The Immovable [Free Verse]

The Immovable,
said to lasso evil
& 
vanquish it with
his flaming sword.

And I have so many
questions...

-can one vanquish evil?

-what material must a
sword blade be made of 
to fatally wound something 
so conceptual?

-why don't we see more
vanquishing these days?
[It seems to be an activity 
that's fallen out of favor.]

where can one obtain 
a conceptual blade 
to vanquish
a conceptual fault?

i conclude that it's
all made of mind.

The Taoist [Free Verse]

In the pagoda garden,
the philosopher stares
into the inky darkness,

contemplating its slow
flow into the light,

reflecting upon the light
embedded in all darkness,

light that he sees in
a glint of moonlight 
on still waters.

Fungi Mind [Free Verse]

From its perspective,
we live in a vacant
 upside down underworld.

It can't understand 
our terror over death
and our obsession
with life. 

Just thinking about it
gives it nightmares,
heebie-jeebies
of being overrun
by endless piles
of creatures --
endless piles
with endless needs.

We may wrinkle a nose
in disgust at its worldview,
but it finds ours
positively suffocating.

But it forgives us
our simple ways,
we are just its food,
after all. 

Streetcorner Socrates [Free Verse]

A streetcorner Socrates
calls out those who grow
forests of words --

not because he doesn't love
the trees, but because
they impede his view,

making for perpetual dimness
in a mind that craves light.

The trick is not to clearcut,
but to leave only that which
enhances the view.

Ruins in the Tall Grass [Free Verse]

Nature dresses up the detritus 
of our fallen civilizations.

After all but the most resolute
stonework has crumbled,

cool faces of stone
having sloughed off to
leave rugged, pitted rock,

all that stands testament 
to life is the tall grass
that sways in the wind.

Agents of Sanctification [Free Verse]

Some love attributing sacredness --
places beyond place,
times beyond time,
the infinite
&
the infinitesimal.

But anything elevated
to the sacred
becomes a thing 
for which
people will kill 
or 
die.

Often, people don't
make this reckoning 
until the dying 's done: 

-death for a sign
-death for a symbol
-death for a chunk of dead earth
-death for a vaguely evaluated idea

The agents of sanctification
will kill us all. 

That Last Lost Generation [Free Verse]

Only too eager to have the machine
installed in their brains,
they did what they could, 
and, instead, installed
their brains into the machine.

Data sparkled in the mind void,
bouncing about and careening 
into other bytes and clusters.

But the crash cascades always came,
a cannibalistic consumption 
of fact,
transmogrifying it into
a shabby soup of 
quasi-reality.

Brain-pans paining,
densely packed with
alternate realities
that could never 
be rectified.

By the time they realized
the virtue of going out 
to play,
they were no longer sure what
"outside" 
meant --
Outside of what?
Where's the exit?
Where is there something else?
-something simple?
How's one get off this speeding bus? 

It became the pain
that ruled that
last lost generation.

A Boy’s Theory of Hell [Free Verse]

The boy pressed his hand
to the cool interior wall,
sitting on the floor
of a dark, empty chapel.

Outside the sun blazed,
and humidity oppressed.

The orphan created
a narrative in his head,
one based on some strange logic.

If hell was an "eternal
torment of flames,"
then the cool interior
of the monk's chapel 
must be the anti-hell --
a place that devoured 
the heat of hell-fire...

but what did that make
that baking place 
that was outside
those thick walls.

The Churn [Free Verse]

On the shore
of angry seas

I hear the crash
of foamy waves,

but miss the 
crisp sudsy sizzle
that one hears
on a sunny summer day.

That nuanced note
is lost to the Churn