Where behavior is deemed detrimental
The impact appears incremental
But anger infuses
As loathing reduces
Your soul to the size of a lentil

When you look to the truth as your task
Then you may find it’s too much to ask
To go searching inside
Where the monsters all hide
Underneath your most virtuous mask

When negative thoughts are uprooted
So sadness and fear are excluded
Then shunning adversity
Stifles diversity
Leaving the landscape denuded

As I rotate without and within
When I’ve died I’ll be born yet again
I’ve come and I’ve gone
Like the dusk and the dawn
Can a cycle be said to begin?

Discover the medicine maybe abuse it
The day could arrive when you choose to refuse it
Live it and breathe it
Or take it or leave it
With patience and time you can learn how to use it

Shaking my head as I shuffle through Nod
     And wander through darkness on scabrous old feet
     Where the fruits are forbidden, and might I add strictly
     But the knowledge is ever so sweet

     I’m Under the Influence of sir Malcolm L
     And M. L. von Franz has me under her spell
     Seeking the change that I wish I could be
     While my dear inner Ahab I struggle to quell

     To search by escaping through tropics and trenches
     Determined to make every ocean my home
     My singular purpose: the potion that quenches
     Still I drink that I could theme alone

     In this watering hole will I bury my hatchets
     A sickness that’s cured is an ailment forgotten
     So choke every sorrow and drown your regrets
     A soul that remembers is cursed to go rotten

     With penalties and interest forever compounded
     I’m astounded to watch how my recollection grows
     The proverbial wisdom that’s also called madness
     Is purchased on credit and paid for with woes

     Drifting asea to steer clear of collectors
     Engulfed instead by tempests my own
     Echoing voices demanding comeuppance
     From the depth comes a cry that disturbs every bone

     These howling reminders are issued below
     From under the surface by more than a beast
     My pirates on deck keep me bound to the mast
     Always in earshot and never released

     Mostly a head but with hardly a face
     My nemesis, massive, can scarcely be seen
     Not to be measured through time or in space
     From his cousins’ cadavers our data we glean

     Less than a man, I stomp on my stump
     And promise to silence the primitive brute
     Guided by starlight, unable to sleep
     Harpoon at the ready and eager to shoot

     **** the torpedoes and to hell with the crew
     Set sail at once for the wide open blue
     Don’t be seduced by this monster in white
     His message is wicked, no less than it’s true

     He feeds on your anger, you’re never too old
     To listen instead of exerting your tongue
     Or shaking the hinges of Davy Jones’ locker
     On the floor of the ocean where Melville met Jung

There’s a mind that relentlessly rioted
And honestly couldn’t be quieted
Distraught by illusion  
It hungered for fusion
Like Plato’s original dyad did

It’s time for the people to form a decision
Just see how they struggle to hold a position
With lines in the sand
They can all take a stand
In a loose coalition of bold opposition

There’s a monk by the name of St. Francis
Who strolls in the forest and prances
       While whispering words
       To the mammals and birds
Who religiously fall into trances

An assault with no sense of compunction
We enter this perilous junction
It’s so disappointing
When missiles are pointing
And fueling electile dysfunction

Enduring the Culture of Wow
To reduce our attention and how
Just a swipe at the screen
But it’s not what we mean
When we talk about Being Here Now

There’s a middle-aged mother who’s said to be frisky
She knows that the quest for true wisdom is risky
But rather than scripture
She holds an elixir
A cocktail of hormones and breast milk and whiskey

Regardless of what one believes
The universe waxes and breathes
While ebbing and flowing
And always unknowing
The Tao, without purpose, achieves

There’s a novel in which I’ve been caught
But my storyline’s tied in a knot
Come villain or lover
I’m drawn to discover
The author who penciled my plot

In the beginning was the worm, and the worm was with a clod. And the worm was Claude. He was with a clod in the beginning, and through them all things were made. Without the worms and the germs and the clods of dirt, nothing was made that is now of this earth.

The dirt was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the heap. And Claude was hungering over the mud and the mire.

And Claude said, “Let there be bite”; and then he took a bite. And seeing that it was good, he took another bite. And from the soil he divided the clay. And from the clay, he divided the nitrogen. So that was the first clay.

Then Claude looked up at the clouds and down at the clods. And when Claude separated the clods from the clouds, he could see the heavens and the earth. And he saw that this was good.

Then with the next clay, Claude created the mounds and the knolls. Then he called on the dirt and the soil to bring forth the grass, the herbs, and every tree and fruit.

“Blessed are the seeds,” he said, “for the seeds shall inhabit the dirt.” And in due season, they would inhabit every heath and hillock.

Then Claude planted a garden. That garden would flourish with every tree that was good for food, and Claude saw that it was good. But not every tree was meant for eating.

Inside and outside of the garden, Claude crept. And in due season the garden was inhabited by humans, including but not necessarily limited to, both man and woman. And Claude wondered whether they were good.

Man and woman ate freely from the garden, but many plates were left unfinished. Many articles were cast out of the garden. There were leftovers and there were forbidden fruits. There were residues and there were residuals, and Claude saw that they were all good. And so the worm dwelt among the garbage of eaten.

It was a golden age for nematodes. All things were fruitful and all things multiplied. It was a time to be born and a time to plant. To everything there was a seasoning, and thyme for every purpose.

Whatever could be seasoned was rendered with seasoning. And what needed no seasoning was rendered unto Claude. And what Claude had joined together, no man or woman could tear asunder.

Then one day, Claude found himself in the valley of the shadow. Man and woman had stacked brick upon brick, building a tower whose top might reach the heavens. Until once again, darkness was on the face of the sheep.

Claude opposed their pride, but man and woman had sacrificed their only true sun and the light of the world. In the darkness, the flowers wilted, the vines withered, and the gourds worked in mysterious ways.

Forced to choose between the tree of life and the root of evil, every man woman and child decided for themselves. Even with twenty pieces of silverware, no man could serve two platters.

The sun came up and the sun went down. The cycle repeated but the lightbulbs would not be diminished and the darkness would not be mollified. Some travelled west and some travelled east. Some put down roots and others were uprooted. Some encountered generosity while others met with animosity. Some saved their clods and others paved over them. And for many generations, Claude was nowhere to be seen.

Then from the mist, a soft voice echoed. Those with the ears of corn could hear it, and those with the eyes of potatoes could see it. Until the cornucopia runneth over, with thanks and praises to the water and the sun and the whole compost.

Lettuce pray.

I once met a forestry ranger
In the depths of a dimly lit wood
She warned me to steer clear of danger
And I told her I would if I could

I then met a four-eyed doctor
Who diagnosed me with unhealthy skin
In the very short time that I talked to her
She observed it was dangerously thin

I next met a forensic detective
Who examined the mud on my shoes
And recommended a thicker protective
To shield my poor soles from abuse

I then met a foreign ambassador
From a kingdom remote and removed
Exotic but totally taciturn
Her statements could not be disproved

I later met a forlorn professor
And assumed we might get along swimmingly
Like a shipwreck I tried to impress her
But her preference inclined to the simile

I furthermore met a fortune teller
On a poorly paved path to the beach
She foresaw not a single best-seller
Overburdened with figures of speech

Our crude imperfections they serve to remind
     Of the ****** limits by which we’re defined
               And so I surmise
               That you need not despise
     The ephemeral flaws of a natural kind

It’s as old as the wind and the rains
It survives in the pit of our brains
But we’ll never be free
From the primitive sea
Till the cellular memory wanes