THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT

Since brevity is the soul of wit

Permit me this line ‘oer long

To sit and ponder, ponder and sit

‘Til the inspiration’s gone

I thought to write a little ditty

To tell you in lines so short

Something keen and very witty

But I just can’t seem to, sport

Was Longfellow long or was he short?

I’m sure that I’m confused.

What I started out to be quite brief

Now makes me want to get boozed

To make a long story short

Seems so terribly easy, too, too blasé

Would rather make a long story longer,

Now what was it I wanted to say?

Oh yes, it comes back to me now

Despite all this ponderous prattle

That there is something I’d like to say

Today being some sort of special day!

The words are here inside me, dear

But darned if I can rhyme them

If’n I could t’would be completely clear

There’s a half-wit sitting behind ‘em!

And so I claim to be verbose

Even tho I’m occasionally witty

But I’ll not stand and drink a toast

To the soulless wit of brevity.

Ramble on, my witless soul

Your message to preamble

To tell someone in words that spoil

What a headache to unscramble.

But to you I’ll drink a dozen toasts

If you have read this far

Because I’d love you just for that

If I hadn’t already before

© 1956 by Janet M. McGuire  (Composed on the occasion of Sue Cheshire’s birthday)

THE SISSY PRIG

Snitty-mouthed talky taunts

And gliding, gilded

Mincy words

Crescendo –

Then decrescendo

In girly whirly wisps

In muffled yelping twists

His every word

Accentuated, decorating

Condescending lips

Fussy, flippant fellow

You’re momma’s fawning fool

With pig-tailed whispers

And lollipop looks

And silly, fag-hag drool.

“Now, now, now

Fussbucketing slither queenie

Stop those naggy snickers

And keep your naughty

Haughty thoughts

Inside your filthy knickers.”

Don’t let those bad boys

Call you “limp dick”

Or “shit-for-brains”

Or just plain “numb nuts” –

For you’re a pedigree poodle

Compared to those nasty mutts.

So be snotty, snitty, curt and coy

But hurry to your room

And lock the door

Then hug, oh hug your dolly toy.

April 5, 1995

Nonsan, Korea

CONUNDRUM BUM TWISTIES

Polygap thingdongs

Ghouly gig

Rug-songs

Smack of synthinsanity,

A synthesthaesia downer

Bringdown

Chinked in

Inanities, and

Their bum trippy

Slippery trapeze artist,

Adorned with one

Rangoon

Kid glove,

Punch-sucks

A schmukosphere of

Bamboozled plaintiffs

While defendoid tabloid

Wankers

Converse with

Crispy wigged juristicos.

And white linen draped

Coat vestured

Investment banker

Doctor doctore slime-dog

Witch merchant thugs

Peddle yellow-green

Umphalos und bracken.

Galactic center

Align-oids with

Stolen cola stigmas

Flummox around,

Rail-torn in

Blubbering ragacity, their

Rattergeist film mast

Flip-bird pandering –  

Their smug-simpering bang, like

Yzzerphrang foundlings

Pooh-Yi!! ya

Phlang-gum-busting

Yazaher-ites!!

New, improved,

Unauthentic

Designer drug DNA

Donors for slow flow

Mortal poltergeists and

Useless eaters

Chomping at the edges –

The rat’s ass edges –

Of the hubba-bubba

Razor worn welt.

Eyeing the Chinaman’s wen

We sing our aged, moldy

Song – a

Jap-made, slingshoddy

Guelph-like porridge

Psalm.

SUV For Sale

Hey, jackass
Can’t you see the sign?

SUV for sale –
Take this from me now!
I had to buy it –
Everyone was,
They’re just so shiny big
Like slicked-up wrestlers
And so, so in!

SUV for sale –
It runs real good!
Drinks hi-test gas
Farts carbon gas,
Can tear-up country lanes
Like bull-dozing wonders
And so, so manly!

SUV for sale –
Can haul lots and lots!
Even as a mom
And not a working man
Throw in kidz and cart ‘em ‘round
Like a screamer van for thankless brats
And oh so camp!

SUV for sale –
It’s fully loaded!
Cost as much as a small house
But that’s OK
It’s the economy, stupid
Like wage-slave jobs or selling arms
And so very, very wow!

SUV for sale –
It’s not too late!
To join the ranks of bimbos
Or weekend ranger would-bees
That choke our roads
Like over-sized loads
And so, so yesterday!

So waddaya say, jackass?
Take her for a spin?



February 14, 2007/ Silver Spring, MD

THOSE OLD WOODS

Bramble-dense clumping
Notwithstanding
Salamander mugwump hiding
And crawfish creeping,
A primeval wishing
None-the-less
Came bucket-looking
In shallows of a muddy creek
At tadpole wriggling
For to be,
Moreover,
In free-wind balm
Of greening vale
A musty, mossy, mush-mess
Tromp
Where only box-turtles creep,
To inhale
To breathe out
Imaginal path musings –
Of those old woods –
I forget-thee-not.


May 11, 2007/ Silver Spring, MD

SMORGASBOARD

SPYOPTAELIP

Blues Piano Player
Roofer, poet/writer
Military officer, lawyer and English professor -

Having been all of these things and none
Lumbering on-line with chunky fingers
Brontosaurus-brained,
He sets his stubby knucks to work
Peering and clicking, pointing - aglow
From a mirror monitor lizard machine
Warmed from bytes that sizzle and snap
The bloody cold digital guts display
Change, display the info gathered, again
And again the luminescent liquid crystal
Magic-mirror-on-the-wall brightens my self
As it takes my mood from somber zones
To rivet eyes on its cyberland mall
It distracts, it distracts in hi-tech mode
A diversion unique in this land of fools
My bones they creak as I stare and I stare
And the air around is static alive
And communes with a mind
By compu-speak jive
“I cyber-surf, therefore I am,”

Blues Piano Player
Roofer, Poet/writer
Military officer, lawyer and English professor
Spyoptaelip the Cryptic
Spyoptaelip, super-acronym amalgamation
Of all that I am, all that I’ve been
I am spyoptaelip:
I am what I do and what I’ve done
Or not done...
Perhaps I’ve never been
Or will be
Anything more or less than,
SPYOPTAELIP.

spyoptaelip@internetnorth.com.au
Port Douglas, Qld.
February 5, 1997





THIS GLIMPSING OF THE ESSENCE


Maintaining
In this world of forms
On a plane of things,
Standing tall
Among the winds,
In dimensional space
And time
To mark the instant
Of being
Of yearning,
While grasping
At imaginal things,
How all conspires
With the conditioned
Status of our selves.

And if we see the glowing
White tongues
Of luminescence
Hovering
Above our corporeal souls
In a room of friends
Yet the one who sees
Is a bloated
Needful cur,
How can the Essence
Manifest
Like this
As a mirror of the Source?

Wondering on about this,
This glimpsing of the Essence,
I thought back
To the white-haired man
To his tear-stained pillow
Wet with hope
For communion
And commingled being
In the One
The All,
And I deeply set my purpose.

February 23, 1997
Port Douglas, Qld.





WHERE ECHOES OF THE TICKS OF CLOCKS DISSOLVE
I come to you
With foibles and clumsiness -
Like a downtrodden clown, a crippled lover.
Within are furious rash-hasty emotions
That burst forth at the sight of you
In my mind’s eye.
Those same feelings are there,
That sense of wonder resurfaces,
And I am helplessly driven by them.
May they one day find fulfillment.
And when that time comes -
If it is destined to come -
I pray to be worthy of their object for being,
After their having remained vital to this beggar’s heart.
Swirling around my head
Are memories and visions of you.
Poor dope that I am, I’ll say as much.
And it’s a deeper sense of communion that exists for you, sweet one.
But it’s out of my hands.
If love exists, then it finds form in you.
Springtime’s winds blow gently,
Thoughts on riderless horses
That quietly, invisibly bathe me
In their ancient whispers.
Through my window, blown here by some force,
The soft curtains sway and lull and breathe, contentedly.
This man in solemn minutes’ motion
Stills and opens,
Points his compass at the stars.
Stupidly-waiting-man is he.
And raging on this form-world - a drama
Played out consistently, infinitely
Within the hearts of lovers.
But to know that there is a higher, holier love-synergy
Found in the hearts of seekers - searchers of Wisdom:
Truth, Goodness, Beauty - waiting to be bound
To a mutual involution
- This is where echoes of the ticks of clocks dissolve.
In the timelessness of the Light,
Let souls embrace and Spirit unite.
Herein dwells I Am Who Am
Joining mortal notions to spheres immortal.
Herein we find cause to have existed
And reason to exercise higher faculties.


May 11,1997
Istanbul





MY LIFE, ON BITS OF PAPER


In a crevice of my wallet
Hides a little wad of stuff
Stuff that’s crammed there
In frantic minutes’ travels
A wee vertical heap
The sideways X-files
Of doings - odd antics - a life
My life, on bits of paper -
On tiny bits of paper scraps
Torn envelope corners
Scratch pad leaves
Or backs of business cards -
That reveal (truly reveal)
A crazy-quilt-free-floater
Free-loading schemer,
Collector of dead-ends
And unfulfilled good intents
Little scratchings
Of ball-point pens
Or flair-tip blurbs that
Stay and say
Just where I’ve been
Just who I am - or ain’t.
A life left almost in the rain
Yet safe, preserved
In its dry nook tent.
And when I need to know
I look and ponder
These ragged clips -
Still-clips of an action life -
Flowcharts of an empty world
That trace a nothing, tramping soul
Across the space of nothingness
An occasional thing
Is gleaned, then culled,
And a cryptic library
Re-synthesized
Re-filed and integrated;
These bits of paper - my life
Important stuff indeed,
One day to be duly trashed
By my trusted, unsharing
And faithful trustee.



June 20, 1997
Istanbul



LIKE THE MANY CATS OF ISTANBUL


Like the many cats of Istanbul
I creep around on paws so light
The folks don’t see my silhouette -
Just the light within my eyes
Maybe this they see - no more.

Just like the cats that stay so put
Upon the corner garbage bin
While I lumber down the road
Noticed, glanced at, gone,
Rounding ‘bout before I’m sus’ed
They’ll never catch me
This I know, I know for sure.

I’m on the fringeland
Of their world. And of their world
I’m surely not, oh surely not -
I’m from a cast-off
Cast-a-way gene pool,
Like the many cats of Istanbul.

June 20, 1997
Istanbul




ANIMAL CAPTIVES


Animal captives in my soup
Lions and tigers go loop-dee-loop
I’m just a primate nin-cum-poop
I wash them down in one big scoop.



March 1, 2000
San Francisco








WELL-FED FARM ANIMULES

On the grounds of government barns
Grovel hordes of beaks and snorting things
In squeaky hollow passageways
They pace and trapse like chimpanzees,
Caged in language factories
Where cranking out a daily read
Of pablum-gruel-statistic feed
That goes to galleys sanitized
Who print this lolly-jargon weed
For mass consumpto-reading-oids
Or wasting warehouse storage voids,
The work of the well-fed
Farm animules, helps those folks
From grazing plains
To eat at the Trough of Government Plenty –

In the name of this zoo
And its animal inmates
I welcome you,
Citizen-visitor taxpaying primates.




March 1, 2000
San Francisco






TRANSPERSONAL PROGRESS

You're a fish
Trying to learn how to walk.
Without situating
Yourself first
In the water
You don't do well
Walking on the bottom
Without legs,
Without knowing
It should all be done
On land.
You think --
"If only I had legs"
-- Not remembering
You have no lungs.
So you swim
In a walk-like way,
Sending dreams
To fins and gills,
You're walking
Anyway?



January 21, 2000, San Francisco

LIVING IN THE 1970s

Andy Warhol’s white arty face smile
Elton John’s same old voice
And disco bore guitar blurbs on
President Ford receives another oatmeal transfusion
For his next press conference
And Rockefeller has another of his suits sterilized

Can't make out one representative or senator from another –
All look like lecterns at a Sunday afternoon Mass
The Pope’s head has already petrified
Into one more Italian bust
And the whole world,
As photographed by the last Apollo,
Is just another ham sandwich.


Winter, 1975/ Hadley, MA

LAST NIGHT OUT WITH THE '69 COUPE DEVILLE

472 cubic inches: God's own American drunk petrolsaur
Second biggest production engine General Motors ever made
Best running Caddy in the city and my car
My car, the mothership, the fatherland's pride
Big American V-8 under the hood
24 gallon gas tank
12 miles to the gallon car o'mine
Meat-eating, devil worship god-machine o'mine
Riding rails
Built for comfort, not for speed
Vacuum-hosed monster wicked daddy
Oh you dash daring mesa jut angle design
Pumping always pumping
Pride draped and silent
The Presence
Of the whale
The year: one year after the Tet offensive
Quiet rumble electric/automatic everything
Strong motor
A creampuff
Creaturing the roads
With muted fins
Solid frame, big grill
Turn signal slow, even
I got in one day and never looked back
Pleasure of leather
Big back seat
Chocolate brown
Black vinyl top
Tow hitch, cassette dream machinegun
Hero of capitalist, Western dog-man
Made flesh
"Real cool mother, once you get a feel for that Cadillac ride
You'll never drive another"

Walking feet will talk a legend
Of the "coupe," the '69 Coupe deVille
Living trashpile of classic steel
Hear me, mate me, nurse me
Forgive me, yeah
She once was mine
She once belonged to me.


July 21, 1989/ Berkeley, CA

I'LL NEVER OWN A LEAF BLOWER

I'll never own a leaf blower
I'll never rake with noise
Or drive away God's tiny mole
By blasting at his tunnel hole

I'll never own a leaf blower
I'll never scream my task
Or trample over village green
With monster-wicked shit machine

I'll never own a leaf blower
I'll never ramble like a jackass
Or toss around some screeking wand
With "hi-tech" sneer o'er walk and lawn

I'll never own a leaf blower
I'll never drown out little birds
Or shirk a weary autumn ritual
By flaunting such an obscene tool

I'll never own a leaf blower
I'll never roar at leaves
But I'll admit I own a loud lawn mower
That I keep beside my big snow blower


Chevy Chase, MD/ November 20, 1994

THE PLUNDERERS

Meanwhile, in the psycho-netherworld
Of scarcity thugs,
And ideals gone awry
Of butchered, dying poets,
There lives another breed
From the barrel of a gun
From a barrio-world
Of left-behinds,
Unlucky to be born
Putrid pock-marked "big suits"
Whose haircuts reek of barbers' lime
Who bully to make their bank books full
Who kill and hurt
Who hold tight
To memories and destinies
Of fear and hate
Of mongering, hungering
Bureaucracy,

They start on a slab,
A corpse slab cold
Concrete, steely and
Tiger-eyed crews
Build tower after tower,
In a bleak, bird-boned ugliness dream
And they force-feed multitudes,
Those downtrodden others,
Non-related, in their otherness
These are the fractured,
The skeletal remains of blank hearts.

Fat, overgrown vodka eyes
Loom over desks from cages,
Stalking in dossier files
With their upper edge stealth
They're there
The new power ethnic cleansers
Working, cleaning, killing,
Doing the bang
Selling mushroom cloud casements
In back-alley sprees
Or grandstand posturing
With their repressive creeds.

Having the precision of former blackboots
But in hi-tech rank and file
The sinister, vapid
Con-men come-ons
From Planet X
With their meat-packed bellies gorged
They fall, distended
From abuse and now
Abusing
Plunder us, plunder us all.


June 9, 1995/ Nonsan, Republic of Korea

AMERICAN KULTURE: Dead On Arrival

And your mind broils

Up sights and sounds

Of Amerika

Reveling in its kulture.

And it’s D.O.A.,

But doesn't know it.

The neon, glitter

Hollywood trash-action

Sitcom capital of the world

Has seduced its own idiot mind

And become faceless, soulless,

Vacant in its abundance;


With its core of genius

With its mass of waste product people

It cranks out an adolescent

Naiveté doggy biscuit pet bowl

Gruel to a world that props it up

In a perfect macro-model of co-dependency

One –weaning – the other



In sycophantic disco rhythms

Or bubble gum pop

Imported Negro beats

Of the fashion-frayed,

The monster egos prance and swoon

And stare in mock violent

Attitudes

With sex-laden bumperoo TV souls



They mask themselves

They cheat youth's vigor

In solipsism, vacuous,

Spreading self-worship

Of an exuberant nullity

It latches like a canker sore

To the lip, in the cancered hearts

Of the countless

Where – in all-accepting ignorance,

Of “Western” “modern” ways –

The GLARE grows

Lichen-like

In the shadowy festering hopes

Of the many who yearn

For fame and glory and fancy fun



Amid a quasi-fabrication,

Inside the franchise of arched temples

Where “hamburgers, fries and a Coke”

Ring and echo as the holy mantra,

Amerika has risen and fallen

Just needing its face bloodied a bit.

But while it rights itself,

Its nation-clones will bungle on

And fall, like red-faced dominoes.


June 9, 1995/ Nonsan, Republic of Korea

PROFOUND COMMENTS, QUICKLY JOTTED NOTES, AND SUGGESTED TITLES FOR FUTURE GREAT WORKS - or - WHAT IS IT YOU WOULD TEACH?

Lusting after the very things that oppress us
“Seeing through the world”
Consensual Reality
Culture Trance
Creative loafing and the “Sub-Genius”
The originary custom of primal peoples – nomadic, non-hierarchical tribes of humble
paragons whose continued, hard-scrabble existence is their teaching
Consciousness structures – discover the writings of Jean Gebser, Julian Jaynes – or
forever grovel about in your Platonic cave, Gumby
Shamanism, Hallucinogens, and the Re-Assessing of Reality <= check it out
Democracy in Our Republic – It had its faults in the Beginning but it was a shining
example none-the-less; Now: Where It Go?
The Shift from an Agricultural Society to One Owned and Managed by Industrialist-
Capitalists, Shifting into a Hydra-Headed Despot-Class of Service Provider
Technophiles Who Shipped Customer Service and the Making-of-Things Overseas
Corporatocracy (or Corpocracy)
- look for ways to substantiate, publicize, and make more transparent the deleterious
effects corporate capitalism has on the home front and on global democracy
American Empire: The Imperial Presidency, Corruption and Ignorance at Home –
Militarism Abroad
Food production has become environmentally unfriendly food processing <= for-profit
only; I heard there’s real food at farmer’s markets (heard fake thunder at Safeway?)
How Propaganda Works: Mainstream Corporate Media vs. Bloggers-of-Suspect-Facts,
but who cares just as long as the middle and lower classes keep bickering amongst
themselves in their tiresome, pundit-two-step, dualist, trance-dance
Mega-corporations own the foundations, institutes and think-tanks that churn out the so-called experts. These experts are then regularly trotted out on news shows to inform the citizenry via their corporately-infused, corporately-inspired, corporately-funded expertise.
And Whitehead’s merely well-informed man says to himself “I see through the eyes of my corporate pusher. I am well-informed man.” And all is well…NOT!
Religion’s gods vs. secular atheists’ no-god – Is there another choice?
From materialism, to spiritual materialism, to a meaninglessness of the term “spirituality”
“I watched that preacher on TV and – doggone it – I’m not mistaking emotionalism for
spirituality…am I?”
Hatha yoga is just mindful stretching or an age-old way of body-tuning –
And calisthenics are good for you!
Self-Righteous, Transcender Meditation Communities
Fluffy New Age Descender Mugs
Hip-Hop Anything = The Ignorant Class Parading its Fashionless, No-Talent Ghetto
Stupidity in-yo’-face, Jackass
Contemplatives-in-Action – The Jesuitical Factor => Still Relevant? Do the Masons and
the Jesuits still “Run the World”?
Exploring new global strategies for improving both emancipatory and regulatory human
systems that can and must be developed to more equitably serve the needs of the
planet so as to avoid replays of past, empire-driven policies and actions.
Global Governance: how best to reconfigure state sovereignty (e.g., via disaggregated
sovereignty)
Would-be success stories are apathetic, ambivalent – made into failures and dropouts
simply because they are organization-phobes and aren’t fast-talking talkers
Join the O.4B. (Order of the Bewildered, Befuddled, Betwixt and Between)
Hear ye, Hear Ye: The Useless and Worthless Club has merged with the Apathetic Club
The demise of the Authentic; the Real done got up and…it’s gone
What? Short-sighted money-lovers and hypocrites represent us?
If you listen objectively, commercials tell us how dumb we are – and the stuff they try to sell is utter crap, leaving us with the inescapable conclusion that we are nothing but willinglly programmed, crap-hounds, and yet
Why are we, in so many ways, still living in the 19 th Century?
Paradoxically (perhaps) I ask: "Do we lament the lost craft of the classicist, all the while clamoring for a shift in consciousness, thankful for cultural creatives?”

Hey, Joe, where you goin' with that cell phone in yore hand?
High fructose corn syrup came into being in 1980.
Today, all American soda pop is sweetened with it.
In fact, it's everywhere in the food now - bread, jam, etc.
Ah the days of real sugar in my strawberry Nehi sodie-pop!
Alas, real food has become a rare delicacy here...
Agribusiness/factory farm food processors get rich.
We get sick - and fat.
Pharmaceutical companies fund and twist scientific studies,
Then dictate health policy (or the lack thereof).
Media is overwhelmingly controlled
By a handful of corporations,
As is almost everything else.

On the oldies stations, I keep hoping (in vain) to hear
I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night by the Electric Prunes
But I only get The Doobie Brothers and Jimmy Buffet.
Republican government is a veneer
- no democracy -
Elections are just about money and favors owed.
Oil is King -
Economic hit men in all corners of the globe;
Militarism's run rampant,
Over 800 US bases in every corner of the globe
US Empire seems about to crash
- the Mayan calendar ends in 2012 -
But the beat goes on...
That's what I want to continue researching and teaching.
I'll title my course:
The Hissing of the Corporate Demon and the Plight of the Cultural Mutant.

THE PLIGHT OF THE CULTURAL MUTANT

The cultural mutant somehow missed out on being or becoming a part of the neo-American dream: the techno-modernist vision, the triumphalist society, a person capable of easily identifying with the vapid, false consciousness of the age.  Society revels in its self-referent, solipsistic definition of success: its self-absorbed, materialist consensual reality and a culture trance run amok that lulls ill-informed citizenry into complacency via rampant consumerism and an out-of-control commodity fetishism.  The cultural mutant bemoans the decline of the authentic and agitates against the cultural Marxist, self-hating white liberal podunks whose politically correct rhetoric gets thrown in one’s face.

While this society smugly congratulates itself on its legacy of being the champion of liberty and freedom around the world, the cultural mutant recoils in horror at such hypocrisy, seeing instead a USA, Inc. that has exploited peoples, their resources, and the environment – either directly or through client surrogates – wherever it can.  It’s no shining “city upon a hill” – far from it!

In short, the cultural mutant does not buy into this bullshit, counterfeit society.

 

The Federal Reserve is in the business of counterfeiting money.

The mainstream media is in the business of counterfeiting news.

The pharmaceutical industry is in the business of counterfeiting medicine (Biopracy! They are stealing molecules from nature then counterfeiting their own patented variations.)

The medical schools are in the business of counterfeiting medical degrees. (When a doctor graduates from medical school, he still knows virtually nothing about nutrition.)

Doctors are in the business of counterfeiting false medical authority.

The mega-sized food corporations are in the business of counterfeiting food. (Processed cheese food product, anyone?)

The global consumer product companies are in the business of manufacturing counterfeit consumer products such as “baby oil” (which is really a petroleum product).

Social networks like Facebook are in the business of counterfeiting friends. (Please LIKE this article, okay?)

Cookie-cutter home builders are in the business of constructing counterfeit homes out of plywood, styrofoam and sheetrock… many these homes will not be standing in just 20 years.

Local city councils are in the business of counterfeiting power. (Obey or be punished!)

Public schools are in the business of counterfeiting school diplomas. (Huh? What? Who needs to learn how to write, anyway?)

The Pentagon is in the business of counterfeiting war. (Don’t have a war to fight? Bomb the World Trade Center and blame it on someone!)

Mainstream historians are in the business of counterfeiting history. (Everything you were taught about history in public school is a lie…)

The globalist banksters are in the business of counterfeiting debt. (You thought it was money, didn’t ya? But it’s really just debt.)

                                                                 Mike Adams, Natural News  9/2/11

Still, the cultural mutant has a sensitive side. The alienation and separation that typifies a dissociated society sears all the more into the souls of those who must abide and cannot escape this dystopian utopia.

The extreme sadness about

What goes on in the world
While everyone around me
Prances about in the silly
Dalliances of everyday life
Makes me seem like a saint.
But I am not pure
Just aching raw in my heart,
Unable to 'have fun,' enjoy
Get serious
Be ambitious
Just bobbing about -
With one more credential,
Or another skill set
Yet wasting away in
A killing-time zone
Seemingly ill-suited to any
Normative endeavor
(Secular or whatever)
Unable to meditate much
I contemplate the nothingness
Of endless outer space
And it feels like
A waiting-room life -
Of waiting
To live free or die
Mummified
A cantankerous old coot
Who could never get along
Who loved the world too much
Who was never understood
And couldn't understand
How others
Are so
Comfortable here.

Ah, but this cultural mutant author exhorts one and all – “don’t take no guff and keep your sense of humor at all costs!”:

“Awaken, oh human beans! Be Not Content. Do not despair. Arise! Walk tall, immortal souls!”

THE CRYING SOUL OF DREAMING EYE

(presented by The Sovereign Union of the Spiritual Self)

The extreme sadness
Of what goes on in the world
While everyone around me
Prances about In the silly dalliances of everyday life
Makes me seem like a saint.
But I am not pure
Just aching raw in my heart,
Unable to 'have fun,' enjoy
Get serious
Be ambitious
Just bobbing about -
With one more credential,
Or another skill set
Yet wasting away in
A killing-time zone
Seemingly ill-suited to any
Normative endeavor
(Secular or whatever)
Unable to meditate much
I contemplate the nothingness
Of endless outer space
And it feels like
My waiting-room life -
Only waiting To live free
Or die Mummified
A cantankerous old coot
Who could never get along
Who loved the world too much
Who was never understood
And couldn't understand
How others
Are so
Comfortable here.

BOTH AND/ EITHER OR

How hypnotic the Cartesian worldview -
And yet the sequence just goes away
When the epistemological shift
To both/and reality
Is made and done.
The office clerk of either/or
Derides the shamanic trace -
Experiencing perceptual reality
We manage to keep
Cartesian splits alive, intact
In intellect.
But the whole job
Of making the epistemological shift
Within the shamanic experience -
Of being stuck on the spiritual path
By trying to negotiate some
Non-existent transition
In spiritual development -
Is only perceived to be there
Because
Cartesian models
Cause them to think about
The spiriual realm that way.
They haven't realized
The issue is more semantic than real.

RESTLESS LEG SYNDROME

Do your legs feel funny after
Driving a long distance?
Are your thoughts rushing along - so that
YOU CAN'T SLEEP?
Are you on
“Pins and needles”?
Do you have difficulty meditating?
Finding that "Stillpoint"?
Well,
Maybe you should watch TV
For a while...
But...do you get up and wander around
during commercials?
You know what it is?
You know what it is -
You know you have Restless Leg Syndrome
That's it!
Like the man said -
Restless Leg Syndrome.
It must be, as suggested.
Yes, you got it,
You got RLS
For sure, no doubt!
The symptoms fit.
In fact,
I get up during commercials.
To go repeatedly to...
The refrigerator door -
Or the bathroom -
Those legs of mine
Are restless -
And so am I!
I CAN'T SLEEP!
It's your legs, stupid!
I have it -
Restless Leg Syndrome.

CUT FUNDING & IMPEACH

You're an equal arm of government
Holding the People's purse strings.
The People overwhelmingly know
A fraud
When they see it.
This so-called War -
Only a neo-liberal cover
For a neo-con con game
Of positioning military assets
Permanently
To secure the petro-dollar,
To assure uninterrupted access
To oil,
By oil interests
For oil interests,
Is brought to you by global plutocrats.
Cut them off,
Oh Legislators! - Cut Funding.
We say, "No more -
No more corpocracy
Misadventures.
Impeach Bush-Cheney, Inc."
And when the funding stops
No one is in peril,
No one is un"patriotic"
The chicken-hawk war machine
Cannot and will not
Let our soldiers dangle -
Helplessly -
Instead, they will be forced
To bring them back.
WHY DOES NO ONE
SAY IT LIKE THAT?
Because, plainly, though complex,
IT IS AS SIMPLE AS THAT.
Let the Blackwater (neo-East India Company)
Stay - but stay on the corpocracy's dime.
It's their war anyway -
Let those scoundrels stay
In their last refuge.
But not Bush-Cheney, Inc.
Cut them off! Now!
Cut them down
From their unItary perch!
Cut them
From the public purse!
Let them run from
Their own fear campaign,
Worldwide torture chambers,
"Patriot" Act enforcement -
As they dangle like the bully-boy
Cretins
That they are.
Cutting funding
Cuts off those misbegottens
From The People,
We The People,
Yes,
WE - The REAL People.

PERSIAN CONVERSION

In a UN pool reflecting
A sneery-faced Bush
Is seen his Persian version
A little tyrant clod:
Almost equally twisted
Ahmedinejad.