license to speak
is
license to think.
the jester can say,
apparently in jest,
what he feels to be real,
and, if he does so with
sufficient linguistic dexterity
to not be murdered by the monarch,
he has fool's wisdom.
bars at your back,
and their stripes
permanently etched
into one's field of vision.
so much so,
that you feel they're
a ubiquitous feature
of the world beyond.
the cage should be a hated place,
but one can grow to love the cage.
the cage is shelter.
the cage is delivery address
for food & water disbursements.
the cage forms rollbars --
like on a dune buggy --
protection in the event
of a sudden & unexpected crash.
the cage offers one a range --
narrow as it might be --
of distances at which one's captor
may be kept,
and, as long as the cage is shut,
that gives one a delightful
illusion of control.
what a hated place a cage should be,
and yet how conflicted are the captives?
Are we Makers?
Yes. We are!
And damn good ones at that.
We can turn a planet
into plastic trinkets.
We can use every last morsel
to make stuff:
bright & shiny
or
loud & colorful.
We can even make ideas:
good or bad,
true or false,
but always 100% believable.
We're the ones who invented Evil.
Yes, that whole toxic notion
is brought to you by us.
And Left-Wing & Right-Wing...
It used to be just a bunch of people
trying their best to understand
and to get by.
But we built mental / conceptual corrals,
corrals good enough that we
could no longer recognize each other
as part of the same species.
We are Makers.
What tears away in leaving,
when one has grown into:
- a person?
- a place?
Can one grow into someone
(or somewhere) such that
one is fused in a way that
won't allow separation
without leaving a sacrifice?
Maybe one can't help but be
webbed into some wider world,
and can't help but leave
pieces of oneself littering the Earth.
When Voltaire said:
“Once a nation begins to think, it is impossible to stop it.”
I don’t think he’d anticipated smartphones.
Don't sell us benevolent kings, such creatures can't exist. An unchecked mind won't self-censor, and lame dogma persists.
You are not the heroes
you think yourselves to be,
dreaming up perfect worlds
that can never be.
Anyone can picture
a far-fetched perfection,
and groan of other's faults
with dead-eyed disaffection.
Stand on a hill and howl.
Don't wait for the perfect moon.
Gather your thoughts,
& wash the:
cliches,
doublespeak,
technocratic jargon, and
weasel words
out of mind & mouth.
(Those shitty words, phrases,
and qualifiers are heavy,
and will weigh down
your message &
keep it from sailing.)
Then, belt it out.
Let your words fly.
Express your authentic self.
Huff & Puff,
and let the bricks fall
where they may.
There never was a Golden Age,
a time much better than right now.
But playing martyr 's all the rage:
to think our world the garbage scow --
whose stinking mass forever grows.
Lest you think that I'm saying these
are times of pure and sweet repose,
Please, let me put your mind at ease:
These times are best. These times are worst.
(To blatantly steal from Dickens.)
This twist is just how we are cursed
to shriek like that sky fall chicken.
Each of us lives a life improbable, the gift of an ancestor who struggled through some terror which killed others. We each have an iron impulse to maintain a cracking grip on life, but some won't ever be pried away, growing like the stunted pine that juts from the mountainside: gnarled but indestructible. Live improbably with your life improbable.
the !n(tro)verted yogi 