“Finding Meaning in the Face of Death.”
That was the title of an article I came across recently,
and I'll admit I don't like that title.
Here's why:
I'll grant we live in a society
where motivation is scarce.
(Disagree? Look at space travel, Cold War to now;
voter turnout in the *perfect* democracy of the US;
the fact that procrastination is so prevalent it's become a joke.*)
Even so, I would argue that if you need death to arrive at your door
before you find meaning,
you probably haven't taken a good look around.
More importantly, it implies we're not all dying every day:
"In the Tibetan philosophy, Sylvia Plath sense of the word,
I know we're all dying, right?"
Right.
If you want death or lack of time as your great motivator,
consider that every second past is a second forever gone,
and that you live through 30 million seconds
every year.
That ought to give you a good running start, no?
* Google search: "procrastination memes"
Showing posts with label Spoken word. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spoken word. Show all posts
10 May, 2017
07 April, 2017
#0088 - Cold Mornings
{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 7}
Reminders of times past;
Nostalgia;
The blitheness of a child revisited.
At a time when darkness still reigns—
too late in the night for anyone to be awake, or
too early in the morning for anyone to be awake—
tata (father) rouses us to consciousness.
Lethargy
like superglue keeping our eyes closed;
Cold
like waterfalls of ice on our feet
when they poke out from under the covers.
"Come on, time to wake up;
you can sleep in the car."
Pillows, blankets huddled in our arms:
mementos of the paradise of slumber.
We stumble wherever that familiar voice leads us,
vision fuzzy,
feet shuffling,
comprehension nonexistent—
just get to the car,
where rest awaits.
Step out the garage door,
cold morning air hits us like the gust of a blizzard.
Still black as ink outside;
the sun makes a feeble effort to light our way:
the faintest glimmer of blue—
hue inspired by the glacial air—
streaks along the Eastern horizon.
And the air:
As if winter concentrated all it has
into this single morning;
As if we are living in a fridge
and the fridge door just slammed shut;
As if Antarctica has come to visit us,
but without the snow.
Oooooh it's c-co-old.
Where's the car?
We shuffle begrudgingly to the open door and dive in,
creating our personal nests faster than any bird
out of pillows and covers and anything warm.
Darkness:
sleep returns.
As tens,
dozens,
hundreds
of miles of asphalt pass beneath our metal chariot,
the sky grows gradually brighter
and through holes in the sheltering veil of Hypnos
we listen to snippets of grown-up talk:
something about planning,
something about money,
something about home,
something about travel,
…something about us...
In retrospect, it was all probably important,
but, to the infinite indifference of childhood,
irrelevant.
That indifference is gone now—
it could not follow me through the years.
Like Blankie
and action figures
and Gameboy cartridges,
it’s in the attic now.
I can visit it,
but I can no longer have it back.
Reminders of times past;
Nostalgia;
The blitheness of a child revisited.
At a time when darkness still reigns—
too late in the night for anyone to be awake, or
too early in the morning for anyone to be awake—
tata (father) rouses us to consciousness.
Lethargy
like superglue keeping our eyes closed;
Cold
like waterfalls of ice on our feet
when they poke out from under the covers.
"Come on, time to wake up;
you can sleep in the car."
Pillows, blankets huddled in our arms:
mementos of the paradise of slumber.
We stumble wherever that familiar voice leads us,
vision fuzzy,
feet shuffling,
comprehension nonexistent—
just get to the car,
where rest awaits.
Step out the garage door,
cold morning air hits us like the gust of a blizzard.
Still black as ink outside;
the sun makes a feeble effort to light our way:
the faintest glimmer of blue—
hue inspired by the glacial air—
streaks along the Eastern horizon.
And the air:
As if winter concentrated all it has
into this single morning;
As if we are living in a fridge
and the fridge door just slammed shut;
As if Antarctica has come to visit us,
but without the snow.
Oooooh it's c-co-old.
Where's the car?
We shuffle begrudgingly to the open door and dive in,
creating our personal nests faster than any bird
out of pillows and covers and anything warm.
Darkness:
sleep returns.
As tens,
dozens,
hundreds
of miles of asphalt pass beneath our metal chariot,
the sky grows gradually brighter
and through holes in the sheltering veil of Hypnos
we listen to snippets of grown-up talk:
something about planning,
something about money,
something about home,
something about travel,
…something about us...
In retrospect, it was all probably important,
but, to the infinite indifference of childhood,
irrelevant.
That indifference is gone now—
it could not follow me through the years.
Like Blankie
and action figures
and Gameboy cartridges,
it’s in the attic now.
I can visit it,
but I can no longer have it back.
05 April, 2016
#0018 - "I was in a courtroom the other day"
I was in a courtroom the other day.
Don't worry, I wasn't the criminal -
I'm White.
Now, if I was a politician
I would never say that,
For fear of a lynching of my reputation.
I'm not a politician.
Because,
As we all know,
Politicians are the worst kind of people.
If there was a tournament for the worst kinds of people,
Politicians would take first place.
Just look around:
Right now we have a man that wants to build a wall to keep the rapist Latinos out of our country,
Which is not much worse than the man two hundred years ago who wrote about freedom in our Declaration of Independence despite owning his own conveniently unadvertised slaves.
But I guess I shouldn't be too hard on politicians.
After all, if politicians take first place in a tournament for the worst kinds of people,
Poets must take close second.
After all,
Poets lie all the time.
But we don't call them lies.
We call them "metaphors."
So,
I use my metaphorical river of words
To describe our politicians as metaphorical mules:
The main attraction in the metaphorical circus of politics.
Their favorite thing is metaphorical white chocolate,
But they cringe at the mention of metaphorical milk chocolate
And metaphorical dark chocolate,
Despite the fact that chocolate is chocolate,
No matter the color.
They won't make a comment on metaphorical fried rice,
Though,
Because fried rice does the best in our universities
And runs 1.5 million of our businesses.
Fried rice doesn't run the country,
But it comes close.
I'll just say that while I'm happy to be living in our melting pot,
It disappoints me that some people are still afraid of throwing certain vegetables into the broth
On account of shape, size or color.
Don't worry, I wasn't the criminal -
I'm White.
Now, if I was a politician
I would never say that,
For fear of a lynching of my reputation.
I'm not a politician.
Because,
As we all know,
Politicians are the worst kind of people.
If there was a tournament for the worst kinds of people,
Politicians would take first place.
Just look around:
Right now we have a man that wants to build a wall to keep the rapist Latinos out of our country,
Which is not much worse than the man two hundred years ago who wrote about freedom in our Declaration of Independence despite owning his own conveniently unadvertised slaves.
But I guess I shouldn't be too hard on politicians.
After all, if politicians take first place in a tournament for the worst kinds of people,
Poets must take close second.
After all,
Poets lie all the time.
But we don't call them lies.
We call them "metaphors."
So,
I use my metaphorical river of words
To describe our politicians as metaphorical mules:
The main attraction in the metaphorical circus of politics.
Their favorite thing is metaphorical white chocolate,
But they cringe at the mention of metaphorical milk chocolate
And metaphorical dark chocolate,
Despite the fact that chocolate is chocolate,
No matter the color.
They won't make a comment on metaphorical fried rice,
Though,
Because fried rice does the best in our universities
And runs 1.5 million of our businesses.
Fried rice doesn't run the country,
But it comes close.
I'll just say that while I'm happy to be living in our melting pot,
It disappoints me that some people are still afraid of throwing certain vegetables into the broth
On account of shape, size or color.
06 March, 2016
#0002 - "In the 1970s"
In the 1970s,
a song was released where the chorus asks
"war, what is it good for?"
and the singer responds with
"absolutely nothing."
There's this reggae band that I like
because I like the way they align their notes
and in one of their songs
a man sings,
"world leaders, what are your priorities?
So many wars, and yet none end world poverty."
Over the past thousand years,
and the past million years,
and the past billion years,
fish have learned to swim together,
birds have learned to soar together,
bison have learned to run together,
but humans still haven't learned to exist together.
And take note of that word that I chose to use:
Exist.
To be.
I'm not citing the Bible and saying that one must love thy neighbor.
I'm not saying that you should give a hug and kiss
to every stranger that you meet.
I'm not saying that everyone should throw their stuff out on the street in order to
help out those in need
- that comes next -
what I'm simply asking for is that everyone be
in the same place, at the same time, peacefully.
Why is it
that when we fly our million-dollar planes over Afghanistan
we're dropping bombs instead of food?
Why is it
that when the 1000-ton chains of institutionalized social injustice finally fell to the ground,
the Blacks,
the gays,
the poor,
the queer
only had a moment of relief
- only a breath of relief -
before they realized that even if fists didn't shower them with hits and bruises
and signs no longer told them where they could and could not go,
eyes still stared at them with the sharp edge of a knife
coated in venom that burns your soul even if it doesn't burn your skin?
Why is it that just because I'm a straight,
white
male,
for every dollar that I make a Hispanic woman will make forty-six cents less?
And I wonder if you wonder why I switch from war to the home front.
It's because war is not just about borders.
War is about racism, and sexism, and economic success-ism.
War is not just about the people that live in the 195 countries
that aren't the one we're standing in right now;
war is about our friends and our neighbors.
The only problem being
that those that matter aren't always near,
because even though we say we're not segregated,
we live in White communities,
we live in Black communities,
and we live in Brown communities.
And although those three colors may exist on the easel of the painter,
until we can learn to paint something other than
White lines,
and Black lines,
and Brown lines,
the canvas may not be blank, but it is most definitely up to par.
We have easels and brushes and painters ready to use them;
The only phrase they're waiting for is "ready, set, go"
as opposed to "ready, set, wait, let's see how this affects our budget."
I'm talking to you now, men up top -
men in suits
and men in ties.
You're shifting digits and you're pushing numbers,
but even numbers have limits,
and although you're holding the sands of unrest in a tight grip,
the sand is still falling through the cracks in your fingers.
You've been holding the sands for a long time,
and although all you're holding is little yellow grains,
the grains are adding up.
Every Black man shot in city streets just for being Black,
every Hispanic woman that has to work 3 jobs to feed her 3 starving children,
every White man that makes 3
million dollars just for the color of the melanin in his skin
is another grain of sand
- another reason -
to take the sword that you won't brandish
and wage the war that you won't declare -
a war that ends not with cities and borders burned,
but with a White kid,
a Black kid,
and a Brown kid
playing and talking together
because they realize that what you think and what you feel
is more important than the color of your skin,
or,
speaking of color,
how much green your parents make.
a song was released where the chorus asks
"war, what is it good for?"
and the singer responds with
"absolutely nothing."
There's this reggae band that I like
because I like the way they align their notes
and in one of their songs
a man sings,
"world leaders, what are your priorities?
So many wars, and yet none end world poverty."
Over the past thousand years,
and the past million years,
and the past billion years,
fish have learned to swim together,
birds have learned to soar together,
bison have learned to run together,
but humans still haven't learned to exist together.
And take note of that word that I chose to use:
Exist.
To be.
I'm not citing the Bible and saying that one must love thy neighbor.
I'm not saying that you should give a hug and kiss
to every stranger that you meet.
I'm not saying that everyone should throw their stuff out on the street in order to
help out those in need
- that comes next -
what I'm simply asking for is that everyone be
in the same place, at the same time, peacefully.
Why is it
that when we fly our million-dollar planes over Afghanistan
we're dropping bombs instead of food?
Why is it
that when the 1000-ton chains of institutionalized social injustice finally fell to the ground,
the Blacks,
the gays,
the poor,
the queer
only had a moment of relief
- only a breath of relief -
before they realized that even if fists didn't shower them with hits and bruises
and signs no longer told them where they could and could not go,
eyes still stared at them with the sharp edge of a knife
coated in venom that burns your soul even if it doesn't burn your skin?
Why is it that just because I'm a straight,
white
male,
for every dollar that I make a Hispanic woman will make forty-six cents less?
And I wonder if you wonder why I switch from war to the home front.
It's because war is not just about borders.
War is about racism, and sexism, and economic success-ism.
War is not just about the people that live in the 195 countries
that aren't the one we're standing in right now;
war is about our friends and our neighbors.
The only problem being
that those that matter aren't always near,
because even though we say we're not segregated,
we live in White communities,
we live in Black communities,
and we live in Brown communities.
And although those three colors may exist on the easel of the painter,
until we can learn to paint something other than
White lines,
and Black lines,
and Brown lines,
the canvas may not be blank, but it is most definitely up to par.
We have easels and brushes and painters ready to use them;
The only phrase they're waiting for is "ready, set, go"
as opposed to "ready, set, wait, let's see how this affects our budget."
I'm talking to you now, men up top -
men in suits
and men in ties.
You're shifting digits and you're pushing numbers,
but even numbers have limits,
and although you're holding the sands of unrest in a tight grip,
the sand is still falling through the cracks in your fingers.
You've been holding the sands for a long time,
and although all you're holding is little yellow grains,
the grains are adding up.
Every Black man shot in city streets just for being Black,
every Hispanic woman that has to work 3 jobs to feed her 3 starving children,
every White man that makes 3
million dollars just for the color of the melanin in his skin
is another grain of sand
- another reason -
to take the sword that you won't brandish
and wage the war that you won't declare -
a war that ends not with cities and borders burned,
but with a White kid,
a Black kid,
and a Brown kid
playing and talking together
because they realize that what you think and what you feel
is more important than the color of your skin,
or,
speaking of color,
how much green your parents make.
#0001 - "Sledgehammers shatter marble floors"
Sledgehammers shatter marble floors.
The house is on fire,
and yet you can’t resist the urge to come inside and decimate it even more,
because you can’t wait!
You can’t hold your impatience,
You can’t hold your anticipation,
to watch the structure fall apart,
to watch the foundation crack apart,
to watch the doors slam, but not on their hinges but onto the floor,
to let the windows let in fresh air but not because they’re open but because their glass is shattered and on the floor.
You look outside through the hole in the wall that you left behind and you see the verdure:
the trees are colored orange but it’s not Autumn,
the flowers colored red but it’s not spring;
the colors that surround you are the colors of your shallow, rancorous anger and pain.
That which you’ve now expressed, fervent but blind.
And in ten minutes you’ll be finished, and you’ll leave without a second thought or glance behind.
And in ten hours you’ll be happy.
But in ten days you will look in the mirror and see that you’re contrite,
and in ten weeks I don’t know if you’ll be able to keep from your neck the knife;
the knife that lays on your bed,
bloodied red.
Bloodied red from the enemies you created in your head;
the enemies that are no more real
than the hatred that you feel for those that hold you dear.
The house is on fire,
and yet you can’t resist the urge to come inside and decimate it even more,
because you can’t wait!
You can’t hold your impatience,
You can’t hold your anticipation,
to watch the structure fall apart,
to watch the foundation crack apart,
to watch the doors slam, but not on their hinges but onto the floor,
to let the windows let in fresh air but not because they’re open but because their glass is shattered and on the floor.
You look outside through the hole in the wall that you left behind and you see the verdure:
the trees are colored orange but it’s not Autumn,
the flowers colored red but it’s not spring;
the colors that surround you are the colors of your shallow, rancorous anger and pain.
That which you’ve now expressed, fervent but blind.
And in ten minutes you’ll be finished, and you’ll leave without a second thought or glance behind.
And in ten hours you’ll be happy.
But in ten days you will look in the mirror and see that you’re contrite,
and in ten weeks I don’t know if you’ll be able to keep from your neck the knife;
the knife that lays on your bed,
bloodied red.
Bloodied red from the enemies you created in your head;
the enemies that are no more real
than the hatred that you feel for those that hold you dear.