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after feet on shoulders

September 21, 2016

and now to count
in weight of wait
in weightless daydream,
carried through clouds
to where it began,
to the earth,
to the good earth,
the soil that responds to the water
soaking, conjuring up
and sprouting forth

and now to watch the
tick and the tock,
the dust as it drifts,
the sand as it shifts,
the colours that waft and warp
and wrinkle in mid air,
sweetened by solitude
and by the distant ping
that comes unexpected
carrying a little bubble of joy

and now to go through notions
and contemplate motions
at their own spatial flow,
consider what’s mine,
what’s to come,
what’s left behind,
what there is still to find
there between
raindrops and radios and rappers and
rats and ruminations

it is the season: the ghosts are here,
gathering in the pagodas,
hungry and waiting
for the attention of their descendants,
wanting what we all want,
the connection that binds us all,
deeper, deeper, that which makes it obvious
what paths to choose
and what works are worthwhile

can we start with
food for the hungry
love for the lonely
peace for the anxious
sleep for the tired

but there is no guarantee of justice,
even for the just,
and sometimes there is just ice,
which is useful in its own ways

pity the deskbound
the coldhearted
the fearful
pity the misguided and hateful,
their pain is beyond our ken
pity the bored and sluggish,
uninspired by rain puddles,
horrified by untidiness,
huddled in prisons of their own making,
stultified by screens and live-forever pills,
divorced from
the earth,
the good earth,
the soil that responds to the water
soaking, conjuring up
and sprouting forth

I saw the best minds of a generation sharing photographs of their food,
and watching videos of cats,
well fed and content
but hysterical in polemic
and working in public, working,
working,
working behind closed doors, working,
and wearing that badge of honour

rise up,
you have nothing to lose but your chains,
look up and see the passing butterfly,
the rain puddle,
the messy grandeur of life
that will not be wrestled to the ground,
trapped in a corner,
forced to behave in a sensible rational way

it sees none of your supposed reality,
its dreams are not yours,
those of vapid, straight line,
make sense, no surprise,
low volatility, key performance indicator,
outcome-based, customer-centric,
innovative, measurable deliverables

it is the dust as it drifts,
the sand as it shifts,
the colours that waft and warp
and wrinkle in mid air,
and the earth,
the good earth,
the soil that responds to the water
soaking, conjuring up
and sprouting forth

and now to count
in wait of weight
in weightless daydream,
carried through clouds
to where it began

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