Racing Comets

An almost intangible exhaustion, not because the fatigue is so strong because it is so abnormal,
Like strange parasitic references to moments lost into the vortex long ago.
Numbing paranoia to numbness as if feeling is the strangest feeling at all.
The exhaustion like a freight train nightmare finally resting on the open eyelids of relief
The dwindling sanity of understanding from the kings and queens, democratic royalty and meritocratic victories
Which are what in the mind's eye?  Like beautiful reflections into the iris - they belong only to whomever possesses the flowers
The madness of a cut rose, bleeding palms and caressing rose petals - the goals of the moment to torments the senses
Yes, exhaustion.
But not a real exhaustion no.  For I can describe this.  The name.  It has one.  It may make of many words but this is tiresome.
I'm not ascended from the coal mine or descended from the coal miner
My grandfather long ago ran across the fiction lines and across obelisks of sand  - those torturous natural walls that dare someone to test their mettle
This is not the exhaustion of a woman pushed to her limits, a prenatal notion of a birthing fatigue that no man grasps.
This is not an unending love that torments my soul and titilates my friends from the reckless nature of romance.
This is just exhaustion.
I run through mummified moments of expression and tombs and tombs of individual though.
I burst through the simple victories and dwell on lonely planets or vacation dinners from the comfort of my own internets tunneling in screens and screens of more surface area.
The depths of my understanding are forgotten biological principles - where people turn cold in the night office air and air conditioned routines.
This is a weary eyed, sweaty toothed mad man and he begs for a blanket.  Kicking, Scremaing and in the tired tired light he will never be free
A seizure of seizing, frozen assets capitalized by those demonic Wastes Oftime.  They scream from each and every corner of civilization - dirty denizens hell bent.
To lie down is to let the winds swirl across the panorama of a ceiling, the bed tied to the certainties of the day and world whirling by above as it never existed.
That is the the exhaustion
A running lap of effort to track down the sun, the moon and the gods themselves while they laugh at the flailing arms and terrible form
The sprinting nature of looking for answers in all the places they won't be found -  human errors in judgement and failing to trust the nomadic love of ourselves
Looking deep inside is a proportion so twisted with self-loathing that the mind years to be distant
Racing to be on the horizon before the horizon exists, like wrestling the sun into submission and beaming its light to shine across your golden medals
Those are the races we dream of winning, the races into eternity where we think we see a light at the end
A never catching
A never up
A never here
A never there
A never never.

Natural Miracles

Eclipses are the softening of the light

Into a massive wall against the sun

Blocking out only temporarily

The light that might be shone.

People gather like they always have

Mayans somehow more ready than

The many technophilic generations to come

Standing, waiting for astronomy to be fun.

Years of science and observation

Are the bedrock of these fantastic reunions

Where humans look beyond their lives

Each moment and memory making up a collection

When everyone comes together and looks up

At the stars and galactic itches of the One

Its not so much their God they see

Its the power of all us together all at once.

The Atlantic Was Born Today

What's the rule of law

But just a bunch of words

Where the words just matter

To the people who can afford to fight

Starving people often 

Don't care to speak.  No matter,

The laws were not made for them

If not to rule them.

High pine trees, knotted thorny plants, muggy tired heat

A jungle of tired plants wilting to the sidewalk next door

Dogs used to scramble beneath the shade

Foliage hanging like apples, the sun shooting high overhead

The fire and fury of the world dampened by the soft underbrush

Where shadow wallpapers the ecology.

No, not now.  The cracked stone underfoot

Bikers and businessmen step through the shrubs

Chaparral, tumbleweeds, saguaros

Fractured bones of lost natural beauty are stunned

But was there anything to protect?  

A moment that mattered?... so to speak.

The rule of law is penned by the privileged

Is Mother Nature subject to the rule of law?

Family fights are normal.

But don't we respect our elders?

There was a time when the words of Moses were the laws set upon the land.  God was mean and his people barbaric - warring factions of men from across the known globe - trying to avoid starvation amidst cravings.  Times were hard and the bible was the law and that was how people set their calendars and solved their problems and married off their children.  That was law then until it changed.

The era of nuclear proliferation politics

Science and law fused like the Enola Gay

Words have scientific weight ordained only by the faithful.

Those who are believed will always rest

Upon the tops of totems

We straddle a world that knows the debt of life

With a world that assumes life was owed to them

There are no words to fuse the souls

The fission in this medieval time is a scientific impossibility

Great bounties of energy are sacrificed

So the laws can change - arbitrary rules.

Bare bones schools where fusion isn't even in the textbooks

Skeletons reminding us of the insignificance of literacy

Surgically removed hospitals on life support 

Filaments flickering in bloodless operating rooms

Churches with their bibles in the fire, congregations still cold

Entire pews filled with children running off

To the city.

Please remember this:

These buildings did not build themselves!

These corners and constructions are not accidental.

Who willed the industrialization of society?

If anything it willed me

To learn its power, to understand its language

Where the force to turn emotion in to action

Is through the language of the damned.

And here we are.

So convenient the rulers can forget the laws they made

So easy the laws they made were made for them

There was a time when the laws allowed men

To package one another like an Amazon delivery

With a bulk rate just as if you were a Prime Subscriber.

Man has been waiting for drone technology for sometime.

... Oh those city nights!  Light and sound awash with the benefit of privilege.

Across the middle passage men lost their lives

Man's soul overboard and the sharks victoriously feasting 

At the bloody seafood buffet without a care in the world.

Nature cares not what the men high in buildings

Decide what's best for them and their children.

Yet the do it anyway -  footmen of all dimensions take note 

The inevitable whimpers of their masters.

Out of spite, trampling out the vintage.

Having loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible, swift sword

Never knowing really wrote His words...

...So many angry men.

They are all seem so angry - and why?

Why is a person angry?

What makes the baby cry?

A mother always offers of herself first

To calm a hungry baby

So why is a person angry?

Do we change so much?

Are the needs so different?

What makes a person angry?

Feed the belly and let the mind rest...

Feed the belly again and let the mind wander

Feed the belly again and again and again...

Then might be the time to ask those questions

Mornings wind through the hills and cows are already at work

A strange land of farm hiding from suburbia.

Man tries so hard to blend in like the tall referee at midget wrestling

Such a subtlety only man can define.

Bedtime

I don't know what I want to say tonight.
I thought about it all day and I've run out thoughts
There was a point at my desk
When I smoked so much medicine the screen was blurry.
Thank god it was Friday (I did that).
I would hate to take myself too seriously.

Haikus for an Ethnocentrist

Boy, its a damn shame
All this yelling' and cussin'
Cuz somebody's black

Thought we moved past it
The hate eatin up our souls
But it just don' die

Makes you angry, sad
Them white folks just so angry
Crying like a child

Not too much to do
When them chillun' is yellin' - 
Beat 'em or feed 'em.

Beat them children
They'll just learnt to hit you back.
Makin' them scars worse

Feed and love that child
They'll learn to do it right back
For all their children

Hate yells like hunger
Like babes with empty tummies
It sounds so awful.

How Long Should I Keep Walking?

The dirt clods muck up the treads of my boots
The dust makes circles around the the dog
The trail turns and loops to make for a nice distance.
And I count the steps until I finish.

The trees loop down and hug the trail
The leaves clog the stream where the trickle is quiet
The bugs swarm about, yes they swarm 
And the steps continue until I finish.

The marks on the road are from earlier
The arrows show how someone else got back
The shadows keep the air calm and cool
And the steps are the steps until I finish.

The other travelers are just locals
The other dogs on the trail just want a quick sniff
The meandering passers just move to the right
And the steps are my steps until I finish.

The world moves when we wish it still
The gods keep to themselves, just like the raccoons
The seasons change the trail
And the steps are just steps even after they finish.

Conmen

Tired and rested waking up slowly of Nightmare saucers of plate filling heads decapitated from chests as if art      making know it alls could make man into art.

Flatulating fields of nonsense clouds stratosphere of hyperbole within the undulating sin waves cosigning my earthly mortgage.

Emojis taunt my scrambled breakfast orange juice so that I can carbo load days and days of crap into recyclable shopping bags.

The anger man torments the hangman stickman mortuary for his inability to spell simple phrases across the hallways of his empty tombs.

Why does the yelling bang drums from hallow oars and wakes of ships tossing future dreams to the shark passages of middle earth where the nigger drowns off the page.

The tokens of Tolkien pouring from ivory tower fantasies to Oscar nominated grouches for orcs and men to have their days to read.

The hard work is toiling.  The work is hardly toiling.  The toiling for hard work is an omnipresent spectre that stands within that mans own icons - there is always someone else to do the bidding.

The brown angels pour lava from the black hole pores pouring forth much more than the chasms from which the miraculously emerge.

Scientists are lost to the times forgotten to explainthe magic of man and his quest for nothingness.

The work shall not be mine.  The product of another's hand.  Skeletons til the dust.  When the day is done and the dignity pressed from my soul can I say that the I have earned everything with the sheer force of my bare hands.

A myth of light pierces the angry mob, the shattered skulls dampening the sirens with the broken dignity of the wretched poor laid to waste can the pigs fill the troughs with their succulent ethical snouts.