詩; poetry

a moon, arrived at, without politic

were that we could go without politic,
without inequality, without hate,
without fear, without prejudice,
without injustice, and live,
and give, without middlemen,
and middlewomen, middlethey,
brands and herds competing for
a share of voice, on spheroid planes,
without cities, beyond this radial bifurcation,
of intelligent creatures — passed, and buried in deserts
of their own making, having stacked their fortunes high in
metals, woods, and glasses, like a miser stacking coins in vaults,
skeletal vaults of intelligence, starved neighboring resources, in maintenance and
construct, robbed the rural, the sub-urban of their brightness and arts,
so if this could be shed on that trip, to that purity of reflection,
of a noble sun, maybe, perhaps maybe, we shall make it,
having shed self-view, this ego, this burning desire
to become, and die again, just like we, destined
to burn, and be burned, or perhaps not
standing at the gateways of coming
and goings, beings living eighty-
thousand years, ten thousand
in eight directions. three
and four, three and
four, enlightened
and generous,
loving and
compassionate,
bury the rest,
in darkness;
wisdom’s,
last hope.
be kind,
to neighbors,
and they to them,
and then be invited,
out of the local group,
to dance with the cosmos,
with liberty and justice for all,
and if by some small token, it cannot,
be understood, nor taken, as an invitation
to go beyond, there’s always another life, as
evolution continues its undesired quest, to grow,
without obstacle, to love without an interrupt, to perceive directly,
this noble search.