Inventing The World
© Surazeus
2018 07 20
The way sunlight flickers between tall buildings
of the city that shines placidly still,
though their rooms are full of people who sit
at desks tapping keys of letters and numbers
to formulate spells on computer screens,
reveals anxious despair of my mute heart
to participate blindly in the play
of ritual production which conjures wealth.
I walk away from the office to find
stage of action where I feel I should play
important role in drama of desire,
but nothing is happening anywhere
except people walking somewhere else quickly
so I stand under the indifferent tree
and stare at its thick roots that seem so real
which makes me feel with shock as if I were
the character of existential trope
who feels nausea at surging of existence
in some novel written decades before.
From the dry grass I pick up with my hand
one large brown leaf, thick as our writing paper,
and trace my finger along its thin veins,
then imagine writing long epic poem
with blood of my fingers in fragile Runes
to calculate the weird riddle of existence
by depicting drama of human beings
whose actions are constructive or destructive
in process of material transformation.
I kick the pile of dry leaves, and slow wind
swirls them around, and drops them on the ground,
then I imagine painting memories
of my secret thoughts on every brown leaf
and watching wild wind blow them in the sky
to scatter all my lost dreams in the world
so they sprout into trees with thinking brains
who spread wings, but never fly from hard Earth.
The glaring sunlight of time hardens shapes
into molecular clusters of vibrations
which were named with expressions of our tongues
by First Mother in the vast tree of fruit
who pointed to things and tongued airy words
for the naming of parts at dawn of dream,
so my mother taught language of thoughts
passed down to her a hundred thousand years.
I sit in the glow of the twilight zone,
and in the dark gloom of midnight design
new world with words I compose on the air,
but visions vanish at the flash of dawn.
I want to invent my own new rich language
based on standard principles of ideas
to better organize in strict categories
subjects, objects, actions, and qualities
based on ontology of the whole truth
that fixes sloppy mess of tongue I speak,
but no one else will speak language I create
so I must learn this universal language
that everyone on the whole globe now speaks.
I walk through the Museum of World Art
where every painting smeared by human hands
hangs on the universal wall of archetypes
to present human vision of humanity,
recording facial features and performances
of famous people who once ruled their nations
to create this empire of thought we inhabit,
till I perceive essential principles
how man and woman reincarnate child
to replicate their soul in cycle of life.
Through this active repetition of concepts
I formulate process of interaction
that weaves threads of human progress through space
in tangled tapestry of social history
to explore endless iterations of choice
when people perform rituals of desire
to satisfy hunger for bio-matter
so we can evade destruction of death
which breaks our bodies and minds down to dust.
When people feel their vision of the world,
conjured by the verses their poets sing,
is threatened by the destruction of silence
when more complex verbal ontologies
depict the real world with more accurate terms,
composed by the clear-eyed prophet of truth,
they battle each other in war of words
to present the truth their own minds devise,
and crush strangers they feel lie about life.
Who better describes nature of the world,
and better predicts the future events
their actions of force cause to become real
with more complete ontology of facts,
will dominate politics that operate
state institutions of official action
and thus rule the processes of new change
by inventing the world they want to exist,
and we must play our roles in their new play.
Yet all they decide at the bottom line
is who works, who eats, and who copulates
to reproduce their genes in growing children
who will again play power games for control
while we grow old and crumble into dust,
and only words we print on pages in books
preserve the visions of our flashing brains.
I create nothing new with words I write,
composing verses of experience,
except ephemeral flashes of insight
which illuminate vast structure of thought
framing ontology of our world view
so we can better see sprawling cathedral
constructed by poets, prophets, and killers
who play our god as king or president.
The way sunlight glows on my open hand
reveals that souls of my ancestors pulse
awake in every neuron of my brain
to conjure visions of human performance
through endless struggle to survive attack
of mindless nature so we terraform
Waste Land of fear into Heaven of love.
© Surazeus
2018 07 20
The way sunlight flickers between tall buildings
of the city that shines placidly still,
though their rooms are full of people who sit
at desks tapping keys of letters and numbers
to formulate spells on computer screens,
reveals anxious despair of my mute heart
to participate blindly in the play
of ritual production which conjures wealth.
I walk away from the office to find
stage of action where I feel I should play
important role in drama of desire,
but nothing is happening anywhere
except people walking somewhere else quickly
so I stand under the indifferent tree
and stare at its thick roots that seem so real
which makes me feel with shock as if I were
the character of existential trope
who feels nausea at surging of existence
in some novel written decades before.
From the dry grass I pick up with my hand
one large brown leaf, thick as our writing paper,
and trace my finger along its thin veins,
then imagine writing long epic poem
with blood of my fingers in fragile Runes
to calculate the weird riddle of existence
by depicting drama of human beings
whose actions are constructive or destructive
in process of material transformation.
I kick the pile of dry leaves, and slow wind
swirls them around, and drops them on the ground,
then I imagine painting memories
of my secret thoughts on every brown leaf
and watching wild wind blow them in the sky
to scatter all my lost dreams in the world
so they sprout into trees with thinking brains
who spread wings, but never fly from hard Earth.
The glaring sunlight of time hardens shapes
into molecular clusters of vibrations
which were named with expressions of our tongues
by First Mother in the vast tree of fruit
who pointed to things and tongued airy words
for the naming of parts at dawn of dream,
so my mother taught language of thoughts
passed down to her a hundred thousand years.
I sit in the glow of the twilight zone,
and in the dark gloom of midnight design
new world with words I compose on the air,
but visions vanish at the flash of dawn.
I want to invent my own new rich language
based on standard principles of ideas
to better organize in strict categories
subjects, objects, actions, and qualities
based on ontology of the whole truth
that fixes sloppy mess of tongue I speak,
but no one else will speak language I create
so I must learn this universal language
that everyone on the whole globe now speaks.
I walk through the Museum of World Art
where every painting smeared by human hands
hangs on the universal wall of archetypes
to present human vision of humanity,
recording facial features and performances
of famous people who once ruled their nations
to create this empire of thought we inhabit,
till I perceive essential principles
how man and woman reincarnate child
to replicate their soul in cycle of life.
Through this active repetition of concepts
I formulate process of interaction
that weaves threads of human progress through space
in tangled tapestry of social history
to explore endless iterations of choice
when people perform rituals of desire
to satisfy hunger for bio-matter
so we can evade destruction of death
which breaks our bodies and minds down to dust.
When people feel their vision of the world,
conjured by the verses their poets sing,
is threatened by the destruction of silence
when more complex verbal ontologies
depict the real world with more accurate terms,
composed by the clear-eyed prophet of truth,
they battle each other in war of words
to present the truth their own minds devise,
and crush strangers they feel lie about life.
Who better describes nature of the world,
and better predicts the future events
their actions of force cause to become real
with more complete ontology of facts,
will dominate politics that operate
state institutions of official action
and thus rule the processes of new change
by inventing the world they want to exist,
and we must play our roles in their new play.
Yet all they decide at the bottom line
is who works, who eats, and who copulates
to reproduce their genes in growing children
who will again play power games for control
while we grow old and crumble into dust,
and only words we print on pages in books
preserve the visions of our flashing brains.
I create nothing new with words I write,
composing verses of experience,
except ephemeral flashes of insight
which illuminate vast structure of thought
framing ontology of our world view
so we can better see sprawling cathedral
constructed by poets, prophets, and killers
who play our god as king or president.
The way sunlight glows on my open hand
reveals that souls of my ancestors pulse
awake in every neuron of my brain
to conjure visions of human performance
through endless struggle to survive attack
of mindless nature so we terraform
Waste Land of fear into Heaven of love.
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