Manufacturing Hope

I’ve been manufacturing hope for several years now
every evening and sometimes at other times of day
I scout my surroundings for serendipity
consequential song lyrics
rays of light, nostalgic artifacts,
and reasons to deny what seems to be inevitable
while I am not blessed with much in the way of raw materials
I have discovered a radical ingenuity and romantic stick-to-it-ness within me
that enables me to continuing do this work

I manufacture hope
make it from little nothings
from the things that she has not done yet
from longer than usual embraces
from the occasional in-depth conversation
from her unspoken conflictedness
i have to make hope because she never wanted me to have any

from the beginning of the end
she said it was not going to work out
and she was right
she knew what she wanted
emancipation from what had become her slavery
unbeknown to both of us
her ego still wrestles with her decency and her motherhood
all of which have their own perspectives

there’s not much to hope for
so I’ve been making hope
from the unsaid
the undone
from what turns out to be procrastination
from any hint of the positive
yet this artificial hope is wearing as thin as her restraint

in the face of great uncertainites
any of which could devastate me
none of which will kill me
my hope sits in the balance
perhaps shortlived
yet still shackling me to a whole perspective on life
that is beautiful in its possibilities
yet fragile and increasingly unlikely

i am drowning in hopes
co-created by a middle aged man and three year old
to keep making these hopes
is like being in prison
waiting to be executed
and praying for a pardon
these hopes are an illusion
that keeps me flexible and accomodating and loving
even as I am forced to drink the bitter elixir of new liaisons

i often wonder why I continuing hoping
praying
believing in miracles
i am not sure
perhaps its a reluctance to see the world as it is
to see her in the light of reality
to acknowledge that we failed
but i always come back to the knowing
that this is part of my process
and that no one knows
what may become of this hope i’ve manufactured
this is enough to keep the hope factory open
at least for a while

p.s., I wrote this several years ago after Melia’s mother suddenly ended the marriage and happened to find it yesterday.   With all this talk about hope and change, I thought I’d share it.  Personally, this is a good reminder that I don’t ever want to be back in the business of manufacturing hope.   Hope is the new dope!

To Be A Poet

Pristine paper
confronts me,
as I struggle
to lift a heavy pen.
Weary eyes
are no longer able
to focus on streams of images,
begging to be translated into words.

This scenery
frustrates poetic ambitions,
goading me
to finally realize that creation
requires self-immersion,
I must become
what I communicate.
I need to get deep within it,
beneath the surface of the thought,
inside the core of the purpose.
within the soul of the struggle.

I must be willing to become the actor
not only in the video but in the song.
Living the blues,
the rhythm
and the melody
that keeps on keepin’ on keepin’ on
in the face of emotional adversity.

No matter the discomfort,
no matter the pain,
I must be willing
to venture into the belly of the whale.
And I must be willing to rip, claw, and tear
until I emerge wearier
yet all the wiser,
and then continue tearing down
obstacle after obstacle
until I am liberated from excuses.

I must be willing
to hunt for truth amidst soul smugglers,
whose life purpose is to steal away my lion heart
to my rewrite my lion history,
and to mold my lion mind,
just as they did my ancestors.

I must be willing to don the stage
to address an audience
sprinkled with fake prophets, brain-dead emcees, and hate.
Exposing my essence to ridicule and perhaps worse,
I break the chains of the obvious, the apparent, and the already-said.
I avoid conceptual fads like dichotomies
and well-worn topics such as chocolate love and deadbeat dads.
I stray from senseless and fatiguing metaphors
in the bottom of heart and the depth of my soul.
I distance myself from the boundless materialism
of Rolex watches, German cars, and idle boasting.
I resist no dismiss the temptation to repeat new jack truisms espousing pseudo intellect.
You might overstand me if you could see what I see with my third eye.
I recognize the difference between being profane and profound.
I refuse to paint life black and white.
I refuse to rehash my best sexual episodes in verse.
I refuse to let my insecurities manifest in hate, insults, or threats.
I refuse to advocate solution without resolution and growth.
I refuse to alleviate symptoms without dealing with the root cause.
Despite the allure of fame, glory, money, and their accompaniment gratuitous sex,
I refuse to say what I think you want to hear.
Forgoing the satisfaction of the rhyme,
I release myself from lyrical handcuffs.
Sidestepping the path most traveled,
I expose the ludicrous, the hypocritical, the detrimental.
I must be willing to pull out the braids to expose a nappy-ass head.
I must be willing to peel back the onion even as it makes me cry.
I must be willing to question hollywood, history books, policy, CNN, and ESPN.
I must be willing to look beyond the apparent to understand intention and causation.
I must be willing to forgo government cheese and tax breaks for the wealthy.
I must be willing to turn the other shoulder to propaganda and commercials
like the one that says the other white meat is good for you and
the ones that say any politician will do a great job of representing us.

I must be willing
to venture into a den of thieves,
declaring everything I value,
willing to leave with nothing
save my values,
my beliefs,
my integrity.

I must be willing to be myself.
Perhaps then
I can be honest
insightful
responsible.
Perhaps then I can be a poet.

Flower Child

flower child
I imagine
a season
with you
a delight
to be savored

fingers running
through your blossom
and down your stem
caressing
your curvature
eventually massaging
your taproot

water I am
in your pot
satisfying
your thirst
diluting your
sweet syrup

soil I am
feeding you
nurturing
your roots
treating you
as if you’re
a perennial

flower child
memories
of your
spicy sweet
perfume
keep me
wanting

appreciative I am
intent on
celebrating
each moment
with you
as if you are
an annual

The Peak is Nigh

the oil as usual crew
of special interests
blue blood bankers and
legislative mercenaries
has paved this road
ever more traveled
desperately by many
obliviously by others and
luxuriously by the few
the chosen ones
of the lord almighty dolla
the road is driven
yet existence
does not even imply
much less presage
desirable destinationaccustomed to auto-pilot
and quick turns in the conversation
i hesitate to broach the subject
might we stop and reassess our position
if not ask for directions
after all we’re headed
for a global economic collision
when fossil fuel demand permanently
overtakes and surpasses supply
might there be a different route
perhaps a better way
to be

numbed to movement
we barrel along wistfully
tank half full
full throttle
in a haze of wishful thoughts
about places to see
and consumers to be
ignoring all the signs
indicating
we are headed the wrong way
on not-a-through street

are we but crash test dummies
mimicking sentient beings
about to hit the wall
failing an evolutionary experiment
in consciousness and wisdom
will we brace for impact
and watch wasteful lives
flash before our eyes
or will we relax
our adherence to
the script proselytized
by the corporate oligarchy
and oil-a-garchies
and change our course early enough
to prevent innocents from
becoming collateral road-kill

these bitter streets
are paved with subsides
federal funnels of funds
for imperial oil odysseys
the american way
of living dangerously
and mono-thoughtfully
is it not our american way
to do just about anything
in a car
talk eat drink smoke
sex in the backseat
apply makeup squinting in mini mirrors
we eat and bank at drive thrus
we discarded drive-ins
for personal screens
displaying distractions
our sound systems
shake neighborhoods
essentially
our lives revolve around tires

yet cars are just a fraction
of our failings
the amount of energy
consumed by our fossil indulgence
is hardly imaginable
as much as if
each american had twenty slaves
working night and day
to power their lives
sounds familiar

beyond the mirage
advocated by science on the take
prophesized by macroeconomic optimists
imagined by free market evangelists
and projected by media manipulating oligopolies
beyond this complacent and compliant
illusory way of being
only prescient eyes foresee
a collision
on the horizon
only courageous minds
entertain the possibilities

the fossil fuel subsidy
is half empty
the peak is nigh
admire the view
as we are not long for this summit
things are about to be a changing
and its all down
the bell curve from here

this just in
from our correspondents in courage
the pragmatists and the realists agree
the oil jones is worse
than cold turkey
at a vegan thanksgiving

we are strung out on fossil fuels
and when production wanes
you may find yourself
unable to afford your commute
and you may find yourself
far from public transportation
and without access to local goods
and you may find yourself
rationing food and fresh water
and you may ask yourself
how do I work this
this is not my lovely life
how did I get here
remember this moment

Oil as Usual

“What can I say
I wouldn’t be here today
If the old school
Hadn’t paved the way”
Tupac Shakur 1994 “Old School”

the oil as usual crew
of special interests
blue blood bankers and
legislative mercenaries
has paved this road
ever more traveled
desperately by many
obliviously by others and
luxuriously by the few
the chosen ones
of the lord almighty dollar
the road is driven
yet existence
does not even imply
much less presage
desirable destination

navigating through
mean and ambivalent streets
folks feel potholes in the game
lined with injustice
these side streets never even had
the illusion of being safe
no one finds solace
in a shortcut
to a dead-end destiny

accustomed to auto-pilot
and quick turns in the conversation
i hesitate to broach the subject
might we stop and reassess our position
if not ask for directions
after all we’re headed
for a global economic collision
when fossil fuel demand permanently
overtakes and surpasses supply
might there be a different route
perhaps a better way
to be

numbed to movement
we barrel along wistfully
tank half full
full throttle
in a haze of wishful thoughts
about places to see
and consumers to be
ignoring all the signs
indicating
we are headed the wrong way
on not-a-through street

are we but crash test dummies
mimicking sentient beings
about to hit the wall
failing an evolutionary experiment
in consciousness and wisdom
will we brace for impact
and watch wasteful lives
flash before our eyes
or will we relax
our adherence to
the script proselytized
by the corporate oligarchy
and oil-a-garchies
and change our course early enough
to prevent our children and collective future from
becoming collateral road-kill

rest restlessly
yet assured
I am no relation to chicken little
nor am I known to cry wolf

these bitter streets
are paved with subsides
federal funnels of funds
for imperial oil odysseys
the american way
of living dangerously
and mono-thoughtfully
is it not our american way
to do just about anything
in a car
talk eat drink smoke
sex in the backseat
apply makeup squinting in mini mirrors
we eat and bank at drive thrus
we discarded drive-ins
for personal screens
displaying tv and dvds
en route
our sound systems
shake neighborhoods
essentially
our lives revolve around tires

yet cars are just a fraction
of our failings
the amount of energy
consumed by our fossil indulgence
is hardly imaginable
as much as if
each american has twenty slaves
working night and day
to power their lives
sounds familiar

beyond the mirage
advocated by science on the take
prophesized by macroeconomic optimists
imagined by free market evangelists
and projected by media manipulating oligopolies
beyond this complacent and compliant
illusory way of being
only prescient eyes foresee
a collision
on the horizon
only courageous minds
entertain the possibilities

this just in
from our correspondents
in courage
the pragmatists and the realists agree
the oil jones is worse
than cold turkey
at a vegan thanksgiving

do folks realize
this fossil fuel subsidy
is half empty
the peak is nigh
admire the view
as we are not long for this summit
things are about to be a changing
and its all down
the bell curve from here

how can I explain this

mr oil and gas
is approaching
a mid life crisis
from which
he will never recover
though he may discover
some years are better than others
in any case
he will ultimately retire
and do no more work

or
mr gas and ms oil
are getting somewhat exhausted
being the life of our party
seeing that is almost midnight
their energy is waning
rest assured you will not wake up
next to them in the morning

metaphors aside
we are strung out on fossil fuels
and when production wanes
you may find yourself
unable to afford your commute
and you may find yourself
far from public transportation
and without access to local goods
and you may find yourself
rationing food and fresh water
and you may ask yourself
how do I work this
this is not my lovely life
how did I get here
remember me

Climate Outrage

when I reflect on the general absence
of national debate and mitigating action
surrounding our warming planet
and changing climate
a queasy opaque sadness creeps up on me
like a sickly draft in comfortably warm room
distinctly out of balance
i dizzily flash between hot and cold
even folks who know me
have a hard time rolling with
my personal climate changes
god help the planet

based on deed
lack of legislation
and non-participation
one might assume
that america need not
address climate change
apparently rising sea levels
drastically altered weather patterns
and extreme weather events
do not merit our attention

direct from northern canada
first nation peoples are seeing species
they’ve never seen before
fish, insects, birds
their languages don’t even have words for
as the ancient permafrost recedes
mud slides and riverbanks collapse
food is short and the main caribou herd
is nowhere to be found
is caribou the canary
and canada the coalmine?

direct from washington
the bureaucracy masquerading
as an environmental protection agency
after umpteen years of obstructionist science
officially and dismissively reported
climate change is more likely than not
due to human causes
yet its inevitable
its just too late to do anything
so we americans will just need to adapt
as we do oh so well
fear not the market is our savior right
besides if history serves a viable guide
america won’t have to adjust much
relative to developing countries which
despite being bit players
in the global warming drama
will inevitably bear the brunt
of the suffering and pain

am I alone in outrage
that the folks who’ve contributed the least
are being set up to experience the worst?
the absolute worst yet conceivable outcome
being complete submersion of island atolls
who here accepts without reservation or protest
the possibility that one million species
will go extinct in the next half century
am I the only pavlovian cynic
who unconsciously associates
the odor of newspaper ink
with a new dish of hypocrisy

carbon dioxide is the worst actor
in climate change theater
america has but four percent of world population
yet emits twenty five percent of the co2
per capita and in absolute terms
we burn more fossil fuels
use more energy
and drive more than any other culture in history
of all nations we are the ultimate polluter
lacking conscience and remorse
we eagerly export
a gluttonous monoculture of materialism
fueled by rampant consumption

as a people we need to examine why
we don’t feel obliged or obligated
to leave the planet intact as we found it
we americans seem collectively more concerned
with eliminating inheritance taxes
than ensuring that our grandchildren
inherit a thriving planet
while we watch whatever we watch
as climate researchers
and industry sponsored pundits
debate to impasse
sea level is a’ rising

The Sky Cries

the sky cries
tears of necessity drum against my window
dry and self centered
I had all but forgotten
nature’s musical beauty and purpose

perennial storms flush the earth
coloring the ground deep wet
washing away parasitical particles
replenishing life
healing

if I stand outside
will I be healed
if I become an ark
loaded with two of each of my best qualities
and if I drift away
will I be healed when the crying stops
at which port will I dock

if I stay inside
will I be healed
if I appreciate the sky’s tears
and the purity of their wake
and if I breathe deeply
and become the spirit of the storm
will I be healed when the crying stops
at which port will I dock