Perhaps

Suffering is not a matter of desire and inadequate gratification,
it’s a matter of inadequate desire.
I said that.

I dream and long
for a possible planet
possible but then
tomorrow becomes today
and today is exactly the same.

Oh maybe there’s new hats, new shoes, new toys, new presidents
but the color is the same:
the color of business
the culture of business culture
decays into a chilling beige
a killing beige
culture is business is culture is business is culture is business is culture is business.
Nothing else is permitted
still . . .

I dream of exploding apocalyptic myths before
they explode us and we die for Christ’s sin.
I dream of an end to dynasties, bloodlines, clans.
I dream and long for a possible polymorphous, polyrhythmic citizenry
capable of understanding each other’s needs I dream
psychic transformations burn up lethargic surrender
ignite physical, emotional, intellectual becoming
not, I dream, impossibly drowned
in cultural phobias and cynical withdrawals billed as adulthood.

Dedication to more pleasurable communities
it’s so fucking possible.
Voluntary evolution.

It’s the old thing in us succumbs us to the business thing
the old thing in us is afraid.
Business isn’t greed, it’s fear.
The logical conclusion of deep, dug in fear
hunger, cold, pain that lingers from our Neolithic tears
fear of having no power to live through the night.

Wake up.
Because it really is insanity
business
it really is insane
business
it really is a psychotic kind of busyness
this business breaking apart the planet
eating eyes ears tongues out of the skulls of busy humans bound in business.
The brotherhood of business, oh baby.

The copulating corporations burying life in business.
The phone that holds the hand that serves the brain that wants the coffee.
The mouth that drives the yes while gazing into the computer.
The obedience that shapes the life that hacks the morning into billable hours.

Unkindled little humans doing business at millions of terminals
stacked in dead beige cubicles on floors and floors of office cages
while outside the skyscrapers flowers die
birds fall from trees into poisoned rivers
a century of bulldozers of manic little humans minding their own business.
It’s out of control this business.

Oh baby.
I wish I knew what comes next.
I wish my little species could be there now

when    we finally make it out the hunter/gatherer phase
when    we finally make it through the desperate hunger strategies
when    we’re sick of business as usual as usual business as business as usual
           as usual business as business as usual as usual business as business
           as usual

as usual

asusual la la

asusual la la

asusual la la

               perhaps.

.