The Hive (part 3)

If feelings were meant to be taken at face value and blindly obeyed, you’d smash your alarm clock every morning. Our brains believe they know better than us. They stack a lot of negative feelings for emphasis that we call flaws and distractions. Feelings are just feelings and are in no way indicators of a very real, very invisible early warning indicator system that made our ancestors make us dream they had to have been superheroes or demi-Gods to have lived the way they did.

How they manipulated and bridled the human spirit. Once belonging to scattered bands of warring children, well, they basically got people to live like ants. Cities, anthills, we were eating lots of termites at the time, I’m guessing we became inspired. From that point there are a series of emergent outcomes no one planned, came about completely naturally organically as an offshoot, or a side-effect, of an organism changing natures, habitats, choosing how we want to live even as nature tells us no in a hundred different forms. The worst of which are fast approaching.

The answer is simple. What temperature melts the metal? How hot and what shape was the furnace that first made Mankind? And as we build and re-imagine and reinvent modern ways of life, we must keep an element of that heat, some basic fundamental aspect of our education has to preserve the environments that shaped these instincts into intellect. We can go so far, as far as our dreams, but not like a transplant, not like a microscopic seed, an explorer in the wind, our very particular survival mechanism is shaped like a vine. That vine is community, and there is no frontier steep enough to separate us from every person who ever loved or maybe even only tolerated us. There are no such things as humans without relationships.

Time isn’t on a clock.
It’s in our veins.
When we look at ourselves, we are looking at about fifteen thousand years.
When we discuss life, we’re talking at least a billion.

Be Delicious

Fifteen thousand years of voices, one billion years of choices. How did forward and back and should I eat that lead to all this. Consciousness. But you can’t call her that. She goes by Beverly. And she would prefer to pretend all those voices off all her ancestors are actually her own. When they aren’t. She’ll call them fleeting feelings. We call all kinds of evidence chaos when we don’t understand it. There are no miracles here. Our perception is in motion. The subject we’re paying attention to is in motion. Ever lined up with a car on the highway going eighty five and you’re both just sitting still staring at one another and your stomach even sinks, settles, like it does only when the car is stopped. That, but on an elemental level, creates the weird quirks and magical powers we keep giving to electrons that are really just deficits in line of sight. The truth is we live in a perfect, flawless, as in, no other way it could be accomplished, creation. Try not to let your imagination undermine simple, unobservable truth. 

We don’t understand time yet. Its relationship to distance. And the clear obviousness that it is not a uniform progression. But like a runner who starts slow and speeds to the stop with several hundred breathers and water-breaks in-between, time chugs, like a fire starved steam train, we have good days where we feed it steady, and bad years, when the universe drinks too much, let’s her beard grow long and doesn’t wake up until she loses some animals. This whole shebang probably began when God went to start digging our grave. There’s the garden you plan. And then the one the land craves. And the farmer is a slice of deli meat squeezed hard between two pieces of bread: the living and the dead. And the purpose of life, I don’t know, be delicious. What is the purpose of sandwich meat, Beverly?

Changeling

Times are bad.
Worse is coming.
The Petri dish warming.
Now hot.
We cooked the clock.

Now we learn what winters were holding back.
How seasons attack. When oceans rise up.
When microbial protesters crawl out from deep underwater
caves once graves and feel the blood of the world is warmer.
Life will slice like a scythe through the rest of life.

And just like before.
Scavengers re-inherit their world.

Learn to be like a servant to this planet. Its fireside scribe and storyteller.
Use language like music to tuck little locusts and stringed vipers in at night.
Group the cousins accordingly: elephants and ants, blue whales and Labrador retrievers.
Humankind curled up beside our closest living relative, a caterpillar in a cocoon.
Changelings. The earthworm and the fruit bat. The ostrich and the river trout.

Time starts slowest when we are growing. Then we develop a misplaced sense
this experience keeps forever. That’s when time speeds up a little bit every year,
every hit, every avoidable inevitable circumstance we suffer along the way.
Time reels us so quick we lose the fish off the hook and past, presence and priorities
blur and spawn and take over into one, one instance. One school of thought.

So we snap. Out. Of reality. Totally up to speed.
A pace the body can’t keep. We are out of time.
For the first time. Like a fish above the water.
Choking. On too much air to breathe.

Time Clock #oldjournals

That’s redundant. In more ways than twelve
twenty fours which are actually fourteen forty.
Speaking truthfully now.
Innumerable. Sore wrist.
Right hand dominant.
Upper extremities bilaterally distributed.
Time teller. At the bank.
Next in line?
More time, please.
More time.

Eyes locked tight like that safe seals moments.
Beholding all of someone else’s equity. Pity.
Numbers don’t trail like I do. Hiking boots.
Mountains behind me like mountains in front.
Stomach wrung like a dishcloth.
By imbalanced arms.
Whiskered face of a mirror clock
show me how much time I’ve lost.
Tell me to go to work.

That I’m officially redundant.
That minutes and money
don’t convert.

The Brightest Nights

Crackling polka dotted puddles beneath droopy pale underbellied leaves.
A true mess of mixed greens. Next time we’ll label the rows. Oh well.
Sharp and lacy and either rape seed, turnip, mustard or kale.
Cat ate some the other day. Elbow tap. Look at that. A fresh kale.

It is raining again. The dogs are up. Birds are silent.
Earthworms being suffocated up out of the mud.
Flat mirrors unwink unending misshapen silver dollars.
Money doesn’t grow from trees. The older I get, the more it grows on me.

Spring leak licks down upturned leaves like the cat uses its tongue to clean
every fuzzy inch of gargantuan body. Roots exposed. Line draped in clothes.
We never got to them in time. Always fresh out.
Gray cap set snug arresting a rat’s nest of tangled green.

Time is measured by line of sight.
Rainy days are the brightest nights.

Unmoved

What age. How much time.
Until the promise buried in the heart of the future is a frightening one.
Where in the past then did great change happen, when forward was no longer toward.
But a way.

What is time to the stuck. Broken. Fixed.
On a certain time like a frozen clock.

A speedometer that no longer works is still absolutely right most of the time.
Runny is the glue that binds us. How long is the dry time on an anxious father.
Try convincing him correctness is not necessarily progress.

Doesn’t matter.
To clocks with broken hands.
To odometers that no longer count.
To wet glue.

Presence is purpose unmoved by the promise of tomorrow.

Dirty Dishes Day

Getting set in our ways is set in our way. We don’t pick a calendar date for change. Numbering each day indefinitely as if they’ll stay the same. Then. That sunny one we needed. We wake up to rain. Wind. We wake up to cheddar cheese lightning staining the wet earth orange. Didn’t make a plan for that. When the truth is, we really didn’t make any real plans at all.

Hoping and wishing is not the same as planning.

Crossing fingers doesn’t cross that little box on each monthly chart. That ancient graph.
Showing us all the possible outcomes of the imaginary equation that is tomorrow.

Best case scenario. I’m talking world peace. An end to hunger. Homelessness becomes nothing more than a joke, just something college kids take a semester off to try out. There are still storms. Hurricanes and earthquakes and floods. There is cancer. Sickness of all manner. There’s still the matter of dinner. And then afterward, best case scenario ever, we still have to do dishes.

Revolutions. Are not just something we do to get around the sun. Of all the best laid plans of mice and of men not one, not a single person, put dirty dishes on the calendar. Even though it was more vitally predetermined than Christmas even. Life is messy. If the standard of building a perfect system is to have no extra remainder of necessary effort or labor unforeseen at the initiation, then settle in folks, this is going to continue being a bumpy ride.

But what if, oh the irony, what if we stop dreaming. What if we wake up right now and admit, fully admit, what we already know. The human being is not a thing. It is a process. The systems we establish to protect, enable, provide for humans, will not function in a fixed state. As we grow along, our societal solutions to individual problems will have to prorate. Will have to change. Not to speed up. But just to keep pace. We’ll get smarter, leaner, wilder, wiser, every successive year. You fight that. You set up roadblocks in front of progress, you’ll have a revolution every twenty years. You plan on it. Allow. Foster. Even enable it. Put change on the calendar. You’ll get a little bit of revolution every day.

An internal upheaval for every human being to remind them if all of this goes correctly there will be another day after this one. Definitely. It is a big if, but as far as we know, every if of its kind that ever came before has come true. Until now, there has always been a tomorrow. Maybe we could make a plan for something to happen that isn’t a birthday, or Christmas, or some kind of sugar-glazed, paper wrapped holiday.

Perhaps we wouldn’t need a big hairy revolution every other decade.
If we went ahead and made a plan to picnic in the rain.

Minutes and Money

Time clock.
How is that for redundant.
In more ways than twelve.
Which is actually twenty four.
Which is truly, speaking truthfully now,
innumerable.

Sore wrist. Right hand dominant.
Upper extremities bilaterally powerful.
That time teller. Like in line at the bank.
Looking directly into my face.
‘I can help whoever is next.’
Eyes locked tight like that safe.
Beholding all of someone else’s equity. Pity.
The numbers don’t trail like I do. Hiking boots.

Mountains behind me like the mountains in front of me.
Many.

Turns my stomach wrung like a dishrag in the hands of time.
The imbalanced arms on the whiskered face of a clock.
Tell me how much time I’ve got.
Assure me I’ve used up all my credit.
And now it is time to go to work.
Trading minutes for money.

How is that for redundant?

Time doesn’t write in pencil

Those featherweight wrinkles that frame your words like quotation marks
will start to linger. So much so people will think you stole someone else’s words.
Liver spots will dot your cheeks. Cross little tee’s from that face you make
like you’re about to sneeze. And all of these lines will be written in ink.
Your forehead is journal paper for time.
The color around your pupils will remain bright.
But teeth will turn taupe. Hair grows thick gray and grainy.
Like an old black and white movie.
The audio will not always line up with their lips.
Falls will fall harder against hips.
Eyes will lose their taste for your skin.

And yours.

Yours will grow hungrier
than they’ve ever been.

To Pieces

There is more to the present than a gift.
Wrapped in red gold green paper.
It sits.
Everything.
The whole universe.
As long so you don’t know what is in it. It is everything.
The greatest gift there ever was.
Only as long as you don’t know what it is.
What’s under the tree isn’t Christmas.
There isn’t a tree alive big enough.
They were all cut to the ground years ago.
No one ever leaves a present wrapped too long.
Which is why all the great gifts are gone.

It’s hard to wrap a song.
Or a poem. Or a thought.
Or both of them. They’re odd.
Loose in the corners and dense in the center
and the tape just won’t stay on.
I appreciate the thought.
But was hoping for something to tear open.
Or even at least a pressed paper box.
I know that’s asking a lot.
But this is a particular season.
When no one needs a reason.
To ask for more than you’ve got.
Not just any present moment.
Something store-bought.
Wrapped tight.
Ready to be torn.

For on this day maybe two thousand years ago a child was born.
Torn up wrapping paper on the floor.

And soon, that baby grew.

And said we will have earned the kingdom
eternal life
redemption
the very hereafter
everything
the very moment
we can discern a gift
without having to see
it torn open.