should i compare that to the summer's thrust?

should i compare that to the summer's thrust?
that was not lovely, nor quite temperate
no winds did shake the giant trees august,
and summer's stride hath all too long a gate:
today too hot the eye of heaven shone,
though oft' was his dank cloud complexion dimm'd;
and every sweat from head did downward run,
by chance or wind's gust's changing course untrimm'd:
but this eternal summer shall not fade
nor lose possession: global warming growest;
but shall death drag us wandering to his shade,
when to eternal tombs our time doth flowest:

so long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
so long lives this, which warns of death to thee.

[original post]

death song revisited

this time, as i close my eyes
i'm ready for my judge
heavy sentence already served
i, smiling, bear no grudge

i stand here still at water’s edge
of childhood, listening to the beach
the rolling waves, the seagull screams
that i called home, and out of reach

i am that worthy sinner
an unrepentant heathen
for my god is He you bow before
my soul, forever mine

how many deaths can one man die
before he can be called a man?
i will remain, inside of you
i will live on, though not the same

i've climbed tall mountains, once above
sat washed by clouds and dried by winds
then looked to see i'd gone nowhere
there are no tops, but only bends

i place coins of love on grief’s eyes
for this last breath, my funeral pyre
so many moments will combust
into this whirlwind phoenix fire

i stretch my demon wings
my halo shimmers gold
i reach above, and reach below
returning to the world of old

[original]

- MODERNITY -

our world is changing – it always is, and our spirit is breaking as we allow the familiar gods of might and money to drag us further from the heights of our new and enlightened understanding.
fashioning confusion, frustration and the claustrophobic need to escape to better, purer worlds we send ourselves onward into a pit of malevolent despair... as we always have.
we are prophets and gods, devils and demons, full of colour and life yet bleached and blind; we know where happiness is not and we run towards that dark place because we only know to stop when faced with love.
we are all as one and all alone, we want to love but fear to touch, we teach and preach but know only vice and misfortune.
we shame ourselves with our lies while praying for the truth, and that truth will be hard and cruel but it will set us free.

no more war, no more hate, only love and devotion and pleasure. then we will crumble because we require balance, and all will be lost.
we must isolate the individual to save the group, a group of individuals whose shared experience must be positive while that of each part seesaws.

we must love and trust, and accept that we will be betrayed. we must believe, we must share, but we must not control.
the world is too big, and the world is too small, for everyone to agree and not feel anger or dismay.

we all want peace, simplicity, happiness, individuality, acceptance, love. only through accepting the impossibility of it all may we find our salvation.

let the fools and clowns have their way, let the idealists and the sharp-minded serve us, allow each and every man the authority to police and judge.

which norman finklestein?

[note: this norman finklestein]

it is the breaking of a world
its shatter reverberating before my ears

he's pulling levers
widening views
and i think
i think it's like staring at a jackson pollock

with his flicks and drips of words
actions over message

then i realize
that it's nothing like a painting

he's straining the chicken soup of his reality backwards
dismembering his discontent
feeding himself to his ghosts as they speak through his own mouth
lips curling back and teeth bared around a smooth accent

there i am
there we are
enchanted

well covered

i have covered the well
with cloud blown glass
whose shapes seem to swirl and dance in the dim light

if i listen closely
i can hear the echoes of the hammer and nails that sealed it

naming things

there is no death
we are crumbling
under the enormous
immeasurable weight
of our inevitability
each change, twist, turn
part of a larger orchestra
in sickness and in health
for better or worse
until acceptance

on a hot, humid morning

it's high summer
and the tree by the bus stop
with its heat-bleached bark
and vivid green leaves

throws its shadow under the wheels of the bus

which i get on
i carry on