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2020, New Poems: workings and beginnings., questions

Is the cause of the suffering within life the letter ‘I’?

The external world
and how we experience it
is constantly changing;
as we are constantly changing.
Our sensations,
our minds,
our consciousness,
our character,
all are in perpetual flux.

Trying to identify a permanent self
is futile;
because a permanent
or independent self really doesn’t exist.
So as one quests for the cause ,
the why,
for suffering,
one sees that everything is fleeting,
and changing;
there’s nothing one can put your finger one,
to say,
that is the cause of the pain.

it’s sort of like saying,
one was born on this day,
and that was when I began,
but what about nine months before ,
when the sperm met the Oocyte,
and formed the zygote.
or the meeting of ones mother and father,
and on and on.

So when some one calls me white,
it is not true.
I have Celtic, Pike, Norwegian, Frank, Roman,
Cherokee, Iroquois, Bulgarian, Bavaria,
Neanderthal, Anglo Saxon, Norman,
Denisovan, and on and on.

Is the cause of the suffering within life the letter ‘I’?

2020, New Poems: workings and beginnings., Uncategorized

Hey, Hey, Hey [a night at the opera]

Hey, Hey, Hey
[a night at the opera]

Wolf glances up
through the glass walls
which line the kitchen.
People, waiting to be seated,
stare in
at the kitchen exhibit
of controlled chaos.

Wolf spots Miss Tiggers
in her black dress,
cut low
freckled cleavage
and then goes back to
making deserts.

He spins around
and takes some more orders
from the printer
as it prints ’em out;
and goes about
building plates of sugar, flour, and cream.

He starts to hum
and a song comes out
from under this breath,
as he puts the desserts
upon the stainless steel shelf
and begins the next order.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.
lookin’ thro’ the window of my cage.
watching her with my gaze.
singin’
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

Wolf spins around.
opens the cooler door behind him,
grabs a Crème Brule
and spins back around.
to the rhythm of the song in his head.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

He rolls Raw Sugar
over the top of it,
levels it out.
reaches out,
grabs the torch,
precedes to light it,
and then flips it,
singing his little song.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.
looking thro’ the window
kinda going crazy
thinking ’bout a lady.
singing
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

He drops the Crème Brule on a plate;
he’d ready on the stainless steel shelf
drops a Madeleine on the top,
dusts it with powdered sugar,
and starts to the next order,
singing.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

Uncategorized

Nervous Tongue

Seven years,
I’ve gone without.
Seven years,
I learned to be with myself.
Seven years,
I worked.
Nothing but.
Seven years,
I’ve waited.

Now what do I say?

Certainly not the stupid stuff
my mouth has been spewing
for the past hour.

I can hear my head groaning
-Oh my god!
Hey, don’t listen to him.
Tongue is nervous.
He’s been silent for so long.
My ears do work.
If mouth would just shut up.

Uncategorized

451

“So time has passed.”
I told her over the phone.
“I work for French fries, orange juice and a beer.
I play the game.
I dance the dance.
Sometimes
My mind and I don’t get along.
Sometimes I just go outside.
Howl,
or smoke a cigarette.
Then I come back
and establish myself back
in front of stainless steel,
heat lamps, & cutting boards,
with the heat of the French stove
basking my back at 451,
asking myself
-Why?”

I’d ask you.