Every thing eventually falls prey to familiarity.
Call it aging, routines, same ole same ole,
the spectrum’s there of, acquisition’s ever-hunt,
proving one’s worth, or propinquity’s forthcoming?
Expectation is as a huckster,
and we are unable to survive
the most private of our yawns.
All strategies become head bound,
all drama, the workings of a clown.
Nothing compelled ever comes to make ultimate sense.
We feature an endless amount of stills
but never come to a clarity of stillness.
‘Change is change changing’, even written in stone,
is ever so quietly, below our horizon of notice, changing.
Worth is but a miner’s hat, lit up in the chase for value.
Appraisal does not offer solid ground.
Thematic is open to capitalistic piracy.
When is reality not a bus station
where every one is waiting
for a ride out of here to hero-land, somewhere else?
Bitter is a tongue-lashing from the past
beating up the present
to produce more inedible of the same.
One on one, face to face conversation
is politically seen as potentially socialism
at it beginning stages.
Nothing captured ever serves the course.
Open skies do not mandate permission.
Conclusions are all birds of prey,
circling for a certitude kill.
I am truly conclusionarily guilty,
so put me in the stockade of this moment.
But then,
we are all one soul-mind,
finding some many many tongues
addressing the same essentialness but in code.
Every grain of sand of us
is an epitaph to the mountain of us,
now ascending and rekindled in spirit.
Our enterprise should be a greater sum than the whole.
Surrender is primarily to give up on our smallness.
Raw power is un-control-able love.
And self love, true self-love, takes no prisoners . . .
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