Mourning is hear
The bell tolls fore thee
Here is another Monday mourning poem for all who may be ambivalent or outright hate their work, particularly the screeching violence of an unwelcome alarm clock. The division of time into precise compartments is a relatively new phenomenon in human history and human experience. The rise of the clock as an often stress-inducing taskmaster is perhaps the heart — or ticking bomb — of civilization. As money measures — quite poorly — the success of most of our tasks in living, the clock all-to-often chops the organic flow of human experience into well dissected but not so alive remains. The interruption of sleep by loud noises is a particular pet peeve of mine. Alarm clocks often enforce inadequate sleep and this too little rest is notoriously bookended by a fretful inability to get to sleep at night. Of course, the nearly inescapable pressures to book it all day arrest most any probability of nabbing any re-creation or sublime sabbath. The clock serves as a proxy for order but may very well create more disorders than it harmonizes. This poem uses the familiar cadence of military drills — Left, Right, Left, Right, Left — to allude to the presumptive violence inherent in such a go go, make it happen culture. This swaggering onomatopoeia resonates more with martial law than the deep harmonies of nature and the human spirit, which transcend left and right. I find that encouraging folks to break rank in order to reconnect with their deepest harmonies is a recurring theme of mine, energized by an evangelical fervor. So, if you are Riiiiiiiight…Whatever/Get up/You had/Left, may you uncover reinvigorating re-creation at every turn.