Atoms and Ethics

Laughter Of Demokritos
© Hermead of Surazeus
2011 11 03

Excerpt from an epyllion about Demokritos,
from my epic Hermead about scientists.
Demokritos gives a speech about atoms and ethics.

Demokritos teaches basics of ethics
on foundation of concept that our Kosmos
swirls in vortex of atoms to form life.
"Everything is structure of shooting atoms
that swirl in tight vortex of energy
forming texture of all things that exist.
Construction is to build structure in shapes.
Destruction is to break structure in parts.
Whether any action is good or bad
depends on value in process result
of construction and destruction of things.
When humans intervene in natural process
we choose by free will to participate
supporting life against chaos of death
and work to create order by our actions
producing material assets of wealth
by growing and creating things from Earth.
We assess aspects of each situation,
analyzing character for true value
to understand well cause and consequence
if actions set in motion sequence flow
of events that produce desired result,
fostering growth to nourish bodies and souls.
Actions that destroy we want to avoid.
Actions that create we want to pursue.
Sometimes actions that destroy we call good
and actions that create may warrant bad.
Some situations are stacked with deep levels
of consequence, so destroying one thing
may preserve good life of another thing.
We consider it bad to kill a man,
yet if that man is oppressing good men
or abusing women for his own gain,
striking to kill that man will be called good,
for destroying him preserves common health.
We fight brutal struggle for life in storm
of hunger, rage, chaos, darkness, and fear,
so actions of our hands, fueled by vision
of our minds constructed from information
gathered by our senses, we gear toward progress
of common good for survival and growth
of our whole group, thus decisions we make
are based on health of everyone involved.
Our whole universe is composed of atoms,
that form our bodies in random production,
so good and bad results from social actions
are analyzed on worth of chosen values
to create or destroy structures of things.
To understand how actions we select
cause construction or destruction of things
or people, wanting to preserve our souls
in health and happiness to thrive in joy,
we study how our Kosmos is designed
by random swirl of atoms to congeal
in structure of flesh that supports our soul,
and thus we may act right for common good
on base of ethic values we create.
Our universe is constructed of atoms,
and we participate in process of life,
performing through our actions good and bad,
born to struggle for small moments of peace
and pleasure when we share succulent love,
then we die and disappear without trace,
for our consciousness glows, a fragile flame,
one short flash in dream of infinite nothing.
We are born, laugh, love, sing, then sleep forever."

Give A Man A Bank

Give A Man A Bank
© Surazeus
2011 12 01

I want to buy a home for my wife and kids
so I go to a big bank built from glass
where the man in a suit gives me a loan
larger than I need at high interest rates.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

I put my faith in the man at the bank
who gives me a mortgage with hidden fees
then bundles it in a credit default swap
and rakes in piles of bucks when I default.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

When large insurance companies and banks
collapsed in ruin from financial fraud
our government bailed them out with tax funds
giving them billions while I still pay loans.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

If I want to build my own shelter home
I should fashion metal into an axe,
chop down strong trees, and build a house from wood
around a hearth I stack from rolling stones.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

I buy insurance for financial support,
to pay high bills when emergency strikes,
but they deny every claim I submit,
citing fine print tangled false with loopholes.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

I want to start a family company
so I write up a simple business plan,
obtaining finance in high interest loans,
but market crashes and I fall bankrupt.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

If I rob a bank they lock me in prison
where I would linger bored for forty years,
but if I rob billions through banking schemes
I get bailouts and sip wine on my yacht.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

Who occupies the lobby of glass banks
demanding thieves in suits must go to prison
and pay for ripping off billions of bucks,
for my police will mace you in your face.
Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank.
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world.

Rise Of Hyperion

Rise Of Hyperion
© Surazeus
2011 06 08

I dream fantastic curves of marble halls 
and weave paradise with stone and grape vine 
muring around fresh bubbling fountain pond 
to tight enclose within hard granite walls 
lush garden of herbs and silk-bloom fruit trees 
that binds our hearts in heaven of our songs 
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

I blow ram horn to call home river nymphs 
who dance through high arching gate of gold bars 
to heap wood round table with basket bowls 
of fruit and nuts and eggs and berries, ripe 
from kissing sun and sparkling eyes of rain, 
then Gaia plays flute carved from dragon bone 
and Kronus flaps cape of black raven wings 
while bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

We feast in timeless sunset on moss mound 
beneath shaded arbour with dropping roof 
of trellis vines and bells and apple blooms 
that swing light in breeze dispensing sweet scent 
to taste juice of sunlight and rain in gifts 
Earth provides from her rich generous heart 
since bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Stumbling from forest mist on signless path 
pale Adonais, dressed in black suit and hat, 
invades secret bower where gods drink nectar, 
blind to joyous dance of flower nymphs, 
to grasp and devour melons and grapes 
as if he had not eaten since time began 
while wandering lost on friendless quest, 
then falls fainting in sleep of dreamless groans 
while Silenus mimics his agony on grass, 
till bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Urania plays haunting melody on bone flute 
of glittering sea waves woven on wind threads 
that shoot rays through his weak enchanted heart, 
sparking soul of slumbering poet aware 
to start up as if with wings on wild hope 
and wander aimless into ancient stone hall 
where Moneta tends eternal flame of truth, 
while Mares stamps gold into shining coins, 
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Climbing thirteen high steps of ziggurat, 
Adonais struggles to ascend pyramid peak 
where Astaria observes motions of stars, 
peering eager through polished crystal eye, 
but grim Moneta robed in vestal shroud 
declares, "If you cannot ascend sacred steps, 
die on that marble where you crawl in pain, 
for your flesh would crumble to bitter dust 
if you never feast on fruit or drink Earth juice, 
though bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Moneta grasps tight his pale trembling hand 
when Adonais achieves highest pinnacle, 
and takes him through towering silent hall 
to shadowed grove of ancient tangled oaks 
where Saturnus lies forlorn on cracked rocks, 
long gray hair curling into sinews of our world, 
and moans wordless despair a thousand years, 
deposed from throne of power by jaunty youth, 
so bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Forlorn divinity grasps shoulders of fair youth 
and groans, "I see her eyes gleaming in your eyes, 
sweet bride who crowned my mighty humble head 
with laurel wreath, appointing me her house guard, 
for her sweet eyes I see reborn in our only son, 
brave but reckless Hyperion, who cast me down, 
and grasped scepter with diamond of hard truth, 
then claimed right to rule over my measured realms, 
so now bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Stepping slow and regal on jagged stones, 
ancient woman with hair silver as moonlight 
resolves from swirling mist in torn black gown, 
and kneels at feet of Saturnus, weeping in sorrow 
as grumbling king caresses her bowed head, 
"My gentle Thea, our son, who tamed wild horse, 
locks gate to heaven, preventing our return, 
though you birthed him and I trained him well 
to defend our people and decide each hard case, 
yet bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Two soul-weary wanderers, without warm home, 
hold hands and walk together toward stone wall, 
followed by Moneta clutching bag of gold coins, 
and heart-broken Adonais, ghost of humanity, 
through whispering woods with grasping claws, 
leaving behind ancient temple of moldering stone 
to climb thousand stairs toward temple of light 
that gleams gold on high rock mountain of hope 
where bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

His grand new palace shimmers cold and bright, 
bastioned with pyramids of flashing gold, 
though shadowed by shape of towering obelisks, 
and glares red as blood through ten thousand courts 
of arches supporting domes over galleries 
while Seraphim tend flames on altar stones 
behind soft linen curtains of Aurorian clouds 
where bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Holding scepter key that opens treasure halls 
where coins are stored, that buy loyalty of men, 
Hyperion laughs delighted as his parents come, 
and spreads arms wide in kind generosity 
of victorious power to offer food and drink, 
inviting aged parents who long had ruled well 
to rest in safe retirement and restore health 
since bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Ancient bearded Saturnus growls annoyed, 
"I forged from stone this heaven of cooperation, 
organizing labor of men to benefit every citizen, 
and long achieved smooth operation of life 
guiding social games of equal work and play, 
but you grasp wealth and give nothing back 
though you should guard welfare of our souls 
while bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Hyperion leaps high and proclaims bold, 
"I am loyal to ideal principles you invented 
of respect for men, and honor to defend truth, 
and justice to punish men who steal and kill, 
represented by political union that I contracted, 
for rules guide actions to create not destroy 
when citizens cooperate for benefit of everyone, 
yet you used principles as reins to control 
believers in ideals who dream lost fantasy, 
for bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

"I separate institutions of government 
from human who gains position of power 
by killing opponents and silencing speech 
of men who dare oppose his program of greed, 
for tyrants are insecure on thrones of bones 
so they use fear and torture to maintain grip 
on wealth that slips away from hungry grasp, 
though bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

"We create our government of honest people, 
by creative people, and for loyal people, 
each new dawn of game with actions and words, 
by treating each man as though he were a king, 
for power is built on hearts of men not stones, 
if bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Young man, wearing sandals and leather kilt, 
leaps from stone and faces bright sun king, 
gripping long sharp sword, then crouches low 
to shout, "At last I find you, pompous Hyperion, 
who think you stand so far above mortal men 
by claiming divine knowledge hidden in code, 
but you are nothing more than bones and blood, 
and you will crumble to dust after your soul 
deserts ship of your flesh and lets you sink 
in womb of black sea under dreamless silence, 
yet bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Grasping broad shoulders of handsome lithe boy, 
Hyperion wrestles him on jagged mountain range, 
like black clouds clashing to generate white flash 
of lightning, and crack egg shell of our universe, 
then cries out in deep voice booming thunder claps, 
"My son Helius, born from secret love forbid, 
when my heart was enchanted by sweet Kalliope, 
your noble soul ripens richer in loving wisdom 
with each spinning turn of our blooming globe 
where bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Bright father and brighter son tumble down, 
and roll laughing in delight, then leap on feet 
and clasp hands to chant, "We rise from death, 
for we are children of ten thousand mothers," 
but faded grandfather with tangled gray hair 
sits with sweet wan Thea by gleaming stream, 
and whispers to her, "I never played with my son, 
yet bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

"Sweet-voiced Kalliope calls for you, my son, 
so skip free on will of your beating heart, 
and breathe deep mysterious spirit of life, 
then listen to her firm instructing words 
to learn magic art of strumming harp strings 
that vibrate unseen spirit of our vast universe, 
so you chant spells of words to articulate 
shape and process of our complex world 
that rings alive taut inner souls of our minds 
so we all sing in harmony of goal for love 
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Forlorn poet Adonais, standing beside old muse, 
whispers to Moneta, "Teach me his mystery 
so vital spirit of joy for life to satisfy hope 
ever glows bright to animate this feeble flesh 
when I meet merry folk on endless road, 
and share gifts of my wealth with everyone, 
for death will shroud us all in silent cloak 
and transport shells of bones to dreary cave, 
so now, today, share ripe feast and sing free, 
since bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne." 

Kalliope, wearing red gown of flaming words, 
places book of blank pages and swan quill 
in hands of pale poet who gasps wordless awe 
at translucent beauty shining from her eyes 
that spiral with vast galaxies of eternal truth, 
then sweet immortal light of reviving faith 
beams from heart of Proserpine to shroud 
his mortal frame in fearful awesome blast, 
so Adonais faints and stares at her bright star 
while bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Adonais falls from heaven for three days, 
and lies wounded in garden of white blooms 
where Fama, stitching shirts with silver needle, 
cradles head of fallen Titan on her bosom, 
caressing his hair and gazing down in his eyes 
to read secrets of his soul written in his book, 
then comforts his mind by whispering love spells 
while his eternal spirit dissolves in rays of light 
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Dance in my heaven of stone and grape vine, 
and drink from waters of my bubbling pond, 
then gather in temple where Moneta tends flame 
to celebrate rise of Hyperion over Chaos 
by grasping reins to guide chariot of state 
when noble father who created social game 
grows weak from devouring winds of time, 
great thundering god reduced to a sad mime, 
when bright Hyperion plays harp on his throne. 

Ginsberg And Whitman At Walmart

Ginsberg And Whitman At Walmart
© Surazeus
2011 04 07

What thoughts I have of you tonight, 
Allen Ginsberg, with your bristling beard 
like Saturn with his curling goat horns, 
for I drive down strip mall among stores 
shimmering bright with lights after dusk 
that glitter on metal shells of zooming cars, 
and look up but I cannot see any moon 
for skies are bright with metropolitan lights. 

In my bored misery of existential faith 
pretending national government of power 
will not be shut down by tea-drinking clowns, 
I turn into vast parking lot outside Walmart 
and walk slow under shimmering purple sky, 
hoping to find civility and justice for all 
packaged for sale in plastic under blue signs. 

Striding through great glass sliding doors 
like arch over a cathedral of a lost religion, 
I see hundreds of people walking long aisles 
pushing carts heaped with clothes, boxed food, 
movie disks, romance novels, music disks, 
cheap furniture, plastic bottles, and brooms 
to decorate hidden homes of their sitcom lives. 

I see Homer playing on an electric piano, 
and Ovid reading computer magazines, 
and Dante trying out a new white Eye Pad, 
and Shakespeare playing a war video game, 
and Milton lacing up a pair of hiking boots, 
and Dali looking into heart of a chicken egg, 
and Bob Dylan buying bikes for his kids. 

I see you, Allen Ginsberg, childless prophet 
of madness and grinning, lonely, old grubber 
poking among meats and drawing smiley faces 
in frost on glass of open refrigerator doors 
as you eye grocery boys asking each one, 
are you my angel come with a bright sword 
for I am King of May wearing a plastic crown 
thrusting pen spears at dragons of oil-rigs. 

Allen Ginsberg at Walmart stops at a table 
with romance novels and programming books, 
but covers them with books about Buddhism 
and sexual Tantra and spiritual enlightenment 
and star messengers and pictures of Green Tara 
who floats meditating over lotus of sweet truth, 
and he leans on his cane with a painful smile 
and beckons I approach like Saturn in his cave. 

I open my black book splattered with drops 
of rain smearing words of poems I wrote, 
and he takes fountain pen forged by Vulcan 
dipped in black blood of generals and tyrants, 
and scribbles ten thousand thought spells, 
and draws cartoons of Moses on Mount Sinai 
meditating with Buddha under light of Jehovah 
who glides over Earth in a silver flying saucer. 

Where are you going, mad Allen Ginsberg, 
with beard bristling full of spiders and snakes, 
because doors of Walmart stay open all night, 
so we could find Walt Whitman in vast parking lot 
trying to open door of his rusty pickup truck, 
and we can drive together along Chattahoochee 
and sit on river shore passing around a pipe, 
and sing mantra spells from our holy books. 

Will we laugh, dreaming of lost America of love, 
as we race howling over bridge of tomorrow 
past shining automobiles on superfast highways 
home to apartment complex by a shopping mall 
with giant flat-screen televisions and computers 
that weave ten million minds in supersoul cyberspace, 
liking pictures and thoughts in face-book world, 
and twittering endless stream of conscious hopes. 

Dear father greybeard, mad old courage-teacher, 
what America thriving on ambition and greed 
and ruling Earth with roaring bull of Wall Street, 
did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry 
and you got out on smoking bank of Zarathi, 
and stood watching boat disappear in mist 
on black water of Lethe in forest of missiles 
that spread steel claws over great cities of glass. 

I saw you on stage in Seattle, ageless jester 
shouting into a microphone, whom bomb 
we bomb you, as audience of college students, 
aging hippies in suits, and thought-painters 
listened in polite silence under golden lights, 
then clapped with deference for prophecies, 
glad you did not howl and strip down naked 
as they drove to Star Bucks for a cappuccino. 

I wandered alone Seattle to Denver to Miami, 
sitting under bridges at midnight writing poems 
and listening to terror from quiet car engines 
that hummed on highways toward my paradise, 
and walked wearing backpack full of words 
to play stringless guitar by water fountains 
while tourists threw dollar bills in my fedora. 

I see you no more in Walmart or Manhattan, 
mad Allen Ginsberg, prophet of secret truth, 
so are you walking with Walt Whitman now, 
holding hands with Dionysus in Elysian fields, 
dancing and laughing with Orpheus and Lorca 
where sun always shimmers on distant hills 
and apples fall ripe into your generous hands?