Where do I land, in the cogs and gears?
I observe all around me, a machine,
turning, churning, grind, pop.
The tenacity of the hive-mind.

My presence could go forgotten
if it weren't for my pathetic attempts,
to connect,
to plug-in,
to that vast unconsciousness.

We are all caught in this "world",
This world of dog doesn't get to ******* eat at all.
They say, "Welcome to the real world."
This is the real world as surely as our fertilizers make the ground fertile.
And as surely as our "freedom fighters" fight for freedom.
No, this is not the real world,
and it never should be.

This is our false reality.

We are not who we are meant to be.

The Mother beckons us home.

These cogs and these gears,
they are not for me,
and they are not for you.

I do not land in these cogs,
I would not land in these cogs,
I could not land in these cogs,
I should not land in these cogs,
I will not let you land in these cogs my fellow being of glorious stewardship, charged with the protection of this great planet and its balance for all who were and ever will be.

Sunrays are fading,
It's the end of a pretty day,
The morning was elading;
I'm sorry days end this way.

But I have always loved the beautiful night,
The Moon casting her rays into my room,
Makes such a pretty sight;
Night is the time when roses bloom.

Dewdrops glisten on the roses,
Like sparkling jewels,
The cold settles on Fairies' glowing cheeks and noses;
It's the time when they sit or lay upon toad stools.

The Moon's rays are fading from my lawn,
The Moon's rays are fading from sight,
It's no longer night it is dawn;
It is morning no longer night.

*~Marian~

Before guns wore make-up,
We used to put pennies in our socks
So we’d always walk on the root of all evil.

Now Wall Street angels frolic through satellite clouds borrowed
from youths educated by universities of smoke and plastic bags.
                  
(The tears of a child are homage to the waning gods)
For in a day not far away,
Over the painted moon of the Morning Son,
The sun will rise wearing the finest war scars money can buy.

And the screams of humanity will be heard from Venus,
Forgetting that the reciprocal of   L-I-V-E   itself  is     E-V-I-L
And perhaps death is the life meant to be lived.

I remember the morning Tuesday was invented—
how gleeful we sang across the streets—
forgetting that the day after tomorrow would be Thor’s day
and that one we didn’t own, too.

I remember the bathroom stalls, the sins of Leviticus
we survived
comforting our confusion with the indulgence that God too
love man, kind.

Let the purgatory full of half good men sing about their sins
with pride and laugh at the moons and stars for being without limbs
and tongues to protest their innocence and Idontgiveadamnisms;

For I remember being fed the tenets of heterosexual history in elementary school
yet wondering why queer gods are the ones named after the planets.