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Finals

If I had one last hour with you
would I be able and willing to speak?

What could we say or sing again?
Or perhaps something hidden from view until now,
our final hour,
otherwise left unsaid.

Would words get in our way?
We might compose a final anthem,
torch song,
jazz impovisation
dispelling my decomposition story.

Could you put me down
like a cherished family dog?
On my side
you behind
my head on your shoulder
listening to us breathe our goodbye,
drifting into a more timeless embrace.

What final words might I wish to hear
or might words feel too distracting
for this sacred task,
to fill one final hour,
squeeze out all unfinished agendas
before this final curtain.

I fear I would have no more clue
of what to say and do
my last hour
than I did not my first.
A final wail
to bookend my first noisy gasp for breath.

It seems less surprising now
that I so often feel a loss of words
when relationships become compressed by time,
or even imagined as our time’s last hurrah.
Why would this last hour differ
from first and all self constraining hours between?

Final words and lives despise predestined mortality,
knowing Trees of Life predict Death Root Systems,
sitting and standing
and even lying down
bowing in to end
what we wondrously begin again.

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Curiosity Feeds the Cat

Where my love goes
mystery cannot fade.

Yet my curiosity can wilt without your active support,
contagious nourishment,
never-ending flames of wonder
that this love could persist.

How could we possibly not share our lives,
mutually disinvest from mystery
that will not fade dampened?

Yet without active curiosity
mystery fades hoplesse to know more,
even though love’s thirst for internal history
and self-creation stories
becomes too easily quenched
by cooperative post-climatic adjustments,
aging continental planets
earth-quaking our chronically mutual mysteries.

Where my love goes
your history could not fade ,
yet dark fading curiosity of aging eyes and ears
and minds
can blend well-deserved contentment
feeding flame’s remorseless desire to continue this mystery
of love’s deep and blissful curiosity.

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May Fog

This foggy sky
darkly and relentlessly rains
especially for an early May morning.

He is not prepared for darkness
seeping in from new-born leaves,
not yet full grown
into this year’s tree-lacing dress,
soaking in from saturated soil,
slurping into his complexly relaxing empathic soul.

Perhaps this open quality
endears him to those few who could ever know him
enough to watch him,
watching,
noticing,
hoping for less rain inside today,
each day,
all Earth’s Days.

Wet liturgical Mays
dissolve his Taurean ways.

Yet, for him, right now,
such dark openness yawns too large
for even one dreary lonely hour
of self-isolation.

His two medically complex clients have gone,
as usual,
Monday morning until late afternoon.
Today, as he contemplates his decadent ways,
he misses their distracting charms.
Each so different.
YinYin so loudly Trumpian,
post-millennial triumphalist,
but also with some significant undiagnosed bipolar control issues.
Meanwhile Yang,
unable to speak or sign,
so hidden,
yin-shy shadow of rich warm love,
immersed in life’s right-now ripe composting time,
each moment,
graciously emerging from his co-arising past
to spin toward future yang-yin equipoise memories
of time’s karmic grace.

But, right now he must sustain thru dark raining dreams of suicide
without them.
He suffers withdrawal from feeling needed,
unworthy of becoming truly wanted.

Ironic,
a PermaCultural Family EcoTherapist,
actually achieving good polycultural outcomes
with his broken clients,
the one highly de-specialized professional wheelhouse
most needed to accelerate global networking
cooperative outcomes,
challenging each family and all climatic systems
with Yang-encultured dominance,
right here and now in this post-millennial generation
of ecologically balancing great and small,
daily transitions,
yet he feels hopeless,
not knowing where he could ever begin again
so late in this biological incarnation
already showing concerns that “Black Lives Matter”
but maybe not so much old black,
or white,
or even green lives matter
beyond their retiring biofunctional usefulness.

We all help make great compost when we die.
It’s getting in there,
completing the job,
embracing the vocation,
once and for all,
that continues to challenge life as EgoDeath love.

How does one retiring PermaCultural Therapist
best contribute to this time,
this ecosystem,
this community,
this family,
this primal relationship with Earth
and all Her tribal dialects
and languages
and species
and multicultural diversities of life and death cycles
and recycles,
and repurposes?

Probably reading F Scott Fitzgerald’s issues about cultural decay
and ethical integrity of bodies and minds
ingesting and regurgitating Earth’s generous beauty
is rather like sitting under a rain-drenched tarp,
writing stories of suicidal dissipation,
while Earth calls for Revolutionary EcoTherapists
to heal Her as she cries,
this early May morning,
under foggy dripping skies.

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Playing Old Maid Players

“To have Clarity of Intention means to align oneself with the clear and single-pointed purpose of that [regenerative] impulse itself. And the way that alignment occurs, in a [bicameral] human heart and mind, is that the intention to [co-]evolve becomes more important [and obvious and ubiquitous] than anything else in this [living ecosystemic] world.” Andrew Cohen, “Evolutionary Enlightenment”, p. 111

Life is like a game of Old Maid.
We co-arise the cards and hands
we have been dealt
and have dealt ourselves
facedown,
we have gifted and been gifted.

So now you know,
we made that Old Maid shirt and tie
now in your hand,
just means its your time to wear them
until they find some other happy hapless guy.

Love is like a game of Wise Elder.
We co-arise our carded hands
dealing mutual subsidiarity to co-gravitate together
facedown forward,
faceup backward through time’s transactional memory,
gifting to and fro.

So now you know,
we made this Wise Elder shirt and tie
at hand,
just means its our Time to help you wear them
until we find some other happy hapless ego-soul.

To have Clarity of Intention
is to align oneself with equanimity
to each moment’s co-arising Old Wise Elder Maid
cooperative Win-Win game.

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Culture’s Driver

How are ya Harry?

How are ya Sue?

It’s been too little smiles:

You are my sunshine,

Unforgettable Sue…

It’s been too many miles

of egocentric unbalanced siloes of monoculturally satiated feeding

But, I still remember you

through streams of hazy octave harmonies, fractal echoes of shadowy smoke

and mirrors reflecting bilateral timelessness as bicameral eco-logicalness,

flowing strings dancing with RNA revolving rings

of Yes = double-binding no synaptic resistance to co-gravitation

defining Positive Bicameral Eco-Consciousness.

Note: Italics informed by “Taxi Driver”, Harry Chapin.

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Random Mainframes

Random frames
my brain
in polypathic goo
refusing to decompositionally chew
enough to defog mystery
of randomness
coincidence
co-arising evolution
of a fuller consciousness revolution.

Prickly head
with gooey heart
suboptimizing when they are apart
and are not speaking
to where they might find
a more accurate midway mine.

When I want to optimize
my wealth
of mental health,
I decompose nondual co-arising
toward regenerative comprehension,
to decompose
to break apart
in my image-nation
what time’s nature must always regener-ation.

Strictly Prickly Heads,
last of a Left-brain dominant strain.
Gushing GooGlobbed Hearts,
last of a RightWinged
monocultural spring.

If mass is to time
as commodity is to energy,
then commodifiant forms
have two bilateral functions,
buying and selling Time’s value.

We have commodified ourselves
too high
for the energy we have invested
to co-arise Beloved Commons.

Each buy and sell form
of Time’s transaction
follows our Tree of Good and Evil
commodity
rather than consuming and producing
Time’s primal choice
of Tree for Life and Death’s
double-bound transparent value.

Commodity incarnates
a market of value,
distilled fuel for even more ego-ownership.

Informational interest
fuels commodification of value
for stripmining Earth
as we stripmine the value of human Time;
while more cooperative interest
energizes optimizing value
for polyculturing Earth
as we polypath our value of eco-logical Time.

If Earth is RNA’s ProGenitor,
our ultimately commodifying “Owner”
and CoRedeemer,
then is ownership of Earth
commodification as
idolatrization
of madness,
polypathology of valuing Good
as loveless usery,
universalism without unitarianism?

Neither cultural hype
nor hippie consciousness
bring immunity to greed
or consistent investment in confluent integrity.
Whereas polypathic genius
does seem to bring some intuitive affinity
to simplicity of life’s value
for Time’s hope and faith and love,
beauty and wisdom;
a more singularly focused consciousness
on how we are created
united
just how our bones are polymorphically universal
fossils of unitarian revolutions.

I think that I shall never see
an old man buy his first property
going up his rickety stair
to take his blood pressure meds unaware
he will wear the stair with excessive need to pee;
you see,
due to his blood pressure mediludicrosity,
up up the stairs he went
to visit the only bathroom’s cabinets.

We can use actuarial tables
to decompose the value of Time’s investment
in any co-arising system,
whether informational-digital
or analogical-organic,
thereby calculating appropriate life credit and debit
available to this globally networked cooperative community
each hour
or day
or transaction
or week
or month
or year
or time’s ultimately prime relationship
to timeless.

Don’t sell the Commons,
but,
because we have already commodified
even the goods and evils of a life,
whether human,
or a tree,
perhaps we might cooperatively rent goods
and barter services
in exchange for the value of Time’s investment
by the day
or week
or month
or year
or lifetime,
depending on who we be
together.

Yellow wool blanket
with matching satin sashing
just on one end
caressing my neck and chin
reminding of how long and dashing
we have been
together.

Hold me against the chill of parting night.
Hold me with abandon to your fright
to love me
whom you never had enough
of hold me
for the warmth of gathering days.

Random frames
rounding claims,
icons of RNA’s encryption.

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Decadent Zeroisms

When we are eighty
wisdom of eight
conjoins balance of zero waste.

When we are seventy
full weight of seven
cohabitates balance with zero-timeless patience.

When we are sixty
co-arising comprehension of six
connects to close harmonize full octave
zero through eight syntax,
a rhythm standard RNA design
for optimal natural polynomial performance.

When we are fifty
we face mid-century crisis
to reconnect five’s eco-centric superlogic
to dominantly reductive maturing ego,
or continue disconnecting
egocentric economic imbalance
competing with ecologically inclusive co-redemption
of all polycultural nature
shrilly screaming regenerate cells
demanding we return to slower
sustained optimal zero-centric pace
of co-arising life.

When we are forty
fatness of four
closes an unwelcome zero-platform door
on halfway to eighty.

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Homeward Loss

Heart is where my home is,
my soul,
my memories of becoming,
of being at my best,
sometimes my worst,
but always my most full, complete,
most abundantly happy, content.

Home unveils life’s liturgy.
This home where I was conceived
and born
has rebirthed me each dawn
through all my dream time,
where I grew up,
where siblings moved on,
where I was married,
from where I buried my grandparents,
and then my parents.

As my body houses my identity
my home houses my body.
While home and self-identity can be distinguished
one from the other,
this is never a benign discrimination;
a distinction without prospects for contented difference,
dishearted separation.

My soul and mind and body fade and wilt
withdrawn by force and circumstance
from my embryonic being.
To awaken or sleep away
in any other place,
without power or even hope to return,
fades my eyes and ears and nose,
my skin down to my spinal bones,
despair this senseless loss of sense
of life and breath and bread that once was mine
and could be mine to share again.

My home is where I live
my view of neighbors and town and Earth and life
flowing sedately toward, then past too quickly
on my backyard river
greeting ducks and swans
herons and eagles soaring by
to hunt this fertile rippling home with me
now fading into memory
as memory shades to apathy,
and apathy to this sad isolation
from my heart’s womb.

 

For Caroline

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Maintaining Eye Contact

Aging now.

This house, not home, hums and strains

pitchy tension.

Remnants of clean but dingy laundry,

garments, face clothes

textures remembered against cherished warm skin,

dryer in winter,

more needy of compassion,

aging.

 

Staring in my mirror now

I learn to reach back into black glazed pupils

brewing expanding cultures through their cumulative archives,

four grand parents staring back through my ancient reflecting face

each one looking through these same bicameral

black dense binomial windows

back through their four grandparents.

 

I note this visual DNA looking out and back

and through our mutually cooperative generations,

sometimes more, sometimes less,

but at least on occasion cooperative,

or this face would not stare back,

aging rapidly now back further

toward messiah and sage and shaman times.

 

Where were these DNA pupils

expanding and contracting,

causing hearts to race and calm,

breath to gasp and slowly subsidize evaporating atmospheres

so longing to belong ago.

 

Were they hopeful then,

these ancient mariners

swimming through generations of salty tears,

wet fears and joys

jumps and starts

swelling farts?

 

Listening, noticing for a new millennium,

more permanently encultured

with fertile light and sounds,

rhythm of dancing songs.

 

Speaking, perhaps these pupils spoke

of what they saw reflecting back

through my karma’s cumulative incarnations,

each graced with opportunities for mindful peace and love,

and dissonance, hate, violence, neglect, dismay, heartbroken

to fly and swim together or fall apart

back through plasma flows and folds

of regenerative information learners, pupils

looking, searching, seeding, growing,

guarding, harvesting nutrient compost

through hoary primal roots of RNA’s

positive teleology

to keep evolving forward as possible,

avoid revolving backward into meaningless and mindless

dissonance, competition, violence, and decaying entropy.

 

Ancient now

our eyes reflect

darkly dense regenerating

wispy wet winds and whips

of swiming eco-seas

self-potentiating Prime Love Relationship

of Right and Left

remembering Yin greets Yang

with subsidizing solidarity,

a P=NP as +1 QBit Yang = -(-1) Yin Implicate Disordering

QBit +/(-) Zero souled chi,

binary balanced magnetic revolutionary dynamism

4-root squared holonic-fractal

namaste assumption.

 

Ancient mutually mindful Yang and Yin

looking out and back,

and in and positively forward.

Primal evolutionary self-mirroring regenesis,

ever aging Eternal Moment together,

remembering, recollecting, reconnecting.

 

Aging pupils fading,

holding time’s stream

to close and flow our dreams.

 

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