Checking (It) Out

On the ledge
of not being
listened to
is the vast horizon
of misunderstanding.

Up
into the sky
is the undeveloped expanse,
the nuance
of the soul's critique,
the landless infinity
of subtly,
and the soundless quagmire.

Below,
in the chasms
and landscape,
the yearning
for knowledge,
the kind that builds
the righteousness
of the learned,
the forceful nature
of the traditions
of mankind,

those rationalizations
that turn spiritual truths
into commodities
to be sold
on the open market
and traded
for minds enslaved,
the rocky shores
of abandonment,

the answers
that require suspension
of any sense
of awareness
that who we are
is a wisp of smoke
in the pinwheel
of the cosmos.

And here,
terra firma,
the heartland
of consciousness in training
and the wild and playful killing field,
there are those ghosts,
ratchet and hammer,
bolt and nail,
the clasping heart attacks
and the stressed
and carcinogenic eyes,
those lips
that speak the brutal truth,

and it is here
that we learn
that in all the world,
the truth was never the objective,
merely brute force
and brute strength
forming a brutal regime
of cruel mouths
from which pour
the couture of sadness,
the contoured thought,
obligatory and maddened,

the elbow in the ribs
that must have its way,
and do it with
that knowing smile that asks,
"There now, isn't that better?"

runningturtle87