July 2011
The arrogance of creation,
the need for accumulation,
tis a satisfaction that
new is a justification,
for anything
requiring us
to believe that:
I am worth this,
this is a thing
I deserve.
This is mine,
therefore
I am more than human,
I am special.
In Texas
the oilmen put their initials
upon the sides of a sleeve,
so when rolled up,
you'd still know that this man,
his name, these wells,
his landscaping tombstones,
are his labored gain
upon fruited plain.
All hail my work product,
its insights are worth money,
I know someone approves,
cause my garage parking
ticket was validated.
We labor for sustenance,
labor for validity, in order
to collect, shed, replace,
accumulate ego,
glory or gain.
Some labor to survive.
This knowledge creates,
within a great sadness,
a hallowed, hollowed ache
that hurts, but does not
explain soully, this poem.
Pins in a map, mark battle lines.
Midnight tally, where are the
pins to be put at the
close of business this day?
Is this even the correct map?
I am so blessed in so many ways,
but compulsed by needs
I can't define,
to write this,
Part manifesto, part preamble,
part poem, part bill of rights.
part green eggs and ham,
a scrambled product of
clotted plots, shower songs,
salt and peppered by a
conscience that rambles on,
cause it
just don't speak the language of the day,
so moderne, it is called,
**shut up!
An oldie, absent new insights...