We are animals. We started with one cell. Then the cell split and we evolved and devolved. The point of existence is survival. In order to survive, we developed tools and structures that are in our DNA and are inescapable. The remnants exist in selfishness, violence, greed, paranoia, anxiety, autocrats, plutocrats, cataracts (that’s a joke) and organized institutions, i.e., government, religion, clans, cliques, PACs.
We played out our animal nature freely in a garden of wonders… of course, always watchful for predators. Some beings chose to kill or be killed: to kill and dominate all other beings. These came to be regarded as strong leaders. Beings separated into groups for protection and a cooperative effort to survive. We lived with a connection to nature. We had awe, reverence, spirituality and wildness. Wildness is our instinctual way of being. Wildness is beauty. Wildness is joy. It has no group judgments about what is good or bad: smell, hairiness, out-of-control-ness. But wildness frightened many beings. As civilization marched forward, more and more wildness was taken away. Our ancestors got used to ceding wildness; it began to seem undesirable. The result is that we use products/deodorants to mask our wildness; we must put on masks to conceal our true nature; we must act out roles. As parents, we encourage our childrens’ masking and role-playing to protect them from incarceration and – even more – from being ostracized or not being “successful” enough. There have always been outcasts, shamans, wizards, and people with a foot in a different plane. These have been burned, tortured and cast into the wilderness. They have faced the fire and came back transformed (but not unscathed). Their descendants are artists, poets, clairvoyants, and holy ones. The paths to expressing wildness are being bought up by the developers; very few now exist. I have re-discovered my path and I am not getting off. I love my wildness; I love it in other people. When the wild ones find our way to each other, we take care of each other; that’s our sacred pact. Wild ones should not fear revealing their wildness to other wild ones.
I used to lean toward certain colors
peachy pinkish fleshy cellular tissue
raspberry sherbet iridescent lucky lavender twist
with a deep aqua aura soldered translucent copper
coiling silver onyx oil spilling granite mountains pouring
red hot molten crimson carmine cadmium light
darkish burgundy, cranberry alizarin brightest boysenberry
crumble magenta into plum magic purple peeps thru periwinkle
sky, Prussian power ploy
sexy mad magenta, vivid violet into indigo bound for black
Roy g Biv and Sun Yat Sensate static jet brilliant glossy enamel
chinese, titanium buff to zinc
dusts ivory, wheaten whitened tan tinged ecru aged
with yellow maize and mustard marigold sunshine ochre glow
And now we’ve reached…
festive zesty gutsy lusty luscious sprout and leafy
lime apple chartreuse neon thyme pale olive, military khaki
sage and grasses growing emerald forest mallard shadows teal and pine
Cairns caskets crypts caves
Always the need to seize to save
When the place of return is the
place of rebirth… then
Why encumber release from the earth?
Morph, molt, melt, mix
A treatise on metamorphosis
Wizard’s brew of flora and fauna
Hematite, copper, fire, and slaughter
A gift to appease the gods and the spirits
Bones stones ageing’s wrath
A tribute to being, an ash epitaph
Dust is to dust as wood
is to rock
As matter to matter to master
Lichen moss pods bark
A few short hours to leave their mark
Turning and turning and
turning and turning
Endless emerald carpet lush.
Demarcated stone and brush.
Black and white cows dot the lea,
Patchwork pastures partitioned plots.
Come in from the cold; let’s down a wee shot.
Serrated limestone slices surf.
To moss-married cliffs, the sea gives birth.
Tunneling ‘neath the river Lee,
Strata rich with suffering.
Finbar, Boru and foxy friars,
Roofless abbeys, ancient spires.
Patrick’s quay, Dingle’s Bay.
Wharves and barges, eons of gray.
Daniel O’Connell, Bonecrusher Kelly.
Irish stew to sate the belly.
Strongbow’s tomb, hillsides ‘round Cork.
Mason’s toil, serfdom’s work.
Golden pail of Tipperary.
Druid stones and Ring of Kerry.
Green-veined marble of Connemara.
High kings’ tombs, the hills of Tara.
Whistling winds, knobby bluffs,
Soggy, foggy, boggy… rough.
Little village market town,
Rolling hedgerows all around.
Pubs and taverns, ale and mead,
Crockery chipped with poetry.
Border collie herding sheep.
Lichen-lined headstones, eternal sleep.
Hume, Paisley, sons of Sinn Fein,
Catholic scars of injustice and pain.
Velvet valleys mark the middle.
Uilleann pipes and Irish fiddle.
Town of Sneem, descent to Killarney,
McGillicuddy mist, Castle of Blarney.
Forest of bluebells, broom and gorse.
Seaweed-swept rivers plow their course.
Stripes of shimmering sky-lit blue.
Legendary echoes puncture the gloom.
therefore I will do it
and pledge only
and not care to the quick
for what is good and
what is bad since
most is inbetweenish
on the continuum of
the quibbling point: what
is the sharp-pointed
dove gray, steel gray,
slate gray, charcoal,
roots grown out gray…
surprise gray, pubic hair
pretender gray, pre-white.
celebration silver gray,
you never have to do
it again gray.
misty orphaned gray.
coal hole that we flailingly
unfailingly try to evade…
until we realize that it’s
not a hole,
it’s a door, an
timber wolf gray door, a
therefore I will do it