If I tried to ignore
reached for brush strokes
that over my head
too timid and lacking in precision
even to secure the most topical exposure
the kind that wears off and peels
I don’t know.
For all I know
the painted images of my life
are water colors
composed in hurricane
and as my brain tries to remember
each event, each time bound hair
and felt the dabbled
(all you others)
on a palate
I would actually ignore the small details
And look at the bigger picture.
In a voice of dissent, I heard loud laughs of governments and technocrats guffawing the truth they were acknowledging profusely, that: my truth and your truth are of no use. Unless, we realize that truth doesn’t exist as such, it is just us. Lone human beings demeaning each other for a fast buck. And the lie that has been sold to me as truth is only the truth if I choose my purchase as proof. Proof that truth is useless. Useless truth.
One might as well wonder when you look in the sky
If that’s were we go when however we die?
As if heavens above contained more than just clouds
And the magma below us is covered in shrouds
Of evilness, hatred, obsessive, depraved;
Like we here on earth don’t live that each day.
I don’t think it matters if it’s a hole in the ground
Or a jar full of ashes being spread gamely around.
We are all useless pieces in a puzzle of lies,
Designed to enlighten, those who are still alive.
If there’s a rhyme or a reason
Then it’s already been wrote;
Back before Noah even got on that boat;
For if god is in heaven,
Then all hell is, is earth.
So dying is a blessing
And deliverance is worth
The pain and the suffering
And the famine and plague
The dying little children and the H-bomb we made…
If you believe that you’ re stupid.
Even beyond that you’re fooled.
Believing in something that will never be proved;
Getting comfort in sorrow and how Jesus died;
Like he’ll make it all better and teach you how to survive;
As if sin is exclusive and biased only to skeptics;
Those of us who deny belief that Jesus was perfect;
A prophet perhaps or just a person who lived;
But he’s s no longer with us and that is just how it is.
And though I’m distressed in my thinking that I never will see,
The dead and departed that once cared about me,
I’d rather be conscious than an angel in vain;
“For god is concept by which we measure our pain “(John Lennon)
(Composed Jan. 1 2001)