04 July 2014

Two Hundred and Forty-One


And the eighth day passed.
The garden had been thoroughly trashed.
Humankind – lost, dazed, confused – blind to its fate,
Wandered about the dystopian wasteland of its bittersweet handiwork.
Into the dawn of the ninth day, the day of the inevitable reckoning, what would transpire?
Complete and utter chaos and destruction?  Oblivion of consciousness?
Or the reformation of the monkey-mind paradigm?
Would that there were a time machine
To witness the play’s inevitable conclusion.

* * * *
Politicians seem to have difficulty thinking past the next election,
Bureaucrats the next paycheck, and the masses the next circus.

* * * *
How is it things so abysmally absurd, so blatantly wrong,
So often seems to work their way up to the top of the pile?

* * * *
Took a long, long time to create this universe, this world,
And here we are flagrantly ripping it to shreds.
Humankind’s legacy to the world
Is a lot fewer life forms,
And piles upon piles of rubble.

* * * *
As impossible, as irrational, as ridiculous as it sounds,
Everything is inside and outside each other.
The quantum matrix is like that.

* * * *
Time does to the messenger whatever it pleases,
Whatever the given context determines,
The message is all that counts.
We all play one little part or another.

* * * *
And on the eighth day, God awoke
And wondered at what had become of his garden,
Exclaiming in complete and utter exasperation, “What the …  !?”
“What have you friggin’ two-leggeds done to my world!?”
And, too dejected to say more, rolled over
And went back to sleep.