Will the stars know I was here?
I think my first memory made one
blink in a far off sky, alone we never
are—not even in the moment some
cloud with dye.
I trounced and danced naked at
my third birthday around a sun
wondering at the earth’s movement,
Mother and child, father and toxic
liquid, a fire-dance!
God is in the heavens, is in your
dictionary (puff the dust), Google.com.
There it is, Atheist. The un-
avoidable fact: God is Concept, and
Boom, the city went boom, as the
Native sings zoom, as the helicopter
kills another deer—boom!
Fireworks and man celebrating man,
drunk off wine, because “God said
it was okay.”
So God is Jesus? No. Yes.
Words, the funniest things ever invented
I guess, sounds the truest form of
comfort, as eyes closed we entered
this world, screaming if alive,
blue babies like me silent and dying.
They say doctors saved me that day,
but I like to think an angel was there,
too. Angels are acceptable entities
to atheists, who are “good people,”
so I guess “We’ll see.”
What strange Trumpisms have gotten
into our daily speak, wow, to meet
a foreign dictator—this is easy!!
I talk of God a lot, because without
the concept, I’d be dead—one way or
another, either the mere spiritual kind,
physically alive but unhappy.
Or the actual kind, physically under
ground, a spirit never soaring.
Will the Earth know I was here?
I like to think it notices when I plant
the apple tree—that was me!
I like to think it waves at me when the
wind blows us round our axis,
Stats can whirl you away, if
not on firm footing, they say light
traveling at 186,000 miles per
A light year the distance light will
travel in a year, what are we doing here?
We are part of the stars, the earth a
rock of sun star, naming things taking
us away from the truth
until we lie awake on the last day
our bodies carrying a spirit,
some ideas, a couple cave drawings
and a great hope for loved ones
left behind to climb and explore
other rocks, stars, and connections
until they swirl to where you are
stars, dreams and Wow! It’s never
and always over at the same time,
“God,” Higher Power the rose as sweet
by many others, three-years old was
I, when naked I danced around
Mom, who danced around Dad, who
with me and you dance around suns
and time, proving there is at one time
God, None, Sun, Son, and time supplying
every excuse and reason to up and
do you best!
“To make an effort” why one is born,
to paraphrase Dombey & Son’s Mrs.
Chick, could be a great flick—the
writing of it another star to shoot!
Poof, the light of one is for all,
the space between things is nothing
and everything, our maximum human
effort the scream that is Heaven!
A far better goal, still, than John
Stuart Mill’s poor illusion, this false
god called “Education,” “College”
the very Roman god of horse manure—
a very fine fertilizer, but far from
actually being the sunflower.
Stairs to our Higher Power?
Rocks and waterfalls the native
American artform—their appreciation
The poet’s punch, the artist with paint
or a wheel, the gymnast in the air—
all of us a speck of dust, sun-sized to
the atom, electrons spawn to millions
of light years of nothing, everything, misses,
makes, you, me
and the wordless smile before sleep.