O muse and counter-muse; Mother-muse, protector muse--
i am sold.
i agree  again.

gloried ****** sung to grey-orange, setting Suns;
dusk of human brains
                 ticking to the clockwork
                     deaths of Cultures passing.

the due-dates of a paper-legal
              monocultured crop:
cropped
                        to quarter-halves
                                   mcworlding
                                        grins of bottom-lines.

...entire countries checked,
a people's lives and deaths
are filed into off-shore savings banks
reduced to anti-trust...
what wonder at a child's warrior-role,
with only armies holding out their hands.

upon an ancient Shield:
peoples drowned in fear,
seas of understanding, wild
                  as the darkened myth-clouds playing coy
                                 to hidden waves of lucid thought.

symbol-caves, lingual-wombs of families yet in tune,
--shadow-crowded politicians shade us huddled there
                 while Mother-Thetis marks the moment
of our forking fate.

brimstone burns again!?
death as entertainment and a ruse...
i huddle with you there, my Family
                       formed of Stranger-tongues
and linnet's wings..

i've savored distance from the storm,
settled in communal cowardice,
forcing smiles slowly into numbing real...

but only choice revealed is truly real.
when done with hiding here
the other's ripe for overcoming fear.







.

The black man is a ****. An invasive species. Look at it and you know it is true. Brought over from another place, because it benefited the people at the time. Not truly welcomed, but endured for the fruit it produces. Initially, why was this plant selected for extrication? Not because it was the same as all the other plants you already had, but because it was superior. Superior enough that voyage after voyage was endured to secure more of this precious cargo. The true superiority of the **** goes unseen, until you attempt to eradicate it. You try to poison it in Tuskegee, you try and stomp it out with white robed men and then with blue, try and starve the plant with lack of food and remove it from the sun into giant cellars of stone.. but for all these efforts, the weeds grow back stronger and their fruits more supple. For all the lies of the civilized, the sweet nectar of their berries dances upon the tongues of the very populous that defines them as such; a ****. You stop your car on the roadside, and enjoy the juices of the black berry cursing it’s thorns, but never stopping to question why it bothers to grow them. Success is defined by an unhindered view of monocultured sameness, and unbridled landscaping of ones own design. Yet, that delicious black berry still draws you away to the fringes of your own kingdom to taste something different. That which grows, unlike the cultivated Lillie’s in your line, unaided, and in fact in opposition to the desires and actions of the landholder. What draws you to the field-side berry? The same thing that begged your ancestors to uproot the plant and bring it back in the days that have passed. The notable qualities of goodness that you suppress in attempt to dismiss the dissonance in your head. The truth is that the berry is good, and the plant is strong. The only problem is that you gave it nowhere to grow.

**** definition: a plant that is not valued where it is growing and is usually of vigorous growth.

Seas of swaying green reduced to gray city skylines (the triumphant results of our modern enlightenment)
Slicked oil waters pulse from the refineries, defeated heads held down against the cold winds walk the streets.
Malaise grips the populace,
our attention at every turn deftly averted to the trivial.
Welcome one, welcome all, to the Anthropocene.

Smoke stacks bellowing, pockets full of printed greenbacks thickening,
the overwhelming scents of greed and gluttony bleed into everything.
Throw your trash to the streets, stomp the last embers and smear ash on the wall,
Look around and you will see humanities closing scenes.
Welcome one, welcome all, to the Anthropocene.

It seems in the end truth has left us,
hope has evacuated,
it’s speakers replaced with puppets
That dance and masquerade on taught strings.
Come in my friends, take your seats in the audience,
The show has already begun!
The lights are dimming and the pieces well set,
Welcome one, welcoming all, to the Anthropocene.

Continents ablaze, reduced to decayed black.
The streets of your home flooded,
Mother Nature holding on by a trembling thread,
And in all of our brightest intellect,
We do not reknit the thread.
Instead of reversing our own mistakes, instead of adjusting our sails to the changing winds,
we hold the scissors to that trembling string and begin to cut with a smile.
Manicured life,
Monocultured lawns perfectly maintained through the drought, appearances kept up through the drowning monsoon winds.

Welcome, my dearest friends, to the end of our days, whether you agree to them or not,
Welcome to the first conscious mass extinction, brought to you by the height of human innovation
Welcome, my brothers and sisters, to the Anthropocene.