POEM: Human Beans In A Chili World

What’s too like
To be
Human beans
In a chili world
Offering ourselves
As nourishing fare
In the face of
Ingrate full consumers
Somehow besting
Our pre-sumptuous purpose
Of going to seed
And razing our own
Only to be
agin and agin
As brood over
What incite us
And what has
At the end of your daze
Is the same
What’s eating you
Those unpleasant spitting images

This poem is an to one of the deepest in : that you must lose your in order to gain it.  No one really knows why they are alive until they know what they'd die for. MLK QUOTE BUTTONSuch a paradox is replete with of seeds, death and , of sacrificing that of great value for that of greater value.  Plus, in there is no dress rehearsal: we won’t be again!  Of course, that perplexing aspect of human which is infinitely complicated is humans: ungrateful, self-centered, and irreducibly exasperating.  In my view, the best way to see more clearly in the fun-house mirror that is human is to cultivate self- of psychological , the powerful and cunning tendency to attribute to others what is subconscious in ourselves, particularly the bad stuff.  In laymen’s terms: spot it you got it!  Of course, such cultivation is mirror reflection if there isn’t any — little is harvested with simply good intentions.  Pacifism - A Way of Life - Man Does Not Die By Bled Alone -- PEACE BUTTONSelf- is inescapable if we are to unearth enduring rather than perpetual mean-ings on earth.  The ubiquity of iniquity, the proclivity to project our own onto others (“Those unpleasant spitting images”) is the tragic root of writing people off as chaff rather than cultivating seed.  Would You Die For Common Ground PEACE BUTTONThe paradoxical solution is that by becoming for others, and — as in vice versa — by becoming for ourselves, we are saved.  Such wonderment eternally returns me to loving my enemy, a that can only be made within one’s self and never without others.  I find this mysterious process at the of social action — the nexus of the inner and outer journeys, joined at the hip — perhaps most succinctly described in the social activist creed and Mexican  Zapatista : “They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we were seeds.”  Or, in an earlier version, from the Greek poet Dinos Christianopoulos:  “What didn’t you do to bury me / but you forgot that I was a seed.”  The counterculture embodied by Mr. Christianopoulos was as a homoerotic in the 1950’s, accompanied by its commensurately dangerous seed.  Whatever you may offer as a human bean in this chili world, may it be nourishing fare.

Old Hippies Never Die We Just Flower Year After Year POLITICAL BUTTON

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