Song of Solitude

Driving alone through the

city and your cure is

the Holy Hour

 

This supermoon sings

of solitude but

you are not sad

 

The smoke will seep

through lips and drift

as high as Luna

 

This special moon

it does not speak

but sing

 

Sing along even if you’re wordless

even if you think others

do not share your burdens

 

There lies pleasure

in solitude

and singing

 

This is a song

of not just yourself

but also the moon

 

And as you drive over

and with Walt Whitman

you sound your barbaric yawp

I Hear America Sighing (Sequel to Whitman’s “I Hear America Singing”)

I hear America sighing, the different moans I hear

Those of teachers, each one sighing as it should be strong

The secretary sighing with redundancy

The programmer sighing, repeating abstractions

The clerk sighs into the screen

The investor sighs only after laughter

The delicious sighing of the rich!

The wealthy and their woeful worries

Sighing with closed eyes

Each sigh belongs to everyone

As each day no longer is itself

But belongs to every other day as well

The executive sighing with sealed shut eyes

Blind to life and serendipity

The Next Step

This work is far from finished.

The last few months were in anticipation

of nothingness.

Escaping the inescapable.

Acceptance, the swarm generation is here.

Unfold the sealed pages

of time and find that there was solidarity.

Apply what is left.

The old ideologies are caskets.

Prepare now for space, and sabotage

those corporate plans for domination of the infinite black.

The international pseudo-taoist financial technocracy

is only beginning to bear it’s teeth.

Dig in for the long haul friends.

Do not praise, become.