Tag: Uncategorized

Word

Only a genius can understand this concept.
So, I may look insane speaking it.
But, I am not the first.
Nor will I be the last.

I will try to speak it as simply as possible.

Men, in two places on the globe
Can discover a principle in science, art, morality
Simultaneously with another man.
Neither man, having ever studied
Or known the other,
Can discover the principle.
And that is how we know it is true.

For in China, and in Greece,
The concept of Tao and Word
Was discovered.
Poets find similar thoughts
Similar constructs,
Meandering through the languages' rhythms and stories.

Myths build upon one another
To create archetypes,
To create forms
To create similitudes
With others.

Aborigines, I've heard
Can navigate their paths through song.
Fortune tellers can understand your path
Through a hidden tell.
Detectives can know a sequence of events
By a single fiber out of place.

Moral philosophers on three different continents
Separated by various degrees of culture
Discover truths about compassion
About kindness, about love.
And societies crumble when they reject these 
Fundamental truths.

Scientists dig into the earth
But poets dig into the constructs
To develop similar themes to one another
Precisely because they exist somewhere
Latent deep in the subconscious minds.

Psychoses are so similar from one man to another
Because we human beings share similar
Mindsets, and similar passions and similar dreams.
Men share their mental diseases in common
The same as their bodily diseases.
Men share their moral failings in common
The same as their physical addictions.

When we understand this,
We shall find there was indeed a creator.
And we shall name Him until we discover
There was indeed a name at the beginning.
And when we find that name
It shall be Jesus.
For, all the hidden truths and unpleasant things
Were told to us by Him, and not a single thing was hidden.

Odes of Strangers XVIII

Drink wine. Make love. Merry the heart a bit
With the pleasantry of vaginal skin.
Oh, Dionysius, to whom Kingdoms
Are but a game, and legions march out to war
On orders, by programming upon the screen.

They march, as you work upon them
To get the droves to do your bidding.
You wade in your underground hot springs
And you dine upon flesh and flagons.
Then, you hide from me your sin
In our conversation, like a Roan Cleveland Bay.

No, for all are guilty, but this you cannot admit to your own guilt.
You hide it, oh Northern Prince,
Your claims for evidence behooves you
As piously you sit upon your throne in your den.
You sit upon it, telling me there is no evidence for your sin.
When, it is written all over your shameful acts
To try and humiliate me.
For humiliate me you did, for I cannot call to mind
The potions you have drunken, 
The women you have made love to
Nor the roughness by which you treat your own kin.

To me, oh Dionysius, 
You are like royalty;--- Far beyond this jester fool
Whose given the license can critique you.
For you are like royalty, 
And I am like screed.
My words have none affect upon you.
They do not move you.
They bore you.
They are sonorous sermons
To wit, namely, should I shame you like you have shamed me
I cannot. For my shame is in the open
And yours is locked away tight in your underground labyrinth. 

I speak of this to your benefit, that
Yes, most men are guilty of the same shame as I.
In one form or another.
Laid the orgies of Dionysius,
It is like murder upon your soul.
And I, wishing to ease you from your sins
Have been humiliated by you
When you point to mine.
For mine is a matter of public record.
And yours is not.

A Roan Sow

There is a moral center to the universe
It can be tapped into, and understood with ease.
Yet, men fail to comprehend it by choice, turning
Their faces away from it, even scoffing it.
Yet, within the particle of language there is
Truth, and stories embodied within the very
Words used in that language. Truths which can be expressed.
Yet, falsehoods creep in because men reject the truth
And rebel against the principles which cause joy.
Rather, a certain kind of man has no conscience
And no ability to understand truth's Word.
For, to them, they wish for evidence from the ground.
Digging in the dirt, when the truth comes from places
Which are like still air, present, able to be felt.
And like stranded men, off a ship with broken sails,
Those lost souls turn their frigid ice upon earth's winds
To putrefy kindness with frostbite, and deaden
Souls with what they have found digging in frozen mud.

Reverse Racism

After Uncle Tom's Cabin swayed the North
To their war, and after killing Southern
Rebels---their blood stunk like dung heaps in heat---
Some pretentious bastards started work on
Turning the culture against itself yet
Again. It called "Sentimentalism"
Poor art, and thus, went to annex reason
From the heart and conscience of man's good soul.
It then turned "Uncle Tom" into a foul
Pejorative, so it could  subjugate
My friends, and confuse them enough to call 
Math racist, Word offensive, and therefore
Turn themselves back, yet again, to slavery.
For if education is pugnacious
To my beloved Black Friend, you will be slaves
Yet again, and have been the catalyst.

42 The Answer to Life

The great existentialist work 
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Has a super computer rattle out the number 42.

In Kabbalah, it's the number God used to create the universe.
In Buddhism, it is a sutra.
There are dozens of mathematical and mechanical uses for the number.
It's a recurrent number in the Bible.
It recurs in Egyptian Mythology
It is a number which fascinated Lewis Carroll, 
The Logician and Mathematician who wrote Alice in Wonderland.

If I might add my input,
I think the number was chosen for its apparent randomness
And it's just meant to represent a meaningless universe.
As if a super computer took all calculations into consideration
And it chugged out a number like it used an equation.

Personally, that I can understand that
Speaks volumes on the nature of communication.

America

I read a passage by Ben Franklin.
Some wise words.
He said not to come to America
If you wished to be a patron of the arts.
Not to come, if you live luxuriously on land estates.
Not to come if you wish to attain public office.

More importantly, not to come if you're a writer.
Americans are valued based on our abilities
To work on cars, or smith, or tailor shoes.
America is valued for the farmers
The blue collar workers
And being industrious in a trade
And earning a small living
Where there are neither abject poor
Nor incredible wealth.

I find this is the modern struggle
That there are gentry born from California orchards
And Southern Cotton Fields.
There are politicians making obscene money
And neither working, nor doing anything
But profiting off of their positions.
For, Ben Franklin said that didn't happen in America.
And surely, Americans remember it in our race consciousness
That it was true at a time,
That American politicians were not rich.

But, more on that
Where is my place in this economy?
America's founder said this was not a land for poets.
Europe was.
And I have not the money to move to Europe.
Nor do I have the skill to do anything
Beside write arcane poems about politics and psychology.
God forbid I ever be a governor.
But, I'm born with a mind that understands human nature.
I offend people with it---
Surely, there is an argument with a woman
I am having, which presumes to be that I am stupid
For seeing exactly what I've always seen since a child.
But, there is nothing in this country to reward that.
For it is dead.
Our country never needed it
A mind like my own
For we were mechanics, tailors, farmers,
Cobblers, smiths and coal miners.

With that said,
I ought to have heard it from Ben Franklin himself.
I am unwelcome in my own land.
My talents unnecessary.
However, it is all I am capable of doing. 
I wonder what he would say about it.
 
If this poem seems critical of the United States
It is not.
Rather, hearing it from one of our founders has given me great peace.
Though, it has also shown me that I am incredibly useless.

Evidence

They will say, "Where's the evidence?"

I remember having a discussion
With a militant atheist
Who wanted Religion to be classified as a mental illness.

One of his cohorts came on this blog
And when confronted by this fact
Told me, "There is no evidence that this conversation ever happened."

He'd be right. 
I whooped the man so bad that he deleted his profile.
But, now we recede into the truth of this century
That evidence is being destroyed
And then it's being asked, "Where is the evidence?"

I suppose that the pictures of Babylon and the Tel Dan Stele
Isn't evidence enough?
I'm sure tons existed
But they've scratched the inscriptions off the stones.

Of course Babylon existed. 
It's preserved in Words written by ancient historians.
Yet, the evidence is being destroyed
So I can point to less and less.
There was a documentary on YouTube
About how Hitler broke down Church walls
Destroyed stain glass windows
And tore down crucifixes.
And, the evidence doesn't exist.
It is forgotten.

The evidence now exists in our conscience
Knowing this is not how the Earth is supposed to be.

Politeitics






At the Arby’s he sat at the drive-through window. He ordered the Chicken Salad Sandwich, but they discontinued it. So, he ordered a Reuben, and curly fries. He drove to the window, and heard music. It was using every swear word in the book. So, he asked the man at the window, “Do you think that music is appropriate?” The man looked back, and said, “It isn’t even mine.” Shaking his head in disapproval, masking a hint of reverse racist scorn— Even insinuating the music were inappropriate was racist, as was assuming it was his. 





A few months earlier, there was a man listening to similar music. He asked that same man, “Is this your music?” The man said, “Yes.” So, he said, “Do you think it’s appropriate?” The man said, “No.” 





Perhaps remembering the previous time it happened—that the man at the window were the owner of the music—it inclined him to ask without the formality of finding out whether he owned it. But, being that the second attendant was offended by the mere suggestion of his music being offensive, said, “We’re a laid back generation, and we don’t give…” To which, he replied, “What if a family drove by here, and their children heard that?”





Of course, it was racist because it wasn’t “his music.” To which, making a man an offender for a word, is itself a form of racism. Insinuating he were racist, when four months previously the same question was asked. Perhaps the polities were missing. To which, it was impolite, maybe. But not racist. 





And the Reuben was alright. He forgot to ask for Horsey Sauce.