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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Everything On The Garbage Dump</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Everything on the garbage dump <br>like the picked over pyre of an unholy death. <br>The rubes seeing through the ruses of the rich <br>straight into their computerized living rooms <br>behind the razor wire and grapevines. <br>Bad mistake. The poor begin to compare, <br>and where they wanted to be elite yesterday, <br>today they smoulder like a root fire <br>at what's been done to them <br>many days before by what goes on under <br>the cornerstones of our quicksand institutions<br>imploding under the mass of corruption at their core. <br>Lies so immense, even the media can't eat them, <br>and scum-bag politicians wallowing in what <br>they don't want anyone else to have. A cure<br>for a child that's dying, after having lost her hair, <br>a bed for a homeless man who's off his meds, <br>a job for his son and daughter, open-handed economics <br>where the destitute aren't eating the scraps<br>that fall off the elemental table of the obscenely overfed. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And this is to put it as mildly as I can <br>so as not to bully anyone with the truth, <br>but I grew up at the bottom of a garbage can<br>and I know who's sitting on the lid of a buried i.e.d.<br>that's about to go off like a volcanic toilet-bowl. <br>The black dove cries to the burning heavens<br>and earth's about to show us why you don't <br>steal from your own crib, or piss in your own womb.<br>The flesh-eating disease has gone too far. <br>There's smog in our children's hearts and eyes. <br>The wealthy come into a focus on a gun sight. <br>Revulsion deepens. Everyday you can hear <br>the backbones of people's wills breaking <br>like the great boughs and small twigs <br>of an old growth forest in an ice-storm. <br>People close up like stores and the candling parachutes <br>of the daylilies who stay in bed all day, <br>grateful for twenty more minutes of hallucinating <br>an oasis in a desert they know they're going to die in.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Bad meat down the well. Corporations <br>with more of an identity than your daughter has, <br>but ask any drone who she is <br>and there's a databank somewhere <br>that would be happy to tell you for a considerable fee. <br>She's nobody that concerns us yet. But the time, <br>and I mean it more today than I did yesterday, <br>is coming, that nemetic moment when the guillotines <br>are brought out like garden shears pruning roses<br>of their buds, and Wall Street ticks swollen with blood <br>of their heads. One after another. The regenerative hydra<br>clear cut like the trees and the tribes of the Amazon jungle.<br>No more listening to the Lord of Flies brainwashing us <br>into believing its maggots are butterflies. No more <br>second, third, fourth, fifth innocence, reborn or otherwise, <br>for the retroactive alibi that tells us how sorry <br>and concerned he is that others don't follow <br>the same psychopath that he's making money off, <br>even if it's been going on since Uruk and Ur.<br>Even religion being rendered unto like Caesar. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The shepherds of the black camel build tall buildings in the desert. <br>No birds sing in the eucalyptus trees of Israel <br>that spring up like political spin over bulldozed Arab homes. <br>And the last man born on earth will grovel in the dust<br>at his sister's feet. Signs of the end times articulated <br>by an annihilated Sufi in a zawiya of the thirteenth century. <br>Who born among us today, doesn't know exactly <br>what he was talking about? As we run out of water, <br>breathable air, edible food, futile hope and dangerous inspiration. <br>Mineralized humanity fossilized in the Burgess Shale <br>of a virtual reality exploding into millions of alternatives <br>to evolution in the Pre-Cambrian Age of mutative technology. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And people will gather according to rule and ask for change. <br>But their shepherds will only shorten the chains<br>and tighten their grip on their hearts like a man <br>in a strip club keeps a grip on his wallet, <br>but the intensity unvented will supersaturate the air<br>and mount the event horizon like the anvils of thunderheads <br>and much will be struck down in an atavistic replay <br>of the polymorphous perverse trying to figure out <br>what shape it should assume so the cure remains <br>more plausible than the disease that the ideological scalpels <br>just cut out with no distinction made <br>between a human heart and a tumour. <br>Beauty and intelligence will become suspect <br>to the mediocre and ugly, and the ethics of the day <br>will be the stage directions of a bad morality play<br>as the captains of commerce and the nabobs of worse <br>thresh the salted earth like necrophagoi <br>watched over by the scarecrow of a c.e.o.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I can hear the karmic atrocities of the sorrows<br>that have muscled the birds out of the trees <br>with hortatory elegies for the windfall of sour bells<br>that were cut down like the fruit of a noose. <br>Injustice will redress injustice with mob sentiment <br>adamant about the rabid obscenity of human lovelessness<br>that has been perpetrated like a myth of origin in their name. <br>Things will still burn, but not in a flame as they used to, <br>but in a scalding acid bath of eyes learning to read <br>the graffiti on the wall as if it were written <br>on their own gravestones. Sybarites with desecrant sensibilities <br>will destroy without creation anything that reminds them <br>of who they are not. Art will become <br>the artificial antiseptic to the toxin of life <br>and there will be more joy in cynicism than there is <br>the natural love of a man for his wife and children.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But the litany of metaphorical omens is perilously long <br>and eventually even Lao Tzu rode out of town on an ox<br>into the available dimensions of a future in the hills <br>to die alone among the doomed wildflowers undistracted <br>by the human race. And Jesus had his wilderness. <br>Buddha, Venus and his Bodhi Tree, Moses, his desert, <br>in lieu of the Promised Land, and Muhammad, his cave. <br>Everyone of these enlightened masters had to get away for awhile<br>to receive what was given to them to believe. <br>That all the threads of the strong rope <br>would come undone in time like spinal cords<br>and all a decent human could do, when life <br>oversteps its own bounds into unconditioned chaos<br>is drive a small herd of goats up to the mountain top <br>to get out of the way of the avalanche of prophetic skulls <br>coming down in a rush to avoid their own warnings.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">So, yes, if you really care, if you've cared all along, <br>don't crowd into the shrine of your third eye <br>to escape the approaching storm, expecting shelter <br>from that sense of goodness that hovers over you <br>like an angel using drones. As Muhammad said <br>the red-haired, one-eyed liar will amaze you <br>and many now lustrous, but empty, will succumb to its power.<br>And trivialities will cat walk in the robes of the sublime. <br>And only branded cattle in the abattoirs of a violent education <br>will learn the true power of a name. The arks of yesterday <br>will save themselves like luxury lifeboats <br>that jumped the ship of state, on its way down, <br>when it turned into a hospital barge on the rocks, <br>full of the body parts of abandoned children<br>who didn't live long enough to learn how to sink or swim<br>before they were shucked like baby turtles by seagulls <br>and the undertakers came, like parasites, to finish off the rest.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Take a break. I know how bilious a heart can feel <br>eating a spoon of ashes a day from the urn of the world <br>as if you had nothing left but your spiritual ancestry to live on. <br>Change your diet. Eat the buds of day lilies, eat<br>the purple pagodas of the stag horn sumac before <br>it immolates itself in the fall. Grow yourself a new tail <br>to replace the one they tried to catch you by, skip your koans <br>out over a large midnight lake like water birds taking to flight.<br>Buff the horrors with wild raspberries and the overnight sensations <br>of mushrooms as big as a skull or the moon emerging from death. <br>Rejuvenate. Restore. Let the shoemaker tack new soles to your cells, <br>and reattach the flight feathers to your calloused heels. <br>Let the wind blow the stars through your hair like the willows. <br>And the moon hang awhile like dew on the mandalas <br>of your musical spiderwebs. Learn how to carry a tune again <br>like water in the bucket of your larynx<br>or the fire in your gut that once could weep like diamonds <br>that cut through your tears without doing any damage. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Breathe in and forget that long or short every breath <br>is infinitely intimate with everything that's ever lived. <br>Detached. Disconnected. Cut off. Unplugged. <br>Renew your erotic affiliation with your body <br>and see, though bruised, how the starmud still shines <br>even after you've taken a bath in your own grave<br>and the water runs off your skin like moonlight. <br>Do this for yourself without throwing salt <br>in the roseate wounds of your conscience.<br>Do this in a solitude that doesn't try to cram the mystery <br>into the small locket of the human heart <br>that carries your counter-intuitive likeness <br>of the way things ought to be in the better world behind us.<br>Do this to remind yourself of the bliss of what it is <br>to be a human alone with stars, so you don't forget <br>the experience you're trying to convey to the unmindful and lost<br>must be renewed from generation to generation <br>like a dragon breathing into a tinder box of flammable emotions. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And then even if it's just for the dignity of a lost cause, <br>or merely the preference of this absurdity to that, <br>or enlightened self-interest with too much intelligence <br>to have completely transcended itself inconceivably, <br>return to the maelstrom like the cult of a contemplative <br>that's at least an initiate in the mysticism of action<br>who doesn't mistake a sword that kills you back into life<br>for the wishbone of a harp that pleads with hell for the dead<br>who will always double-back on you <br>like the retrograde motion of Mars as you overtake it, <br>an orbit with an inside track on the sun that naves the wheel. <br>A habitable planet with a genius for life and love that's real.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a></strong></div>