Can the soul be cremated? Is she still with me?
A once alive body turned into smoldering remains in a matter of moments, residing now on a shelf for all to simultaneously acknowledge and ignore.

Shall we pause to consider
the shudder of a butterfly's wings
that sets the hurricane spinning
or the descent of the final raindrop
that breaches the groaning levy?

Shall we ponder the moment before
a chorus of "maybe's" morphs
into the vain eloquence of history?

Roiling in the broth of chaos
a cluster of causes startles the surface -
unfurling a queue of effects
that dot the timescape
like rows of teetering dominoes.

Typhoons twist villages to ruins,
armies rise to victory or
succumb to the despair of defeat,
or a medical miracle is born
from the agile mind of a doctor
conceived in a Chevy's back seat.

So here we stand on the ridge of time
ourselves both caused and causing,
cradling the sphere of chaos in our hands -
uncertain what effect will be our being
after all our causes are enumerated.

Time will surely tell - as soon
as we tell time exactly what to say.

*August, 2013

Is everything talking to me?
I don't know
It seems to be
It seems to be telling out my feelings
The words I hold onto, really.-.
But I know this feeling
However it's so painful it feels so new every time
My mind is just letting this time do a drive by
I swear time is killing me more than healing me
My dreams show me killing me!
My soul has a cold sore
And my heart ain't on chill, B
I'm enraged and deranged
But I'm wondering...
Is the universe talking to me
Or am I just pulling all this **** towards me?

I'm looking through at the joys
Which are traveling slowly
On these dim LEDs tonight.

There is eternal love
Behind one of the doors,
And behind plenty of others
There exists a world
Where we begin to dissolve,
But our surface area increases greatly.

Will we luck out,
Or are we destined to call this audible?

I don't know why you
Are coating yourself in this
Jagged exterior of elitism
When you know all too well
How Faust squandered his soul.

Don't tell me I'm repeating my mistakes
Because you don't understand
That I'm bettering myself,
As you glare in to my consciousness
Through your kaleidoscope
Where everything must look like paradox.

Let me think for myself now.

I've weighed the advantages
More times than you have,
And I promise you,
These circumstances are far better.

Love to you is like the Monty Hall Problem,
And you always think there's a bigger prize
Behind the next door.

You aren't increasing your fortune,
And that's not how you win.

I'd say you're not using game theory very well,
And I'd posit that's no way to live your life.

You want to feel calculated and powerful
By approaching love with your Id fully wanting,
And wanting the apex of what it can obtain.

A form of alchemy
By which
Emotional pain
Is transmuted
Into verbal pleasure.

Amidst the screams and pain,
One innocent boy,
Tears on his face,
He did nothing to deserve.

And amidst the starving panic,
One dying girl,
All she ever knew,
Was how to hurt.

And amidst the desperate protests,
One person stood,
And somehow,
They changed the world.

One story,
That's all it took.

"strange"
                                                 is declared
                                                  of person
                                         who rationalizes
                                                that­ matter if
                                         non-human
                                         non-animal
                                         non-living
                                      merits recognition
                                      as being good
                                      on it's own

                                      but really      
                                         are we
                                         the ultimate stewards
                                               of absolute purpose?

                         what confirms                      our judgement

                                        in deeming what deserves
                                             to exist for it's own
                                             and what belongs
                                                 to our means
                                                           ­                 and ours alone?

                                      is it so fantastic
                                                  to suggest
                                      that by some means of
                                                           indefiniteness
                                                  ­of intangible
                                                                ­            comprehension
                                                all matter
                                       is fundamentally intertwined
                                               in the sense
                                            everything is stardust
                                             created by
                                                                ­   the universe's omnipotent hand?

                                      don't you
                                                 ever get the feeling
                                      inside of your conscious
                                                       ­           too?

                                      doesn't your awareness
                                               ever whisper
                                                   as a sentience
                                                you have an obligation
                                                from some unspoken contract
                                                    sign­ed before birth
                                                  to uphold the integrity
                                                  of everything
                                                  that­ inhabits this earth
                                                       whether or not
                                  it thinks in the way                                       you do?

                                      for what purpose
                                           we exist assembled into
                     abrupt                 profound               togetherness
                                      remains       ­      undecided

                                      earth's fabrications
                                                 will survive
                                               harmoniously
                                      but
                                will you
                 do the same?

There's a theory
     That when we die in one plane of life
We are brought into a plane where we are
                               Alive

                     It occurred to me
                       When you left
      I felt new and it felt wrong even yet

                        So just maybe
           I'm not used to this new body
      It explains why my steps feel sloppy

There's a theory
     That when we die in one plane of life
We are brought into a plane where we are
                               Alive

You know for centuries politicians have been trying to push their correctness on to everyone.  It's usually the first lady that does this as part of some etiquette program or something.  Etiquette is okay, I guess.  But, when you think about it, the only ones who really NEED to be politically correct SHOULD be the politicians.  Why would anyone who is NOT a politician be required to practice political correctness.  Why would a baker need to be politically correct, or a news anchor.  (Well, maybe a news anchor.)  But, an accountant or a cashier or a bus driver or a police officer.  They would have to be cashierly correct or accountantly correct or policely correct.  Wouldn't they?  Political correctness should only have to apply to politicians.

  As for me, All I really have to be is poetically correct.  Yes, there IS a thing.  You can look it up if you don't believe me.  Ya know, I was thinking about poetry the other day and I remembered poetical correctness and what it was all about.  It's been stated before by many and I'll try to explain it to you, to the best of my memory.

  To be poetically correct one must never use words that are negative or profane.  One must always use soft words that flow easily.  Words that produce warm feelings of sensuality and never words of hatred.  You must be descriptive when you speak of the spotted toad with the red stripe on its head and the shine that bounces off his slime when the sun shines through the tall trees of the forest where the rock he is perched on  sits parallel to a beautiful babbling brook.  Love and nature.  That should be the two things that one should write about.  Love and nature.
And the nature of love.  And one's love for nature. Or the nature of nature and the love of love. But, maybe they're not that much into nature.  Maybe they love the city and its grittiness.  Well, there you go ruininging the grandness of a city with description.  Poetical correctness.  Always think poetically and not politically and that's Poetical Correctness.