices in his head were really there, man?!
And you and me are the one’s who are hurting,
Cause we ain’t got the voices, man.
They’re not helping us, you know, with like, shit we need… directions…instructions and shit!
We don’t have other people who are always with us to watch our backs, do we?
That sucks if you think about it…
We don’t have the wisdom of the council in our heads,
And what if there were wise men among them?
What if the squirrels he feeds in the park, even though he looks like he hasn’t had a good meal in weeks, what if they are telling him he needs to go to work sometimes?
-just not too hard.
And how about those voices, what if they’re the ones you heard in the hallways in high school?
What if they’re family conversations about you, you know?
The ones you can still hear after you’ve left the room?
What if they’re the voices of your ancestors, like,
Maybe the ones you didn’t know about.
What if it is the Buddha, and all of that meditation, you know, his ‘rituals’?
-we all thought he was just out there gettin’ high…
But what if it’s really finally paying off for him, man?
Not to get too deep for y’all, I know some of you out there are probably Christians,
But what if it was Yahweh, or Allah, or the appropriate one of those wild-ass Indian-Gods, you know?
No, no, no, I didn’t mean those gods, man.
I mean like Tezcatlipoca and his brother.
I meant Our Lord One Reed Feathered Serpent.
Wait a minute, I think I’m hearing something now, listen.
It’s over there too, man, wow, that’s almost due North.
I know that from the compass in my car.
Actually, that might be exactly due North, you know? whatever that means!
Wait a minute, are those finches arguing over there?
Did that big tree just swear at me?
It was the syncopation that reminded me,
Cat-naps with my cat.
An oncoming storm fanned my maker-fire
Those finishing winds bringing the ashes of pyre.
And I realized how small and weak are numbers,
By which we sought to differentiate our selves
Away from unity’s bliss.
Closer to clairvoyance,
On the other side of seas that could be.
But we won’t invest the sap,
And I can’t find the right tree,
To recover childhood possibility.
Presentient clouds race by
As semi-permanent smoke.
They refuse to rise,
And there is freedom in dawn’s solitude,
To begin again.
I love the way that you are you.
It makes my me,
Allowing for a memory.
You’ve joined our we,
Which sets us free.
I love the time that we may find.
When hearts jump high
To loose the mind,
In orbits fly,
And spirits find.
I love the music of laughter’s song.
How mortar crumbles
In those barred walls.
She tutors one love
To sing along.