Post by Juan Castrocafe on Jul 31, 2007 23:38:40 GMT -6
and I waited for the tree to take in its full breath and exhale
as I felt its joy from the sun beneath its bark,
and it gave the ozone kinda smell of release
as I felt its hundredth year be uttered
that being is residual, ever wonder how much
of it will wake up in its seed transplanted
in a pot...
as I watched people weep, cry,wail, apologize and atone
and pray for protection against the dark
as if there was some way to beckon the unknown
and being commanded to pinpoint one
individual comma in the universe
and being provisional as to give
reason and ability for one
to control one's own lot...
they bury six deep, they bow their heads
mark it with signigicant writing
and pay their respect to the dead
the life is just a jot of something inbetween
and in the way of conversation
so lofty, it must lift social status, exponentially
and I wondered as I stood there watching everyone be "big" people
as if there was anything to their stature,
and if there was something unique in their nature
as to spend more time gathering at an ending,
when they never read the book as it unfolded
and nearly spent no dime for a moment together
and they could have saved a bundle,
cremating that corpse you know, and placing all that ash
in a pot.
I wonder with all the deep burying,
with all the fuss over form and function
what will grow from all this planting
and why all the compunction
when the inbetween was just as present as now
and now is fleeting,
yet it seems to take death
to bring forth a "meeting"
as I felt its joy from the sun beneath its bark,
and it gave the ozone kinda smell of release
as I felt its hundredth year be uttered
that being is residual, ever wonder how much
of it will wake up in its seed transplanted
in a pot...
as I watched people weep, cry,wail, apologize and atone
and pray for protection against the dark
as if there was some way to beckon the unknown
and being commanded to pinpoint one
individual comma in the universe
and being provisional as to give
reason and ability for one
to control one's own lot...
they bury six deep, they bow their heads
mark it with signigicant writing
and pay their respect to the dead
the life is just a jot of something inbetween
and in the way of conversation
so lofty, it must lift social status, exponentially
and I wondered as I stood there watching everyone be "big" people
as if there was anything to their stature,
and if there was something unique in their nature
as to spend more time gathering at an ending,
when they never read the book as it unfolded
and nearly spent no dime for a moment together
and they could have saved a bundle,
cremating that corpse you know, and placing all that ash
in a pot.
I wonder with all the deep burying,
with all the fuss over form and function
what will grow from all this planting
and why all the compunction
when the inbetween was just as present as now
and now is fleeting,
yet it seems to take death
to bring forth a "meeting"
