Sit and Listen

Is it my language becoming unfolded
in the high of my days,
that this jungle lush shall gently
tear my mind to an ocean wave
rippling in the bongs of time?

Does the existence of time imply
anything more than that I am in a movie,
the speed of the reel, the zeigest of what time is.
Death the rewind, birth the credits and DNA?

All middle-aged white men should be dead.
That is the cruix of the mid-life crisis.
It is the adharmic-bumb-waves of Bush and Cheney,
Chasing this great sinking nation into the shadows of oil,
The future of man's dream, man's movie.

Does the existence of space imply life,
Or just the energy of matter,
Nothing more than a dream of nirvana,
Do I sit and listen,
In this sinking titanic world.