More Than Inexhaustible

 More Than Inexhaustible
 
When whatever you do
For a living,
Is part of, or smothers,
Your reason for living…
 
When your job consumes you,
Smothers your soul:
A crushing servitude
To fill an empty hole…
 
Fill that empty stomach,
Or bank account…
You can lose your sense of
What your life is about.
 
You, we need to survive--
That’s for sure.
But, that is not the whole;
We cannot just endure.
 
We have a need for more,
More than just an
Inexhaustible voice
Without meaning or plan.
 
When we spew forth our words--
Not just some sounds--
We need to have meanings
That reach beyond the bounds.
 
The bounds of survival
That surround us;
They test and challenge us,
But cannot contain us.
 
An occupation needs
To leave some room
For leisure or passion,
Or it will lead to doom.
 
Doom of the person, or
Society…
A dreadful end for sure
Of some variety.
Because meaning is not
A luxury
Or a commodity;
It’s a necessity.
 
And it is something that springs
Out of our soul:
It’s passions and trials,
Not from filling a hole.

Democratic Suicide

Democratic Suicide

We say:
For the people,
By the people
By the will of
The People.

This is—
Or so we say—
Democracy:
The modern way
To live.

But when
The government
Forces people
Against their will:
“Be good!”

They take…
The ends and means,
The hopes and dreams…
Values and goals
Away.

They take…
The people’s own
Ability
To have a will
Away.

They are
Just like kings—
Backed by their God.
They only steal
From us.

As they
Coerce people
With The Science
And not with fear
Of God.

Fear of:
Death come early,
Pain—any sort.
Science makes us
Fear these.

And it
Controls us all
(Smothers our souls)
Makes us live right,
Live good.

The good!
A productive—
And seductive?—
Comfortable,
Good life.

The good?
That is taken
From each of us,
Given to them
To define.

Science:
The Enlightenment’s
Original Sin.

That kills
Its democratic
Hopes, longings and dreams.

This is…
How democracies
Commit suicide.

 

Walking the Night Street

Walking down the night street--

Each breath of mine showing,

From the cold and cigar--

Straight but nowhere going.

The streets are dead empty,

As empty as my hands--

Save the cigar in one--

No money or demands.

My head is full, flying:

Thoughts, plans, fancies and dreams.

The things that fill late nights,

And hold tight my life's seams.

Because in the daytime

So heavy is my heart,

Though is it all empty,

That days are hard to start.

My lame reprise of Baudelaire's Be Drunk

So,

So, 

So, nothing to say
is the situation.
Yes, nothing to say
in this situation.
 
So, no one is there
to listen anyway.
Yes, no audience
to hear what I might say.
 
So, it’s this feeling:
having nothing to do,
but not dying yet,
life still not done with you.
 
So, you just live on
though you are done living
and feel a malaise
that is all consuming.
 
So, it's for everyone
but also for no one.
And then, when its done,
it hasn't yet begun.
 
That's just how it goes,
when it decides to go.
It’s the ebb and flows
of the yes and the no.