Days & Nights

[the mingo]

. . . After we die
the days & nights will go on
keep coming without us around
forever -
and when those
who still remember us die
we are gone for good
as if we had never been
so don't tell me
how beautiful this is
or how ugly that is
or how happy you are
or how sad or heartbroken
or what you've left behind
or what you're looking forward to
... or how bad war is
or how good is peace
the awards you've won
the battles you've lost
or what this means
or that means
and don't show me you have
no sense of humor about any of it
because I will come to the conclusion
that you don't know
where the fuck you really are
or what the fuck is really going on

[mnaz]

So just be a lump then? Is that it?

Gotcha.

[revolutionR]

Like Bukowski said...."ah, yeah"

[the mingo]

So just be a lump then? Is that it?

Gotcha.

A lump is not mentioned in the piece. A lump is not referred to in the piece. A lump is not implied in the piece. However, knowing where you really are & knowing what the fuck is really going on is mentioned. Clearly.

[mnaz]

Yeah? And who exactly knows what the fuck is really going on?

Oh shit, never mind. I guess that was your point.

Clearly.

[judih]

clear
no one has a clue
some pretend they do
others write haiku

[saw]

i hope i have comforted a few
along the road, made a few smile
but how much could that really mean
when the scores are tallied, maybe
we will never know what mattered

[sasha]

this is why we have invented
spirituality
(no, not some imaginary being
who smites and begets)
but acceptance
of our transience
that we are but virtual particles
motes
that condense out of the vacuum
and vanish
within some immeasurably tiny
delta-t
for some pico-pico
femto-femto
yoctosecond
we are
and dimly sense
the vastness through which we pass
unnoticed
unseen
and that's okay
because
I notice
I see
and in that brief heisenberg of time
I feel it nearby
and I love it
(*poof - gone*)

[mnaz]

Yes yes, less than tiny.
You can't get into the trip
unless you get small enough.
You just won't get it.

Odd though-- at least as odd as "odd" could be,
within some immeasurably tiny delta-t for
some pico-pico femto-femto yoctosecond
(though I ain't no femto sorta guy)-- odd how a
poet who has been known to tell us about his this
or that from time to time could then tell others
that they don't know what the fuck they're talking
about if they tell us about their this or that.

Unless perhaps none of us pico yoctosecond types
at any time ever know or knew what the fuck
we were talking about, which is obvious.

So it goes..

[the mingo]

Unless perhaps none of us pico yoctosecond types
at any time ever know or knew what the fuck
we were talking about, which is obvious.

So it goes..

It's just a poem, nazbo, just a poem. You been snorting too much borax it seems. You ought to lay the fuck off or lay the fuck down, take it easy, it will all be over some day rest assured. Don't you remember how Chief Rolling Mountain Thunder piled all those bones into a wheelbarrow and wrote on a board the word "Promises" and stuck it in there on top of all those bones ?

[mnaz]

Well yes, he did that, or at least someone living there did that. I saw a picture of it. How ridiculously symbolic.

I think you were right about a sense of humor.

Never mind.