Which are your points for living
if we all die into cold leaky stink or ash anyway?
What’s the point of dying
if we could otherwise live continuously?
Heading down the river
on AAA rite of ritual passage.
Six years since last I drove this way
not imagining this homing ritual
to drive again
with automating locamoting license
to ambulate for six more years
of what are my points for living thru
we all die anyway.
Last time I stood in line
to buy my laminated aging image
of ego’s self-chauffeur,
family van driver
complete with wheelchairs
and alternatively designed adult strollers
strolling on toward sixty-four,
I was so sure fifty-eight
must be my last point of dying
to live no more than five more.
I was deadly tired of fighting
every air-born disaster.
My brilliant friends of young adulthood,
generation of young Aquarian post-anger management potential,
Whether their hearts still beat for more time
and we yet breathe Earth’s air together,
or whether everless time
to laugh thru our points of dying
into otherwise life’s discontinuous absence.
Alone we stand in that last license line
another anonymous generation
of those who will not rejoin our transmillennial lines,
wondering at this climatic mystery
of ever-vanishing life cycles,
after the last grandparent’s child dies
siblings and cousins look about
furtively at each other,
over our shoulders,
take him, not me;
take me, not her,
waiting our turn to turn into pillars of dying salt.
Or, is there another chapter,
postscript of revolutionary eco-warrior proportion,
EarthTribe SuperLiving Hero?
I wonder as I wait
to review my new ancient-streaming vision,
remembering when my brother turned toward sixty-four
remembering this was our male year
of dying dad standing alone in his last license line.
He did not see sixty-five,
year of full socially retiring commodification
for those uniting states
of freedom’s mythic evolutionary becoming,
reverse cultural face
of mutual enslavement
to cannibalistic ownership of minds
with humane-spirited bodies;
gardeners of social justice health
confused about where we lost our points thru living
as if dying to automating ego-ugly licenses,
carbon footprint excesses wiped on the backs of servitude,
hubris for yet more lines
with already too much space between;
I sleep amazed with wonders of dying points
toward life’s more optimal unfolding,
readers writing more published nutritional words
than writers could ever possibly live wisely enough to read
with deep digestive wisdom.
I see a frail thinner sinner,
this new, still embryonically warm, face of Elder,
farming memories of HIV doctors
and earthy nurses
surprised about my winning age
as oldest survivor on their list
not yet deleted,
pointing to my living
as iconic of divinely graceful dying,
living thru and yet beyond my own AIDS EcoWarrior time,
beneficiary of unfathomable loss
of brilliant firey minds
with anciently plagued bodies,
Positive viral incubators
of Lose-to-Lose biochemistry,
anti-synergetic loss of life
thru ugly dis-eased dying
thru dark self-engagement
Driving back upriver,
against regeneration’s need for fertile tides,
I wonder what I could fade into at seventy.
Would my automated license issue vaporous ghosts?
Or perhaps a host of memories
not imagined when sixty-four
raised so many points for dying
thru living poured out
warm embers lighting faces of love
along my way upriver
toward homes with mysteriously functional,
puzzlingly polycultural, families
surrounded by EarthTribe cousins
living and dying interdependently,
like trees shedding seeds
pointing toward next line’s regenesis.
Which are my points for living,
those times I am dying to repeat?
What is my pointed dying
thru life’s relicensed visits?
Arriving back in EarthTribe’s Home