The Pressing Concerns of the Insects

Awright, before you plunge forward into this, I have something to say. Poetry has that tipping point. You know what I am talking about. What is sincere and real and raw can quickly slide into pretension. This is one of those. I always liked reading this at spoken word gigs. There was something about it that I always liked, maybe it was the concluding lines. Maybe the title (I struggle a lot with titles). There are times when I go back to this and I am quite pleased. Other times, it is uppity rubbish. Regardless, I am posting the damn thing.



The purpose of life
Forever sought for
The sacrifice of the old ones

"weird eyes" by fRandi-Shooters

On the altars of their convictions
To their theories
Which exist as gods
Their worship – their search
Their prayers – their documents
Their ritual – their research
All beings
At all times
Seek the meaning
The point
The reason
The answer
To why
And where it is going

We are the living ghosts
The wandering Jews
Whose individual sins
Force us to meander
Never to put our feet on the ground
Even if we did
They would be as mud
Giving to our weight
But slowing our explorations
In all art
In all approaches
The subconscious foundation
Is the reaching out
By the insane
How pathetic
How tragic
How ironic
That our saviors
Would not rise above us
Wearing crowns
But straightjackets instead

Dubious to all
In the end
All biological function
Is what seems automatic
A part of the anonymous program
That runs it all
What is the construction of
Our struggle
The hauntings
The forced leases
The silent laws
That we follow
The monitors that observe
The omnipotent voyeurs
Document our peril
Our unique despairs
There are no sympathies
There are no judgments
That which creates pain
Is a molecule in the movement
Too basic for ethics
And less than dust to god

So is our breath
As is our lives
Minute to the immortal
And crucial to the insects.


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