I’m a poet devoid
of Cliff Notes
dissection
not my thing
Don’t ask me
to explain my words
I’d rather hum
and sing
Explication
penniless
in ghettos
of the word
Where vagrants
pull and tear apart
what only should
— be heard
(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: January, 2024)
We are here.
Of that there
seems
little doubt.
Why, or how
there seems
much doubt.
Some say it's due
to the
divine.
That, to me
seems like a
punt.
Humans have
always
used gods/god
to explain
the
unexplainable.
Gods are a
throwback
to ancient
times, used
to comfort
and explain.
Many still cling
to this idea,
an ancient idea.
Might there be
a different
explication?
Might we be
eternal
beings?
Moving through
different realms
of existence?
Learning as
we go.
Checking out of
one,
moving onto
another.
Keeping
Immortality
fresh and
new.
Why not I say.
So, live this
life to its fullest.
Then,
get ready for the next.
Have you ever stood at the limits of your words?
Facing the edge with your back to all of the contemplation and spirits you have ever known
Gazing into the parts of the ego destined to remain qualia
Illuminated only by silent contemplation
A boon to melancholy indeed
Tell me one whose borders may have surpassed my own
Would a superior lexicon cause mine to swell?
Or are you too inhibited from explication?
As I assume you to be
This I sate without any intended offence
When standing at that horizon
Do you like me feel as an infant?
Limited to only noise without arbitrary denotation
To describe the things fastened to the inside of your brain
I suppose it is not for me to say
if I am truly,
holy polycultural,
if I have given sufficient sway and swag
to ecological and eco-normic We.
My redemptive measure,
merit follows cooperatively healthy design,
deep creation,
consumption balancing nutrient production standards,
decomposition harmonizing regenerating practice,
not polycultural perfection,
but permacultural Climax Community intention.
Life gardens.
Some are messy and richly fruitful,
riotously joyful,
revolutionary fertile
wild voice sanghas.
Some are orderly marching
toward their own future's demise.
Most are more and less happily/healthily
somewhere in between.
Life gardens yang and yin,
out and inside
seeding back and forth across time's life-death boundary,
if here now
then not here tomorrow
outside memories still incarnating,
forming and dysfunctioning,
decaying and recaying,
make-haying while Earth's light shines bravely on
blending polycultured beauty dreams
into gracefully encultured explication,
give power and take light.
My water comes from the sky
And flows deep in subterranean dark
I fell through layers of stone with porous heart
To use me
To drink of me
You must come with bucket leashed to hand
Sit precipitously on my edge
And keep it dry always against a slip
When you hang over
To let your string down where you dig the ground
You cannot drink of me without sweat
I cleanse you of salt impurites
That you may know the clean
And taste the fresh
Flow of meanings on a dry brain
I go deep
To bring buriied things gushing out
My pearls from my wounded mouth
I am the last anomie
Mounting a flag on your dream
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