Doesn’t seem to make much sense at all;
win or lose don’t matter in the end.
It’s a race that seems too close to call;
finish line’s just up around the bend.
Doesn’t seem to change much day to day;
up or down, they’re pretty much the same.
It’s an endless cycle, anyway;
good or bad, the blues still run the game.
Doesn’t seem to be much of a choice;
nothing but illusions and disguise.
If you take a stand, or find your voice,
all you know or say ends up in lies.
Doesn’t seem to make much sense to me;
just another day to make it through.
Wasn’t what they promised it would be:
finding something meaningful to do.
Doesn’t seem there’s anything that’s true;
everyone pretends in something more.
What’s the point in simply playing through?
Who is left to count the final score?
Doesn’t seem to be a worthy cause;
after all, what matters, when it’s done?
Instinct versus artificial law;
both are losers, if somebody’s won.
09 JUN 2017
You seek for “truth”:
for the origin of being,
the thing in itself,
but either don’t look hard
or waste time looking
in the wrong spot.
It’s right here:
the meaning is no recipe,
it is not the history of a dish
to be rehashed at leisure
to impress special friends.
What a double-edged sword
The way you classify a thing
in theory doesn’t change its lifestyle;
it makes no difference,
one way or the other,
what you choose to call it
when you think it’s out of the room.
To imagine that a thing exists
because we think of it,
and blinks away to nothingness
once it slips our minds
imposes a two-dimensional framework
on the world
wherein our consciousness
is the only proof of life.
You see the dog on your lap.
You see the ant at your foot.
How stupid is that supposition?
24 FEB 2017
If you would this sad world improve: a battle cease, a mountain move, or seek to build up or destroy a single thought of fear or joy, there is one place alone to start. You must teach all your children art.
Imagination is the key.
By thoughts alone there come to be great mysteries, faith and belief in gods and demons, kings and chiefs; in justice and equality, in separating I and Thee.
So teach the arts, and music, too, in your religion, path or school. To have adherents worth a damn, they must imagine what “I AM” you would propose designed the world, created life, or wrote the rules.
Imagination is required.
Without it, none can be inspired to see beyond their own small selves, or care for something else that dwells beyond the sight and smell and touch; and such a life is not worth much. It does not toil, nor hope nor try, imagining no reason why, nor answer worth the seeking out.
Art teaches balance: faith and doubt; without it, gods are merely rules: like architecture without tools.
Teach art to all your children, then; for they must learn how to pretend if they would use your sacred texts for more than mindless genuflects or rote performance of some rite that without teeth, has lost its bite.
Imagination is the key.
Without it, all gods cease to be. Existence becomes drudge and trial, an endless chasm of denial where anything we do not see does not exist and can not be.
05 MAY 2010
Too much of what the world has been,
and is, and still might be,
has as its limits what we call
We reign imagination in
and relegate its course
to doomsday visions, worst-case scenes,
and dissipate its force.
But the first step in making change
is picturing it grow;
if we cannot imagine it,
we cannot make it so.
When Lennon said, “Imagine”,
it was not just empty talk,
but an instruction to our souls to crawl,
then try to walk.
Imagine that your point of view
is not all that there is
(to living, love or existence)
and you will learn just this:
That brotherhood and peace and love
were with you all along;
and required only listening
to one another’s song.
28 DEC 2004
for John Lennon
Alone again or so it seems
and yet my street of broken dreams
goes on and on.
The moon has kissed the sun goodbye
and yet hello, a kiss with which
to build a dream upon.
Childhood wanderings in lands
of dragons’ wings and foolish fancy
now begin the slow and wondrous
journey to the dawn;
and all alone again I wonder
how much longer I can carry on.
Back-lit silver silhouette,
a shadow lighting cigarettes
in time with me.
Purple grayish ashen rings
as tender summer breeze,
floating through the evening sky
to unknown destinations,
ones that we can feel but never see;
and once again I am alone,
a child full grown
but lost in make believe.