Cycle

nature knows no sin,
nature knows no blame,

that which comes from infinite forever
returns there.

the bird (and all of us) never asked to die,
neither did it ask to be born.

to die seems hard for us,
but what of the infinite time we did not exist before our birth?
was that bad?

in the setting face to face we can choose to merge with the infinite and leave the cycle of birth.
trapped to the world of experience.
but the world of existence is why.
we are here for experience.
this is where there is pain and loss and fear and death.
but
this is where there is birth and babies and life and love and accomplishment and music and art and dance
the stars at night
the breeze
an infinite space
where we are on a tiny ball
all for us
nature is what it is
because we understand compassion and love
it seems cruel
but except for us
nature does not know this
the deer doesn't blame the wolf
no one blames the worm
round and round it goes

we do not interfere, we are nature too
the baby drinks milk
it is god pouring into god.

there is no difference between perfection and nothing
let there be something

Is there?

Is there another beautiful woman
who will go
Dumpster diving with me
to find the exquisite bits?

searching on the ground
for what can be found
and opening each lid to see
what rotting treasures await for me
all on a beautiful summer day
and each dumpster really smells
and one smell made me vomit.
yet she loved me
and later that day
we kissed most tenderly.
(oh those strange artists)

Is there another beautiful woman,
with a sexy sense of fashion
who will except me as the t-shirted and blue-jeaned thing that I am,
who will have sex in the bushes of a rest stop
and keep going even after the cop drives by
on the road we didn't know was there?

Is there another beautiful woman
who will jolly joke with me
and be surreal in wit and mind
and know that jokes are harmless things
and find it just a funny thing
to furl our open-minded flag
and say
I eat babies?

40 is the new 18.

40 is the new 18.
I feel just like blowing my brains out again.

Work, Home, Sleep.

Work.
The day is long,
and longer still with joyless hours left to fill.
Home.
empty house of other chores,
further toiling lonely hours.
Sleep.
filled with dreaming restless dreams,
breathing body feels the dark,
acridly succumbing to losing of the self
and slipping away into the temporary grave of slumber.