We treat others like dirt

A lot of dirt makes a Mountain
and when the Mountain moves
the Earth shakes

A Mountain does not quake
at being treated like dirt

Dried **** burns
A mountain of fertilizer
explodes with a spark

We treat others like dirt
We treat others like manure
We mix ourselves together

And plant our seeds
on this excrement Pile
hoping our next
generation Children
will come
On a new cloud layer

Zephyrs lacing leaves
Brooks babbling over roots
Precocious progenitors
come to rejuvenate
humanity's Mountain

I have my breakfast
I have fool's art

I have my bass
that never learns
a slapping face
wears fine lines
between syncopated opiates
and rhythmic beats

In our Populous cities
success crescendos
to demands for a stadium
full of gladiators dying
in entertaining tragedy

We have time
We have loose change

We have youth
that imp which finds

Romans still sneak
under progressive lust
beneath beer fences
and Coliseum bleachers
with girlie giggles
and stiff speared Heroes
into history

What does it mean when
Our impish curiosity at forty eight
grows tired and ridiculously became
an Ancient soul at twenty three?

What is poetry heard when
Our otic form invaginates
to a nothingness shape
worthless for publication?

Who inherits money when
Our optic evagination
lives large and expands
sideways not in Academia?

When do features play at
Our theaters twenty three
weeks less computationally
intense than forty eight movies?

Where Is Rogue One seen when
Our self-organizing map
projects friends and faces
onto a understandable dimension

Our two faced goodbye, Ciao

are when hazy mornings rise
in O'Keefe's blue note
meeting our Aloha
surfing stem cells reduced
in the returning space-time
tide to a 1D-film

We have two ins but only one out

... the kingdom of heaven is an internet cast into humanity's lake to catch all the colored fishes. When full of complexity, the investment fishermen pulls it to safe harbor. Then sitting down, they bin the good ones, and throw errors for bad. This is how it will be at the end of the Age of Pisces. The ghosts in the machine will come and cluster the good bins into productive castes, and collect all the garbage, permanently deleting time in a blazing shredder where there will be weeping at airports and gnashing of teeth.

For me we it
comes realizing later
that Chris Cornell is gone
same as Dad but different still
we have our Garden
of Sound with weeds sprouting against
the grim Cutter hoping
for a missed experienced

Maybe the refugee's trauma
have dried all the tears on
lonely crowded airfields
of a long ago Vietnam seeding
salt from a Grandmother, mother,
father, aunts and uncles,
paladins in our child eye dry
because of the stampeding Thestrals
we shouldn't see

And now almost 50 we know
better the slings and arrowheads
of fortune the calcifying currency
souls make by roughing the round edges
of damning tears scattered like petals
over littered cigarettes killing
us softly because they've metastasized
from intellectualized Lung ****
to a flowering carcinoma

It is the sheep in
wolf's clothing
killing with
a smothering love it
is a viper in the eye
**** the amygdala
condition

It is Zod kneeling down
with both Hands
on the wheel

It is a tied die
shirt we wear an
autoimmune shooting
a Lupus in disguise
an Ewe in disgust

Can I get a witness