In The Beginning…

Poet Philosopher King Two Birds

Words may grow flowers, among many things…

 

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
~ John 1:1

“Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.”
~ Rumi

“… Every meaningful activity, event, or life process that occurs at a particular place leaves behind a vibrational residue in the earth… a 'seed power' deposited in the earth…and its unseen vibrations echo the events that brought that place into creation.”
~ Robert Lawlor, “Voices of the First Day: Awakening in the Aboriginal Dreamtime” (1991)

 

God-word

 

In the beginning
God made two brothers.
He gave one a God-word

but not the other.
You see,
God was curious.

Would Cain,
mind come to life
by synaptic fire forged flesh,

discover God-sound
and join the rest?
Or would his flesh and mind

wither into dark night?
Ashes remelt into ashes,
thoughts drift away

with no anchor in time?
How would Cain know
he missed something in tow?

Or did he already suspect it?
Perhaps
this was God’s mercy.

Perhaps this was
the original bite.
And Cain to his name

passed on the claim
to Mother, Grandmother—
now infamous for trying to protect him.

Is this how the story really goes?
We are all
trying to remember.

Silly humans,
trying is for people who never
actually DO, says Yoda.

Stop trying,
whispers God,
surrender.

Ask better questions.
Did a snake in the grass
act out of whack?

Sure, why not.
Snakes are wickety
whacky.

Fables, on the other hand, live in
grandeurous cities upon
cotton candied scapes of land.

Their remains remain
mounted atop bricked mantles
in houses with high walls

within which also
sleeps
the long-lashed trick.

Peek-aboo!
It knows you’re watching.
Don’t you see it?

It sees you.
Achoo!
God bless you!

Why?
Why do we need God
to bless our inner child?

Must we seek permission
from another to be?
To be blessed?

What are we even asking
permission for?
To breathe?

To open a door
that has not been
opened before?

The ‘forbidden’ door?
Who forbade it?
Raise your hand.

In this person lives a
God-wordless wo/man,
a mind repeating

only things
he/she has already heard
without listening,

without knowing what
to listen for.
For God-songs do not

originate in God-mindless bobble heads
or dwell in luxury caves
illuminated by T.V. screens and laser beams.

The God-blinding
24-7 designer shades of grey
blur together not only

weekends with weekdays,
but sights with sounds
backgrounds with foyers.

Within every layer of grey,
smudged and smeared
and dormant they lay,

those labels of authentic craftsmanship,
those tiny, elusive
craftsman specific little seams—

What, GRATITUDE?
screams the Ingrate,
what a silly thing to bring up.

To be, or not to be (un)(grateful),
questions Hamlet,
pondering his next question.

The rest of us simply blunder,
fumble, stumble and snark
in the dark looking for spark plugs

every morning
to get our batteries going.
The coffee, the energy drink, the jolt of...

Something else perhaps?
Maybe something that flowers?
Or just a cold shower.

Some of us keep it simple.
Some live to give.
Some came to wander,

others completely forgot the possibility
of real change,
(it begins from within, grins The Unknown)

yet remember to remain patient while
awaiting daily home delivery of
deliverance driven in by

rotating roadside assistance.
Yup, just keep your chin up kid, but not too high,
says the self-depreciating social conditioning

still imprinted in the back of our minds.
Better yet, see if you can strike gold on Google,
just don't hold your breath.

After all, it's a primordial sea of
pre-paid entanglements, don't cha know.
Pardon me, excuses the Web Crawler,

casually mapping out where we spend our dough.
Ah, I get it, says the Archaic.
World-wide-web domination via domain registrations

gratuitously orchestrated by leaving a big tip
for the privilege of being delivered to be discovered
in Holy-word-vile!

Oh, the wonderful world of words,
vetting always to be heard
above the herd.

Felt like photon beams deep in the heart
or pocketbook,
whichever the cleverer.

Tip/gratuity/marketing ingenuity,
with every visible impression a concession
is expected in token or via bank teller or any payment channel, for that matter.

Mommy, are gratitude and gratuity the same?
Hush child! The lasting LTV (lifetime value) measure
is always COMPASSION, chides Mommy, busily watching The Passion.

Only in gratitude dwells
the imprint of unheard God-verb,
forebodes the YouTube-new-age-angelist.

Rhett Butler, raising his hand,
My dear, no one in this town
knows what you're talking about.

Candy Cain children
have heard stories about the concept, true.
We’ve all listened to poorly rhymed fables

memorializing the morals behind it too.
Some even observe a dewy sentiment
or two on the cheeks of crocodiles and daffodils.

Crocodile tears aren’t real, chastises a Nonpartisan Bystander,
but does the sentiment genuinely register
at least some of the time?

Can the God-wordless remember a sound
never heard in original form in his/her own God-dome,
that not once emerged prior from his/her own mind?

How many cycles might it take
for a God-wordless child to wake
and breathe God-song with his/her own God-tongue?

Romanticism—
sit down,
we broke up last century.

Fanaticism—
are you a fan of something,
or its guardian phantom

scaring all the crows away
from understanding
what you are so bent on saying?

Okay.
Speak up, then.
We’re listening.

We love great ideas here.
Deliver your gospel.
All are welcome to cheer and/or sneer.

Just remember to
use YOUR words,
not ones you’ve heard somewhere else before.

What’s that?
How does one tell the difference?
Well, at first God-words

make no sense.
Because no one else has spoken them before
or understands their syntax.

For example:
The more fantastic phantom fanatics
the fredder with a slice of cheddar.

What the fuh—?
Yup. Make it cheese saucy.
No one is here to be your bossy.

That was so in the era
of consumerism
(last year),

when Mr/s. Serial Customer
looked at him/herself in the mirror
and said, when did I buy this outfit?

Most likely while you were asleep,
joshes the Late Night Telemarketer.
Shhh, the others are listening,

whispers the Hip-Hop-Hamster/T.V.Host/Anchor.
Let’s not speak too loud lest we
snooze them with the primordial sound

of our flavorless conversations,
pre-packaged and fluffed in the semblance of water chestnuts,
hummed through our whiskers

in misleading cynicisms
and made up non-syllabisms,
nomenclated across the world via

the world-wide-web
using mathematical algorithms
delivered in deaf defying feats

by global vloggers and
recreational joggers
dodging trolls in the oncoming traffic

with a flick of the wrist and a click,
when needed, to block/report,
or deliver in a heavily politicized/overly broadcasted retort,

occasionally using the common denominator of
a universally understood hand gesture.
The finger?

Tweets a Rubber Necker
driving slowly around
the bottleneck of someone else’s jam.

Like, um, whatever.
We don’t do that anymore,
says the offended Fake Newscaster.

That was so 2004, pre-history.
When everyone still rented DVDs
and lived in rent-controlled caves,

i.e. their high-rise apartments
boxed in a life experienced
through stores with departments

while paying a special tax for this privilege.
Funny old adage,
privilege.

Introductions, openings, galas,
invitations galore, for the privilege of
feeding the over-privileged more,

who still keep tightly locked
a barely discernible little door in their idea homes,
blocking the flow of ideas, none-the-less.

Imagination?
Innocently asks a Child.
Not all who roam were born to fly,

scoffs Oscar Wilde.
God-word only goes so far as
the mind is open to it.

From designer red-ribboned vests/corsets
to shiny patented self-driving cars
and pink Barbie Dreamhouse Corvettes,

the entire supply chain entourage
participates in the grand production
known to mankind during the era of pre-TV as

The Industry of slinging bibles in bars.
Come one, come all, step inside
the entrepreneurial mindset, promotes Academia.

In here you will find, unfiltered, unrefined,
perched upon executive stools,
fabled legendary speakers and tools

to trade options for the value of drool.
Loose morals and pockets
hemorrhaging hundred dollar bills,

endless excitement seekers will un-awe and un-thrill
you to death with unrealistic expectations and
cashed out family vacations on the ranch.

Hey there, hi there, ho there
fable-ous story-telling marketer friends!
Tell us your all too familiar tales of

how to spend our money again.
Wait, just kidding,
we already learned that on late night telly.

But really,
where did you learn all those cool jingles?
They're catchy.

Do they sling ‘em to every privileged dingo
with a popup diploma granted the privilege of
newly purchased letters behind his/her name—

BS/BA/MS/MA/JD/MBA...
Shhh, everyone is watching now,
and they are on the brink of waking up.

Let’s not talk about anything important
lest we reveal the secret that
we have been subliminally debunked.

Now, now, get a grip, says Donald Trump.
I certainly haven't sublimed or out-thunk any of you.
And if I did, you participated.

Don’t you have God-word
in that diploma somewhere?
That’s the only reason I hired you.

Have your eyes stopped working too?
I am not the one who hears.
I'm simply here to talk through my assess,

those horse-donkey-hybrid politicians/fake news musicians.
I told you all about it in
Seasons 1-14 of The Apprentice.

You guys are the ones who then elected me President.
All I had to do was throw money at it.
Your money, by the way.

So speak up and give me another good idea,
or you know where to pick up your sack and go.
If not, just read my Twitter feed.

Jeez,
how many twits does it take to
make you people understand?!

They're called "tweets", Mr. Trump,
says the President's invisible
right hand (fake) newsstand.

I said Tweets,
you Twit!
Yes, sir.

Now go open that door
someone keeps knocking on,
Mr. Trump continues,

I’m tired of this Bull Market business.
I prefer for tax payers to bear and market
that privilege.

If it were up to me,
if I were—hypothetically, let’s say—elected President
Mr. Trump pauses to chuckle,

I would allow you all the privilege of continuing to broadcast
misleading propaganda and nonsense,
so that I may continue feeding.

How many times must we do this dance
before everyone realizes
I’m not the one sneezing money all over the place?

I'm here to suck it up.
And I certainly didn’t cause your bleeding.
You did.

This is the merciful path God gave me.
I’m not the one who volunteered my blood on
that cross,

Jesus.
Grumbles Mr. Trump
on his way work/the golf resort.

How many times should we analyze this story?
asks Channel 9 in Morning Glory (Hint: The Fake News),
it all sounds the same and it’s beyond boring.

Shhh, you might wake the others.
Wait, nevermind,
they’re still snoring.

So what’s up?
How may we honor this privilege
of the gratuity of your time here in our idea village?

Oh yeah, are you still waiting to
hear the end of the story about the
allegorical snake who

turned into a WWF performer
and renamed himself to Jake?
Or do you prefer the version with the

damseled female who tripped on
a glass slipper and fainted in the garden
after eating a pumpkin cookie with glucose and lard in it?

Funny stories. All of them.
Preposterous.
From time to time, even monstrous.

Words become so zealously arduous
that often they grow to believe
they are a real girl/boy, not just the winner's her/history.

Well are they? Do snakes slither, or don’t they?
Is there a starting point to this
discussion that begins with reasonable assumptions?

After giving birth to an idea,
do we remember to give it permission to graze
and find some nourishment in its haze

so that it doesn’t remain half-baked?
Or is the cake supposed to eat itself too?
Another old adage—

this one purporting to denounce privilege
to those who were shrugged off
for not having bread and told to go eat cake,

but then taught in school that
having a cake and eating it
is a thing called greed.

Take heed,
thou commercial bypassing sinners!
exclaims the Advertising Company Executive

whose job may be endangered if
George R.R. Martin’s HBO NOW-TO-GO
partners don’t quickly come up with

some new ways to solicit
social media engagement of its mass audiences
and cover the growing costs of Craft Services.

Does this make sense to any of us?
It does to me, says the Baker,
readily armed with sugar and a nutmeg shaker.

From your lips, straight to your hips,
Z-snaps the Spin Cycle Instructor.
Huh? It’s just cake, yawns the Teenager with lightning speed metabolism.

Bring it over! gurgles the Brand Name Tupperware Container.
Yes, every last crumb, chimes the Frugal Geezer
squatting in our collective subconscious freezer.

Oh, the gumption of these Idea Wizards!
Who do they think they are, culinary word-pop artists
here to peddle fable-ously phantasmic smart-isms?

Don't these God-given God-tongues
have anything else to get paid for other than
fashioning designer words into flashflood conceptual epidemics?

Yeah, sure, but don’t worry kids,
most of them are just fads, shrugs Ivanka's Dad,
non-moved by his fake morning newspaper/Presidential debriefing.

God-words weren’t born bad,
coos Jessica Rabbit,
they were just made to draw blood that way.

In the beginning was God-word,
and only God-minded individuals
participated in declaring/marketing

to the idea river drinkers
what was kosher to tinker with,
occasionally adding in new flavors—

whatever seasoning was reasonable
or simply in season.
Then Andy Warhol claimed his way,

serving hors d'oeuvres and Diet Cokes
laughing all the way home from
the privileged grand openings of his smoking gun

joke/prophesy that every person,
God-word-and-non-word alike,
would claim his/her own 15 minutes of nameless fame.

Hooray. Are we there yet?
Yes dahling, that already happened yesterday.
It was fable-ous.

Oh! How fanciful, wonderful, ever so thrilling,
dream life fulfilling,
drinking water distilling—

these God-word wonders of the world!
Created to plunder and bring justice and liberty
to all privileges awaiting the privilege of being repaid!

Huh? What? Wait, I thought I was getting laid.
Who is this? asks Mr. Penthouse of Privilege,
just waking from his nap.

I don't know, it’s for you sir, stirs
a nasally Receptionist
on her way out the door.

Where are you going?
snaps the impatient chap.
Oh bother, who on earth could it be?

Mr. Privilege pours himself a drink,
fondly thinking about
the birds from the bar.

My word, I say,
I've never had one call on me
in the middle of the day...

Knock, knock!
Sexily hums a set of well-weathered knuckles
from the other side.

Oh, the things these privileged fables were taught to do!
Visit your neighbors
then knock on your door too!

Hello... Mr. Penthouse freezes.
Oh barnacles, not you.
Yes, 'tis I!

Grins the stunning Debt Collector, teeth wide.
May I come in?
Screen goes blank with technical difficulty cueing a commercial bank break.

Dirty little word, debt.
People tend to prefer the more
privileged term marketers refer to as business sense.

Semantical mnemonics with outrageous interest rates,
croaks the Compulsive Shopper
glazing over his/her monthly bill.

At least this leash comes with a view,
swivels the Banking Executive,
just as indebted as you and I.

Now, now, no need for any of us to cry.
Debt too shall pass gas.
Ha, ha, glees Tweedledee, long overdue on a payment or two.

It's at least a teensy bit funny—
these privileged things our privileges do (for others).
Live-birthed fortunes given away to the fortunate,

midwifed by God-word impregnators of
"how, where, when, and what" to do with that money—
sweet money—and a teaspoon of honey

stirred up by a cup of half-full ideas.
Wait, this isn't the Good Life movie I paid for,
gripes the Good Life Theater Frequenter.

Take TWO, mic, cue!
Let's try a different set of clues,
perhaps you missed the punchline?

Cheers up!
The joke's on you!
(and of course, all of us too)

Now where's that bartender
who knows all about the programming for
The Good Life of After 9-5?

Sure, sure, just one thing,
ask the Bright Idea.
How much does this privilege cost again?

Check your monthly statement, bro.
It's somewhere around the price of
a Ballpark Hot Dog Party

where God-word peddlers of present,
future, and long ago have left out
a disclosure or four.

They called it:
A pre-paid steal of a deal.
At least this explains why so many

Good Lifers still refuse to open the knocking door.
But wasn’t the Good Life invented to
protect Good Lifers from the

Good Life undertow?
Maybe there was some kind of a
misunderstanding long ago?

Don’t look at me,
shrugs the God-wordless Transcriber,
we ran out of ink and went out for drinks.

Let’s pause for a minute and think about this...
It is entirely possible that God-words,
previously only spoken,

could have been misdocumented
by someone who was tone deaf?
A modern day auto-text mishap, perhaps?

Mangled exclamations jumbled with
unintended textlations?
And now with all these emojis too!?!

Oops, I meant to send the smiley,
not the one with the tattoo.
How did that snake get in the mix?

And why is that chick emioji blushing?
Shhh, it’s a secret,
smirks Shigetaka Kurita.

Chicky plus snakey equals smiley! 😉
He he! You get it.
Oh, mercy, mercy emoji.

In the beginning was the Word.
And the Word was God,
and the Word was with God...

Then the end of the world occurred in 1999,
as predicted by Science Fictionists,
with the birth of the non-God-word, Emoji-san!

Not spoken but seen.
Fun for all ages,
from grownups to teens,

especially when conveying
obscene jokes by smiley Pokémon Froakie,
among other things,

for example, like rainbows and peace doves,
multi-colored hearts, snowmen with gloves,
flowers with kung-food sticks.

In Norway, they even have headbanger figs.
Smiley faces, fluffy animals, world flags,
lipsticks and handbags and a lone diamond ring

to remind your single girlfriends to keep on dreaming.
This wasn’t the intended part of the game.
It just tends to happen.

In the end/beginning,
once known by our Grandparents' generation as
the speaking times,

when people visited each others' homes
to laugh and smile together,
you know—in person—

And were greeted in like kind,
with wide cheeks and cartoon-sized open mouthed grins,
not to mention the occasional batch of fresh baked cookies.

Cookie? Is it really YOU?
Telecommunicates the Fuzzy Blue Ray Alien
on the other side of the hand box in a YouTube video.

I can't hear you,
responds Cookie with a silent question/
question mark/"?"/emoji.

All I see is a tiny
Rainbow on my screen 🌈
and a Bamboo Tree🎍

And—is that a Panda 🐼 or a Unicorn? 🦄
Your moving pictures are talking more than
your God-given God-word.

Is this another folkloric fable TV show?
No Brony, we’re just having fun in the emoji stable.
Call it fancy Steve Jobs word fancying

mixed with unspoken God-word
now heard only through mime
and understood by nein.

Okay, we digress.
Come one, come all emoji brothers and sisters,
remember to bring your Human Avatars too.

See if your Programmer
encoded God-word instructions
or at least a merciful Zoo Animal snort or two

to remind everyone to
chew God-words and flavor them
with God-sound as they sip on their emoji stew.

Welcome home Little Mustard Yellow!
Squeezes the Emoji Ketchup Bottle.
So glad you stopped by to say he-y-ellow.

Oh, won't you stay for a while?
Or better yet, f(l)avor me with a line or two?
Go ahead, Ahi Poké that tuna salad/

Hawaiian luau emoji pig,
perhaps he'll squeal out a God-rhyme.
If Siri can do it,

Trump should turn out alright.
Right?
If not, we can always distract him

with a worldwide emoji infestation and
create a sensation that will tickle the
God-mind that crawled up inside of him—

Ya'll remember, at the 2011 Obama roast—

Fashioning a take-it-or-leave-it,
pre-packaged puppet-masterless
politician who trumpeted into and trumped a distempered system

to remind the Red, White, and Blue
U.S.S. Donner and Dasher and
political Blitzkrieg

what the Statute of Liberty was
originally imported to 'Merica to do:
Stand proud and be quiet.

Be seen, like all good emoji, not heard.
Represent the Voiceless
and homeless refugees (of 1773)

who came to this God-soil to be fostered
under the care of the God-wordless.
Wait, what?

That's not what the
Boston Tea Party threw fragrant leaves into the harbors for.
Or was it, smirks the "?" emoji.

Aye, will you speak a little louder,
Says not the silent, deaf, and buried
Federalist papers, hard of hearing

slapped silly by multiple centuries of red herring ideas
positioned by Idea Wizards of world franchises
to facilitate the grandest Society of the Spectacle

never invented, yet magically accepted into fact.
American waste has not, does not,
and wants not to stank.

Yeah, that's a good one,
winks Guy Debord,
they sure took that one to the bank.

Anyone ready for
a new economic think-tank?
The current one still hasn't returned from it's amnesic emoji-con writing conventions.

🤖🦄🌈🍟 🗽🍭 🍉🎃🐼 🐸 💖 🗣👻🐨🌻 😇🌞 💋😎 👽🎤🎬


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