Activist POEM: Yet Another Trump Tuesday at Sen. Portman’s Office

Yet Another Trump Tuesday at Sen. Portman’s Office

Empower verses
In power
What is won to think?
Lying in wait
Miring our advocacy
Swamped with democracy
When and how to mete US
We go through the drill
Lairs of representation
As hour representative
Represented by representatives
And sum how still amiss representative
Even as anyone can read the signs
Along standing
Hi noon
As if genuflecting the one
Who helled office
Only in attendance
In a shadowy cloak
Wore of attrition
By hook or crook
Never quite present to us
We no demonstrably
We have hit AWOL
Yet ever so rightly
Will pass on our tidings
And the next weak
In wake of yet an other attack
We will rise agin
Sea you soon

Indivisible Toledo holds a Trump Tuesday protest at noon every Tuesday outside Republican Sen. Rob Portman’s office in Toledo. We have been doing this since Donald Trump’s inauguration. Activism Is My Rent For Living On This Planet -- Alice Walker quote POLITICAL BUTTONTypically, a legislative aide has meet with protesters at least every few weeks. Yesterday, a legislative aide met with us for the first time in over two months, a new record for unavailability. We have never been able to meet with Sen. Portman, nor has he ever met our oft repeated request to have a public town hall meeting anywhere in Ohio — though we particularly invite him to have a town hall meeting in Toledo. Our meeting was particularly intense, reflecting cumulative rage over President Trump, and the silence of Republican congresspeople, specifically Sen. Portman. Sen. Portman has over four years til his re-election campaign, and he seems intent on biding his time during the tumultuous Trump presidency. Globalize THIS - RESISTANCE [earth graphic] POLITICAL BUTTONHe is a quite reliable vote for the Trump agenda. This poem was inspired by our meeting yesterday, and our chronic frustration in not having any direct access to our elected official. Of course, with or without Sen. Portman, the resistance will continue.

Feel free to browse my designs on dissent and resistance.

FREE POLITICAL POSTER: Republican Leaders Gather To Deal With Gun Violence by Banning Ritalin, Banning Abortion, And Declaring Another Generation of Silence

In the face of a continuing gun violence epidemic and yet another school shooting, Republican so-called leaders are talking about everything but guns. Perhaps guns don’t kill people, Republicans do. The new president of the NRA, Ollie North, blamed gun deaths on Ritalin. Why stop there? Ritalin doesn’t kill people, doctors do. Actually, Guns Do Kill People POLITICAL BUTTONOf course, my favorite framing and reframing of gun violence is blaming it on abortion. Guns don’t kill people, women do?! Of course, 98% of mass shootings are perpetrated by men. The latest mass shooting in a school in Texas was perpetrated by a male student who was aggressively pursuing a fellow student, and after she rebuffed him, within a week he came into the school, killed her first and then continued his murderous rampage. There were two armed security officers in the school but Republicans are calling for more armed guards and fewer entrances. There willingness to rebuild schools into fortresses while kids don’t have pencils and teachers have to buy school supplies with their own money betrays the delusional Republican worldview, perverted priorities, as well as their helpless and hapless paranoia. If Guns Don't Kill People, Why Do We Give People Guns When They Go To War? Why Don't We Just Send People? --Ozzy Osbourne quote POLITICAL BUTTONPerhaps the only small comfort in the Republican carny canard is that they seem to feel some need to talk about something, even if it is anything but guns, in the wake of endless school shootings. While they may wish for yet another generation of silence, their growing desperation in irrelevant fixes, speaks to the burgeoning salience among the American electorate of preventing gun violence with common sense, evidence-based actions.

In tribute to the Republican circus of irrelevance around gun violence prevention, I bring you this FREE POLITICAL POSTER: Republican Leaders Gather To Deal With Gun Violence by Banning Ritalin, Banning Abortion, And Declaring Another Generation of Silence.

FREE POLITICAL POSTER: Republican Leaders Gather To Deal With Gun Violence by Banning Ritalin, Banning Abortion, And Declaring Another Generation of Silence

Feel free to browse my designs on common-sense gun violence prevention.

FREE POSTER: Jesus breaks silence on Senate candidate Roy Moore Just Saying NO Moore

What sexual predator would Jesus support to hold the keys of public trust?  It’s time to say “NO more!” In the current case of Senate candidate Roy Moore, it’s time to say “NO Moore!”

American so-called Christians have been practicing an Olympian level of moral gymnastics to justify sexual predators holding positions of great public power and high public trust, when sexual abuse is perhaps the epitome of an abuse of power and trust.  How can character matter in the face of our apparent national addiction to aberrant characters and simple lust for power?  Donald Trump, Sexual Predator-in-Chief, has lowered the bar so low that limbo seems impossible wile hell seems assure abet. Going long with Roy Moore, a serial sexual predator of teenagers, promises to come with a free handbasket on that road paved with good inattentions.

In honor of that just saying, NO Moore, I have created a free poster: Jesus breaks silence on Senate candidate Roy Moore Just Saying NO Moore. Pleas feel free to share widely with friends and enemies.

FREE POSTER: Jesus breaks silence on Senate candidate Roy Moore Just Saying NO Moore

The commentary, Roy Moore, and the GOP’s persecution complex, gets it right:

Roy Moore now has President Trump’s endorsement, support from the Republican National Committee and a reasonably strong chance of winning — all proving that the many GOP leaders who tried to stop him have little control over their party. Whatever control GOP leaders retained after the tea party movement, in fact, has been severely undermined by Trump. And Moore, who stands accused of sexual misconduct with multiple minors, is easily the best indicator of that to date.

But the reason something like Moore could happen is more complicated than just Trump. And Republicans can blame one thing that Trump stoked, with plenty of help: The party’s increasing persecution complex.

After decades of being told that the media is out to get them, the tea party took that a step further and told Republicans that the GOP establishment was also out to get them. Now Trump, with some prodding from Stephen K. Bannon, has told GOP voters that the entire political establishment and even many American institutions (law enforcement, the judiciary, the intelligence community, etc.) are out to get them. The combined effect of all of this is that Republican voters almost reflexively recoil at the perception of being told what to do, whether by The Washington Post and the New York Times, by Mitch McConnell and Paul D. Ryan, or by anyone else not named Trump. Trump’s brand of populism has turned the enemy of their enemies into the friends of all Republicans.

And nobody was primed to exploit that sense of persecution like Moore.

Much like Trump, Moore isn’t someone who Republican voters necessarily love, so much as someone that supposedly evil political forces have tried to undermine. Moore finished fourth in the 2010 Alabama governor’s race and barely won his state Supreme Court seat back in 2012. Yet just as with Trump, who started the 2016 GOP primary deeply unpopular with Republicans, here we are.

And this actually began long before the current allegations. During this year’s Senate primary, Moore seized upon his alleged persecution, arguing relentlessly and in hyperbolic terms about how Senate Majority Leader McConnell (R-Ky.) was out to get him. McConnell, of course, had become toxic in Republican primaries thanks in large part to Trump. So even as Trump nominally backed Moore’s primary runoff opponent, appointed Sen. Luther Strange (R-Ala.), voters picked Moore in the primary and then in the two-man primary runoff.

That sense of persecution only increased, of course, once a number of women came forward in The Post to say Moore had pursued them when they were teenagers — including one who accused him of unwanted sexual touching when she was 14. Since then, other accusers have come forward, most notably a woman who accused him of sexual assault when she was 16.

The more than three-decade-old allegations lend themselves to Moore’s assertions of persecution. That’s in large part because, like many accusations of years-old sexual misconduct, there is unlikely to ever be bona fide proof of them. Even as The Post and others have substantiated the women’s claims to the extent that’s possible, there is still faith and trust involved. Republicans in Alabama, it turns out, have faith in Moore and little trust in the national media — despite the severity of the accusations.

Another reason Moore has been uniquely able to hold the GOP base is his political career, which has been built upon fashioning himself as a martyr. He has effectively been kicked off the state Supreme Court twice for choosing his religious convictions over the law. Moore was almost perfectly positioned to claim persecution in this case, because he’s been claiming it for the better part of 20 years.

None of this is to suggest the GOP has a monopoly on claiming political persecution. Politics is a game that rewards finding a convincing boogeyman, and populist candidates like Trump tend to find a large supply of boogeymen and rigged systems on the path to political office. But today’s Republicans are uniquely skeptical of the things they hear from the national media, the intelligence community and even their party leaders — all of which Trump has argued don’t have their interests at heart.

It’s almost a perfect storm, and combined with the uniqueness we find in Alabama, it might soon give us Sen. Roy Moore (R-Ala.), despite GOP leaders’ best efforts.

MUST READ POEM: Incarcerated Truth

MUST READ POEM: Incarcerated Truth

But for the slip of the tongue
There could be
Having
Been given
The slip of paper
With a key
Too incarcerated truth
Knot to be
Read aloud
There is know God

Many of the simplest and most profound truths in life are best experienced in silence, where anything spoken would only detract from the experience.  If this poem is read out loud, it communicates the opposite meaning of that in silence: “There is no God” versus “There is know God.”  The reference to God sets up the conundrum of trying to communicate spiritual matters when words necessarily get in the way, often turning them into spiritual madders.  This poem is a big tip of the hat to the Tao Te Ching’s opening line: “The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao.”  I have longingly loved this opening paradox which offers the poetic challenge of improving on silence.

Truth may very well lie in the manor in which it is spoken or knot.  Free of words, we may experience the hole truth, going down that place from which hares split.  Down, down, down — nothing softer, nor closer to foul.  Sublime temptations beg the ineffable won, only to be housed in feat of clay.  Any peep would be, as if, to bring the roof roof down, that within ear shot of any eavesdropper.  Even the most dogged ear tome would knot avail the rabid homme, the whole as nothing, but hollowed ground.  To no end, as soil one self.  Making me, want to pop eye: I AM, what I AM?!

Self-Made Trump Has A Fool For A Maker

In Trumpian fashion, fool of irony, I quote myself: “A self-made man has a fool for a maker.”  The man-child known as Donald Trump runs roughshod over the boundaries of lesser fools.  He fashions his fashion as the boss of a collapsing world, his world, his collapsing world.  If Trump where to know God, he would know himself — he knows neither.  His self-masturbatory god head is a lonely impossibility, even in his hugely culpable hands and with such a big mouth — something is missing, however compelled he is to grab it.  The loneliness of this pitiful and pitiless man is captured well in the essay by Rebecca Solnit, THE LONELINESS OF DONALD TRUMP: ON THE CORROSIVE PRIVILEGE OF THE MOST MOCKED MAN IN THE WORLD, with excerpts below:

Once upon a time, a child was born into wealth and wanted for nothing, but he was possessed by bottomless, endless, grating, grasping wanting, and wanted more, and got it, and more after that, and always more. He was a pair of ragged orange claws upon the ocean floor, forever scuttling, pinching, reaching for more, a carrion crab, a lobster and a boiling lobster pot in one, a termite, a tyrant over his own little empires. He got a boost at the beginning from the wealth handed him and then moved among grifters and mobsters who cut him slack as long as he was useful, or maybe there’s slack in arenas where people live by personal loyalty until they betray, and not by rules, and certainly not by the law or the book. So for seven decades, he fed his appetites and exercised his license to lie, cheat, steal, and stiff working people of their wages, made messes, left them behind, grabbed more baubles, and left them in ruin.

He was supposed to be a great maker of things, but he was mostly a breaker. He acquired buildings and women and enterprises and treated them all alike, promoting and deserting them, running into bankruptcies and divorces, treading on lawsuits the way a lumberjack of old walked across the logs floating on their way to the mill, but as long as he moved in his underworld of dealmakers the rules were wobbly and the enforcement was wobblier and he could stay afloat. But his appetite was endless, and he wanted more, and he gambled to become the most powerful man in the world, and won, careless of what he wished for…

…The child who became the most powerful man in the world, or at least occupied the real estate occupied by a series of those men, had run a family business and then starred in an unreality show based on the fiction that he was a stately emperor of enterprise, rather than a buffoon barging along anyhow, and each was a hall of mirrors made to flatter his sense of self, the self that was his one edifice he kept raising higher and higher and never abandoned.

I have often run across men (and rarely, but not never, women) who have become so powerful in their lives that there is no one to tell them when they are cruel, wrong, foolish, absurd, repugnant. In the end there is no one else in their world, because when you are not willing to hear how others feel, what others need, when you do not care, you are not willing to acknowledge others’ existence. That’s how it’s lonely at the top. It is as if these petty tyrants live in a world without honest mirrors, without others, without gravity, and they are buffered from the consequences of their failures…

We keep each other honest, we keep each other good with our feedback, our intolerance of meanness and falsehood, our demands that the people we are with listen, respect, respond—if we are allowed to, if we are free and valued ourselves. There is a democracy of social discourse, in which we are reminded that as we are beset with desires and fears and feelings, so are others; there was an old woman in Occupy Wall Street I always go back to who said, “We’re fighting for a society in which everyone is important.” That’s what a democracy of mind and heart, as well as economy and polity, would look like…

…Some use their power to silence that and live in the void of their own increasingly deteriorating, off-course sense of self and meaning. It’s like going mad on a desert island, only with sycophants and room service. It’s like having a compliant compass that agrees north is whatever you want it to be. The tyrant of a family, the tyrant of a little business or a huge enterprise, the tyrant of a nation. Power corrupts, and absolute power often corrupts the awareness of those who possess it. Or reduces it: narcissists, sociopaths, and egomaniacs are people for whom others don’t exist.

We gain awareness of ourselves and others from setbacks and difficulties; we get used to a world that is not always about us; and those who do not have to cope with that are brittle, weak, unable to endure contradiction, convinced of the necessity of always having one’s own way. The rich kids I met in college were flailing as though they wanted to find walls around them, leapt as though they wanted there to be gravity and to hit ground, even bottom, but parents and privilege kept throwing out safety nets and buffers, kept padding the walls and picking up the pieces, so that all their acts were meaningless, literally inconsequential. They floated like astronauts in outer space.

Equality keeps us honest. Our peers tell us who we are and how we are doing, providing that service in personal life that a free press does in a functioning society. Inequality creates liars and delusion. The powerless need to dissemble—that’s how slaves, servants, and women got the reputation of being liars—and the powerful grow stupid on the lies they require from their subordinates and on the lack of need to know about others who are nobody, who don’t count, who’ve been silenced or trained to please. This is why I always pair privilege with obliviousness; obliviousness is privilege’s form of deprivation. When you don’t hear others, you don’t imagine them, they become unreal, and you are left in the wasteland of a world with only yourself in it, and that surely makes you starving, though you know not for what, if you have ceased to imagine others exist in any true deep way that matters. This is about a need for which we hardly have language or at least not a familiar conversation.

A man who wished to become the most powerful man in the world, and by happenstance and intervention and a series of disasters was granted his wish. Surely he must have imagined that more power meant more flattery, a grander image, a greater hall of mirrors reflecting back his magnificence. But he misunderstood power and prominence. This man had bullied friends and acquaintances, wives and servants, and he bullied facts and truths, insistent that he was more than they were, than it is, that it too must yield to his will. It did not, but the people he bullied pretended that it did. Or perhaps it was that he was a salesman, throwing out one pitch after another, abandoning each one as soon as it left his mouth. A hungry ghost always wants the next thing, not the last thing.

This one imagined that the power would repose within him and make him great, a Midas touch that would turn all to gold. But the power of the presidency was what it had always been: a system of cooperative relationships, a power that rested on people’s willingness to carry out the orders the president gave, and a willingness that came from that president’s respect for rule of law, truth, and the people. A man who gives an order that is not followed has his powerlessness hung out like dirty laundry. One day earlier this year, one of this president’s minions announced that the president’s power would not be questioned. There are tyrants who might utter such a statement and strike fear into those beneath him, because they have installed enough fear.

A true tyrant does not depend on cooperative power but has a true power of command, enforced by thugs, goons, Stasi, the SS, or death squads. A true tyrant has subordinated the system of government and made it loyal to himself rather than to the system of laws or the ideals of the country. This would-be tyrant didn’t understand that he was in a system where many in government, perhaps most beyond the members of his party in the legislative branch, were loyal to law and principle and not to him. His minion announced the president would not be questioned, and we laughed. He called in, like courtiers, the heads of the FBI, of the NSA, and the director of national intelligence to tell them to suppress evidence, to stop investigations and found that their loyalty was not to him. He found out to his chagrin that we were still something of a democracy, and that the free press could not be so easily stopped, and the public itself refused to be cowed and mocks him earnestly at every turn.

A true tyrant sits beyond the sea in Pushkin’s country. He corrupts elections in his country, eliminates his enemies with bullets, poisons, with mysterious deaths made to look like accidents—he spread fear and bullied the truth successfully, strategically. Though he too had overreached with his intrusions into the American election, and what he had hoped would be invisible caused the whole world to scrutinize him and his actions and history and impact with concern and even fury. Russia may have ruined whatever standing and trust it has, may have exposed itself, with this intervention in the US and then European elections.

The American buffoon’s commands were disobeyed, his secrets leaked at such a rate his office resembled the fountains at Versailles or maybe just a sieve (this spring there was an extraordinary piece in the Washington Post with thirty anonymous sources), his agenda was undermined even by a minority party that was not supposed to have much in the way of power, the judiciary kept suspending his executive orders, and scandals erupted like boils and sores. Instead of the dictator of the little demimondes of beauty pageants, casinos, luxury condominiums, fake universities offering fake educations with real debt, fake reality tv in which he was master of the fake fate of others, an arbiter of all worth and meaning, he became fortune’s fool.

He is, as of this writing, the most mocked man in the world. After the women’s march on January 21st, people joked that he had been rejected by more women in one day than any man in history; he was mocked in newspapers, on television, in cartoons, was the butt of a million jokes, and his every tweet was instantly met with an onslaught of attacks and insults by ordinary citizens gleeful to be able to speak sharp truth to bloated power….

…The man in the white house sits, naked and obscene, a pustule of ego, in the harsh light, a man whose grasp exceeded his understanding, because his understanding was dulled by indulgence. He must know somewhere below the surface he skates on that he has destroyed his image, and like Dorian Gray before him, will be devoured by his own corrosion in due time too. One way or another this will kill him, though he may drag down millions with him. One way or another, he knows he has stepped off a cliff, pronounced himself king of the air, and is in freefall. Another dungheap awaits his landing; the dung is all his; when he plunges into it he will be, at last, a self-made man.

Democracy Day : 5 Minutes of Democracy

Free Speech Zone POLITICAL BUTTONToday is Democracy Day, mandated by a people’s resolution to Toledo City Council, spearheaded by Toledo Move To Amend, declaring that corporations are not people and money is not free speech.  Today’s forum in Toledo City Council chambers, albeit with only a small fraction of City Council members, gave voice to a sampling of Toledo’s own citizens.  Here is the satirical testimony that I delivered for my five sacred minutes:

Five Minutes of Democracy

Greetings rulers and subjects, the subject today is democracy.  My name is Dan Rutt.  Though, I am considering selling my naming rights to either Jeep or ProMedica, because seriously, who is Dan Rutt?!  Don't Explain Your Philosophy, Embody It POLITICAL BUTTONAnd, unfortunately, a shadowy group of local lobbyists secured the rights to “Krogering.”  So expect plenty more “Krogering”…but not from me.

Of course, plenty of naming rights are still in play.  In deference to those from that progressive demographic who love hyphenated names I might prefer selling my naming rights to Davis-Besse.  Plus, I could get a bonus for catering to the regional governance and nuclear family demographics.  But alas, Davis-Besse may very well be decommissioned.  Apparently, that whole “too cheap to meter” thing turned out to be a lie, after all these decades.  And in this era of tight budgets, there is only enough political capital to afford one last billion dollar bailout to bury this mistake.  But sleep tight fellow citizens and helpless ratepayers!  Rest assured that there will be a special glow for you and a thousand generations from the heart of this beloved nuclear reactor…But I digress…keep your eye on…well…pretty much anything else.

Welcome to Democracy Day — presided over by the finest government money can buy.  Of course, our fine government might be different than those “other” governments.  Today, I am asking that we keep an open mind that our government might not actually be the best that money can buy.

Democracy: Some Assembly Required - POLITICAL BUTTONSo, what does democracy look like?  I have a long view of democracy, that looks something like making decisions based on how it affects people seven generations from now, that noble concept brought to us by fine native peoples who we so conveniently committed genocide against to occupy this land.  But I have been charged to ask “What does five minutes of democracy look like?”  This brief view is something more of a commercial.  So, if any of you need to go to the bathroom or need a snack, now would be a good time for that.

Besides dreaming of bigger cages and longer chains, I have three proposals:

Proposal 1:  I am asking City Council to commission a study to determine how much money it would take to get money out of politics.

Might I suggest a consultant that is not too cheap, so as to appear unworthy of listening to, or a consultant that is too pricey, so as to appear extravagant.

What do we want?  Another study.  When do we want it?  When we can afford it.

Frankly, I am much more interested in the stuff we can’t afford not to do.

My second proposal is to establish a democracy museum, to preserve whatever vestiges of democracy that remain.  This could be a public-private partnership that would reflect the share of democracy that is controlled by the public and private sectors, say 10% public and 90% private.  To honor the vital 10% of democracy that is publicly controlled, we could have that reflected in the naming rights, which, of course, are necessary to fund such ventures.  For instance, we would not have the 5/3 Democracy Museum, but rather the 4.5/3 Democracy Museum to preserve that sacred public trust.

Democracy: Some Assembly Required--POLITICAL BUTTONThis democracy museum could offer many opportunities to safeguard our notion of democracy.  For instance, we could preserve uncounted provisional ballots, for the posterity that they are worth.  We could display the many rubber stamps used to approve the corporatist agenda.

Being the Glass City, I’d suggest another glass museum.  But, while we may be able to afford to do the same thing over and over again, I suspect that “democracy” might not be able to afford the transparency of a glass museum.  Either way, we should have lots of windows to accommodate all of those beloved window dressings of which our politicians are so fond.

Well, you get the picture…well, OK, in museums you can’t get the actual picture.  But…I trust that there will be a reasonable facsimile available for sale in the gift shop.  And remember, there are only 365 shopping days until next democracy day.  But be patient, very patient in this sick political system.

Oh victims of oligarchy, be patient, I have come to save the day!

Oh victims of corporatocracy, be patient, I have come to save the day!

Oh victims of plutocracy, be patient, I have come to save the day!

Oh victims of kleptocracy, be patient I have come to save the day!

I have come to save the day, I have come to save the day!

Buy saving this day, democracy day, each year for 365 years, we will have saved up enough democracy for a democracy year.  So, based on these patient patients of a sick political system, I offer my third proposal.  I ask City Council, to declare the year 2382, 365 years from now, as democracy year.  Surely, such completely incredible long-term vision will not go unrewarded!

Washington And Wall Street Have All The Money And Power, The Media, The Courts And The Police -- All We Have is 300 Million People -- Do The Math POLITICAL BUTTONBut alas, if there are any spare seconds from my five minutes of democracy, I could ask for a moment of silence, remembering that we have the right to be silent.  But, while we have the right to remain silent, I wouldn’t recommend it.  So, in that mean time, while we wait for our rulers to rule well, let us never forget: We are what democracy looks like  — an assembly of real people, not corporate “persons”.  Power to the people.  Power to real people. THANK YOU!

Exercise the First Amendment - Use It or Lose It - POLITICAL BUTTON

POEM: Trash Talk

God is culpable
Of more than you can
Imagine
Your momma
Fodder unknown
Know Job
A dyslexic dog
Dissembling I’m OK, you’re KO
Unsporting
A boxer of tiny portions
And don’t get me
Going
On
That big, ugly, unmentionable cistern
You don’t no
Jacked up
As if
To win some race
In venting
All ready
Only hopping
To swear out
You’re welcome
Err flailing
Too give a peace of your mind
Brain dishing a bad as gratitude
For feigning
As mite be Abel
To kick the biggest brass of awe
At the Guardin’ of
Eatin’
Up The Big Apple™
Arboring a grudge
Match
To the hole place
As having conned him
Impotent
As a rubber
Ball
A real bouncer
Off me
Sticking it to you
How in
Sensitive too
The sores of your being
So stoned phase
Tow to tow
As without
A life less stand
Erect it awe
Wanting nothing
Except falling silent
As is
Sow miss taking
Not wresting
Till you
Accede
Punch drunk
Or even wurst
Bared neck deep
Be forgoing your sole
At the bottom of the wring
Floored affront a missive audience
Still
He lives
Fore this dream
In this verbal spar for the coarse
And dumb struck in aptitude
For all else remains
Stairing him down
Forever helled
In his hands dealt
Before any anti-up
Down with that
In a blink if an I
Never the first to given
To a choir
Such hush
Money
In a life unfare
And projecting big
However mum
However long
Too menned
As fraud eons lip
Silently psyching out
As sum unspeakable whore
With a price honor head
As taller rating a lowly art
In sending some alpha mail
Those sacred techs
And incipient twitter
Having never
Really metaphor
Sow allusive
To sum
At best semi-for
Better off
The mirrorly suggestive
Un-intimated by ancient versus
And ode records
An old man in a Jung man’s game
As if
Some ark-type
A pare before them
Where only won is going down
A know lose proposition
What madder
Is an other
Head swimming
As taut from the bottom up
As must be
Know one
Hear
Knot fallen
For that agin
And in
The tacit turn
Of events
Awe is ink or hear it
Or in mortality by a million bytes
Or the numb-er of hits
And what can won do
As trash talk
The next best thing
Too silence
And bring a bout
As know more
A self-maid man
Having a fuel
Fore a maker
As surly as
A chicken before egged on
A can o’ bull
As self effacing
Is only fare
In the whirled heavy wait
Division
Of those in the arena
Where countless I’s are fixed
On good byes
As behind
They’re back
To the wall
Outside on the billing
The name on the mark he
Can
But don’t halve two
In the singular
Word

This long poetry slam offers an energetic and frenetic take on the modern, secular resistance to our metaphysical nature.  A Conclusion Is The Place Where You Got Tired Of Thinking SPIRITUAL BUTTONThis poem employs the metaphor of a boxer trash talking his opponent before the big match, a grudge match: pure physics and impure metaphysics.  This poem intentionally juxtaposes in-your-face physicality, profane language and plenty of attitude with the stereotypically staid and academic stance of philosophical discourse and theological erudition.  This poem mocks the scorn often evident on both sides of the theism-atheism, materialist-metaphysical debate, that fracas awe, aka the no master versus the master debates.  Don't let your victories go to your head, or your failures go to your heart. SPIRITUAL BUTTONMy love of parodies reflects a sense of lightheartedness in a chord with the soul and doing a body good.  For the main event, we all love a parity of parodies.  There is little satisfaction in a blowout.  There is a nagging root for the underdog — whoever that, may be.  What ever weigh, the show goes on.  And the truth lies somewhere between showing up and showing up.

POEM: Hell In A Handbasket

I would rather live…
In a trailer
That proverbial mobile homme
Seeing stars when roofs are razed
And nothing but realty at my back
As awe of creation is present
As I am
Looked down upon
Wading patiently fore that noonday star
When every real Job calls it a day
…Than exist
In a fool length feature
That mansion of a handbasket
With mirror interior decorating
Magnificent all the same
In funhouse pleasures
Overlooking up
In efface of the bottom of men’s soles
Knowing not what frees us

Foolishness and wisdom look different and produce different results.  Better to have a life well spent than merely saved.  Conventional wisdom often mistakes comfort for happiness, a grand foolishness.  High success and high status are virtually indistinguishable.  As the addled adage goes: winning is everything.  Wise souls are far too ardent and awe encompassing to abide only within the rules defined by one culture and one generation, one place and time.  Faith Trumps Skepticism PEACE BUTTONWisdom is necessarily counterculture, precisely because it seeks to move that culture, any culture, to a greater wisdom.  Acting within such a greater wisdom, not yet carrying the day, perhaps even amid night, often appears foolish.  Acting “as if” something is true is an existential conundrum we all face if we want to be more than what we are now, if we want the world and the rules by which it acts to be more than what they are at any given time.  Suspending disbelief is part and parcel for acting to perform its human artistry, and all of the world is a stage.  There are great truths in stories that never happened.  There are great truths in lives whose stories are bigger than one soul can live.  Faith is taking the first step, even when you don't see the whole staircase. MLK QUOTE BUTTONAbout now, the postmodern brain must choose between serving only that within its reach or venturing to awe that the heart compasses.  Fools are conventionally portrayed as having an addled brain, which is infinitely better than having an addled heart.  This poem compares wholehearted living with merely existing — whatever the sum of our daze.  A willingness to be viewed as a fool by the conventionally wise may very well be the difference between heaven and hell.  Fools invite others into a better possible world, however improbable, not a theater of the absurd.  Typically, others are busy doing something else, absurdly similar to those around them.

In contemporary times, live theater has largely been replaced by movies [dead theater?].  This poem compares living, in a movie trailer, to merely existing “In a fool length feature.”  And as we all know, movie trailers are quite reliably better than the full-length feature.

FAITH is greater than FEAR SPIRITUAL BUTTONOne of the great dramas on life’s sufferings, unfulfilled longings, and doubt versus suspending disbelief is the story of Job in the Bible.  As the ever-hopeful person that I am, I was reminded of Job 11:17 “Life will be brighter than noonday, and darkness will become like morning.”  Such poetry!  Here is the whole chapter, as the lineup of doubters mock Job’s enduring faith:

Are all these words to go unanswered?
   Is this talker to be vindicated?
Will your idle talk reduce others to silence?
   Will no one rebuke you when you mock?
You say to God, ‘My beliefs are flawless
   and I am pure in your sight.’
Oh, how I wish that God would speak,
   that he would open his lips against you
and disclose to you the secrets of wisdom,
   for true wisdom has two sides.
   Know this: God has even forgotten some of your sin.
Can you fathom the mysteries of God?
   Can you probe the limits of the Almighty?
They are higher than the heavens above — what can you do?
   They are deeper than the depths below — what can you know?
Their measure is longer than the earth
   and wider than the sea.
If he comes along and confines you in prison
   and convenes a court, who can oppose him?
Surely he recognizes deceivers;
   and when he sees evil, does he not take note?
But the witless can no more become wise
   than a wild donkey’s colt can be born tame.
Yet if you devote your heart to him
   and stretch out your hands to him,
if you put away the sin that is in your handYou will not enter paradise until you have faith, and you will not complete your faith until you love one another. Muhammad quote PEACE BUTTON
   and allow no evil to dwell in your tent,
then, free of fault, you will lift up your face;
   you will stand firm and without fear.
You will surely forget your trouble,
   recalling it only as waters gone by.
Life will be brighter than noonday,
   and darkness will become like morning.
You will be secure, because there is hope;
   you will look about you and take your rest in safety.
You will lie down, with no one to make you afraid,
   and many will court your favor.
But the eyes of the wicked will fail,
   and escape will elude them;
   their hope will become a dying gasp.

May we awe find, life during whatever daze might be present.

Friendly Rant: Voting FOR Jill Stein NOT Wielding “Privilege”

Oddly, with the presidential candidates from the two dominant and domineering political parties setting new records for low approval, voting for anyone else is met with bafflingly high contempt.  My friend, local activist, and Green Party Jill Stein supporter, Shannon Frye, nailed it with this recent facebook post:

Facebook friends, I don’t think I’ve been shy expressing my views on our current election cycle, but I have tried very hard to remain respectful of the decisions you might make when you step into the ballot box. Even if we have sparred, I have still maintained your ability to elect the candidate of your choice. Know that this prerogative is not born of some feigned Victorian politeness, but rather out of desire to see each of you better articulate your realpolitik and claim your stake in the building of a better future for us all.

That being said, I have not, nor will I ever, tolerate the erasure of my person, my experiences or my conviction in order to capitulate to terror, be it tangible or intangible. I will not bend my moral arc in order that you may rest easy. And if you attack my position based on any difference between us under the false assertion that in that difference lies weakness, I will turn your blunt argument into a pointy reckoning.

One such example lies below. A person, who shall henceforth be known as Mr. Charlie, asserted on Jill Stein’s Dank Meme Stash that white privilege was the driver behind her surge in popularity and would be thusly responsible should Drumpf win the presidency. He erroneously held that the Green Party was the enemy, luring POCs, LGBTQ people and the socioeconomically disadvantaged away from their true salvation, Hillary Clinton.

I lost my cool…

“Mr. Charlie, what particular variety of White Savior Complex do you suffer from to make such an ignorant and ill-informed statement?

I am a queer feminist of color and I fully endorse Jill Stein for president precisely because self-righteous idealogues like yourself have absolutely no clue as to the remedy my people desperately need in order to set in motion our uplift.

It boggles my mind how the ONLY political party willing to stand up for racial, gender, socioeconomic and environmental justice has been so maligned by white neoliberalism under the supposed banner of care. How dare you attempt to whitewash the contributions of Green POCs motivated by the grassroots organizing and solution-oriented policies that would bring us into a new era of justice based not on our social capital – of which we have very little – but upon the mettle of our conviction?

You are speaking from a place of fear. Fear of a mango-faced minstrel who shouts deplorable things. Fear of an imagined confrontation with the rage born of over 400 years of oppression reigning. Fear of losing the mask of white indignation that threatens to reveal the fragility of your baseless, store-bought identity. Fear that causes a paralysis of logic and compassion. Fear.

On the social justice platform alone I’d vote Green for life.

The Green Party advocates for the continual challenging of racism, sexism, Homo/bi/transphobia, ableism, ageism, classism and religious persecution. The DNC has at no point in this election cycle or in its history committed itself to fighting inequality on every front in the manner in which the Green Party has fearlessly undertaken. What we, the underrepresented and oft voiceless, have instead received is a piecemeal equality, which is no equality at all. Hillary Clinton and the current incarnation of the DNC has done nothing but pay lip service to creating a level playing field. Clinton’s support for her husband’s 1996 Crime Bill, which contributed to the largest surge in prison populations since the Reagan Administration , has done nothing but ensure the institutionalization and disenfranchisement of scores of POCs – this did us no favor. Clinton’s silence during her tenure as senator amid the growing body of research that proved the inherent bias and disparate impact of stop-and-frisk police tactics on communities of color perfectly ensconced her ambivalence toward the further destruction of the Black and Latinx family. Had she desired more than the occasional Harlem photo op, she would have used her considerable privilege in service to the people she so shamelessly panders to every few years.

On the subject of LGBTQ people, Clinton supported the Defense of Marriage Act and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell as First Lady; as a senator, Clinton could have been the alky she pretends to be and challenged her fellow New Yorkers to expand their definition of marriage, or at least advocate for the inclusion of domestic partnerships in benefit programs for state employees. She didn’t do this. In fact, as recently as April 2013, Clinton went onto CNN with Wolf Blitzer to assert her belief that marriage was an institution between a man and a woman; she didn’t throw her support behind marriage equality until the conclusion of several SCOTUS cases were completely forgone.

As for sexism, which the Clinton campaign loves to cry each time a reasonable critique of her ability to govern justly occurs, there is no better political organization than the Greens to address the systemic oppression of women in the US and beyond. Why would I support a white feminism that capitalizes on the rape of our natural resources, a gross, self-indulgent imposition of Western cultural norms across the globe, and the plundering of our social security net budget in order to fund an imperialist military force that does nothing but wreak havoc in Black and Brown nations in service not to democracy or liberation, but rather in service the corporate master class? Either your feminism is intersectional or its shit: And straight up, if you’re running for office and posturing aggressively against 2 nuclear powers and continuing to take money from and politically ally yourself with nations we know have direct ties to ISIS, then you are not a feminist.

Mr. Charlie, have you any idea what war DOES to women?

1. It kills the civilian population, namely women and children

2. War increases the aggressive violence against women: gang rape, genital mutilation & forced childbirth are all methods used by occupying forces to demoralize a people .

3. War restricts women’s freedom of movement: women, who wind up bearing the burden of being the sole provider for their families and often are hindered by curfews and checkpoints from gaining access to food, medicine, work opportunities and building effective social supports.

4. War forces civilian populations to flee from their homes: this displacement causes refugee surges all over the world, which only seems to respond with more aggression to those already traumatized. For the unwelcome refugee, war continues, as their labor and sexuality are often exploited due to lack of legal protections. Yes, war is a huge contributor to sex trafficking and modern human slavery.

6. War and imperialistic culture prioritizes weaponry over human services:The war machine makes victims all around. Me? I’ve gotten kicked off of Medicaid 4 times this year. But at least our military can afford to bomb the hell out of brown people in 7 nations right now.

As a feminist, I have no country. As a feminist, I want no country. As a feminist, my country is the world and I will do everything in my power to protect her. My question is, how can any woman look at Clinton’s trigger happy approach to foreign policy, her dogged pursuit of profit over the safety and well-being of our planet, and the furtherance of the destabilization of the 3rd world and actually vote to keep it going?

So again I ask, who in this conversation is wielding privilege? Certainly not my brothers and sisters in Green, who care enough about me and my continued existence to vote for the one candidate, the one party, that could help free me from this state of perpetual subjugation. Surely not Dr. Stein, whose mettle has been tested time and again and stills shines brilliantly, compassionately and with the strength of truth on her side. Surely it is not me.

Must be you.

Now take several seats, STFU, and let the grown folks discuss strategy. Your petty semantic games and sanctimonious neoliberal lies will not stop our revolution or my liberation.”

THIS.  Enough said.

POLITICAL POEM: Pick You’re Genocide

Pick
You’re genocide
Won side or the other
Gun to head
Ahead to gun
Aliens pervade our atmosphere
As whirled wore thee
Restless natives no so slight
Wear homieland security rules
Redcoats and bluecoats
Everyday cover ups
Of fuzz overruling
Wile privates everywhere
As wee divine
A bomb in nation
Knot our own
As they get
Our scapegoat
As if too give
Pour excuses
Tired pleas
And huddled asses
Wretchedly refuse
Their teaming shore
Up walls
In efface of stranger contentions
Reproving those
Fresh off the bout
Or slaves too buy gone ways
The wiled West
And marshal law
For sum of the people
OK, corral most of the people
Distantly droning on
Pining a bout boots on the ground
As pay no tension to boots on the neck
Of silenced know bodies
Fueled into thinking
It’s awe we Cain do
As we might be Abel
Too win with a faction of the vote
Seduced by sects
Of phallus choices
And foe alternatives

This poem sticks to my recent theme of radical change needed to the U.S. electoral system posing as democracy.  More specifically, the national or federal elections system needs a complete overhaul.  Ranked choice voting would be revolutionary.  We the people should end money as free speech, with its tsunami of money from the rich and corporate “persons” overwhelming voters and voters’ choice of candidates. The electoral college should graduate finally to something else.  An actual representative congress, akin to many European parliaments, would better assure diversity and fuel true coalition building rather than simple domination of one party over the other.  Still, this poems strikes a deeper and immediate chord.  Voters could benefit much in the long run by refusing to negotiate with terrorists.  The two-party duopoly holds voters hostage to lethal choices for the planet and humanity.  Believe it or not, billions of non-voters around the planet have a stake in the health of American empire — that stake is often through their heart!  Plus, the growing internal inequalities and ghettoizing of America could use some serious care and attention.  It’s time to demand freedom to choose sustainable, life-compatible candidates and political parties.  More directly, voters could exercise power more productively by demonstrating such freedom rather than simply wishing for freedom to be granted to them from above by the powers that be.  How many cycles of abuse do we the people need to endure to muster the courage and fortitude to demand nothing less than fair elections and candidates that both represent and are responsive to the people?  Corporate persons selecting corporate candidates is unacceptable.  But, alas, we teach people how to treat us.  Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you've found out the exact measure of injustice which will be imposed on them. Frederick DouglassAs Frederick Douglass so shrewdly pointed out, “Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you’ve found out the exact measure of injustice which will be imposed on them.”  Actually, the powers that be don’t really mind if we put on a good show with whiny grievances or articulate analyses, as long as we don’t change our behavior.  In this context, that means our voting behavior and the long, disciplined work of non-electoral political action.  Change takes time.  Healthy behaviors often take years, decades, sometimes generations, to manifest themselves visibly in the body politic.  If we don’t have the patience, the fortitude, the vision, and the faith that we CAN do better, then we will end up with the same old crap over and over again.  This crap may have improved packaging.  This crap may contain 25% more crap.  Butt, in the end, if we take it, it is ours — all for the price of a mortgaged future!  May we vote without fear.  May we vote FOR love.  May we vote with a hope that transcends tried and true naive optimism of the same-old, same-old delivering the same-old, same-old.  Let’s make it so.

POEM: Sew Much Silence

Sew much silence
And not enough
Ears
To take it in
Awe that seams
Unspoken 

Just got back from a Nonviolent Communication group session with the topic of “Receiving Empathically.”  Such active listening to ourselves, other people, and, on a good day, a higher power, seams sow healing in a whirled with sow much looming trouble.  I wrote this poem as one of 13 short poems delivered by my muse in the middle of a singular night, wearing silence, and nothing ails.  Enjoy!

POEM: Awe Due Consideration

What is good
A bout religion
At best
There is little to say
Giving a fare hearing
More about listening
Too small
Still voices
Respecting only what due
Saving
A few choice words
For those empower
Occupying humanity
Only in sow far
As won for all
Quiet an undertaking
As ambitious silence
And ponderous a void
That vulnerable space
And venerable pace
Between word and deed
Owned by awe
Wear know thinking
Aloud
For awe to consider

This poem is about the confounding truth that the universe of truth is quiet literally beyond words.  Words are representations, symbols of something else, which may allow us to think about something but often are poor vehicles for bringing about the direct experience to which we are referencing.  Even mathematics, considered the purist science, is mirrorly a representation of truth, not truth itself.  Even if a unified theory of mathematics and physics is elucidated, this will give mournfully flimsy assurance in the quest for an enlightened humanity and moral living in everyday life. Perhaps the most grave bias in postmodern existence is mistaking words and science, even the most erudite collections of words and symbols referred to as ideologies, theologies, or bodies of scientific knowledge, as the living truth.  I consider the most profound truths as existing directly through experience, not the recounting of experience or observations.  This is why I consider consciousness as the most fundamental aspect of reality/existence.  I won’t elaborate on that, hear.  It is no accident that I am drawn to poetry in the Siren’s song of the whirled’s parent chaos, and reverent silence in the muse’s presents.  He who does not understand your silence will probably not understand your words --Elbert Hubbard quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONI save irreverence for my words.  I prefer the metaphor as a vehicle for reflecting upon truth because it has the humble recognition that what it is trying to say is quite literally not what it is literally saying.  This poem picks on religion first and foremost, perhaps paradoxically, because its grand task is most poorly suited for words.  The phase, “shut the hell up,” comes to mine.  I am a big fan of St. Francis’ proposition, “Preach the Gospel at all times; if necessary, use words.”  This is close kin to my favorite proposition of Gandhi, “Be the change you want to see in the world.”  Both of these quotes lift up action compared to fancy erudition.  Both seek integral and centered being as the pivotal place and space for right action.  St. Francis recognized that speaking, languages of symbols, is a grand gift of humans, but that in many circumstances, a moral economy imbues greater value with scarcity.  While, awe things considered, silence may be the language of God, the awesome need to share our experiences with one another bids us to dare speak, to dare improve upon silence.

POEM: Elephants Prey: Never Forget

What too due
Reguarding
Assault weepin’s
With prey
Open season to ignore
Smack in the middle
Of the roam
Elephants
And cons of all sorts
In outraged equality
And dubious cause
As attacks increase
Their roil highness
And unquestionable ump ire
Threatening their effluence
The root for all problems
Pinned on foreigners
Or anything queer
Their phony lyin’
Their particular specious of phallus pride
The cockiness of their guise
And their hollowed pretext
A moment of silence for them
Unending silence for the wrest

Did You Hear About The Drive-By Knife Throwing Or The Bat Massacre - The Weapon Matters POLITICAL BUTTONAmerica’s future echoes in the empty silence of hollowed prayers.  Political leaders and legislators heap insult upon injury by adding saying nothing to doing nothing.  Homophobia, racism, and Islamophobia are well armed in the unregulated militia we call America.  Each mass shooting, becoming more frequent and more severe, jacks up fear on all fronts.  The hum drum of dozens and dozens of gun deaths every day carries on as a brutal norm.  That suicidal depression and alienation are gravely weaponized in a gun-packed America bears little note except, perhaps, in funeral homes.  As fear traumatizes and re-traumatizes US, perhaps the only thing truly safe is the Second Amendment — minus the “well regulated” detail, where the devil lies, and God is dammed to Hell.   How Did 'A well regulated militia' Get Twisted Too Mean 'A well-armed, unregulated populace'? POLITICAL BUTTONWon nation under regulated militias.  In the wiled west of so-called civilization, armaments may very well dissemble the cause and solution to all of our problems.  Fear and hate is the weapons caché that jacks up profits for the gun industry and lethality for the wrest of US.  Praying for the dead is fine, but let US not allow preying on the living continue.  Or, more infamously put by Mother Jones: “Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living.”

 

NRA Not Representing America POLITICAL BUTTONBan Automatic Weepings PEACE BUTTONActually, Guns Do Kill People POLITICAL BUTTON

If Gun Laws Won't Work Because Criminals Don't Follow Laws, Then Why Do We Have Laws At All? POLITICAL BUTTONGuns Are Not Pro-Life POLITICAL BUTTONIf Guns Are Outlawed Only Outlaws Will Accidentally Shoot Their Children - FUNNY POLITICAL BUTTON

Feel free to browse anti-gun violence designs.

EPIC POEM: As Night Watch Man

In the deep
Of the knight
Watch man
Finding one self prone
Where singular stars obscure
As perpetual high noon
Where time stops
Straight up
Where the sun don’t shine
Like a broken time peace
With patients in undated
Wear dreams forgotten
In their wisdom nocturnal
Giving weigh
Too dark truths
For like a sentry
Only look out
For what is best
For all won no’s
Awe that it seams
A mist their act
In side
There elementary
Recesses
Of their mine
Uniformly capped
With unforeseen foil
As dread to them all ready
With tin pan reflections
Too mirror dusky shadows
Pre-pared
Too skill or be skilled
With shattered arts
Leaving won stiff
A post to the last man
A testing to peerless mail bravado
In
A remote job
So only after ours
In defense ably doing one’s doody
Incriminating nature’s coarse
All the wile
Without looking up
Just as speculative figure
Bad
Whether who starred it
Hoodwinked by grope think
Having
Out groan
Constellation prizes
Fumbling about
On which even you Depends®
Pooh-poohing it
As a conjury of their peers
And mutual convictions
Of that right before you
A void seeing
Sow proudly dedicated
And right fully committed
To full hardy belief
Going where no won has gone before
And highly ill logic
All Klingon too
Their frayed comforters
And sheer sheet
Amor gauzy shield
As bull work
Oh posing
Things that go
Bump in the night
Or worse yet
The not so light of daze
That everlusting grind
A cannonized weigh of life
No’ing the least of all
Surrender
Taking up arms
Accept as a lust resort
As dissembling mime
A forged silence
In farcing
What might
Be pro-pounding
As juster
Buy a majority
A con-script for the wrest
Safeguarding their camp
Helter-skelter
Sounding all arm
Pitting laughable fauxs
As our enema’s enema
In fashioning new fiends
Intimating familiarity
With won’s dark side
In is culpable evil
Only knot see
The twinkle in the I’s
Of every won a mother
Slumbering a bout
So far aweigh
To be
Raptured
In that stare way to heaven
Untold stories a way
Of what might raze
The dead of knight
And shrouded rays
Pre-veil over such pricks
In mortal pitch
And feather light
That mother flicker
Projecting the torch erratum
Flying that beacon
In witch
Our enemies
Cannot consume
What hell’s at stake
Ill luminated by fires bellow
However super intending
Divine assent read
The wholly smother
Jilted by pin holes of darkness
And heads as dead wringers
What’s under the desert
More gripping
Than hearts bared
And glistening from above
Calling out
Too arms
And a pare of feat
Swearing evolution
As erect brothers
Punctuate posterity
In memorial
Just ahead stone
As others lie
In truth
As plane to sea
What would work
To out fit
Such titanic under-takings
Of what still
Remains
To be
Seeing
Putting on the crowning touché
To a juggernaut of nods
Assure as the cock crows
Mourning will come
Graveyard shifts end
At the brake of daze
To the relief of fodders and mothers
And in the wake of the moment
We will score the skinny
That rarefied crack
In lightening this orchestral ball
Dawning upon him
A most well come vocation
Know more job
As the reel work begins
As fissures of men
Bring us to reguard
Catching ourselves
As part of each wholly lessen
A mist every calumny nation
As in deep
The knight made a parent
Calls it
A day

This epic poem, in both length and theme, plays within the abyss of skepticism and bids a certain openness prerequisite to fully experiencing mystery often hidden in the shadowy places of the heart.  Spiritual discernment can peer as but a pin prick in a dark and distant heaven, or it can peer as a guiding star, even blazing sun.  In your life as a spiritual being, may you find guiding stars in the deepest, darkest nights, and blazing suns purifying you with fire during your high noons.

POEM: To Be Read Or Not

Her life was written
In the margins
Tolled in fine print
Subject to lexicons
Beyond apprehension
Not adorned by elegant types
Or gaudy cursive
In fancy addresses
Wear truth is stranger then fiction
More than won could possibly ink
Never the lass, a worthy tale
At any rate, without prints charming
Repulsed by such false hood
A version true
To the hands she was dealt
Never to be red
Bye patron eyes
Perhaps only to be recalled
By awe that made her
More than quiet right
Or left
To live free how
Ever out of bounds

This poem is a story about a woman whose life cannot be captured by any conventional telling, dominant customs, nor any mere man.  got feminism? political buttonThis poem is a testament to women’s tenacious endurance, creative expression, grounded sensibilities, unequaled solidarity, authentic presence, and bold healing they bring to the world.  She centers an off-kilter world in unremitting celebrations of life. Still, my words can only fail in awe of the sacred silence from which she speaks. May my shutting up be an honorable beginning.

Man who says it cannot be done should not interrupt woman doing it. SPIRITUAL BUTTON

POEM: Howie Tried And True

Too fine
The word
That was lust to him
As a gossamer knight he
Oh Howie tried
And true
Enough
Wading in silence
Only to peer
Parently from know wear
To meat
His every knead
Too fine
Word
Maid flesh

This is a poem about the role of the muse in writing poetry.  On occasion, I exclaim, “Where does it come from?!”  This is an indirect compliment to awe that the muse does, plus a certain humility on my part for feeling unable to take credit for awe of my work. For me, the creative process often includes the experience of both peak concentration and seeing something come from seemingly out of nowhere, no place for which I can give adequate account or testimony, except perhaps in a completed work.  The creative process often entails both intense flow and an irresistible beguiling that on occasion may be mistaken for work.  There have been more than a few times that I have been gloriously exasperated by the joyful wear of a relentless muse, for which I can only gleefully apologize.  This poem employs a sexual metaphor to better reveal the palpability of the artist-muse relationship.  Also, this poem climaxes with perhaps the most profound aspect of religious theology: incarnation, spirit imbuing flesh.  In Christian sacred text, this is referred to as “The Word became flesh,” from John 1:14.  That which is most ethereal — God, life, light — becomes that which is most palpable to humans on earth.  These juxtaposed metaphors are similar to my description of writing poetry as the head and heart making love — which makes me simile.  May your life be overflowing as your ineffable spirit is enfleshed in this world.

POEM: 24/7 on I-75 — Owed To Trafficking Noise

24/7 on I-75
Only herd
In the mourning
Quiet scarce
With the engines of freedom
Racing vicious cycles
In know way asking, “who cars?”
As you whirr
The buzz of the high way
The humdrum of civilization
The muffled rumble of capitalism
Consumerism trucking along
For what too commute
A bird’s eye spew
Of see oh too
Few
Know reason
Fore petroleum free way

This poem blends the high octane themes of noise pollution and petroleum pollution.  I typically notice the rumble of traffic in the morning as I am waking up and lying in bed.  This reminds me that silence really doesn’t exist in urban settings; we just tune out background noises during the busyness of our daze.  Passing my one-year anniversary without a car, I find automobiles and traffic increasingly alien to my preferred modes of being.  Someday, I hope to live some place where deep silence is easily accessible.  I suspect that the leisurely whispers of God may be best designed and intended for lovers of silence.  As it stands, the earth seems more populated by riotous dudes.   May you find the silent spaces in your life full, filling.

POEM: Gift Hoarse

The dumb bell rang
As he looked
The present
Like a gift horse in the mouth
And in every witch way
Reckon as knot so fine
Looking forward and backward
Of what might be
Only seconds
As has been
A head and behind
And in know time
Looking down
The apple of his eye
Given in digestion
And looking up
The wrong end
As scene through faulty means
Only now
As passed tense
Or posterity perfected
As dumb founded

This poem is about living in the present, the eternal now.  Like they say: if you have one foot in the past and one foot in the future, you’ll crap on today.  In this poem, it happens by looking up the wrong end of a gift horse.  That was Zen - This is Tao - FUNNY SPIRITUAL BUTTONMany moral lessons are more easily grasped as cautionary tales, rather than straightforward instructions on wise weighs.  This paradox linking foolish and wise is elicited by the first and last lines of this poem, which, not surprisingly, employ puns to say two opposite meanings in a singular phrase.  The opening line, “The dumb bell rang,” signals both complete uselessness, a bell that cannot ring, and a call to silence, as a way to better experience the present.  The last line, “As dumb founded,” wraps up with the twin perplexity and wonder of realizing that silence can offer a quality of experience that will only be degraded by the static of past thoughts and/or the noise of unrealized futures.  May you find yourself, completely, in the present, that is your gift right now.

POEM: Sea of Love

I was lost
In a sea of love
Only to find my way back
To this world
Look in my eyes and sea
All that I have
For you

Love is a vast place; one of those places where you can recharge your soul or simply folic in joy.  Love has an otherworldly quality to it.  Not too surprising, if God is love.  Love is a poor respecter of man-made conventions, known to turn conventional wisdom upside down.  The weighs of love are not easily subject to human calculation or even put in words, especially for prose.  This short poem alludes to this ineffability by its being made known through the eyes, the windows to the soul.  Love is not prone to half-ass measures, offering All that I have as the only proper homage to love’s nature.  While the experience of love is difficult to quantify or put into words, its nature is to share itself with another.  May you love find you and the eyes have it.

The theme of this poem reminds me of another short poem of mine:

Divine Lover

One day
I asked God
What is it all about?
There was only silence
But with the look he gave me
We’ve been lovers
Ever since

 

POEM: Slow Mo’ Bettor Blues

Is it awe
A gambol
Sometimes you git
Their faster
In slow motion
More rarefied
Then a tortoise and its hair
Relegated to children
Of God
Knowing nothing
In the phase of fabled
Head weigh
Breeding like
Rabbits
Countering undeniable cullings
Sow cruel
Hour nature spurning perpetuity
As if
Life is
Allegory mess
And too the victors
Come the spoileds
Certifiable
That the hole
Whirled
Plodding against them
Wading for ascendancy
As not see
Wee are just
Critters in the for us
Peering as equals
On the wrong aside
Of hasty formulas
And breakneck algorithms
As mirrorly xenophobic creeps
Seeing what
Formerly cannot be
Seeing
And hearing what
In the passed
Was beyond what was winced imagined
And in deed
Awe
The more
As silence speaks
Volumes
To those slow enough
To listen

This poem is an ode to the adage that sometimes you get there faster in slow motion.  It is a sad lot who careen through life hanging on to the notion that you succeed by getting there faster than the next guy — and yes, it’s usually a guy.  As Gandhi so aptly noted, “There is more to life than increasing its speed.”

Speed is close kin to efficiency, that typically impersonal and depersonalizing practice that produces alienation with grate efficiency.  Modern, capitalistic, consumer culture cons us into trading manufactured goods for the perennial goods understood and revered by most cultures through most of human history.  Xenophobic nationalism icons us into perpetual war.  You can’t buy authentic, healthy human relationships.  Alienation from our own human nature and one another arise from buying the better part of employees lives and buying off minions and masses to bolster won’s usurious interests.  Earning friendship and offering radical hospitality to all has little kin to urning enemies and sending radicals to the hospital.

Overrunning natural boundaries is almost the definition of modern civilization.  There are natural processes that can only be ignored at one’s own peril.  Things take time.  If we don’t take time, then things will take us.  Buy weigh of example, baking a loaf of bread or growing a seedling takes a certain amount of time and follows a distinct order.  Baking a loaf of bread by only letting it rise half the time or baking it at twice the temperature does not result in either a speedier or even satisfactory outcome.  The final state of a seedling is more related to the nature of the seed than even the earth in which it is planted.  A seed may die prematurely, but a tomato seed will never grow into a rose bush.  Western civilization seems in deep denial about a natural pace of human life or a prudent ordering of manufactured goods over perennial goods.  SLAVERY Is The Legal Fiction That A Person Is Property - CORPORATE PERSONHOOD Is The Legal Fiction That Property Is A Person POLITICAL BUTTONPerhaps the most illustrious example of this is our equating, or even favoring, corporate persons over actual human persons.  When things are of equal or greater importance than people then the sphere of human life will be locked into the equivalent of a flat earthers worldview, or worse yet, relegated to subterranean living, with social sanctions for humanity raising its beautiful head.

Deeply listening and keenly observing are hallmarks of both the material sciences and the spiritual sciences.  Such noble ventures, discovering truths about the natural world and human nature, take both time as well as respect for the guidance of the accumulated wisdom of the ages.  Silence itself is considered by many as the language of God, reality experienced directly and unmediated by the handicaps of human language.  Words will always fail to completely embody such experience.  Material sciences have the advantage of studying a sum-what less-elusive “dead” world of things and impersonal (objective) forces.  Spiritual sciences aren’t sow lucky, tempting to elucidate the nature of humans (subjective) and even more daring to mumble of God (Subjective, with a capital S), that most precarious of places, where awe may be said and knot holy done.

May you find a pace of life that gives you a supple foundation for participating fully in the perennial goods of humanity and the awesome world in which we live.

This poem’s title includes a reference to mo’ better, a slang term for making passionate love to the point of exhaustion with someone who wants you as badly as you want them.  Of course, the better is transformed to the pun bettor to allude to the precarious reality that passionate love for another person, a loving creation, or loving God, will entail risks that the risk managers will most certainly recommend that you manage.  Perhaps the only mortal sin in postmodern existence is to be out of control — as if we are in control of much anyway!  Are you willing to bet on the seductiveness and elusiveness of love, to live a life beyond others’ sensibility of control?

May you find loving passions that spill out uncontrollably over the whole world.  And as in any great lovemaking, may it be long and slow…