It’s all information.
Sensory input synthesized
with lessons past
shape, rearrange contexts, meanings,
strategies of behavior.
Expectations and despair
that follow lonely poverty,
or expectations of repair,
of guardian fates,
of co-creating deities,
of boost from true community.
A story lived to be rewritten,
page by page.
Edited to fit
the going rage.
set the course.
Scientist, mystic, mage,
data manipulators all,
With practiced art
amplify to scenes
breathless with beauty.
Our major resources are infinitely renewable —
thought, imagination, information.
Combined acts of conscious beings
develop labels and experiments
to better understand given environments.
Science, not decrees of some overarching god,
Experience we attempt to “know”
by categorizing, crafting systems.
Information flows through, leaves
inspiring bits, tills imaginarium —
well tended inner flower bed from which
variegated seeds freely
spread, carry attunement to essential center.
It’s not about either/or, duality, dichotomy,
even though portentous pendulum keeps swinging.
Not brain malformation,
shouts, whispers, insists
Hand turned in to fist, shake explosive arms.
Charms of hate, to capture, ensorcel, growing minds.
“It’s weak to be kind”
Creeping pendulum, the sweep of evidence
(which changes over time and place),
these but chains of thought that build,
transform, include ever more.
The center is not about faith or submission,
authority or politics.
It is interconnections
as they coalesce
to form a cohesive experiential whole.
Layer upon layer
of ambient ether condenses into
We speak of science as if revealed knowledge,
as what is real.
Yet, we people create acceptable reality
as collective agreement (though not all agree).
In laws and theories, we describe
to understand that segment of everything
accessible to senses and reason.
Attending to that part
on which we focus our “I”s.
Like old sayings (further extended):
Some look at a problem and say, “why?”
Others look at an opportunity and say, “why not?”
And still others look at our vast accrued mess and say,
“I’m not cleaning that up!”
It’s not as if I have declarative answers.
I merely offer open-ended questions
into which theories and possibilities can be dropped.
If reality is about perception,
and the reality apparent blows ill,
peruse leisurely, entertain unusual perspectives,
expose beautiful shapes and contours.
Hover bees buzz, calms me to sleep.
Gently drink effervescent nectar.
Spread bless propagating pollen.
Send wayward tales,
swing forward my fate.
I hear staccato buzz.
Onus is no part of privilege.
Privilege defines desert.
High prance noble private parts, flog
with terror. Hastening dust flirts with pillaged
Conquest by dictate.
Summons a bizarre maze of disfigured mirrors.
Unaware of consequence, of karmic games,
of simple quid pro quo: A resolving into A
for Arrogance, for Anger, for Allegory.
Fallen Angels glamour dance in pinhead glee.
Ecstatic shimmy well past the veils, will to see
slim glimmer of Pan’s freedom.
Nature’s buzz, that subtle strain,
echoes shifts in drumbeat.
New Queens rise, take flight.
Brilliant skies awaken.
Assert dominance, define upcoming
plans. Feel their confidence as
seedlings burst to touch sunlight.
It’s just a silver screen
a way to rationalize our being
a dialog along
the agonizing day
it’s just a way
to carry on.
Why should well thought out scripts
be any more well thought of
than any salad of words?
attention or respect or to be heard?
Why should loving words,
or thoughts, or thoughtful actions
result in any sway?
Has it finally been proclaimed my Nobel day?
What can I say?
There is a point in
all this farce?
That the fool on the precipice
what the cost
there’s a prize worth the price?
There is good advice
in the stars?
There’s a lucky star,
and it’s ours?
There is magick,
to believe in?
There is hope and life and grace?
There is more than we imagine?
There is gold in inner space?
There is danger; there are dragons?
There are knights and righteous cause?
There is more than we imagine —
There are underlying laws
that we obey?
(Why would you listen, anyway?)
It’s just a veiled screen,
computer coded dreams,
what we see, based on
what we’ve seen.
It’s just our time-lined place
stored in inner space,
packaged in paradigmatic memes.
Accepted ways of being
interfacing real-time streaming
moving in and out of order
on either side of mind.
So what I track inside
is what I find.
But I haven’t got a clue
how to reconcile with you