The Enlightened Ones

Not knowing / anything, really

The only symptoms that we see
Are those expressly chosen for our eyes

The diagnosis we arrive at
Has been shaded and shaped
By clues deliberately dropped there for us
And even more by what hasn't been shown

So we recommend treatment
Not knowing

Anything, really

Not the nature of the disease
Nor its real symptoms

We have no hope of finding a cure

And we genuinely, fervently believe

That we are the enlightened ones

The Pride of Lucy

Lucy sat out in the sun
In cold and clear September;
She modeled for us her new life,
I always will remember

The pride she wore upon her face
As she soaked in the rays;
Not knowing pills and Crystal Head
Would soon cut short her days.

The pride of Lucy, young and full
Of beauty and its power;
The sharpened razor blades, so cold,
That hacked to death

The flower


(“The Pride of Lucy” – 12-27-2015)

The Cliffs of Diogenes

What matters fame? The world is dumb and vain,
And if you do not see, I can’t explain.
For we live complicated lives, and steal,
And lie to make ourselves look more ideal:
It’s foolishness, a flapping in the wind.

The rich make noise, but then die like the rest;
It can be hard to tell then worst from best,
For all, alike, have secret maladies,
And stand accused by old Diógenes
Of emptiness, and flapping in the wind.

For where now is the king, the financier?
Where’s the conqueror, the privateer?
And how much can the dead afford to spend?
Investing is just one means toward our end.

What matters is a day of honest toil,
And some connection ere the day we pass;
It’s knowing that our lives are like a breeze
That ripples gently o’er the summer grass,
For yes, we are but flapping in
The wind

beauty, solace, wealth, and fame –

beauty, solace, wealth, and fame –
these fight out a lethal game;
greed and envy sanction hate,
rich to poor, or wan to great.

glamour, passion, toil, and lust:
idols turned to ash and dust —
beauty, solace, wealth, and fame:
gain the wind, but lose
your name

Picture credit : Yung Chao Chen

On An Old Abandoned Hospital

“I’s” unknown,
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
Bygone days,
In rooms for healing,
Pass away:
We know this.
But we just

With our contumely
Carry on,
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
We think
It isn’t real, beyond,
A faint remaining

An echo, an
A bill of life
That’s elsewhere spent;
We needn’t hear
What there was meant,
Nor sit down to

The primitives
Who came before,
Who lay in here,
Or built this door,
Whose tears and blood
Call from the floor,
“All dust is made
  Of us —“