POEM: As The Whirled Goes Bye

When I look out into the world, I often get the image of chickens running around with their heads cut off. I see an addiction to “winning” that disconnects us from creation, others and ourselves, and in supreme irony, races us to a world of losing awe that matters.  There is a deep and abiding order to creation. There is an awesome, eccentric, sacredness of every life. In a descending nihilism, there is a flurry of opportunities to embrace deep meaning, embrace one another, and embrace anew world. We are the people we have been waiting for. This is our gift — to ourselves, to each other, and to the world.

As The Whirled Goes Bye

There I was
Pain attention
To the whirled going bye
In the specious choice
Of being
Won or the other
A chicken with their head chopped off
Running a bout
Awe over
Or the undead
The most vacant of presence
With in-the-box unthinking
Vainly building AWOL
Wile humanity dissembling
Wear nothing madders
Like some wholly ghost in a dead religion
Only too flail where others secede
As change peers random
In what seams natural selection
That fucking life sentence
Or stay
Of execution
As being right is halving left
And still
I am
Perhaps not
To an end

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