I created the tools.

I carved the stone and strung the bow.

I tracked the animal’s prints

across fresh snow.

I took careful aim,

steady, steady,

and then let go.

I brought you meat,

the liver & the heart,

and yet you

feast on

crumbs.

Behind the lime light of your computer,
You look a little like a self absorbed fool,
Hoping to be noticed by the next place
Seeking a cyberspace money making tool.

You see the world as a toy, one for your selfish
Gain. You look for a way to make this life
A quick stop to get your ever needy way.
Your computer over your fat belly, cigarette stains.

But this is not a toy, life is a serious thing,
When we take things for granted, make people
Disposable, it's for the sheer hope that if you're "king,"
Maybe the quick fixes will help us live your costly dreams.

I must write!*
The transient words pass by my consciousness
like the piercing lights that take dull eyes aback
and linger for a few brief moments in the peripherals--
before disappearing back
into the heavens.

Curse these confounded ink-stained fingers;
your scribblings barely get the thoughts out in time,
and you do so with mortal wounds
of aches and cramps,
and god-forbid,
your pen runs out of ink!*

So you keep your tools sharp
and your stone tablets at hand,
for when transcendent light strikes again:

You will be not be caught off-guard
by serendipity.

Why do people write?
Is it because their thoughts are too loud?
Is this the only way they've found to somehow dim the sound?

Like a pressure relief valve.

The pen as a wrench.
Use it to unscrew that hydrant;
let it all pour out.

Without asking for more than the simple sweet simplicities,
I am bounded by the same laws and rules for life.
No use in explaining the values of eccentricities,
We are all tools for the media, for what they strive.
A product of the temptation for power over others, we will stay
The same forever, entrapped in ice with our sisters and brothers,
The silly dreams we have, our pursuits. A tiny bit of concern to the
Rich-who live to find the right eye liner, lip gloss-or the best set of
Nine Irons for golfing or business suits. Some day they will
Get what they deserve, some day...some day.
*But too bad for me, some day came a little too late...

We institute procedures as a tool to obtain substance.
We design metrics as a tool to track and ensure that substance is obtained.
But then, the tool becomes holier than its own purpose.
When we value procedure over substance,
we sacrifice substance for procedure.

Some find comfort in warm hugs
In kisses, in long walks by the beach
Others in soft gazes,
Warm smiles given by a loving mother
I, for instance, have neither

I work with words
Where every inch of my body is a collection of thoughts
Each more complex than the other

Life has given me a fountain of emotions
And every day I wait for you
To come and contemplate your beauty
Because it wasn't about what you were looking at
It was what you saw

I don't find my comfort in words
Nor warm hugs or kisses
I find comfort in you.