What Westernized Adults Are Waiting For

Cars go by the windows
and Westernized adults
seem depressed
indoors.
They wonder,
is this,
all this,
really a scam,
some sort of sham show
they judge themselves
and others
by.

So the fan turns
on
the ceiling,
the air conditioner hums,
and
they get up to check their email,
then
go back to work tomorrow.

For it is in some other world
where they do not
go
back to work,
but meet other adults
from their
community
to discuss and address
the real problems
actually relevant
in their lives.

For in this other world
they
are not
propaganda bejeweled
dominators and subservients,
obsessed with myth and power,
but rather
objective listeners
and
compassionate actionnaires,
vested in both observant locality
and also relational reality.

And these Westernized adults
realize this other world is

waiting to be built.

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The Flowers

the-flowers

why can’t we all live in
space stations
on earth?

we can
that is where this is going

all of us as remnants
in boxes together
replicating yesterday and
tomorrow

oh
but surrounded by glass
and
space age metal
and corridors with
lots of clean water flowing
then lots of UV light
like
the wanting of flowers

Firth O Love

firtholove

California was unification in my mind

televisions signals

genetics sculpted by television signals

or these are family planning models

your hands held my wrists

oh eucalyptus trees on high over the
ridge

gray skies to sweep the ocean

so many sadness made tears

mornings as neglected children

plastic cups and plastic bags down the
sea shorn fields

neglected planets

or

neglected children

our lack of eloquent civilization

these things are no coincidence

this is our fear of love

we live forth of symbols

not love forth of heart

Barbara And Raymond

Barbara & Raymond

I saw them on a road

On a road in New Zealand

Pine trees rose up like toothpicks

Mountains browned and tired with
sand grains in the distance

She carried her velum curves

They had softened since her younger
years

Carried them up the slopes by the
roadway

He held out his hand asking her to
come back down

She clamored up the dry grass toward
the pines

There was a cut on his cheek from her
wedding ring

His cheeks felt like clay

So did his thoughts for his head was
a haze

She stayed like a child by the beef jerky
bark of a tree

And when he finally found her he asked

“Barbara why are you doing this?”

She answered him with blank stares
reflecting on her life

She was beginning to fear her old age

A Nocturnal Of Laser Beam

She became an idea.

An idea that wore dresses,
loved capitalism,
wanted children,
and had corporeal feelings
embedded in memories and
neurons.

This idea drove in a white
stationwagon
from Texas to New York City
and would never be seen
again.

She woke up from a ghost
on a planet
seven hundred and fifty
light years away
and had foggy remembrance
of a different way of life
and
a different count of days.

The landscape turned from
the white plaster walls of
temples to orange mountains
in the distance
and the navy blue night far
up above.

She breathed.
Her heart beat.
She remembered someone she
once loved.
She looked down at her wrists
and ankles.
Her eyes blinked.
She lived.

A transmitter brought transference.

A lifetime had been stored in
molecules, configured into
radiation and
prior held assumptions were
antiquated.

My Love Has Diffuse Modulatory Systems

The sunrise is transitory
when it touches me
and I use it
to talk to you clandestinely.
The light talks to
your sacred pituitary gland
then
you know me
in your head
and heart.

Even though
you’ve set out
to forget me,
in
the sunlight
you will
know me
everyday
on this sweet Earth.

It’s what we share.
It’s how we love.

I give thanks
to
your
diffuse modulatory systems,
they make you human
even
when
you work your hardest
not to be,
to be callous, resentful and cold
as
you grow old.

I grow eternal.

I know you’re not a robot
and
the sunlight traveling
tells you something otherwise
in
your corporeal heart
that rushes upon the universe,
that your head
occasionally listens to.

Perfection And The Alcoholic’s Diet Of Unborn Children

alcoholic's diet

This is the alcoholic’s diet of unborn children

Yes, that’s right

Their parents aren’t perfect but wanted
to be

Turning into walls
You didn’t say that sentence properly

That’s funny

Be better

Be quiet, you’re giving me a riot

There . . . ghosts!

Their ghosts?

They live everywhere, even in between the minutes
before watching television

Oh no,
I meant the alcoholic’s diet of unborn children

Not me, not my problem

I don’t have them

Oh just go kill yourself

You drinking again?

I don’t respect you

A Nucleotide Excelsis

I left my mausoleum
to walk again today

The place of my mourning
is gone

Summer holds out
her soft hand

I will never see your
far off stars again

I go back to the living

Not until
my skin and body have form
will you know the song
that I whispered

amongst
a trillion beds of Earth

amongst
a billion civilizations and suns

I think
you may touch my flesh and
all that’s passed
in
the heavens

for these stories
that have reformed and followed
and
followed

Love In The Sky

hug at nightI loved the moon last night
like I love you

It caused something deep in my heart
casting light
across
the oak trees and prairie

something profound and proliferous
for all the creatures below

Its warm lit glow
reminding my neurons
how powerfully
I love you
and what belongs in the dominion
of breathing

It moved tallgrass
It sang wind-songs
Spread a transluscence
much greater than itself

It became love in the sky
there before
my human eye

Its voyage made you become
the homestead of my earth

Yes it shone the quiet way of being