Matter's Time

And not to think this is a dark age,
And not to know the river's silly exactings,
And not to be ponderous of the self,
Floating, floating, floating,
This time is:
Apocalyptic
(Like most others)
Fears of the ceaseless organism
Changing the bells of value,
Strands of DNA slithering in anticipation,
The mirror-like pools of frog-time,
Lilly sighs into the afternoons, swimming,
Wanting to fly.

Ironic that we answer questions
Yet remain idiots in their askings.
Oh so splendid, the structure of conversation,
The muddy movements in isolation,
Canyons of ego-centric pack-dogs,
Smiling in the green violence of money
Those old and sneaky illusions.
Not that love isn't,
But we've been tricked,
That glamor is objective,
The rare TV music of plush-rugged dungeons,
Fooling even the Buddha,
Without fooling him.

Our simple past,
Deep in the soup of billinuim,
Pasteurized bliss rains washing the air into power,
The ancient earth seas of giant-mooned summers;
Our soft gliding flesh is of nurtured dirt,
Molded in the wisdom of dead galaxies,
Flung into the frozen vacuum of forever,
Into this vast networking of dreams,
Biological beards bursting as forests,
From the moist belly of earth and then:
Us, roaring like a train through matter's time.