Awakening

To awaken oneself, as the French would say;
a reflexive looking inside.

To awaken oneself.

To bring oneself out of a state of sleep or rest;
to dust off the cobwebs; to destroy the rust
that has settled in from decades of monotony or sloth,
slowly creeping up one branch
to reach the ripest fruit
but at what cost?

What is the price of being awake?

Of seeing the world through a philosopher’s lens
or a politician’s skeptical pocket book?

Why study the chambers and valves of the pump
that sloshes around a life-giving liquid,
when it seems to do just fine on its own
without the help of man
or woman, a soft creature by nature,
or so we assume that which we have been told
in our sleep
by our parents
who read us bedtime stories
told by their parents
and theirs before,
whose source of fact comes from a paper or radio show,
or the neighbor next door,
who last time I checked has been camping for years
on the bale of hay so perfectly propped on their porch
where they spy like crows
seeking the next empty headed scarecrow to feed on,
to pluck out their button eyes and deafen their cornfed ears
so he may lie asleep for years and years,
because who needs change anyway?

Our books are comfortable collecting dust and mites
on the shelves and side tables
perched neatly next to a memory foam throne
that has more skills for retention than the current generation
who have lost the knack for memorization.

Who needs facts when Siri is your best friend,
cousin to your second aunt twice removed, Google,
who is happy to do all the heavy lifting for you
because we have grown weary,
atrophied,
complacent.
Our fingers more skilled at swiping right
than turning a page,
or cracking a spine,
taking a whiff of the history in fine cursive lines.
We squint to read because our eyes our heavy
from dreaming of princes and fairies,
education, libraries,
equality, justice,
and so many other tales we’ve heard in the folklore of future generations,
sent in a tiny capsule from those with 20/20, without correction,
or the need to sit in the front section of a lecture
to see in the reflection of the screens
projecting images back of ourselves
walking around like zombies,
eyes glazed over with the film of deception
or better yet closed,
shut tight,
locked,
with no way in from the outside,
stuck in our own prison
pondering what the cost would be to

w a k e   o n e s e l f   u p  ,

to run full force out of this dream,
or nightmare,
where opinion holds court over truth as a monarch who awaits a curtsy,
because that is what we are expected to do.

To bend the knee, to bow the head,
submit,
stay quiet and underfed,
malnourished of facts,
science,
history,
biology;
an autobiography writing its own ending
if the puppet master continues to get his way
and his every move we complicity obey,
if we don’t break free from the strings
tying us to the Bastille’s floor of stony concrete,
we’ll be running madly
through bloody streets
and severed heads
to defeat forces believed to be beyond our control
but what David has set his mind to
no Goliath can put asunder
so we must awaken ourselves from this slumber
and Stay Woke.

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Illusion

An illusion:

A slight of hand slightly different than what appears in the mirror,
if a mirror is even something to be trusted,
as it is constructed
of metal and glass and bits
made from man
with their sweaty hands,
tinkering away to create a shard
where you can stand and reflect
on if the angle of where your jaw and chin meet
measures up in a way that pleases the masses
and check off the box we are put inside,
concealed and bound with chains and locks
into a mold.

We’re bold,

but not clever like Houdini,
with a skill for wiggling out of any corner society has backed him into

and with a flash,

bang,

they are fooled.

Full of deceit and lies,
cashing receipts
for the tricks they’ve been sold,
because the age-old smoke and mirrors has succeeded again

but  We  are  n o t  f o o l e d.

We are not tricked.

We see a spade for a spade on the back of an ornate king bedazzled in diamonds, capturing the hearts of queens,
hiring jokers,
the masters of the craft
of making us laugh
as a distraction from the true terror illuminated under the Light of the Moon,

but that’s just one side of the story.

The shadow of the eclipse is presented to one hemisphere,
while the other bathes in milky, incandescent pools of hope,
dancing in masks on the dreams of the other
because they are blinded by the brightness of what isn’t even light,
but a reflection of light,
if light is even what we think it is.

Alas, we
have been tricked

by Science (or Ignorance),

into believing that our side of the story is what truly holds water
when in fact it is  w e i g h t l e s s ,
blown away by a strong current,
the hurricanes and cyclones of another world,
built to destroy our perception of perfection,
when if you flip a coin you can’t make heads or tails
of light
or dark
and Grey suddenly becomes the only truth you’ve ever known;
in its subtlety,
in its wavering footsteps,
on a dusty surface too cold for life,
but too beautiful to not consider the possibilities
and dream of a Universe bigger than our earthly tricks and games,
where we have put blame on the other side of a two-way mirror
that if we just wait long enough,
we will see the problem we’ve been staring at the whole time is
ourselves.

So the Moon turns and fades…

It illuminates.

It darkens.

Its shadows deceive our eyes
which require light shone just the right way
to reveal the magicians truth:

that behind the glitter,
the smoke,
the dust,
the velvet,
and the rabbit-filled top hat,

the Glass is shattered.

A sparkle glimmers blindingly at just the right angle,
a geometric revelation that when all is said and done,
when the lights fade and the music stops,
the violin creaks a final screech,
the bow halting,
cymbals crashing,

we are left in a world of Grey,

splattered,

sprayed colorless,

where  d e t a i l s    n  o  w    f  a  d  e

and perceptions bleed into one dull shade…

We are one card-up-the-sleeve away from giving up the Magician’s secret:
Things Aren’t Always as They Seem

Creat(ion)ivity

To create.

To grow.

From nothing comes all.
Just a seed,
a tiny inkling of an idea,
a germ germinated through soil and muck and dirt,
worm-covered and slick, slimy, slithering through the trenches,
the maze of roots rooted in the ground.

The Beginning.

The Earth;

the base of all where Life begins and falls.

It’s a cyclical merry-go-round spinning at a dizzying rate,
flashing with vibrant, neon, technicolor,
blinding from the speed and change

The rate of change.

The rate of death.

The death of Life.

All from a singular being, swollen with watery pride.
Is it a nest or a tomb this watery grave?
New Life or Undead,
walking stiff legged, blank faced, glazed eyes
crying out in hunger for the first or the last time?

The lines are blurred as they so often are in every color of the spectrum:
red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, ultraviolet rays
blazing down from the sun,
creating a photosynthetic, polyester, plaster, and ceramic life,
molded from the clay of the earth or the rib of a woman: the holding cell of all,
this ossiferous cavern mingling blood and bone
made from sweat and tears for 9 months and 18 more or less years.

Life.

                           Life.

What defines the life of a creature other than to live

to breathe

to count the moments until breath ceases to be the arduous, single, laborious task
when the first and the last
give an overwhelming sense of joy and relief to the owner
and all those fortunate enough to witness it?

It’s forgotten.

It’s taken for granted.

The sack protected by the rib,
given by the rib from which you were created,
is the Great Protector.

Your filling.

Your pump.

Your sustenance.

Your soul.

It rises and falls as the sun and moon do
daily,
yearly,
e t e r n a l l y
chasing each other around the universe,
playing tag throughout the galaxies.
Waxing,
waning over all to give rise and fall to the chests of its subjects
whether they gasp in fear, awe, surprise, shame, joy
or in the pangs of,

h e e  h e e    h o o                 h e e  h e e    hoo

the Breath of all breaths which brings forth you and I

no   matter   who   we   have   killed.

We all come from a breath,
with a breath,
the very life giving,
life sustaining effect
that will be our demise.

Still –
we rise
and fall
and rise
and fall
and Rise.

Abundance

an abundance of towels
Abundance paper mâchéed with hundreds, the money of peasants
the presents of peasants
pheasants, feathers, peacocks, sequined, majestic birds take flight
soaring, swarming, flying through space
the luxury to waste such precious moments
to not be present

winged in abundance
fabrics, mixed metals, stilettos of all colors
a waterfall or water feature, which is a basic need
when your carpet is cash, your wallpaper coins
your furniture upholstered with deeds to castles
chateaux of the old world, enriching your new world
where you reign as sovereign to your body, your shrine, your temple, your hive

to busting your ass on the streets
so you can sleep in golden honeyed hexagonal sheets of 1000 ply Egyptian thread cotton passed down by godmother Cleopatra
the Queen of Kings
the Queen of gods
Bless Her
Her art withstands; respect long gone
but who gives a shit when you own all the johns
all the drones in the palm of a powerful hand
whose primary task is keeping a firm grasp on a bejewelled scepter
the other hand housing the nectar
a salty heap of caviar
the offspring of thousands of women who offered themselves as sacrifice to the great god Independence

queenbee