A Broken Narrator

I can’t tell a story anymore.

There is no beginning or end.

No development…

Just facts,

Themes,

Truths…

I don’t have a plan anymore.

Things just happen,

And I react.

No goals…

Just events,

Happenings,

Functions

            Of a non-existent plot.

I don’t need sentences anymore.

Just the words are enough.

Dictionaries tell us the meanings.

            No context is needed. 

Of Gods and Heroes and Men

We have heard of gods.

Those great beings:

       Their stories told to us sometimes still.

They were seen by those before us,

       But those we have never met.

We have been told of heroes.

Those of us who are older,

       Even saw those great men.

Their stories still hold sway,

       Over us and our lives.

We know men.

The people we see

       Everywhere we go.

They fill our minds

       And the halls of power.

Those enchanted by the stories of gods,

       Make men into gods now.

                   Or at least prophets.

They are great; they needs this greatness.

Those that knew or love heroes,

       Make heroes of every man.

                   Or at least any man.

They see in popularity or wit a divine ordination.

Many learn to see humanity as divine, sacred

       And organizations as heroes.

                   Or at least the best that humanity can be.

They see only the big picture and what should be.

And they miss the true beyond,

       As they collapse it

                   Into the here and now.

They also miss the here and now,

       As they color it too thick

                   With shades of the beyond.

Living in a synthesis

       That took only the least or worse

                   From each conflicting side.  

On The Balcony (Escape)

I sit outside

            Late

            On the balcony.

                        (How I wish I had a fire escape.)

With a cheap cigar and a drink—

            A chill in the air,

                        And in my body—,

                                    I wait.

I don’t want to sleep.

            I don’t want my bed.

                        Don’t want its comfort,

                                    Or any comfort.

            (The drink, the cigar and the chill of the air

                        Will more than do.)

It is an escape.

            From:

                        The mill of the every day.

                                                (Not bad, but a grind.)

                        The commotion of a loving but busy home.

                                                (Which loves and fulfills, but distracts.)

            But not from my thoughts.

Thoughts that are torn.

            Bewteen:

            The “News of the World”

                        And the thoughts of ‘dead white men.’

I sit here in the absurd.

            (The between of the irrational and the rational.)

            (To be here and to report…. It seems to be my vocation.)

Giving way to, or staying,

 In the world,

                        Emphasizes the irrational—

                                   Which has become the normal and the habit—

                        Over the rational:

The words and books

 speak not just to my mind

                        But to my heart and soul,

                           Which are steeped in the traditions 

                                       that gave birth to our present.

Giving way to the books,

            It isolates me… Makes me a non-factor.

                        Puts me at odds with everyone

                        And everything (every technology).

                                    Alienation, uselessness and then angst.

This chilly, empty and quiet desert

                        Where alone is good

                        Allows me to think,

                        And think that thinking can be done

                                    And (in some way) do good.  

It allows me to think,

            At least for now. 

Important Matters(?)

As if lives matter,
We live and die
No matter. 
                         (There is no avoiding it.)
As if nothing matters,
We live and die
Mad as hatters.
                         (You only live once.)
As if matter matters,
We live and die
Growing fatter.
                         (The highest score wins.)
The matters that matter?
We live and die.
So what is the matter?
                         (We are post-modern
                         and pro-matter.
                         Nothing else matters.)