There are people
who have no loyal dog
to lick their fingers
into calm receptivity.
Have no god who answers
or at all, when harrowing storms
rage against peaceful rallies of witness.
Sometimes a wrong number
is deployed by tortured devils
screeching epithets to curse
The lonely insomniac
drinks elixirs of horrid prescience
from which he cannot awake,
while jovial thief of reason
breathes in the last
People like us
hide beneath sacred banners
loving sentiment —
for love is not sweet and light
but bitter, strong, energizing,
catalyzing beaten heart into art.
Some call it pain.
Some call it ripping through matrix veil.
Some call it branding scars into defensive arms
that command be respected.
some call it a call to compassion
Some call it a test of will.
Some call it simple cause/effect, self-monitoring,
a warning, a plea for curative care.
Some call it raw sensation
to be interpreted
by me for me
by you for you.
Yes, art reflects. Angst, worry, tension as well
as mindspeak or heartsong or fleeting vision
what we feel, think, know, question —
these are all food for art. We with intent
toward creation create,
with whatever instrument presents.
Move as rhythm explores.
Got the beat,
sure leading pack beat
backed up by bleating sheep
beatific in tingling glory.
Swing that same old story
in new clothes of Emperor’s fame,
sackcloth of crying shame
by those whose entire
fortune consists of dust,
gold like the Sun.
Oh the borders
Oh the cycles
Oh the long rewording, recoding,
reconciling, ever longing, over ‘n’ over
Each rationed drop,
each liquid layer sparkles
Designated workday evenings
wonder fetid, over-crowded hallways.
Ghost deserted malls overflow with
buyers’ remorse — “Sold me soul and
all I got was this lousy high interest loan.”
So, no, the promised solace of loyal
service no longer suffices. To say:
“Better days to come”
no more substantial than moonbeams
— laughter in the night.
Make Peace The Issue