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| Edward Hopper, 'Early Sunday Morning' 1930 © |
America, as the weekend approaches, this poet knows...
the questions :
some meant to keep us occupied
most meant for us to learn by
a few meant to never stop being asked
and ones all the rest were meant to become
the more inane, time consuming and dumb...
as we progress more technologically precise
we narrow-mindedly slew inequity
with justifiable greed(s)
the ones we sneak from ourselves
the ones we pinch from higher powers
the ones we savor with our lower powers
the ones we ask
of our systems
of living
and the ones
we whisper
trying to be
selfish and selfless
when silent
and begging
an absolution
of some kind
tawdry or taut
on some level
something
we can define
by culture, legacy
sacred houses
and systemic deaths...
access and opportunity
maybe the semblances
of a haunted humble
or compassion left behind
for the archivist...
special events
composed with sentiment,
nostalgia and theatrical
gifted accidental chance
must squeeze, ease pain
into a question or two...
seed the rain, forests and torrents
we've always sought knowledge
and reasons, motivations and what
inspires us when in and out of control
this is why certain times we hug while drunk
glued to rituals of some kind
questions questions questions questions
questions questions questions
questions questions
questions
I am dodger lodger heft
beneath stolen weighted bereft
most of my emotional feeling is
mesmerized by the evening news...
I seem to want to know how
is this excessive consumption
going to maintain its status-quo...
no thank you is the refrain
it keeps on raining explaining
global warming as water taking charge
who is to blame, everyone today
the Earth, Moon and Sun too
this is succinct and just to say...
no story, these days
is worth pictures
without toil and blood
at the base of monoliths
scraped skies architecturally
smart, business wise...
a world that becomes
wards and wardens
kids getting high
on getting over someone else
passing the leverage along...
another day another week another peek
somewhere they plant a flag seeking
to make rules, setting the schools
on fire with institutionalized young minds
pushing agendas, pushing time
to do list listing spilt spent compassion
black market exhale varieties
guilt sold in balloons
at festivals for five dollars still
just in case you are ever caught
having a good time
despite how bleak
the future seems...
here, currently at my old dirty laptop
dog food lid finger key stroking mirror and porthole
all the wholly socially networked between(s) have...
every answer
I've ever sought
and though
great divine algorithms
would rather
I lather myself
in illusions
and monotone flat-lines...
I might just short circuit
and grift any singularity
I can find so that I might not
became fraught with divisions
so it can be known that the insides
of my own heart and mind
were not denied entry into heaven
for any lack of effort or device...
killing fields
I've imagined
became plainly evident
sponsors of sublime fear
amassing modus operandi
coming to eat my understanding
at the commercial breaks...
we are a one pill culture
strung out on hazy vague vignettes
Huxley's eugenically spell cleansing
of a now makes you
a larger swallowed easy...
sometimes the (satellite/cable/tv/internet)'s
crippling metronomic
arrested developments
are interfered with
by the weather
its daily afflictive
adulthood can
breach my core
simple poem
of pleasure
and joy...
but heavy wind
and weather
are white noise
and pixels
little saviors
they make
my heart fill
as a child might
pocket a soul
and minds-eye...
eager and anticipatingly
ready to let go
of any need
to know anything
in order to just play
for awhile
in the quiet
of an early
Sunday morning...
before a great river's city
gets too busy with
constant motion
eyes and ears
forgetting the nose
has always been
king of the senses...
we imagine, we
ourselves, were up all night
as well, stories to tell
we pretend
we just got back
from church
and are
still begging
for some hairy dogs
for our mojo back
as we roam and rule
our neighborhood's
fleeting peaceful kingdoms
we promised to be good...
EJR ©
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