Another murder suicide,
Guns, old age, confusion – no longer able to “word find”
In the fog smoke of the mind.

No more blue skies in the apocalypse of asking after nature for her
Thin rivulets and rain forest frogs to diversify,
Another ten million years as earth shrugs,
As Atlas takes a break and the future tries
To recapture this Golden Age of humanity-
No longer believing in golden ages.

I believe in the dead,
Living and dying poets and the people,
Their children with the full inheritance of human past,
Always it seems on the brink of what is squandered and threatening.

Old man out.
Ego found its match in emptiness.
The old saying carved in stone and still in limerick
On wet, salty lips.
The cunning of sport and game
With winning and gambling and a fine meal
Of oats and hay for livestock.
Water finds its downhill and seeps into me.
Finds the time to trickle into the aquifers,
To celebrate the dry heat of the desert
Encroaching as a sculptor of land.

The first and last degree compare notes.
The symphony and iconoclast, alpha to omega –
The list of elements, their source and end, all bound up
Or loosed free and tantamount as the wind and waves
Unsettle unceasingly.

The great truths and little annoyances share ground with bodies –
Not alone but one and the many in concert, or at least at rehearsal
For a talk on the heart of matter and the nature of the human condition.
How have we spent so long masking, deluding, ignoring or making up the story –
Nailing the interpretation like Salvation while all the while,
It is Ecclesiastes and the wind making its ice of our harvest,
Eventually bringing new players to stage the modern, the peculiar
And the epic semblance that the tension beyond name is as real as the mountains,
Raised and fallen a thousand times in the desolate ices of Pluto, the expressive clouds
Of Jupiter and sands of Mars.

We men come to say it is Venus and her garden, guarded by wisdom and sincerity
That is the lock and preservation of the land and balance
Freed in her peasant dance and straw.
It is for everyone as those before in their fields and fecundity.
Even in me, psychology of souls, anima of night wind and surmise,
Even in lone wandering or desolate beauty, the half worlds of the Kuiper belt
Turn and collide, orbit another five billion years around the Sun’s glowing mass.
She says she sings, bakes and liberates specifics gently, personally and without orthodoxy.
She says so in her quiet mood by the window.
Says so as the air thickens with smoke, the fish die,
The men take up arms and sloganeers beat her brow like a great knocker
On a heavy Medieval door.
The walls and city cannot stand.
This is the time for Drama!