When among men will come the cost of deeds? what mad pursuit of silk and gold is this that we, we happy breed of men have let a scepter and the state dictate the way in which we continue forward as men, and what is it in the goldsmith’s practice that has led us to let the loaning keep that better part of us as Grecian Urns and manor like mansions of little worth to the suffering depth of ages thence and surely ages since, if we don’t change.
So, Columbus is face down with the tea, the youth is once again out in the streets singing their goals in melodies we’ve heard before the creditors loaned out our dreams, but what matters if we fail to see past the deep injustice weeping in the past.
My conscience is a needle’s point that is thread through the days behind; a compass am I to life’s magnet, and I will be alright if lost as long as I don’t go too far up north and find myself frostbit by the fury of winter snow. The poles are no place for morals or scruples when needing mere warmth.
I’ve heard the talk of proof that is puzzling you, and felt the want to label and name, to girdle the truth about its circumference and mark a creator with cubit or faith—to this I say, what would that change?
My breath fogs the window, some promise out of science has arrived, of this I’ve been content for hours. I’ve considered flowers the production of time and a product of retiring stars written in the remaining odds and a yellowish pad.
I wished to see your smile, but got only pain the while— but look I did and saw behind your suffering a whim, a smile and a soft hand to grab— and grab I did, but then I wished to see you stay and got only pain the while— but stay I did, but only had the while.
Among the smoke and fog of a coal fire, the steel and the city sticks to my lungs, clings to my walk, while the smokestack’s and the brick’s dust that floats aloft with the steel mill and rail car sounds, soot into Woo, dust into Aah, and haunts my every thought with a Chicago Poet’s lines who’s a mountain to American gods.
Some say the times are changing fast, Some say they always have. From what I’ve seen of revolution I’d not bet on the favor of man, But if I had to pick up sword and slash Down enemies of all that’s human I’d cut down first the apple tree And in my ignorance, I’d burn the wood To keep me warm and eat the fruit So diligently procured And placed into a pyramid of glee Glowing red between my boots.
Let elite’s country clubs become grave yards. Come and erect the boards, let down the noose, let known the deeds, what wicked men have done in secret keeps dark towers, smuggled underground, hid from lit up day and the reeling crowd.
Come and erect the floors, let fall the doors, let shown the feats a kindred folks have done in public streets and lit up parks we’ve gone into in need, pitted against a common force in vows—
Down. Down. So cheers the crowd, come and elect your wards; let future know, let go the pull of strings monstrous men have worked covertly to keep under the earth, they sought to burn and reep to keep the crowd from streets and indeed the clouds.
Sometimes love is cliché. Damn the cost of being so young, you and I were but a single being beating and gathering momentum like a drum solo, but in the spaces between the beats of hearts and the vacuum are the things I didn’t say.
Sometimes love is pain, damn the cost of being so dumb.
Should I compare you to a winters morn? You are more bitter and more discontent Than winds that shake even the devils horns. At least winter is cold but for a minute. Sometimes the fingers of winter are warm, And oft is the complexion painted ruse By brush or surgeon changing the cold storm Of crows feet that pass like the pain and bruise Left yellowing by time and the pursuit Eternal,the search for gold and jewels of youth, But your lust shall not pass as falling fruit Or summer days spent plyed in sweet vermouth –So long as you can breath, or hand can spend, –So long lives him, and you will bring an end.
Among the worlds most pressing ruins I have seen artifacts come rising as phoenixes to part their form from the fierce driven wind and sand that whirls around in its dying hour of enjambment with earth and sky.
Here, now, I glimpse the 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 has 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 like gods, with aspects as mysterious as hexagonal floors, as Segesta and the possibility of what came before.
I’m no Princeton expert, was never meant to scrape the sands away from academia’s financial sleep or slow the politicians budgetary benchmark’s ceaseless creep into the studies 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 peoples 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 peoples kept on tongue. The archaeology might as well be thousands of 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’d 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 lacking The Stone Of The Pregnant Woman, that bears the babe in its monumental architecture that predates the first plow.
One only needs to go to Gobekli Tepe to see the origins of mans megalithic past bursting forth from rounded belly with heavy stone heaved up the stone courses and circles of mans ancient grasp, purposely hid and buried in land—known forever as Potbelly Hill. One only needs to hide something they’re wanting 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’re told of floods and a world remade by the gods, and as today Hiawatha Crater stands as evidence to a time when asteroids pocked the land and lit the forests ablaze, sending small animals, mammoths and megafauna to their watery ash covered graves.
Human kind must have faced near extinction that day, and like the tower of babel and the confusion of language must have sent us into a serious dark age; not like the one to come with fall of Rome, oh no more like 3000 years spent hunched over an empty fire, only to wander the sands of Egypt and find , on the luscious banks of the Nile, black granite boxes and many a helpful stone jar to fill with drink and pass the time while awaiting a pharaoh’s rise.
Our lives pass like cherry blossoms, snapped from hurried branch to ripened fruit. We flit from first to fledged to finished, put out to ash one hundred years an instant. A truth we scarcely want to envision, yet death and quantum mechanics will have it.
In human want and vanity we make the cosmos roll into a ball and laugh, as if our hundred was even a flash to its endless procession of cold stars. It’s like to ants a rose would bloom eternal.
Do not ask the cosmos or pyramids of the atoms that went into their form, or the rose of the ants that flit across its back: for the pyramids would not even know of sciences written in scales of man.
The seasons changing keys set fruit to fall from mindful sagging branch to brutal dust below. The ants divert their sacred path to sweets divinely delivered on high, like man attributing meaning to change.
Is it just we who contemplate the ants, the Sagan starstuff, the music vast?
My flesh stripped from the bones, the body miraculous stands but as a series of groans and gears in breach of trust;
MRIs & Cat Scans only tell so much. Silence from loved ones, the sentence unjustly delivered by mere instrument. The Doc’s not much better with bed manner;
O, I suppose that once he was, before giving the news became the norm, like blood to be withdrawn: before the babes’ weeping had claimed that last corner of what it meant to be a doctor, and save the births and the children he’d rather be fishin’, or so said the pin suspended from his lab coat’s vest pocket.
Drooping and thinking of the rafter beams, the dangling rope, the suspension of self aloft, I took note of a glimmering hope, perhaps I’d beat the odds and those damn beep, beep, beep, beeping machines.
Around her I was Icarus with wings alight and burnt to nubs, now glowing as embers and garnets as I slowly descend into the adjust of knowing there is no longer an us and longing to submit to the plunge.
This rusted throne of kings, this gilded smile, This divine right of blood, this gift of sight, This better race of man, madness defiles This luscious home of dreams, this earthly plight, This inherited form, this gift of life, This other choice of men, madness defines.