She got her God at last.

Bathed and in white saree
she offers him his choicest food
burns his favorite incense
sits with him to converse
about the day and events
argues to make her point
smiles at his complaint
of less salt or more sugar
cries at his question
if she misses him
as much as he misses her
and the two reach out to each other
more than all the years
of seeking the fulcrum
to balance the bond.

Fifty-nine hard seems short now years
today heard about a massacre
Fifty-eight, so far have died,
all strangers to the psychopath
who mowed them down
and I sat stunned crying
then heard about Tom
and tears fell down my face over my hands
fifty-nine known just today lives taken
so much more I sit listening to Last dance
with Mary-Jane
thinking of  everyone who died today
and didn't make the news but
i cry anyways

suppose peace gonna overcome
someday?
I've tried to help old ladies
bums
been a **** drunk discovering
the bottom
my self
given my heart soul and money
to orphaned animals
try to give forward

draw peace signs
in hidden places
and all caps LOVE
I hide in library books about the
holocaust
at times

I've sat giving lectures to the birds
to ants to trees, leaving traces
of my heart at their
root
and they seemed to listen
be aware of man's atrocities
clap applaud at times

I've been a minstrel
self-ministered
drawn on theologies
and  pathology
drawn and painted every self-portrait
I could while seeing
nothing

deeper
or wiser than
a sunbeam through limbs on the green
soft grass  near a calm stream
hearing her flowing musics
and cried among the bird chirps
and watched for hours
ants toil

trying so hard
so hard
to recognize

I awoke
with mountains in their heights
that spoke
of memories that wove
through knees
thighs
and ***** bone --
to the inky waters of the lake below.

In that cabin
where the sable pines enclose
and all about
from coral-white
to grayish
turquoise-blue
snow.

That scene:
on the edge
where the stillness
Knows.

Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
                          
                            we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone,
                            
                            all
Myt­h-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
         networks,
                            
                            fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
                            
                            down
Everyone
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
                            
                            click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,

                           enter:

Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
                          mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.