Imagine if you will, the earth, our earth
     As a gigantic Savings and Loan
With vaults to be filled and loans to float
    
    And debts to be paid - or else!
All we require to breathe or feed 
    
     Is stored within its spherical shell.

Like it or not, we stash all our accounts
     At the solitary bank of all that is

And queue before the window daily
     To withdraw our daily sustenance.

But the drawers are not as full as before -
    
     Less water, less oil, less breathable air;
How we will keep our bros (or ourselves)
     When the shelves have little to offer?



Hurricanes howl and wildfires crackle
     Just outside our windows.
      
Do we flee, must we fight,
      
     Do we lose all, or perish?

What will we do when the Bank of Gaiea
     Shutters its doors forever?

Wovoka I wish
Drum chant dance ‘neath sun and star
Brought warrior conquest

Why should I work for society
When society is destroying the Earth?
Why should I serve the state
When it's killing the country’s worth?

I debt only one to the planet,
And only one to the forest.
I know for sure that I owe
My life and birth to they, the purest.

They give us food, they give us rest,
Shelter and life — the very best.


But we exchange them for money,
Give back poison, dirt — it's not funny.
Money does not return the lives
That we take just to survive.
Taking life? Then understand —
You must give back with your hand.


Cut down a tree — plant dozens.
Plow the field — then grow wild cousins.
Killed the animals — bring them back,
Help them rise from the attack.

Destroyed the ecology? Then restore
Balance, life, and something more.
If you’ve taken freedom from the wild,
Give it back — to every child.


I debt only one to the planet,
And only one to the forest.
Not to a flag or a man-made rule,
But to the Earth — my only school.


We exchange them for money,
And poison the roots for honey.
But money won't revive the flame
Of the lives we burn in name.
Taking life? Create it new —
That’s the balance owed by you.

Cursed? Condemned?
To wander the Earth for eternity?
Aeneas, or Cain as some call him,
Was a person of renown - a leader and scholar.
Part of the crew of Odysseus,
He was called to the ship
But neglected to board it.
The name of the isle of flowers?

The Garden of Eden.
It's caretaker? Cybele.

Before the isle
Aeneas, like others,
Were offered the Trials.
This was to visit all the places
Currently & properly "gardened."
Reward for completion of the Trials
Was longevity, strength, et cetera.
Gnomen & Seers had procured,
Through generations of Trial & error,
A potent cataplasm
Which they learned to mutate/grow
Into a selected fruit.
Like an apple.

The Garden of Eden
Was a place of experimentation,
Much in the same vein as the Tower of Babel.
Where the Tower of Babel was focused
On the development and perfection of communication;
In things like language, oration, poetry, literature, et cetera
The Garden of Eden was focused
On experimentation with different forms of chemicals.
Chemicals, of course, coming in many forms;
Plants, minerals, other natural phenomena, substances & combinations, et cetera.
Part of this was experimentation with psychotropics,
Attempting to develop natural immunities
To such things like alcohol and cannabis.

Aeneas & Cybele,
Driven mad by drugs & mental-illness,
Left the isle.
For Aeneas was a rule-breaker
And confided in Cybele all that he understood and knew
About the Trials.
Aeneas had one trial left,
The Maze.

The Maze was enormous.
Upon its walls
All of human history was carved,
The entirety of that which was experienced by us.
All that had been relayed by various Gnomen & Seers
Through generation after generation.
Carved in ways that could be universally understood,
At least by those living within those ancient societies.

The red thread?

A guide to weapons, combat, subjugation/*******, et cetera.
This area of the Maze
Also housed a weapons cache
In the event the Maze was threatened or attacked.
Who informed Aeneas of the red thread?
Cybele.
Who informed Cybele?
Scylla.

You see, as previously mentioned,
Part of the Trials was to visit
All these areas which had been "gardened."
Auxiliary to this
Was to visit all those
Who had been deemed unworthy or had failed the Trials,
Like Scylla had been before meeting Cybele.
Living cautionary tales,
"Condemned" not to "wander"
But to live out their natural existences
On isles which were gardened for beings
Like predators and plant life which was vicious.

It was Scylla who "blew" Odysseus & his crew off course,
Knowing of Cybele & Eden.
Cybele who later drugged the "Minotaur."

Ode to the Stream that sits stagnant
somewhere over Northgate Green:

I have sat by it and observed
Rippled currents falling down
Into murky shallows, an un-natural
Green, like mountain-dew
Breathing frothy spots of bubbles
That circle a rhubarb vape
And a sprite can and a
Heineken can and a
Little hopping Wren darting
Between curled roots.

I remember too,
The drips of
Rain water
Worming
Down the dingy
Alleyways of
My childhood,
Dripping down
Nettles and
Seeping into
Cracked brick and
Sodden dirt
And part of - now a -
Sordid cigarette packet.

And from some
Geography class,
I remember how
This water was
Reborn, once
In massive clouds,
Grumbling masses,
Sky's mother who
Shadows the

Bursting
Writhing
Violent
Rivers
And
Vast Fjords
And
Reaching Peaks
And
Breaching Skys
And
Once
Birthed
As torrent
Rainfall
Tearing
Massive wounds
Into tectonic
Plates

The
Blood of matter
And organism
And that which
Carries our ****
In every form

But that's not all. As, I recall:
The lifting motion of staring
Into 'etched lines of water'
From rain, tracing bulbous
Recollections on opaque glass
And knowing they don't
Know where they are going
And I bask in the significance of
This insignificance.

When the changes come
will winter winds still blow?
What world will we see
as quicksilver higher flows?
When this time is past
will songbirds still be heard?
Will parents still tell children
of the bees and the birds?
Will grandchildren know about
lightning bugs in the dark?
Will lovers still know what’s meant
by butterflies in their hearts?
May those gifts that we leave
for those who come hereafter
not become the close
of this book’s final chapter.

Press your ear against the bowl
can you hear it ringing
I think the earth is singing