We see them
arrive on Earth in
flying saucers.
Humanoid,
yet bug-like, with
antennae,
as we see them,
they come in peace…
perhaps.
We see & hear
with fear, however,
firing
our guns at them.
And then, when they
shoot back,
we see them
as the aggressor, not
ourselves.
So many
think of aliens as
monsters,
yet once,
we saw a child
befriend ET.
Why can’t
we be that boy,
blind to
the bug eyes
and antennae, seeing
instead
what we
all have in common,
feeling love?
The tiny grains of sand,
dropping down from
the top glass bulb
to
the
one
on
the
bottom, fall quickly.
The time we have
to resolve our
O,
so
sad
&
dire
predicament has a
brevity like a mere hour.
We cannot dawdle.
Time
is
run-
-ning
out.
If we don’t save our Earth,
there will be no more trees,
or creatures, people, or seas.
Our
orb
will
be
no
more. Man will be dust.
Cities will be ashen, and
all life will fall to the dark dirt.
Green and blue will turn to grey.
When our
time here is up,
our home will be but
a bland, brown hill of sand.
In vino veritas,
but wine can
also be
a way
out
of
the
sad truth trapping us.
Dipsomania
craves a
high to
fend
off
the
low of
depression.
There is the high of
drink and drugs,
and there’s the
opium
of
the
toiling masses,
the wine that one imagines
to be transubstantiated
into the blood of Him
who had blue water
turn into a
red
and
tasty wedding beverage.
We cannot change
our blue to red
by wine gods
or
by
the
Word of God’s red blood.
Changing blue to red is not a
matter of Spirit or spirits.
Red bourgeois blood
must be spilled
so
we
can
have a red state for all the people.
The water of a lake should be our focus.
Its fluid, moving waves, no firmness,
do not detract from its reality.
Pay no attention to the land:
there’s nothing there.
The universe is watery, all wavy–it’s vibration.
The stoniness of earth is just illusion.
The rocky land just hardens hearts.
The hard earth makes life hard,
but lakes are refreshing.
All life is flowing, fluid change, lakes’ blue beauty.
Sticking with the hard ground causes suffering.
We must learn to drift with the current.
Take note of only peaceful waters.
Be blind to the dirty land.
Jump in the water, take a swim, enjoy the cool.
Don’t let want’s summer heat dehydrate you.
Lakes’ ever-moving waters do enlighten.
Rocky ground makes rocks of brains.
Get yourself all wet instead.
A
red
rose
out
of
a
curvy
vase
looks
lovely
when
it’s
wanted.
There
are
many
ladies
that
prefer
them
empty.
A
few
that
sit
on
a
bench
are
forcing
flowers
into
curvy
vases.
These
few
have
trumped
those
wanting
empty
ones.
A
lie
that
few
on
a
bench
will
utter:
flowers
offer
sacred
life!
Flowers
left
alone,
though,
often
wither
away
and die.
A
bud
left
in
an
O,
so tiny,
young
and
weak
vase
won’t
live,
and…the…vase…
the…flower…blooms…from…
will…shatter.
The surety
of the ground
is a frightening
thing to leave for the sea’s uncertainty,
so naturally,
we would rather
stay here on the shore
than swim out there and risk burial in blue.
Sometimes,
however, the quaking earth
forces us to leave the sturdy land
and venture out to a turquoise, wavy world–to keep on swimming,
to keep our heads up, our mouths groping for air. Our faces
fight to stay above the waves. Our paddling arms and legs
cannot rest, as achy as they are, until the water shallows.
We see
the shore,
our salvation,
and we crawl out of the wet, and fall exhausted on the sand.
A
little
bit of glowing light,
in the
O
so
black
ocean of night,
for us
is
no
great
ray of hope.
Dots
of
a
white
fleet, to help
us cope
&
be
at ease,
cannot brighten
without
a
sun
to lead
the fleet of stars
from dusk
to
a
dawn in
which the darkness
of despair
is
as
mere as
each glowing spot
of night
is.
The
small
boats
exclude, give
salvation
to few.
The
large
boats
are much more inclusive.
They will eventually
provide room for
all the world.
We
can
not
save only the
few, the rest
drowning.
We
can
not
rescue everyone, all
at one time, either,
with not enough
room onboard.
So
all
our
boat can do for
now is start
smaller,
and
grow
into
a bigger boat. One big
country of permanent
evolution, until the
whole world
is
one
all-
inclusive ark of dry
salvation for us all,
shielding us from
the big Flood.
The
toy-kite
was named
after all of those
hovering
birds
of
prey
in
the
sky.
The
tyrannical
king, Macbeth–he
who’d killed
the wife
and
babes
of
the
Thane
of
Fife,
all
done in one
fell swoop–he
was likened to
a hell-kite
by
the
Thane
who
would
hack
off
his
head.
A
few fools
are out there,
admiring the wealthy
hell-kites
of
our
time;
they’d
fly
such
toys
in
the
sky.
The
fools will
try to identify
with their flying
toys, for they
imagine,
one
day,
they’ll
be
up
there,
too.
But
all of today’s
flying predators
up in the clouds
are swooping
down
on
the
wives
and
babes
of
our
age.
The
time has
finally come to
stop worshipping
all of those
birds
in
the
sky.
Instead,
let’s
cut
off
their
heads.
You snort up all the snowy powder,
feeling more than Superman
for half an hour,
just to come
down.
Relish the initial thrill,
& the brief escape
from all of life’s
depressing
dumps.
You want to bring the pleasure back.
You chop another line
and snort it up
again, again,
again…
This wish for manic happiness:
a smiling mask to hide
the lines of tears
that run down
cheeks.
You must be logged in to post a comment.