Strong and fierce once was the old father
Practitioner of fertile rites
Calling the young out of darkness
Pulling them into light

So too he pulled his sons.
Even when his strength seemed failing,
his ailing arms grew
Rough and rippling with sinew
He pulled his child,
Sick and wild
While his good eye was weeping, wailing
And the other was mild.

And on a quiet day,
When the wind is shushing
And the leaves are just so rustling
The whispering whistle of a familiar melody
Can be heard calling out to the sky
To fae and fathers of yore
Forgotten by words and lore
But still young in his memory.

-Thanks Dad

Sense

If you want my two cents,
There are better ways to spend your sanity

It doesn’t make any sense
To look into a mirror
When all you will find is vanity

So let’s look with a new lens
A microscope.
Take a specimen of your subconsciousness

After careful analysis you’ll realize your mind has had
A thousand beautiful deaths and rebirths
All within the few years you’ve had on earth

And your ego has ridden the waves
Of the best of it
And the worst of it.
what is left is scattered glass tossed to the ocean
The shattered remains
Which you collect,
Cupped in your shriveled fingertips
Realizing stained glass looks about the same
And you hold these scintillating treasures in your palms
Giving rainbows to anyone willing to listen
And selling the rest at a Cape Cod tourist trap.

Love Portrayed as an Absurdity

Love is an absurdity which gratifies itself upon its absurdity
Now, I don’t mean to be wordy
But let’s approach the undefinable with purity

Although it hardly ever stays chaste
Young love seems to give itself away with such haste
Let’s just hope the drinks aren’t laced

And if they are, don’t let them go to waste
I hope its not in poor taste but
Love is a friend with benefits
True love doesn’t kiss and tell.

So keep a candle lit
Keep it lit for the Sabbath
Bring it to your bedroom
And illuminate the sexed crazed antics
And depravities of carnal passion
Shine light upon clammy, sweaty darkness
With love

Love is too often misrepresented
And seldom left to speak for itself
Love knows what sells off the shelf

But love is not a product
To be industrialized, then marginalized
(Nor by unsightly poets to be unfairly demonized)
Those who see past the advertisement’s “dramatization”
See even though its all part of a plan for media domination
One regime’s brainwashing won’t be missed for another.
Really, love is not a prison
But a prisoner, let out early on parole for good conduct.
Love was the bitch getting screwed.
But not anymore
Love isn’t a cheap whore
The 60’s came
And with it The Sexual Revolution.
Now, love chuckles at your proscriptions, prohibitions
Love knows all about what you can get over the counter
Without a prescription.

Love gets the last laugh
Every time.
And by the way,
Love has the clap.

As we move beyond from those pesky seven deadly sins-  things which give humanity purpose and intention- we also stray further from certainty. What now drives me to live? What forces compel me to succeed, if not pride and vanity? What does it still mean to “succeed,” if not satisfying selfish intentions? Doubt surrounds on all sides. However, it is essential we recognize doubt, not as a darkness, but as a necessity to shine light into the world.

Maybe all of our interest and hobbies are really just a mechanism to differentiate individuals for better pair bonding and mating? What if the final cause for us to have hobbies is to help us find mates?

Writers are forgetful,

but they remember everything.
They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore,
how you smelled,
on your first date…
They remember every story you’ve ever told them -
like ever,
but forget what you’ve just said.
They don’t remember to water the plants
or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how
to make you laugh.
.
Writers are forgetful
because
they’re busy
remembering
the important things.

(via a-fried-man-deactivated20121207)