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If I gaze at an apple
and smoke with a shaman
who plucks with bended knee
the apple red of famous mythology,
and know that myth
has ever been twisted and bent
since first was picked
from the garden’s heavenly tree,
then I know that knowledge
was never granted from the branch;

When I look at the shape of things
and see that love apples were tomatoes
and that the dirt covered tubers
were known widely as earth apples
and golden apples were not oranges
and history had yet been writ
into its myths and stories,
before Snow White had laid upon its bed
and drifted off into her sleep,
then I know that knowledge
was never the poison that kicked us from the gates.

If I look at an apple
and sit with bended knees
and pluck with timid fingers
the fly agaric, the mushroom apple,
that gave us knowledge when all was mystery,
then I know that the poison comes
with the act of forgetting all the apple trees.

Smoke Signals

Time cares not what the clock will say
of the foul pit of yesterdays,
because a truth strikes its chord
against the weeping bells,
and all our hopeful praise goes upward
as the smoke on a winter’s chill;
Alas, our goodness goes in vain 
and all human kindness 
	Evaporates pure and plain 
when faced with men’s blindness
and the cold of being alone
in December when all that’s wanted is hope
and a friend up there to hear our moans
when we’re too tired to cope
and too weak to change.

Relatively Big

They are very small things, the small plankton,
the atoms of oxygen, the words said
by small men and women. We are all dead
because of the small things we leave unsaid
or ignore because we are small, human,
fragile beings that cannot see,
the true importance of plankton
the insignificance of being--
Relatively big.

The Word and the Blade

I have owned words,
owned them all,
owned them as a suit–

I have had time,
had it all,
had it as a leaf–

I have seen my canopy
grown bare within the winter
of my solitary despair,
and known nothing,
and done nothing
but watch the leaves
cascade from me;

I have owned the armor,
and forged myself
as blacksmiths do for blade,
but I could not
have borne the hammer
that took the words from me.

I have known the world
known it all
known it as a farce–

I have owned a suit,
owned it well,
owned it as keepsake–

There comes a time
when all your words are but
a continuing excuse
for why your armor is on the shelf
and you won’t pick up the blade.

A Pharaoh’s Rise – Revise #1

Among the world’s most pressing ruins
artifacts come rising as phoenixes
parting their form from the fierce driven wind
and sand that whirls around in its dying
hour of enjambment with earth and sky.

Here, now, we glimpse a masterwork divine,
the immense weight bearing architecture;
The lintel at the Treasury Of Atreus
that both amazes and makes us a fool,
is suspended, accepted, and controversial,
but any’ with their beating heart can see
the contradictory enigmas hidden jewel,
the canary in depths of the past’s stony keep.

You’ve asked me, what the sphinx is waiting for
in its ancient riddle of limestone repose,
about the alignments in the Giza Plateau
seen backwards-drifting towards Orion’s belt–
the once polished pyramids surface know this.
Time and its carcass have eroded the life we had built.
The same sands that bore the Seven Wonders
now actively cover up over our ancestral homes.

At Delphi’s famous dramatic amphitheater,
the Roman dogs and accidental thieves
of our earthen heritage quarried up their prayers
to ancient and sometimes all too human gods.

I’m no Princeton expert, was never meant to scrape
the sands away from academia’s financial sleep
or slow the politician’s budgetary benchmark’s
ceaseless creep into the study of antiquity.

I have only my words and my art to tell you
about human genomes and the stretching of time,
about the science behind the Homo Sapien,
Neanderthal, and Donisovan people’s kind.

In the annals of the peoples of the world
and in the memories and the hearts of those
who lived much closer, the riddle was answered–
but Oedipus’s answer does not suffice
the missing lines, swallowed by ravenous sand.

I have only to tell you about a massive avenue
that goes in curves and snakes through Chile and Peru,
longer than China’s Wall, and drawn out over the land
to connect all Incan temples and polygonal sprawl.

Like Machu Peachu and Cuzco the bedrock joins,
as mason, the Human and Donisonvan kind
to a record of ingenuity seen through
the kaleidoscope of time and the impact of asteroids.

The channeled Scablands in Eastern Washington State
form forks and branches of a world remade in fire
and floods that scraped and scabbed the land ‘till oceans rose
four hundred feet, and we’ve only the stones to see
and the mythologies the people kept on tongue.

The archaeology might as well be a thousand leagues
submerged beneath the sea from off Cuba to Yanagoni.

The Carolina Bays point to cataclysm,
as do the Nebraskan Rainwater Basins tips;
The dappled and dimpled surface ablaze with ice
and fire from an asteroid that nearly killed us.

We’ve now the tools precise enough to seed
minds with such accuracy as to remake the world,
If only we would be open enough to drink
from mythology, stone, and the briny sea.

There are ruins built upon the backs of megalithic stones,
and I tell you that the weathered paws of the Sphinx know this;
that Baalbek and the Temple of Bacchus groan out their age
and denounce the modern scholars Roman naming and rape.

Under the columns and setting sun, the once great city,
Heliopolis comes crumbling out. Elemental chaos,
Atum, and Ra giving fully over to thousands of tons.
The expectant blocks of an unknown and talented race
The Stone of the Pregnant Woman, that bares the babe
in its monumental architecture that predates the first plow.

One only needs to go to Gobekli Tepe to see
the origins of man’s megalithic past bursting forth
from rounded belly with heavy stone heaved up the stone
courses and circles of man’s ancient grasp, purposely hid
and buried in land—known forever as Potbelly Hill.
One only needs to hide something they want to save.

The helical drill marks found in the granite holes
amid Egyptian tools and relics of the day
speak volumes to those who’d seek their course
around in spirals about the core with string.

The bronze-age chiseled stone, chipped and fitted over
the hardest black boxes—quarried in granite and quartz;
Forty thousand enduring diorite vessels
found safe under the step pyramids put-ons
of less skilled craftsman stacked up on more–
The names of pharaohs hastily scraped
into the bowls, vases, and boxes from before.

You’ve asked about the mysterious triangular shapes
found stacked in stone around the world’s different coasts,
and I tell you that the age old mythologies speak loads
and heaves stone up on stone upon the oral histories
and time worn hieroglyphic writings of antiquity.

From Noah to every corner of the globe
we hear of floods and a world remade,
and as today Hiawatha Crater is evidence
of when asteroids pocked the land and lit
the forests ablaze–sending small animals
and mega fauna to lye smothered graves.

An asteroid might leave only cut stones
and legends to pierce the sands of time,
so we’d collapse into dark age
as primitives huddled over our fires;

It was six thousand years till Sumer rose
where we invented our mathematics,
where language was more than vocally born,
where primitives harnessed water for food;
after six thousand years huddling in caves,
after six thousand years and a serious dark age,
not like the one with fall of Rome,
but six thousand years surviving on naught
living, dreaming, and wishing for more
only to wander the sands of the Nile
and discover black granite boxes
and many a helpful stone jar to fill with drink
to pass the time while awaiting a pharaoh’s rise.

The Death of Bees

We witness now the death of buzzing bees,
the bloodbath human and the brood’s disease–
witnessed upon the earth, in wild and wood,
by man and woman innocent as Eve.

Blindly we busily behave as bees
and buzz about our hives in worried life
but healthy happy human bees we’re not;
we have given our hopes to borrowed things,
and taken what is not our right to take.
now the sound of buzzing life collapses
into a cacophony of blind bugs
begging for hope within their honeycombs.

Consuming Us

All beauty has been taken.

The natural is no longer allowed
to be as it is without filter.

The body is no longer a temple;
it’s a canvas on which we paint.

The soul is relegated to metaphor
and no longer allowed to spread
to the hearts of others.

The picture of a tranquil scene
0r a painting of a flock of geese
does not tell of human vanity;
oh, there might be beautiful pics
of women in yoga, mid-lotus,
but this is the worship and praise
of buying a smaller waist.

Primp and put on makeup,
and cover yourselves with the finest cloth.

The natural is no longer allowed.

The body is covered with ads;
your skin is the billboard and target,
and your mind is the space for their sales.

Dear men, you too shall primp,
moisturize, and soften,
and loosen at the knees:
your body is the next gold mine.

The male is under attack
by minions of corporations
that seek the next quarters growth;

The female is utterly chained
to ideas that most males do not believe;

She is beautiful regardless of me
or whatever I happen to believe,
but I grew up in an era
of television and magazines
that pitted her body
against the bottom line
and her prospective mate.

Five Miles

She says she is always there,
and I am always here,
so how is it
that five miles can feel
an oceans worth of divide?!

I long for us
and ask for more handholding
and she too longs for me
and asks I be patient
with her family,
but I could swim across oceans
or sail the seven seas,
but I cannot swim across
five miles of patience
or sail across my feelings.


I do not wish to be
the voice of the Bering Sea’s struggle,
nor would I deny the plight
of sea ice and polar bears at once living and dying for home.

I am an inhabitant on more temperate shores,
the golden waves of grain,
where all my hopes lie stiff within its shores,
the place where freedom rang
and then stumbling back into its cave
went off as wasted and soured oil.
here my days pass as snails on grass
and the night has the same cornucopia of stars
that birthed all hope en masse.
Here the people echo a hard but necessary truth,
here there are no stars,
here we navigate by feel
and vote our way into civil war
if half refuses to stay the course.

We Break

We break
as the newspaper
and anchorman read
teleprompter like,
and life is on repeat,
and good folk,
forever tired,
nod and know the future
as if the crystal ball
was something other than
the Allegory of the Cave,1
and we know no better of life.

[1]Plato’s cave: a group of people who have lived chained to the wall of a cave all their lives, facing a blank wall. The people watch shadows projected on the wall from objects passing in front of a fire behind them and give names to these shadows. The shadows are the prisoners’ reality, but are not accurate representations of the real world.

Socrates explains that if a prisoner is freed from the cave that he will come to understand that the shadows on the wall are actually not reality at all. However, the other inmates of the cave do not even desire to leave their prison, for they know no better life.

Cactus Hides

There are people with cactus hides
that walk across the desert sand
where others would
if not for fear that they would die.

Perhaps, it was evolution
that made their skin so thick;
perhaps, it was room to blossom
that first attracted them
away from fertile field and plain
into the fringes
of an arid desert so sparse
that life itself seemed to have hid
until at last an ecosystem bloomed
where a forest could never bud.


Standing at the crossroads
I heard the devil sing his song
and he tuned my guitar,
until I could play all night long;

Oh god, why couldn’t I have gone
out to the woodshed, or the store,
or to my baby, who’s waiting
in the curtains forever more.

I hear them ol’ hellhounds
and I know that my time has come.

I thought that I would have a little fun and write a bit of blues. I enjoyed writing this, even though I have no religious beliefs I have always enjoyed blues mythology.

Wooden Frowns

Nothing is more disappointing,
nothing so uncared-for
as one that knows let down,
yet stays to see that thing
another will do to break their heart,
and the whole thing is repeated
not only in the deeds
but also in growth rings
that covers care with wooden frowns–

It is disappointing
to be there like an Oak
amid a forest of fleeing Maples
and have your old growth wood
chopped and turned to tears
just so you can be sure
he wouldn’t have happened to learn.

The Changing of the Leaves

Fall is a dream.
It comes the east,
where people dare not dwell,
amid prairie and mountain peak,
among you an me,
and it says,
I draw my leaves as curtains
and close the stage
until the next performance,
and we weep
for the death of flowers
and the folding of summer trees–
knowing that something
within us dies
with the changing of the leaves.

Socialism is a Sickness

Do not let the wind towers make you sick;
it’s hate and fear that resonates with men
and makes demons of rotors spinning on the wind
there’s no sickness, except men mid-panic,

and if we let these wind turbines scare us
we lose our wind to cleaver oil barons,
who pit our fears and pain against our trust
and trick us into discussions of causes

that do not lead to truth or theirs minions,
but leaves us in the dark age of opinions.

Long Live Our Lady

We need the Old Colossus now
with its defiant blazing torch
as archetype for our goddess
that stands out on our golden shore.

Let her not be toppled by men,
if she shall parish from the earth
let it be the gods who cleaved her
and left us without the light of hope.

This torch has stood with us before
and a library burned to ash,
and a darkness descended to man
that took a thousand years to fix.

This Brave New World

We are the heads
above La Brea’s pits,
our limbs all stuck in tar.
We are the graveyard’s men,
the dinosaurs
and fossilized tales
of life what life was like before–
we are a walking catalogue
of horrid deaths,
a fire that comes–inevitable
across an indifferent sky.
We are the plague that builds
this Brave New World.

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