Saturday, January 28, 2017

this day in history.

one needs to point the gun often pointed at others
toward their self

sometimes
occassionally
perhaps more often
than not

to get high on life
to realize all is beautiful as is

and then suffering wouldn't be valid anymore
so we wouldn't know anything about it
and we'd wake up new people.

all you have to do is point a gun at your head.
you just need to get high on life is what's up.

we all have our means of doing it.
and now, we can do it together, for somehow, we've all contributed

at least a little
to the end (the end of listening)
during mrs. sun's final cry
(mrs. big shot) the idol
still smiling, rubbing it in

that she can smile while dying, she's
at peace, mrs.
ball of energy, mrs.
robust across the daunting sky- it's either this, or it's
the back of a box of cereal
whose clouds look like clouds at most- clearly, not a subject of mine
in my kingdom, the fantasy world
where everyone is friendly

while i hold myself together on wishful thinking

that this is all just brain damage. better be.

intentions are well-meaning, at least, the parts
we know about them, the parts
we're able to digest,
and if we tried more, we'd discover
more than we can possibly handle.

don't we all
have this in common- the passing of the pipe,
the seed you smoke. exhibition
of trust.

together. together forever! like guys in a rock band.
counting on enormous roots to
catch me
cradling me as part of the planet.

seeds born of shiva's tears
of the fruit tree he cried under
in my jewelry draw.

it's good to admit they're there.