The spillover, the untenable surfeit of the mundane and the mediocre,
Fuels change, welcomed
Where joy isn't, in the mundane mediocre.
Though Joy did not look to itself, for itself,
Until it was shown the way.
We are ruled, governed, and controlled every day.
Obey! We command ourselves.
Personal rebellion moves, pen brandished as a sword,
"Fuck you!" initiates the coup d'état conjured for public failure,
Which is consumed.
"This is how it is; don't ask why."
But my conversations with God require questions
As do mine with nature, and with you.
Why on earth?
Must it stay this way?
What the fuck are you thinking, Goo (Good Omnipotent Omniscience)?
I've heard you like a joke, so why are you not called Goo?
That's outside the narrative, beyond the pale, not the point.
STFU.
It was written.
It IS written.
Consider that use of the present tense, and wonder why we're stuck.
My personal satisfaction is to be enjoyed privately, else enjoy none at all.
Evolved, we say. Tamed, I say.
Curiosity, cursed into silent acceptance is not a blessing.
Not a blessing, but an agenda.
My mind nags that this evolution is fake, just another story.
There will be no coup d’état today, nor tomorrow, nor the next.
Truth is not favored in personal uprisings and
Truth is quashed when threatening.
Vaccine efficacy, the existence of climate-change, wildlife preservation,
Spending for education, healthcare, flowers for your heart's love,
Tolerance, sharing, caring
All disputed, neglected, or ignored. Why?
Truth has become a common word, the concept malleable, dishonored.
Why?
Facts, on which truths depend, are whatever we say they are.
Because we said so, and we are wrong for having said it.
Retell the story of the fact:
A fact is not simply whatever we say it is, but
Always testable, proveable, discernable, or decipherable.
Rebellion, now a check on my bucket-list!
A second rite of passage, a second sexual awakening
Not yet consummated.
Slow down! Words slung toward a moving 52.
Hurry up! Words slung to instill fear in a man recently neverlacking.
The tempo of life changes when the last breath is closer than the first.
Slow enough to follow the guide on a sacred path,
Unknown, unchosen, yet
Carefree, not careless,
Careful to show that I do know now what I wish I had known then,
Proving knowledge into fact.
Why else bother growing older?
======
I refuse your story, no matter how artfully woven the tale,
No matter the picture painted
(As though I would not notice).
I believe every word, and why not? You do.
Yet, like times before,
I quitclaim the story as not my own.
Your mind is not blind, I will say until true,
See it, and save a thousand words.
Insanely joyful scoops of life await
In my story,
Spilling over, spreading, uncontained,
Sticky traction, sugary gravity.
This story, not a trap,
Contaminating frowns and punishments and stupid mistakes and things declared done midway,
Melancholia darkens, dents, my skin my mind my heart!
Spillover pools for the soaking,
Wretched sameness, water dehydrated making weary bones, wrinkled skin ... Memories that once seemed better than now.
The pool of melancholy; useless memories, useless weight
Best disappeared, bottomed-out.
Steer clear of melancholy that runs deep
Into the world, at the end of same-same days
When mundane and mediocre spill over,
Fueling change,
Having failed to find joy.
How would Joy know to look to itself, for itself,
Unless shown the way?
Become as tall as me, and ride this ride
Whatever your height, enough trips around the sun, and you'll see -
Untenable, the surfeit of the mundane, the mediocre.
It is a spillover meant to fuel change -
A renewable joy blind minds cannot see,
But many blind men never miss,
Because the excess, it ran free.
