Ends and Means

"The end justifies..."

Means nothing

But 'wrong' labeled 'right'

An illusory light,

Exposing a long dark tunnel

Rhetoric's windy funnel

Clouding the true light,

Shrouded in confusion of night,

All for what should...

They say what could...

If we blind our foresight...

And if we try it just might...

But in reality will never be.

This means

Without a line of demarcation

Where end begins

Is itself End

And it matters, thus,

How we usher it in;

There's no just sin

After all, we're just men

And as we keep stumbling by

The best we can do is humbly try

To keep our best laid plans

From merely going awry

Fixation

If my eyes are fixed

On the shimmering of leaves and sunlight floating

Against the infinite blue,

It seems a mystery what faculty

Suspends colorful clusters in the air

And maybe that’s okay

 

If my eyes are fixed

On the unmoving pillar of bark plunging

Into a sea of earthen waves

And grassy blades

It is easily forgotten what a colorful offering

These intent, steady limbs

Hoist up to the heavens;

And I ...

Can’t float or sway

Against the infinite blue,

Become anchored,

Imprisoned behind bars,

Behind the barky pillars

Of rigidity

 

For though I have feet

I cannot stand without purpose,

Lifeless as a stump

With nothing to reach for,

Nothing to grasp and hoist to the heavens

 

We Need a Fix, Dig?

We're a quick-fix society--

sometimes the solution bring more pollution,

physical sickness, confusion--

Sometimes resolutions and revolutions

produce an infusion

Of instability,

sin, inability

To beneficially

see within...

We're a quick-fix society--

but quick fixes inflict and nix us,

pimp-tricks us

drug addicts us and wrong-acquits us;

does not forgive but forgets us--

A quick fix is the hitch

(not to the bridge but to the ditch

filled with Troubled Water)

not laid down for us but on us;

forced and thrust upon us;

Demonic plague bubonic chronically

Oppressing, depressing, suppressing

the instinct to be n sync-

chronization--

not a boy band or a nation,

but a spiritual relation...

Communications of revelations--

Dreams to be seen;

Not just heard, not just words,

Not contrived and psycho-analyzed...

...but REAL-ized

We're a quick-fix culture;

tend to look down on our problems

Like a vulture,

we pounce and devour;

Pick apart but disregard

the heart, that part

That gives us Life--

By the time we stop flying

and circling over the issue, the dying

and dead tissue, lifeless

Once priceless;

now waste,

wantonly sacrificed

In the name of our Ways,

In the games of our haste,

unchaste; we stand blamed

Too calloused to feel our face to the flames--

not of Hell from the next life, but this;

to which we're all witnesses

Yet we can't tell we're inside it,

mindless, and trying

To contrive a cure...

...which itself is impure

Of Rhyme

At times, rhymes, imbibed by the mind

Shine bright

So Night might try and remind Mind

To eye behind, inside,

Or to rewind

Try as Night might, such trial is trite;

"Out of sight, out of mind"--

With rhymes so bright, Night tries

To ignite...can't find the fire, he tires, retires

To spite this Light, no fire can light,

Nor line, nor rhyme take flight in plight;

Cannot inspire, must too retire

So Night tried to fight this Light--

So bright was this Light

That Night himself lost his sight, was blinded

Where's the line 'tween Night and Light?

Can't find it; all are blinded

For blindness reckons Light to be Night;

Night to be Light;

The line, blindness remembers not--is lost, like Rhyme...

...In a sea of itself

 

The Creation

Words unfurl as eyes behold a cosmic denouement;

page after page, turn on, turn on

As though out of a coloring book

(where the lines

are constituted as our possibilities

of which the forms

are sculpted by our experiences)

 

Is color a mere pigment...

...or a mental figment?

Imagined or imaged,

by rays of light...

...all but the final product out of sight?

A trompe-l'oeil, foiling the senses...

...or a double-entendre mantra of verb tenses?

Seen or heard,

as in figures or pictures

of speech and in word...

modes and scales

and notes impale

pedestrian auditory perception

of spoken word,

Spilling colorful blood,

filling a mind feeling,

seeing with closed eyes, with third eyes;

the soul's eyes revealing the concealed--inner being

(where we know

that we make color;

but not with crayons and brushes...

where our art

is animated by our blood, by our heart,

dynamically rendered

by our creativity and love,

which transform the world

as though from outside, above;

these invisible hands fashioning

the world to visions from the artists mind put upon canvas)

 

Truth Lies

truth lies in

seeing the world through the eyes

of truth and lies;

the truth in lies

out-lies guidelines and other lines drawn black-and-white,

the "separate but equal" power of either side

is segregated to the detriment of linking ties,

whose truth is called "lie"

 

truth lies in

seeing the world through its eyes

and finding the truth in such "lies";

the truth lies within,

and dies if contrived or derived or brought outside,

where in times of high tide

mere words collide in the fight to decide;

and the will to find meaning is its suicide

 

this "spin" cycle is a machine, aye,

but not for washing; for it is a lie that one should sin against sin

one cannot try to spin against spin,

for clockwise and counter may divide the hemispheres,

but a wise encounter with Truth

renders hemispheres merely as image-mirrorers

Man vs The Man

Man is a subject; "The Man" is the object [ionable]

Man is subject to his free spirit; "The Man" fears it

Because Man as spirit is infinite capacity;

Passionate yet rational tenacity to pursue veracity

"The Man" is more animal than rational;

His actions capture the soul without rapture,

Making his boundless component

Be taken as his own opponent,

The exponent of which is the etherial

Idolatrous deification of the material,

Making the fear of his own liberty

The energy and force

By which he divorces

From the image of his inception,

Sinning in his conception

Of objective rejection...of the Truth

And introspection is reckoned

To make object the subject of its discourse

And in its course, trying in vain

To make something from nothing til nothing remains

And he's driven insane cause its more nothing

That he's making cause he's taking the tool of the word

Which was meant to be a vessel

But he's treating the means as an end in itself

So that the end of itself simply means

The loss of meaning so that no ends are meeting;

Meaning: our meetings are meaningless, empty, just shells

And we've dumped out the wine trying to drink the cup itself;

The empty word we have for that which once was called "hell"

Has been extracted, not abstracted; got us locked in our cells

We sell ourselves for property

We tell ourselves was probably properly

Our natural right...which may be right,

But supernatural light outshines and consumes, its fire

Illuminates where doom is

Met by the body which we clothe in luxury

When the decaying structures we

Hide behind are finally stripped away...

 

Nothing in our nakedness can cover our shame;

We are not found worthy of earning our name;

We stand graceless until we face this, lest we stand blamed