An excerpt from ‘Carbon Expendable and the Alpha Mega Writs’.  First composed in 1967.

As we now find ourselves in a foreseen, but unprecedented, world of violence and inhumanity, this verse (written so long ago) seems most relevant.

Carbon Expendable and the Alpha Mega Writs

As life is quickened with sweet earth
And stands erect with senses,
Perceiving, with sight, the galaxies,
It is not for permanence nor restraint.

Yet, the finite moment each is lived
Has ambition long defined,
Complex, sublime, beyond the voice,
Whispering our course, far and faint.

And the past reveals the present
Not endowed with compliment,
As though life has come
From diverse regions of the universe.

Most inept.  All conceit.  Some far too gentle
For the ways of human kind,
Each resolved to repeat
The past, as though a curse.

Of what we truly are
No human dares to face.
Of what we have been
No human has the honesty.

Raw and simple is our fate
Garnished with self-flattery,
Yet, how brief the time for our race
On the scene of mortal history.

It is not in-vain to be eccentric,
Aloof with sight too defined.
Such a voice is the greatest worth,
Totally defendable……….

Beyond the frivolity, atrocity of man,
In pursuit of thoughts and ways
That make us much more
Than carbon expendable.

To this eccentricity there is due cause
Which shall be confessed.
Yet, no more than any other day.
No more than any other war.

Confessed not in hopes of repeal.
It does not lessen or console.
Only to declare in all redundancy
Those things in life we adore…..

Those thoughts of our platitudes,
Reminders of what we would like to be,
Those visions we would like to see
expressed beyond our mediocrity…..

when, in fact, all our yesterdays
are mundane as our today’s.
The smells of birth and death
Are of the same flesh…of the same
Joy and tragedy.

The sweet smell of a baby’s neck,
The aroma of honeysuckle at dawn,
A farm boys’ remembrance
Of musky, marvelous scents of old barns.

It is the adventure of new plowed sod
With visions of tall corn or white cascades of cotton;
The intimate joy of fireside evenings
Listening to elders spin their yarns.

And what is more beautiful
Than a young woman’s breast
Being suckled by her infant child,
Her humming lullaby, the rockers’ creek.

There is no greater power
Than fathers and sons in the field,
No greater majesty than a moment
Atop an evenings’ mountain peak.

Yet, the shadows lie within us
Making night of a bright day.
And the night is so enduring
We have become nocturnal spirits.

We have lost our souls’ eye,
Aflight with blind senses,
Like bats,
And expect to persevere it.

Our ignorance, our religions, keep us blind,
Make us bigots,
Unholy savages of history’s
Greatest inhumanities;

And we search for peace
Afraid of finding it
Like billions of psychotics
Coping with our innate insanities.

This is our truth
In spite of all our platitudes;
And, we will be no more
Than the least among us.

We are a common soul
And the screams of terror
From all our ruthless yesterdays
Haunt the dreams among us.

Perhaps the season comes
When we shed our shadows
To emerge a creature
More commendable;

But, for this, our moment,
The war within and among us
Is simply one to make us
No more than ‘Carbon Expendable’.

Clay (The Universal Infidel)

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