Beggar

I think I’ve figured it out.

I should quit my job

with its low pay

and become an artist

and have five children

and have no health insurance.

I should spend everything I make

as soon as I make it,

saving nothing.

No pension plan

nothing to prepare for

the future

whether the future

is a month

or 20 years from now.

Then when anything happens,

when, not if,

I’ll go up to strangers

and beg for money.

But I won’t do it like people used to do it

standing on the street corner

like a beggar

or a prostitute,

I’ll do it the new way.

I’ll set up a “Go fund me” account

or a Kickstarter

and do it all digitally.

I’ll ask friends

and their friends

to pay for

my gallbladder operation

or my child’s new baseball uniform

or my pet’s funeral.

Meanwhile I’ll make art talking about

how awesome it is

to be free

from all the constraints

of a 9-to-5 job,

while conveniently forgetting

that my friends

in those 9 to 5 jobs

are paying for my bills.

Or maybe I have too much

 self-respect

and respect for others

to beg at all.

(Written 10/30/2015)

What is evil?

How interesting that the Hebrew word for demon

שד

Is related to the word for fallow land

שדה בור

And battlefield, and minefield

And related to looted, robbed

שדדו

Evil is not using resources properly,

potential fruitfulness wasted,

through human means.  It isn’t an accident.

It is

intentional or unintentional

mis-use of a gift from God.

Unintentionally

wasting your life

has the same result

as intentionally wasting it.

Not choosing

to be mindful,

to be a good steward

is to choose evil,

to allow it in.

Smile

Funny, the people who smile

with their mouths and not their eyes

who smile when facing me

but drop to a scowl when they turn away.

Maybe it would be better

if they just stopped pretending

to be happy to see me, or just happy at all

maybe their smiles would be real

if they learned it was safe to smile

when they meant it

and not just all the time

like how we say “fine”

when asked “how are you”

like it is some glue

that holds this whole stupid fake society together

e pluribus unum

out of many different experiences we somehow

shoehorn all our reactions and interactions

into one great big play

where we act out what it means

to be human

without ever meaning anything real

at all.

Prize

Every day there is a prize drawing. 
But you must be present to win. 
What do you notice? 
Don’t judge it good or bad.
It is a gift to you. Sit with it.
Study it. Welcome it. 
It is here to teach you
something about yourself.

If you are lucky, it will crack
you open, teach you
something about yourself
that you never knew
because you kept it hidden
in your secret core, the
place even you were too
frightened to speak about.

If you are lucky you will learn 
of your own secret power 
to transcend 
to be 
to love 
to heal. 

If you are lucky 
there was the white butterfly beforehand 
to remind you 
that you are going to die.
Maybe not today 
maybe not tomorrow, 
but soon, 
sooner than the television
would tell you to believe,
sooner than the newspapers 
will know

that before you know it
death will be upon you 
as a friend 
inviting you to come out 
of your straw house, 
the one you built 
with your own hands 
with sticks and mud 
hoping to fortify yourself
against his request, no, demand, that you leave
your supposed shelter 
and step forth unencumbered 
into your true sanctuary. 

For other cultures know that death 
is sometimes more 
than death, just like life 
is sometimes more 
than life, 
but only if you let it, 
only if you stop holding on
so tightly.

Inca(r)nation

The Inca disappeared

because a) they went back home to the stars

or b) adequately proved to the ET’s

they were savvy enough.

Their pyramids are teleportation devices,

time / space machines,

like Stonehenge.

They are sited on/ in/ over a vortex,

and are precisely mathematical.

They “sing” the right frequency

to open and close doors in time.

They will return.



It wasn’t transportation.

They simply went from then to now.

Trouble is, I can’t tell you if then

was in the past or future.

Such details didn’t matter to them.

All time was fluid, not fixed, to them.

Time for them was like

a huge blanket thrown over a couch

not spread out even-like.

The bits of it touched other bits

or maybe it was also like an afghan

– made of one long string, knotted together.

It was one,

but it wasn’t stuck

with just that dimension.

A plan – poem

Why do I write all this down?
Why do I document my days, 
catalogue my dreams, my discoveries?
Is it important that I write down
that once again
I went to bed late,
got up late,
was in a rush,
didn’t have time
to write letters or make art
but did have time
to watch meaningless videos 
through Facebook, like I’m
channel surfing for something meaningful
to share to inspire or encourage or inform.

Deep down, I’m not made for this life
of early mornings, of schedules,
of having to be anywhere and do something
like a trained monkey.
It is hard to fit
a full-time life
alongside a full-time job.

Maybe I’m writing up my
escape plan,
detailing the attempts to escape
that have failed,
so I can remember
to not do that
again.

Idola-tree – poem

Strange fruit comes from
the Idola-tree. 
This tree grows tall and strong 
fed with fear and desire
sometimes pretending to be
love. But love doesn’t feed
this tree. It is a strange love
that looks like greed 
that looks like hunger 
that looks like jealousy. 
It is not a giving kind of love.
It is not an open kind of love
that is filled with 
joy and compassion and care 
for your fellow human kind.
No, there is no kindness 
in this tree. 
Fruit of this tree is bitter,
small, and it chokes 
as it goes down. 
The fruit of this tree will not
fill you up will not 
nourish you. 
The fruit of this tree 
never ripens into anything
other than disappointment,
never creates anything more 
than a sick feeling in your stomach.