Incorruptible heart —
It wouldn’t be hard to find one —
There’s so many.
Just look around you and universes will abound.
Sentient, breathing, living microcosms,
Piloted by God knows what, human souls:
Masters and commanders of self charting maps:
Marine fishes of all different colors and sizes,
Each with a property claim extant in the ocean.
But despite such globalized hankerings for
tangibility and nothing less,
Despite the willful caresses of an anemone’s
Tentacles on my slime ridden scales,
Each fish is a Nemo in pursuit of finding zen.
The american dream, you see,
Is not a white picket fence,
Nor is it the intellectual property of any sole nation,
But it’s the whole effing macrocosm of everything
That’s ever been had and will be,
Concentrated to become infused within each Individual:
A wholesale pack of mass produced oneness,
Available to all for an infinite time
and symbolic dollars in exchange.
Surely there is purity despite every intermix,
Somewhere in the cascade of harmonic flames,
So raise a glass for the souls who lost,
(For they made it possible for you to be here,)
And pour out a sip for their wasted spinach.
Feed Mother Earth with your booze of yesteryear.
May their ghosts one day find peace
in the thriving wasteland that’s abreast them.