Death Rattle

Among the evolving
there's a devolution.
There is a siren
wailing the savage
song of loss.
A wave of tension,
that as it strikes 
the shore of progress,
emits its high, holy
death rattle.

And oppositional forces,
motivated but unaware
that malignant aspirations
reside in futility,
suffer the universal 
tendency toward disorder
as it stands firmly
in opposition of their oppression.

In these final stages,
when the thrash and temper
of humankind reveals itself
in part so ugly, so cold.
Then does the tightening
grip of mortis set in
begging for the decisive blow.

The succor they seek,
the fruit and fallout
of their belligerent designs,
can know no forever,
no perpetual peace.

And like all death throes
before them,
cling as they might,
they will leave behind naught
but the high, holy
death rattle. 

Restoration is coming

I was inspired while listening to Donald Trump insist upon the need to “restore” law and order.  I hate to attribute too much inspiration to any one political blowhard, because the fact remains that the circumstances that created today’s demagogue existed yesterday and will, in all probability, exist tomorrow.  So Donald, don’t let this go to your head.

The restoration in effect,
of that ever-elusive state.
Where restful nerves and
leery eyes stick fast to 
hallowed ground.

How the calamity came to be
many manic minds never
settled.  It was, it is, may be
unto forever, but no never
mind.

The restoration will spread
like seeds along the distended
bloat.  And endure the 
sensation of prophecy fulfilled,
mouth agape and hands stolen still.

A view to private interest

I worry now about rule with a "view to private interest,"
and I do so while I hear the call of greatness and declarations
regarding primacy of place.

I am not a country, but a man.  
Am a working man, a human of this present
with a desire to exist peacefully and fluidly.
My primacy of place is fixed by my love of self, 
not the screeching of banshees propping themselves
upon the backs of others.

But the great spirit that protects me is vulnerable.
Hijackers, proponents of a collective disintegration, 
work their voodoo on the frazzled, hoping to string
us along together.

They feed on the sores of the body ideologic, 
drawing strength from the bubbling excretion
of the wilted body
as if imbibing a sacred elixir.

Between Me and the World

The following poem is an exploration of the effects of a shifting social landscape.  There’s a certain anxiety in the realization that your views define you in relation to others.

Where here there is an unsettling air,
I once knew stillness and depth.
The shifting plains of social certainty,
leftward, to discussions focused resolutely 
on the prosperity of my fellow person.

This shift pleases me in part,
at least in that it acknowledges decency as core
to a positive human experience.

But the ground I've come to know as my own,
well tilled and fruitful in rational exuberance,
is now a toxic sort.
The putrid aroma of sticking firmly to a new pole: 
the preservationist!

Am I now a man of lesser salt?
Am I now cast opposed to those I've observed so intently?
Have my words become the weapons of your despair?

The tendency of the world is to reduce complexity,
to simplify in form and function and package you...
Your ideas are a missive -- 
the short form to humanity, 
in which all you are is not,
but all they see is.

You want that my views are basic to credit your own thoughts.
But your desire is no more than a manifestation of your insecurity.