Devolution's Cliche Niche 


There are some who have evolved to a moot point,
Not allowing opportunity for any disappoint.
Confirmed in their biases, basking in affirmation,
Via like views constantly reinforcing their foundation.
Stuck in a safe place called cliché niche.

Never allowing challenge by a different view,
Illusion of knowing all, because on their island- they do.
Protected from "predators" of a different perspective force,
Thus avoiding growth of spirit and mind through discourse.
Quite snug on an innocent isle of cliché niche.

Protected in their safe ecosystem of like thinking,
A dead-end branch devoid of further linking.
Never mixing, always Red with Red and Blue with Blue,
Missing the joy of purple and with nary a clue.
Spirit frozen in evolution of their cliché niche.

Some understand the uncomfortable value of strife,
Which can prove to be a dominant catalyst of life.
Deliberately striving to go out on the proverbial limb,
Gambling on transcendence and following risky whim.
Growing stronger by exploring beyond the cliché niche.

Joyfully embracing thoughts from opposing belief,
Morphing through the confining shell with relief.
Blessed souls find different new friends and mates,
Opposing views are symbiotic partners to crash the gates,
The securely bastioned doors out of cliché niche.

Remember to revel, siege the seize,
Find new friends, transform to transcend.
Defeating devolution's cliché niche.




Originally posted on Sep 17th, 2006

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As I sit here in this old school of Mesilla,

Worn and warm adobe embraces my spirit,

Making me aware and sensing deeper meaning,

Perhaps warmed more by a chile-rita,

A phantasm concoction of blackberry sauce,

Infused with habernero  and mixed with

Triple sec, fresh lime juice, Cointreau and 1800 tequila.

The classic rellenos arrive at my tippy mesa,

Clinking of glass, clattering of plates,

Chattering of happy voices, smattering of two tongues,

Feeling comfortable in this restaurant vila,

Steeped in tradition and alive in history,

La Posta's electric and inviting atmosphere,

Hanging on my soul a contentment ristra.

Then came the shudder and a very soft shake,

That made the old table sway gently,

Adding some more stir to the chile-rita,

Perhaps a passing truck created the adobe quake,

Then from above some dust jostled,

Breaking free from the ancient vigas,

Sifting through the latillas and to the air take.

A whimsical path to the tables below,

Alighting upon food and drink alike,

Astonished tourists and disgruntled urbanites,

Looked upon this feint falling of dust with woe,

Yet to some of us this was a blessed occurrence,

This dust perhaps emplaced by passing Butterfield coach,

Dust from a century of experience some diners did know.

A fiesta in my heart began to get noisy and grow,

For I loved this dust as a reminder of things past,

Adored the Wabi-sabi of the building around me,

A connection to history courtesy of Jose Cuervo,

My serenity in environ slightly interrupted,

By complaints of the tourists and urbanities,

Who understood not the significance of this dirt show.

Many were angry and demanded refund,

Or at the very least their meals replaced,

Not understanding how they missed,

The spirit of historic beauty, I was stunned,

And then I saw him nodding at me there in the corner,

Barely seen in the shadows Mr. A.J. Fountain,

One of my historic heroes and defender of a lad well-gunned.

He knew that I knew, and saw that I saw,

That this dust embodied more than dust,

It had meaning and was a sun-baked reminder,

Indeed this dirt from above was not a building flaw,

Instead formed in shape next to the wall,

Of a lankly renegade lad who dustily winked at me,

And Billy let loose with a delighted recognition caw.

Is it only I who can see them? 

Or is it only I who cared?

Does it matter?

For I prayed that more dust would fall,

This embracing and transcending dust of La Posta.

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On a mountain, a deserted desert peak,

A companion pointed toward the Rio,

Meandering gracefully through the Mesilla valley,

Lamenting lost stories it would tell if it could speak.

Yet Rio does speak loudly in the watery glisten,

Relaying a 1,885 mile epic in a fluid voice,

Singing softly the Grande ballad in a whispering flow,

To those who see to hear and watch to listen.

Winding out of the Rocky Mountains high,

And then hitting the valley in Enchantment,

Originally braided and beautifully sinuous,

Now single channeled and levied to keep towns dry.

Early meandering with oxbows and marsh,

Created beautiful bosque and life diverse,

Yet still supporting life through precious liquid,

Growing chiles, nut trees and vines out of desert harsh.

Rio has watched our kind through the ages,

Spanning Paleolithic through basket-maker,

Pre-Pueblo to Pueblo, and finally Spanish and Anglo,

Better than we know ourselves wisdom droplet sages.

No longer shouting through and flooding angrily,

The Rio is still a wise infusion of holons,

And still has a mentoring voice with which to speak,

We just need to learn how to listen voluntarily.

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I am El Lobo meant to be free,

I am El Lobo meant to be wild,

Yet I find myself confined here,

Behind your walls and your fences,

So here I am loping in circles,

Pacing.

Observing.

Pacing.

Confused as to why you keep me from God.

I am El Lobo of Liberty,

I am El Lobo of Equality,

Yet I find myself confined here,

By your disingenuous governance,

Behind your laws and your bureaucracy

So here I am voting in circles,

Pacing.

Obsessing.

Pacing.

Confused as to why you keep me from God.

I am El Lobo of Freedom,

I am El Lobo of the Republic,

Yet I find myself confined here,

By your denial of inalienable rights,

Behind your scorn and your taunts,

So here I am preparing in circles,

Pacing.

Preparing.

Pacing.

Wondering how I can get closer to God.

I am El Lobo of Action,

I am El Lobo of Preservation,

Yet I finally find a break in the fence,

Weakness allowed by your arrogance,

Behind your ego and your haughtiness,

Running,

Fighting,

Running.

Finding myself being brought closer to God.

I am El Lobo of Righteousness,

I am El Lobo of Truthfulness,

Knowing my pack of Free Spirit,

Cannot and will not be oppressed,

For eternity, at one with my pack,

Running,

Leading,

Running.

Taking my Pack to God.


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I endeavor to become the potential that I have always been.


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On a gently windblown ridge,

At Three Rivers the symbol is evident,

Etched in stone a picture of Souls' reach,

To the heavens a plea of Enchantment.

Hand on the Spirit.

On top of broad mesas,

And nestled in beautiful oasis between,

It is found and echoes in cliffside Kiva,

Brought to life again in the Pueblo dance scene.

Hand on the Spirit.

In the valley lined by mountain high,

The Rio pumps Soul to desert in a meandering way,

Canals and acequeias channel subtle Lifes' sigh,

Finally captured by vine, crushed, and fermented in wine.

Hand on the Spirit.

In this sacred place Spirit is bottled pure,

Enchantment's magic is nurtured and gifted,

As you reach for the spirit know you for sure,

That you reach for Enchantment's blood and place,

Hand on the Spirit.


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I've climbed the highest of peaks,

Been jabbed, been stabbed,

Felt the wonderful pain of piercing Spanish Daggers,

Of the finest in the Chihuahua arid oasis,

Withstood the sharpest thrown at my earthly shell.

Yet, you say I have to vote for you sitting,

In a comfortable refrigerated office to ensure change?

Kiss my desert ass.

The desert saves me from the pain,

Delivers me from the clutches of the vain,

Water-fat and water-logged fake fights,

Of soft moist skinned parasites.

I've walked the lows of the Valley of Death,

Been jabbed, been stabbed,

Poked by the finest of Joshua Trees,

Of the vast Mojave driest of gifts,

And bled the finest red from my earthly shell.

Yet you say you will increase my taxes,

Since you are fiscally irresponsible?

Kiss my desert ass.

The desert saves me from the pain,

Delivers me from the clutches of the vain,

Water-fat and water-logged fake fights,

Of soft moist skinned parasites.

I've driven across the Euphrates,

Been shot at, been blown at,

And fired at by corkscrew missiles while flying over the Tigris,

Extremists wearing black not giving a damn about anyone but them,

Or about anything but their scripture.

Yet you say that I have no clue,

About strategic world policy?

Kiss my desert ass.

The desert saves me from the pain,

Delivers me from the clutches of the vain,

Water-fat and water-logged fake fights,

Of soft moist skinned parasites.

I have adapted, turned shades of tan.

Know where the water sits,

Know to rest in the heat of the day.

I am one with harsh, forged in the fires.

Learn the desert like me, and you will see.

We the People know how to survive.

Learn this lesson, ye of governance power, learn.

For only then will I kiss your desert ass.

The desert blows with the voice of survival,
The desert drifts with the lesson of life,
The desert evolves weak into strong.
Live the lessons and learn the Life.

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Nature's destruction can be a beautiful,

Powerful and reflective force.

Scorched earth in the Valley of Fires,

Bright Black deposit converted grasses,

To rattlesnake nests.

Transformation courtesy of Hell's Pyres. 

Scorched souls in the Valley of Radicals,

Ugly Blue movement converted peace,

To improvised bombs.

Transformation courtesy of Hell's Pyres.

Scorched children in the Valley of Divorce,

Angry Red parental freedom converted family,

To future dissonance.

Transformation courtesy of Hell's Pyres.

Scorched citizens in the Valley of Liberty,

Selfish Green capitalist pluralism converted freedom,

To anarchic democracy.

Transformation courtesy of Hell's Pyres.

Scorched innocents in the Valley of Gang,

Fruitless Blue banging converted neighborhood,

To bloody street.

Transformation courtesy of Hell's Pyres.

Scorched monks in the Valley of Spirit,

Cold Orange science converted God,

To empirical nothingness.

Transformation courtesy of Hell's Pyres.

Look again at Nature's prophecy,

Because She isn't always pretty.

Scorched earth in the Valley of Fires,

Beautifully Black deposit converted grasses,

To rattlesnake nests.

Transformation courtesy of Hell's Pyres. 

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Are you kidding?

Watching over me every breath I take is the Federal Government.  It owns me.  If you are a US Citizen, then you own me.  Thanks for all the bureaucracy, all the "love."

Over whom do I watch?  Everyone - I desire to protect inalienable rights of all.  I desire to restore the US government to one that is truly based upon the Constitution.

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Wisdom III : Father Sky and Mother Earth


An oral Apache tradition tells the story of origin,
And it highlights how with sky and earth we are kin.

A flowing outline that Sky is our Father, and Earth is our mother,
Offspring of both, from a common emergence we are sister and brother.

Earth and Sky or wife and husband, and watch over us children,
Sky gives us rain so when thirsty we pray to him.

Mother gives us sustenance, in many forms throughout season,
Plant and fruits gracious milk that come from Earth's bosom.

We came from Earth and are lovingly nurtured by sky,
Common offspring of environs our species should never deny.

The place of emergence for all is the womb of the Earth.

A lesson that we are common children of sky above and earth below,
We should honor and remember as we evolve and grasp new truths to know.



Originally posted on Sep 20th, 2006

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The mountain spoke.

Whispered waft wisdom,

A slight peak breeze,

Caused by a strong wind,

Huffing from the West,

Colliding with mountain,

Adjudicated by rock,

Forced up and out,

In a line of demarcation,

Noted by fowl fluttering,

The remainder a tuft,

Drifting down softly,

Upon the peak a slight breeze,

Of whispered waft wisdom.

Then roiling down,

As it rolled with gravity,

Down the steep slopes,

Gaining momentum,

Gathering tumult strengthening,

A message grown stronger,

A point made more poignant,

 Volume of vertical vortices,

Slightly swaying alpine flora,

Occasioning the sides and tufting

Rarely found mammal fur,

A message of roiling rolling strength,

And growing increasingly stronger

Of crafted poignant points.

Mountain's voice chaotic,

Churning in a high pass,

Message mixed speedily,

Velocity changed in confines,

Of the rock walls of the pass,

Bournelli's principal physics,

Making the message more relevant,

In relative motion wisdom refine,

And the voice continues downward,

Brought to bear by the bare stone,

Induced by the high pass,

Message now same volume  of meaning,

Moving faster, moving stronger,

More emphatic, depth in wisdom.

At the bottom of the pass,

All of the cacti bowed,

In reverence and respect,

As the Mountain's voice boomed,

Strong and fast,

Message now loud if not a bit dusty,

Near  the bottom of the mountain,

at the bottom of the pass.

The people saw the windy message,

As they witnessed the cacti bowing,

Felt the moving air on their bare skin.

To some it was mystic,

A sign of something,

Something important yet mysterious.

Oh, what would come,

With this message?

They feared the bowing cacti,

And reacted with goose-bumps,

Wondered what their future would become,

Pondering this obvious omen,

Becoming agitated or elated depending,

As they heard the voice on their skin.

To some it was predictable,

Frontal carried lows and highs,

Pushed into mountains,

Causing wind down the sides,

Making instruments spin,

In measurement and computation,

Determining what butterfly fluttering

Of wings caused this cause,

Predictably moving in three dimensions,

And culminating at this precise point,

Of cacti simply bending in the wind.

The People heard the message,

As they witnessed the bowing,

Felt the voice on their bare skin.

The People watched the bowing cacti,

And listened to the message,

Versed in the mystical significance,

Comprehending the meteorology,

Knowing that both are the same,

For cause and effect,

Gods and Goddesses,

Are all passed,

In the whispered waft wisdom,

In the rolling winsome winds,

In the roiling chaotic vortices.

How do you interpret the message,

As you witness cacti bowing,

Feeling  voice on your bare skin?

Regardless, Mountain speaks,

Mountain always has,

Mountains still does,

Mountain always will,

Spiritually combining mystical,

With a crafty dose of scientific,

And,

Whispering waft wisdom.

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