Customary Wear

The attire of ideals ill-fit
in times of turmoil, times of want,
when hunger loosens a belt till it
slips to the ground, and we are gaunt,
nought but haggard skin, brittle bones,
starved from famines unbeholden
to kings sitting on their grand thrones
or prayer books long grown olden.
No, we waste thinner and clothing
slips off—robes, uniforms, and suits,
each badge, medal, and just-so thing
once honored by waxed marching boots
to give the semblance of order,
of hierarchy, place, power,
enforcing each make-believe border
between so-and-so in his tower.
The cufflinks slip off the narrowed wrist
like overlarge shackles from a beast
and the noblest scion cannot resist
the promise of the scantiest feast.
He springs, shedding old pretenses
like a Winter pelt cumbering
his hunt in Summer, his senses
overwhelmed after slumbering.
Even ladies doff their dresses,
their waists too small for bodices
as they prowl, twigs in their tresses,
wild-eyed like pagan goddesses,
seeking the next morsel to eat
to sate the pit between their ribs,
etiquette lost, thinking of meat
rather than wedding rings and cribs.
And children—children become ghouls
perching over impromptu graves,
soiled, feral, clutching bloody tools
while sheltering in charnel caves
to lick at cleaved skulls long bereft
of sustenance, the gray matter
drained, sucked to dry dust, nothing left,
though the children grow no fatter.
And so the ideals are piled high
like clothing for the End-Times pyre,
burning, smoke blackening the sky
as the starved and the cold aspire
to make a feast of their brethren—
naked, emaciated, stripped
by the hunger pangs and the ken
bestowed by the maw of the crypt.

Sokushinbutsu

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Try reason instead of
resin;
try moving from your position of
embalmed stubbornness
and grow rather than
mummify
within this mountaintop shrine of
isolated ideology.
You are not a disciple of
Enlightenment,
but a squatter huddling around the sutra
of your own willful
Ignorance.
Changing your mind will not
kill you,
but to cease all intake
except your obstinate beliefs
will make you a lasting
monument
to undecayed
foolishness.
Repeat your mantra of
denial
over and over again
until you assume the silence of perfected
oneness
with your antiquated ideology
while the world moves on
without you.
You could step through the
torii gate
to see a new plane of awareness
but your eyes have been petrified
shut.
The way outward
has been closed
by the way inward.

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Media Stream

The river can be
diverted
with watersheds and dams and
media floodgates,
but we, the people,
are the ones dumping our
outhouse ideologies
into the eddies,
contaminating the flow,
thickening the sludge, feeding into that river
that divides us, and, so,
when everything flows
downstream
we should not be surprised
that when scooping out water for our
hearty family stew
we find ourselves eating someone else’s
shit
from farther upstream,
nor are we blameless
of flavoring someone else’s
cloying broth.