Apocalypto(ism)

Apocalypto(ism)

by Shumshere Sherchand

i saw the brightest of a generation

lose themselves to a myriad of indoctrinations:

communism,

socialism,

capitalism,

initiating our idealism.

the mechanical roar of an imagined ideology

from thoughts to lores

now become written for the whores

as they are fucked

anally

juices sucked

oil becoming spit out

the monsoon rain

calming to a level considered sane

but the hate remains:

junk bonds,

anal thongs,

bieber songs,

culture lost to the vultures.

a result of pacifism

lost beneath a realism

nuclear war

destroying the idealism

corporations

governmentalization

beautification

i saw the brightest of a generation

slowly becoming separated

between those

sickly and emaciated

whose vocal cords have been lacerated

by the

rich and docile

who are

never on trial

unwilling to fall 

or relent

acting as if they are heavenly sent

but in truth they are bent

crooked as a crook

the ones your read in books

movies, becoming a proof

ready to unify

the stars aligning

our media signifying

an end

saying it's time for discrimination to relent

written by those who have historically discriminated

i saw the brightest of a generation

suppressed 

causing their words to regress

losing their cultural dress

to an economic and political mess

power given to a few

our freedoms given to form their columns

supporting a roof that is leaking:

water,

money,

blood,

our rights.

haphazardly covered with our skin

torn out by histories unforgiving minions

sewn together by a lineage

family synergy

corrupting all countries

forced to choose

afraid to loose

familial or communal allegiance

the true individual lost amongst

"make sure you √ your box"

governments telling us they doing their due diligence

building our inner angst:

categorizing,

dividing,

separating,

us.

cattle

a united nations in disgrace

unified without a brace

collapsing becoming its fate

i saw the brightest of a generation

unable to date

living life as if it was a case

or caste

compartmentalized

to make one's life

easier as it is a divide

between dreams and time

trying to find that subtle dime

settle down, benign

all you notice is each others eyes

gun shots

the dream dies

i saw of the brightest of a generation

pick up their guns

blindly led by men

children thinking war is fun:

drums,

flags,

death,

carnally created to desire human flesh.

a social contract never blessed

god slowly becoming undressed

death

i saw the brightest of a generation

lose themselves to their highs

lighting up

letting life pass by:

waste(wo)men,

peace and love,

release the doves,

mother earth needs to be touched.

respected

environmentalists

dejected

carbon dioxide roams our nightly skies

entering our lungs

decreasing our time

nihilism

lost to a line

of drugs

divine

i saw the brightest of a generation

believe they could change poverty

without changing the system of sovereignty

individual right over the collective might

because of our fear of losing our own life

unwilling to use our insight

short-term goals

maximize our dollars in wallets made of felts

clouding a vision devoid of profits

i saw the brightest of my generation

take up the call for neoliberalism

Thatcher and Reagan rallying the suites:

bankers following the sound coming from the pied pipers flutes,

the music so divine,

telling them they are not committing a crime,

over leveraged.

swapping millions for billions

Mr. Ponzi

ensuring

the poor are insuring 

a theory

without no feelings

nor education

stark naked

always willing to accept simple rations 

take from the poor

enable the rich

no places for a snitch

moral hazard

pushing their economy to a brink

wearing suits and ties

forgoing an opportunity to think

trillions of dollars lost in a blink

penthouse

thousand count

Egyptian sheets

imported from China

globalization

back to an easy sleep

beggar

meek

so they flee

sleeping on the clothes he wore years ago

society threw him into the river's flow

but to his ideals he could not let go

submerged

lost and drowned

I saw the brightest of my generation

lost to words

and new ideas

psychology

tautology 

supposed necessity

that struck cords

with a  society looking to replace its sovereign lord

but we're unable to connect

lost

maybe it's time to circumvent

to a time of self-belief

providing us with mental relief:

ritalin,

prozac,

cognac,

belittling

reality.

a verbal cage

trapping and then separating

ADD

Depression

Autism

I saw the brightest of my generation

misunderstood

imagined communication

lost in translation

no such thing as a nation

homogeneity

bought through the globalized economy

so cheap

that new hobby

made in china

I saw the brightest of my generation

take the calls of their sovereign nations

thinking they know best

better than less

natives need to be undressed

redressed

meritocratic test

really discriminatory

written for the:

whites,

bahuns,

hans,

afrikaners,

ebo,

trust the flow.

of time

that sign

wait in line

I saw the brightest of my generation

called stupid and dumb

because they didn’t speak proper

properly

maybe it was just they had different cultures and families

a different society

we wanna be different

but the same

so they call those who are different

lame

can never rise above a level

limit has been imposed

negative infinity

afraid of its many foes

so indoctrinate

force them to hate

themselves or the culture

that history saw naturally to create

survival of the fittest

is that the one with the biggest:

breast,

cock,

mind,

disembodied fate.

fear of death

fear of life

I saw the brightest of my generation

I see the brightest of my generation

as the light fades

star burst

shattering our enclaves

ego

leggo

let go

I fear for the brightest of my generation

or
children of children (not yet super[wo]men)

Rock Garden Tao

you know that i speak, at times, of my rock garden nestled below the arching bamboo culms in the back.  

i am there most days for an hour or more.  

often digging out hidden boulders, looking for new ones under the fragrant earth, exploring them, rubbing them, cleaning them, revealing their shapes. 

handful by handful moving soil, revealing a dense hardness to the earth that was hidden from view.

breaking my nails and covering myself in mud while cleansing my inner self in the process.

then, doing man's deeds: planting succulents, ferns and grasses of life.  

forming beauty from our own darkened imagination.

you know those ancient taoists (that lao tzu certainly held his asian ear to the earth!) believed these bulging stones were the spine of the world.  its backbone.  its strength and stability.  its firmness.  

its philosophical anchor.

but those wu-wei souls lived a long time ago --  in a world more attuned to nature's unspoken voice, a distant calm and the presence of immortals in the backyard.

yet living here, below shivapuri danda, with these mottled weighty stones bunched in unmovable clusters, it's easy to believe that there is an eternal life within these boulders.  

eternity, thy name is stone!  magma.  sediment.  igneous.  lava.  pumice. minerals.

hard and unyielding. blind to our passions and yearnings.  noble and forthright.  still and constant.  

unspeaking, yet they whisper softly in the crepuscular light.  they hum, actually, echoing the cricket's song and the cry of the split-tailed drongos as they dance in the purple light above the walnut tree.

they have seen much, even as they were buried by soil for generations.  

as my hands spill more soil in soft piles, i'm sure, below the boulders, i'll find a 1,000 year old lichhivi temple.  its brick shikar tower once trapped by a himalayan landslide waiting patiently for a jewish explorer to unearth her noble form. 

such is my current vocation: dirt digging.  a thoroughly modern musahar of the valley.

around me, as my neighbors concrete homes go up, i'm digging down.  

i've done the up thing in life.  it's ok.  actually quite good for many aspects of the world -- but not the soul.

classic sacred western theology has gotten it wrong for long -- as souls don't go up or down. 

that's another human frame.   heaven above.  hell below.  the law of moses and manu.  g-d above.  brahmins from the head.  dalits from the feet.  sacred mountains.  top of the hill.  bottom of the pile.  flying high.  sinking low.  

all that...

but my experience tells me the soul needs earth, privacy, silence, moisture.  

not those arid realms of power, damask, dignity, gold leaf and hierarchy.  

these nameless boulders don't rise and fall.  they simply lie where they land.  maybe tumble a bit.  roll around.  

they're not afraid to merely flop.  

they are big for awhile, then things begin to fall apart.  they break, crease, splinter and separate.  

again, the nature of things...  so common to all living things.  

"anicca.  anicca.  anicca.", goenka said, i recall. 

but for these wizened boulders without any bitterness, worry or anxiety.  

it is, simply.  or was.  

new forms evolve.  new shapes.  a fresh crack or crevice or the like.  somewhere for a young root to take refuge.  and grow.  soil seeps in.  water, too.  earth happens.  

but, the boulder sublimely meditates on it all.  

silently.  

unperturbed or disturbed.  quiet unto itself.  

not as striving as we who observe, much less the nearby trees.  not striving at all, actually.  not in the growth realms of the living.  

no ages.  no birthdays.  no degrees.  no anniversaries.  no rings.  no new leaves.  nada. 

nope! 

more in the meditative, monastic pattern of letting life be.  or not be.   as the case may be...

that mystical, mercurial taoist 'doing-not-doing', again.  

being.  (or not being...)

clever material things!  (or not so clever material things!)

no problem, actually.  simplicity magnified.  or reduced.  or under-elevated, i guess.  in its own dull, grey rockish way.   beaten by the elements, wind, water, erosion.  

let it come!  

takes it all on and never, not once, complains.  

open to new patterns, new styles, new events.  changelessly changing.  imperturbable.  accepting.

takes it all in.   

there's much to learn from these hard to understand beasts of the earth.  they observe all.  they support all.  they are meek signals of a distant explosive past beyond our remotest perception.  

a reminder, i suppose, of the fearless truths of our dusty, silent, deepest universe.  

the actuality of existence.  no poetry no prose.  no swaddling clothes or marriage gowns.  not even the mortal shroud before the tomb.  

just the stone-in-itself, as kant may have noted in his high idealistic bambuddhist deutsch.  

no sentiments. no tears. just the fine colors and patterns of existence.  

a line of quartz or igneous stratification.  a rough edge or sharp line.  

though as often the soft rounded, maternal curve that excites us so.  smoothed by the centuries or mere millennium.  

geological time.  

not our fleeting days and decades that so dazzle and stimulate our eager modern minds.  

these are the still, wise souls of nature 

within whom, 

when i reflect, 

i can find my real home.

amid the dirt 

under 

my

fingernails.

Happy Father's Day, Dad

Dear Dad,

Happy Father's Day and your Birthday, too, of course!

I just wanted to share this photograph of a distant memory of our lives together as kids when you were there to guide and support us.  You and Mom gave us so many opportunities when we were teenagers to see and experience the world in so many ways.  

I think this may have been 1969, when I was all of 15 years old and heading out for one of the two Boy Scouts trips I took to Idaho for the Jamboree and to New Mexico for Philmont.  I remember how friends were so impressed that you permitted me to go to both that summer (when the 'Eagle' landed on the moon, which we watched on big screens in Idaho...).  

Maybe those were some of the early experiences that gave me that infectious travel bug.  No doubt they were part of it...  as it wasn't many years after that I was darting back and forth to California during college, plus a couple trips to Europe in high school and college...  

Then, of course, as we know, the doors opened and never quite closed...  What you supported and encouraged when I was younger became global as I became an adult in my own right.  Stephenville, DeWitt, Amherst, DC, Bangkok, Kathmandu, Budhanilkantha...  

Then in the extended story, Tukche, NMH, Georgetown, Deep Springs, SOAS.  

As they say: 'to infinity and beyond!'  Such has become the nature of my world(s)...

But it's funny, Dad, in many of the 1950s/60s photographs that you took that Bruce has kindly digitalized for all of us, have airplanes or tarmacs or cars in the background.  

Movement.  On the move.  On the road.  Mobility in America.  Changing places.  Taking a drive.  Catching a jet plane.  Jumping a train.  Flitting b/n Syracuse and NYC, New Jersey or Florida...  

That was a part of our collective childhood that becomes even more apparent while taking the time to enjoy those olde photographs.  They are treasure trove!  Thanks for taking them for us to enjoy so many decades later.

I hope you are in peace, Dad, wherever it is we all go when we finish with this temporary, enjoyable human, earthly stage.  We shared a great life together.  You were a wonderful and caring father to all of us.  You always wanted the best for each of us.  

Through the daily joys and struggles of life, we each found our way in the world.  Different ways, in some ways; quite simple and similar in other ways.  Thanks for always being there as a guide, protector and inspiration.  You gave us everything, especially your love.  

I hope you can hear our thoughts and affection.  Even if you can't hear them, they are out there in the wide world.  Someday, maybe, we'll each understand these transitions better.  

But I'm sure sending our love out there can never be lost.  Wherever it goes..

lots of love, Dad,  Keith

For the Anniversary of My Death

By W. S. Merwin
 

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day   

When the last fires will wave to me

And the silence will set out

Tireless traveler

Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer

Find myself in life as in a strange garment

Surprised at the earth

And the love of one woman

And the shamelessness of men

As today writing after three days of rain

Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease

And bowing not knowing to what

A Postmortem Guide

A Postmortem Guide
by Stephen Dunn

          For my eulogist, in advance

Do not praise me for my exceptional serenity.
Can’t you see I’ve turned away
from the large excitements,
and have accepted all the troubles?

Go down to the old cemetery; you’ll see
there’s nothing definitive to be said.
The dead once were all kinds—
boundary breakers and scalawags,
martyrs of the flesh, and so many
dumb bunnies of duty, unbearably nice.

I’ve been a little of each.

And, please, resist the temptation
of speaking about virtue.
The seldom-tempted are too fond
of that word, the small-
spirited, the unburdened.
Know that I’ve admired in others
only the fraught straining
to be good.

Adam’s my man and Eve’s not to blame.
He bit in; it made no sense to stop.

Still, for accuracy’s sake you might say
I often stopped,
that I rarely went as far as I dreamed.

And since you know my hardships,
understand they’re mere bump and setback
against history’s horror.
Remind those seated, perhaps weeping,
how obscene it is
for some of us to complain.

Tell them I had second chances.
I knew joy.
I was burned by books early
and kept sidling up to the flame.

Tell them that at the end I had no need
for God, who’d become just a story
I once loved, one of many
with concealments and late-night rescues,
high sentence and pomp. The truth is

I learned to live without hope
as well as I could, almost happily,
in the despoiled and radiant now.

You who are one of them, say that I loved
my companions most of all.
In all sincerity, say that they provided
a better way to be alone.

Avocado

Avacado
by Gary Snyder

The Dharma is like an avacado!
Some parts so ripe you can't believe it,
But it's good.
And other parts hard and green
Without much flavor,
Pleasing those who like their eggs
                                  well-cooked.

And the skin is thin
The great big round seed
In the middle,
Is your own Original Nature --
Pure and smooth,
Almost nobody ever splits it open
Or ever tries to see
If it will grow.

Hard and slippery,
It looks like
You should plant it -- but then
It shoots out thru the
                fingers --
gets away.