Man 0 - Insect 1

I had a motorcycle,
That traveled as loud
As it could reach speeds
Often impossible for the human eye.
But I was stopped,
Suddenly one day,
Not by cops with a camera,
But an idiot fly.

Vortex

Let me dance now
Profoundly before I die,
So that I can see the lights
Spinning around me,
Splitting the administration
Of white light into patterns,
Fractured by possibility,
Into everything that I'll become,
When this being no longer requires me.

For The Trees

How could that twig bear such a fruit?
They'll wonder -
Not knowing you're the tree,
The root.

The Go Between

No more eyes in my head to see,
Nerves to feel,
Heart to beat.
I become a stone,
Earth.
I am without flux.
I am the go between.

This

With love and without it,
With words and without them,
With this life and without it,
What else is there?

Death is only somewhere else,
Without feeling.
All there is for the man,
For the woman
And the animal is this,
The doing and the being.
Profoundly the responsibility.
Without life there is nothing at all.

In the perpendicular of things
We play, making it up
For ourselves on the journey.
There is no way, no one way to right,
No ways, right to wrong.

But nevertheless,
We seek equilibrium in chaos,
Trying to meet the expectations of gods
And failing hard,
Falling in quiet disgrace.

Profess

What is a Profess – ionale like?
Such as one becomes amongst others,
Those who, too, come entitled,
Quietly or not,
As Profess – ionals.
With:
A certain uniform
As requirement
Gestures
Code
Quali – fi - cations
All of those.
What am I?
Now,
Here,
Upon this ledge,
Standing as I do,
Bending with the wind,
Unfit to snap,
But so profoundly bowed,
Like an Olive limb bearing fruit
And pissing sap.
Where is my Pro – fess – ionale?
Confess – ionale more like.
A constant unburdening,
The opposite, in effect,
But just the same as donning a
Hair shirt.
“Ridiculous stuff!” I think,
Begins running through my mind.
Or is that the judgement of the uneven effect,
Of the voices, hauling me, always,
Hard up against,
The hot coals of social order and keeping me in check.
I’d run around naked on stage,
Foolish without my flag code
Preserving the embarrassment of skin.
I’d spell out the title:
‘AA - AA - AA - RG - H!’
AND SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAM.
Keeping me Profess - ional.

Wail

Life is short.
Filled with bursts of ferocious intensity,
Swimming in sorrow,
Illuminated with gnosis,
Kindness,
And time spent in a queue.