The Watershed

as first appeared in Earth Advocacy News

Today I almost felt it in my toes –
a welling-up and bubbling in the earth
How this outstrips bleak Autumn’s bent, who knows –
but Planet is preparing to give birth!
Are huricanes Sweet Heavens’ deep rejoicing?
We’d better move it swiftly then, I guess –
Wake others with compassion, softly voicing
the need to end this senseless, bloody mess.
One secret to the happiness you seek
is caring for what lies beyond your fun –
to care about the voiceless and the meek
all creatures great and small under the sun.
Up cruising speed then, Era of Aquarius –
Arriving soon is HOMO VEGETARIUS




Pity The Loveless…

do I pity them? dont you?
they irritate me no end
{that too is true]  
but still… is there
no way to get through?
to help them see
that reciting door to door
from sun up ’til three or four
is a form of self-hypnosis?
and – as if they discovered
the texts themselves –
their witless apotheoisis
  that god has written, that god hears
      is message to themselves?

. . . for if the shadow
of their ego [what they refer to as GOD]
ever wrote or spoke answers as such
all would have witnessed as much!

no, they publicize to themselves
proselytize to the tune
of their own emptiness, stirring
supernatural salt into
the thin soup of their lives
  fear of everlasting death
     claiming the lion’s share
         of their breath

but do not say I am an atheist
[it gives theo too much free publicity]
what I know, by way of quasi-theology
is that something akin to Love
binds the atoms of this universe
into its myriad molecules –
   its foremost speech, the echo of wind
      its deepest vision, what lovers see
          gazing into each other’s longing



The Thump of a Drum

There are no rules –
no modifiers for the quanta
no meaningful loops – nothing
is fair, much less balanced.
The mindless cosmos is
totally skewed; the dead rot;
the good get punished;
the bad do not.
Every tribe and kind
numbers men able
to bayonette infants.
Every civilization
ultimately sucks.

And then there’s Nature –
ah, behold the hosts of golden posies –
where roots of titan trees conspire
to splice and strangle hapless worms,
where bugs hide their myriad eggs
in other bugs, so darling progeny
may feast on the host bug alive –
vivesection or pablum?
God’s creation?
You betchya.

There are no rules. None.
And how much courage
does it take one lunatic
just to face it. And
how many lunatics
would it take to give
sanity a reprieve?
And how many lunatics
are loose on the planet ?
And how many lunatics
can dance on the head of a pin?

And so …unable to be just crazy
we shrink away and invent


Grace notes, key signatures
yin/yang balances, heavens, hells,
reincarnations, limbos (the mind
is such an agile accident) when
life is just the thump of a drum.

Maybe that is the worst –
Ice cream cone telescopes
finding nothing but exploding
suns and who really cares – no,
who really gives a fuck
about exploding suns

The only reprieve – the sole
stinking sustainable solace
to be found anywhere –
must be scratched
out of the binding
of one soul with another,
the sweaty fusion of one body
with another – and if you are
just ace fucking lucky
the scratching and the fusing
aren’t merely repeatedly
tangential or sequential
and there aren’t always
half a dozen mismatched
shrieking fractions – misbegotten
litter – on the lover’s bed.

That’s all there is, the luck
of the draw, the living and the dead.
The thump of a drum – that’s all.




Most likely an insult
to the masterwork of brain
to think that someone can explain
the mind and all its moods –
our every tic and leaning –
since only half
of what we humans do
is sane – has any meaning
in a rational sense

the least of us strikes me
thoroughly inscrutable –
there seems to be no thread of why
from the mighty tangled skein
of history and chance

who thinks he can solve such mysteries
has read too many Christies.
since solely confusion
is not an illusion –

in the end we are
utterly unsolvable



Psalm 118.8

If you really understood
Psalm 118.8, you would
put that ever-so-man-made
book in a forgettable nook –
no, better yet on the highest shelf
sort-of out of reach, get it ?
so it can gather the spidery dust
its internal contradictions and
homicidal tendancies deserve.
If you want to read a prophet
try Cormac McCarthy.

PS The name of that angel
on your shoulder is




A child is told don’t lie
or god will be angry
and when he sees
he has been lied to,
[when he can find
no god in gilt-edged
guilt-ridden books]
when he craves truths
he rejects bronze-age gibberish
and braves a universe
unfolding as it must,
when he dares decide
for himself there is no god…
does he then lie with impunity?
Is this why self-proclaimed
believers assume atheisists
have a lesser moral sense?

Believers tell us religion provides
us with a moral base; this too
is a lie. Ethics and morals
need no supernatural intervention
and no one was brought to love
by coercion.

Might I suggest that
you tell a child not to lie
because, well, would
he want people to lie to him?



Pay Attention! (Benevolent Doggerel)

Be happy today
if gladness you choose –
there’s no other way
and no time to loose;
the secret’s in this
[believe it or not]
the root of happiness
is liking what you’ve got;
to just what extent –
to what precise measure –
you will be content
with this moment’s pleasure,
for happiness is here & now –
this instant is beyond worth –
finding happiness means knowing how
or else it’s nowhere on this earth