It was a gloriously clean air rain swept day
and all the problems were only that -- problems.
The stars were still spinning in orbits as they'd been
for countless light-years, shedding light through velvet voids
of space like honey dew. The whole universe was still like a melon
and each person's attitude was a spoon, covered with sand.
Gritty with time and 'tude.
Whether you let dirt and the grit get to you was up to you.
The chaos and derision and just plain angst-de-jour was no different
than it had been for countless centuries, just multiplied and magnified
by CNN and FOX and USA-Today. Yet flowers still bloomed and
folks were continuously making love and capriciously complaining
as they always had. It was no less a miracle merely because people
were frustrating you, come to think of it, the people you were vexed with
were frequently your greatest teachers. Should you realize or entertain
the concepts of WHY you were overreacting, then it would become more
clear than ever that there is a clear pristine flow underneath turbulent rip tides
and raging waters sweeping across the surface.
Just don't waste your efforts on fools, understand who is really giving back
and who resents you, don't confuse those folks who unwittingly
are your teachers with those you need to share your nectar with.
Honey, it's all about the sweetness, and if there are sour and acid
and biting moments, and cutting, lacerating, wounding tears in faces
where your feet are going, then redirect that map and move towards nectar.
The bee doesn't go sticking its pollen-covered feet in bullshit just because it's sticky, and the same rich molasses of moments honey'd like syrup are just as wet as quicksand, so why drown in the dubious suck swamp of negativity?
Right?
There's still beauty still abundance still a honeycomb of astounding marzipan luscious cake-and-eat-it-too, all you have to do is move towards the sweetness.
Sometimes it's that simple because it IS that simple and if you're going to get
stuck with the rest of the glued and fly-trapped complainers, you're in good
company, and lots of them too. Tar baby always has the last word so venture here my beloved and kiss me silently. The world can go up in flames yet we've fed the children and tucked them into bed and planted our sugar cane for the spring, and daffodils will still sprout in the most unexpected places.
Kiss me now God's poetry didn't stop just because the Taliban are roasting journalists in electronic missile caves.
If it's such a friggin' mess, then kiss me tenderly for Goddess' sake the light is waning and since the sun sinks once again into its hallowed pink and orange nest of cotton candy brilliance, the carnival of fools shall go right on screaming its carny, corny, the-sky-is-falling epiphanies. Baby, if I wanted a Requiem I wouldn't turn on the damn tube to hear that tired old warmongering bush.
I'd play Mozart.
Bring your blazing eyes here and together we will shoot comets in a violet-lit night when the supernova's end Creation still spirals endlessly, explosively, filaments like ten-thousand stamen from a firecracker blossom that is never afraid to open endless petals of pink-hot awareness and with buddha christ ambrosia drown every fear in God's all-knowing wise and infinite orgasmic bang.
Yeah.
The Creator isn't shy so take these redundant worries for human stupidity and bury them in the back yard with the MacDonald's hamburger and the dubious Coca Cola cans of pop emptiness.
This isn't the end of our world.
This is the beginning of awakening because out from this seething mess the lotus
is still blooming and the white silver tongue of ten billion angels in rapture sending bliss from the Creator's inexhaustible nectar pot has never stopped, not even for a second, not even for every corrupt and callous diplomat. The magnificence of Creation was never in doubt! And the proof of it is that even with the braying
of buffoon's and asses, the milky way still spirals in orgasmic splendor, come,
take me now in your arms and forget the Taliban. We can work on our taxes
tomorrow.
(Photograph and poem copyright 2001 by Darius Gottlieb - No reproduction without express permission from the author)
You're invited to visit Darius' website of his photographs at Art Bliss