Body Politic

I worry in these times of tumultuous inequality,
masses awaiting what passes as wisdom,
poured liberally from the lips of the rich and famous
as if one’s financial status automatically confers erudition;

At the very least, living amidst the bizarre loosens folds
in grey matter focused on reaction over contemplation,
hypnotic numbness over long-term reflection, titillation
over absorption in the sweat-soaked trenches
of a technology-drenched deluge that,
like a flash-flood moving to channel the surge
before disappearing into a trickle, seeks
its inevitable end in the inane wasteland
of a desertified experiment in trial and terror.



It’s a tricky thing, ask
for one thing, get another,
just what is needed.


Shake hands with fate,
agree to the veiling
not an ending,
rather the beginnings
of a new life,
tabula rasa.

Oh, the beauty! Tastes
and smells and five,
maybe six senses
all vibrating at once,
luring us into nooks
and alleys and pleasure
and pain and lord,
are we hungry, the earth
is our pasture, her treasures
our plunder, perfecting ways
in which to exert dominion
over what the eyes survey;

Hungry ghosts.


Sikkim - Land of Discovery
image: Sikkim – Land of Discovery

fmi on the definition of hungry ghosts:
The Hungry Ghost


To have existed is not enough,
importance placed elsewhere
in a culture where life itself
holds little value;

She searches,
flailing frantically, coming socially
unhinged, unsure
of any positive contribution
now, before, future
colliding kaleidoscopically
on a freakish sliding scale of continuum,
never-ending agony of futile choices
based upon neatly conditioned alternatives.

Who wouldn’t go mad
in the face of this fallacy, illusory
though it might prove to be
in a world short on imagination;
focus instead on inane diversions
of a media-driven circus, replete
with political clowns and deflated footballs.

Dare we doubt the power of distraction?

image: Olivia Muus
image: Olivia Muus

Waking Up in a Holiday Inn

We are so willing to click in and go for the ride.
Neurons firing and off we jettison
into yet another collective illusion
while the god of Abraham, bless his heart,
calls it good.
It’s all good.
The miracle of bodies in time and space.
Damn the consequences as,
iPhone in hand and television cranked,
we stride out blinking, blind as moles,
into fractured rays of the sun’s early light,
ignorant of it having risen
in the utter stillness of earth’s rotation
around a fiery halo.


Regarding me over bins of oatmeal and millet,

not comprehending choices –

where is the plain, brown, recognizable?


Offer of assistance precipitates wonder:

Do I work there?

Perhaps, and one never knows another’s motives,

What qualifies me to answer?


I smile as she wonders aloud,

Why would you help?

Never having had this asked, I am miffed;

glibly answer, Because I was raised that way.


And perhaps it’s true, as a jingle plays

in the back of my head;

not my parents’ doing, but good enough.

Service, I say, is purpose;

What harm can it do?

Stumped, her mouth twitches in nervous retort,

I like your hair.