BalmHe sighs while sitting down, the weight of all the lives we lead.
Spinning truths until they die inside the lies we feed.
The turning of a back can be the turning of a cheek.
Awareness spreads too slowly for the unity we seek.
Reactions quick, opinions stick, minds closed in their own balm.
Storms of disagreement are too quick to levy calm.
Emotions rise before we know we're in their undertow.
The cold logic of relativity above the known.
But hope is a fire that deserves to remain tended.
As long as we can feel its warmth, we know it hasn't ended.
The crackling of the kindling of all the weary feelings.
That time will heal all wounds is a cliché that deserves seeing.
Poisoning the NestOur species is a young one and the future's worth investing
but the darkest of our nature seems to constantly be cresting.
We don't know how to change ourselves when habits run this deep.
Denial, willful ignorance, the things that let us sleep.
Some of us will go insane while others find complicity.
Shifting blame is easy when it runs like electricity.
Some will stick their necks out to endorse responsibility.
Others stick their heads into the ground and far more easily.
We're going down with history, it seems we get to see
how the permanence of mystery means doubt will kill the seeds
that try to break from the traditions that enforce our tendencies
of exploitation, separation, menaces of sickly ease.
Our nature always mutates and for all the shining souls
there are mutants just as valid with their hearts of gaping holes.
Love is all you need, it's said, but love seems not enough.
What if love can't heal the parts that want to keep it rough?
Gaping WholeWe share the same biology
but inside our psychology
lies an insane methodology
to dehumanize another.
we hold distinction above similarity,
drawing lines that harden minds
against a higher clarity.
Meta-cultural gulfs of false polarity.
Delusions that a common understanding is a fantasy.
Self-assured superiority, uncompromisingly
maintaining stubborn impasses, unbudging ideologies.
Falling into rabbit holes, identities of pride.
Every person is a schizophrenic universe inside.
BonafideJoints they creak reminding,
there's a funny way of finding
the remembered part of all of this:
that we are always all of this.
The lines we draw between
the funniness of conscious being
and its countless complex feelings
demarcating self from world --
an ancient trick self plays on self
so that it may grow old.
And feel old, a wealth of experiential finding,
that finds these funny ways of finding ways of finding finding,
that wind around and stay inside event horizons wide,
inside outsides, between these eyes,
blind spots constantly confide.
The absences are felt as much as presence.
Precious prescience premonizing promises to keep.
Lying down paralyzed in the cyclic haze of sleep,
we dream and cultivate and propagate the things we steep.
(Sometimes awakening from the worst of dreams to weep.)
And so it goes, when the mind is ready to accept
the possibility of pondering the terrors of its depths
that wring the horrors of our nature as we rip ourselves apart
only to sew it
But Mourning IsWho are we gathered standing here
Upon this opalescent sphere
The universe through us appears
And sees itself as many
It works upon its own brute forms
Through the perils, through the scorn
To reach a point it will still mourn
When the day is done
But mourning is the secret gift
The one we will still learn to miss
If we could deadhead to the mists
We would not know a thing
This poem is not satisfaction
It is not mal- or bene-faction
It is the culminated action
Of the thing that is