31 May 2014

One Hundred and Seventy


170


There your parents were one night or day messing around all hot and heavy,
And suddenly, through no fault of your own, no choice of your own,
You were in the oven, baking your way into consciousness.
When exactly does fate begin its wayward trail?

* * * *
Science fiction can journey well beyond any pale,
But the limits of imagination are ever bound
By the physics of real-time invention,
And the moths lodged in the given wallet.

* * * *
Pain is your teacher, your friend.
Without it, you would not pay attention.
You likely would not have learned how to endure.
Perhaps some day you will be wise enough
To no longer need its sharp reminders.
Not likely, but there is always
The hackneyed notion called hope.

* * * *
Whether you discern it or not,
You are it.
Die to the little self
As often as the little mind allows.

* * * *
Have you ever experienced anything
That could not be clearly illuminated
By a rock-solid dose of Physics 101.

* * * *
Odds are you are as attached to the pain
As you are the pleasure, perhaps even more so.
For which do you rummage when you daily awaken?
Which do you embrace as you fall into sleep?

* * * *
Every religion started off perceived as a cult
Until its followers had enough coin
To construct daunting holier-than-thou sanctuaries,
Filled with enough middlemen to shield themselves from their delusion,
And muster the potency to be a contender in the madhouse.