desire and fear buy a gun
religion and politics justify it
anger and hate use it
the question remains
have we outlived the right to bear arms?
desire and fear buy a gun
religion and politics justify it
anger and hate use it
the question remains
have we outlived the right to bear arms?

For more information about this project please see the following page: https://onbeingbecoming.com/the-end-of-language/

For more information about this project please see the following page: https://onbeingbecoming.com/the-end-of-language/

For more information about this project please see the following page: https://onbeingbecoming.com/the-end-of-language/

For more information about this project please see the following page: https://onbeingbecoming.com/the-end-of-language/
Forgive me if I do not take your hand
White hand
Leprous hand
White as snow
You sound like help and look like death
Forgive me if I do not take your hand
White hand, leprous hand, white as snow
your heart is too close to the skin
you cannot see what I see
Your deformity prevents you
from feeling the pain you cause
Forgive me if I do not take your hand
White hand, leprous hand, white as snow
I see the disease you bring
Hidden among your so-called gifts
Your virtues tainted by
The supremacy of your unclean hand
Forgive me if I do not take your hand
White hand, leprous hand, white as snow
The diseased heart has spread to the hand
You build your gated communities, armed fortresses
Of wealth, leper colonies, prisons of your own making
Separating you from a whole world of wonder
Forgive me if I do not take your hand
White hand, leprous hand, white as snow
You seek to unify YOUR family
By separating ours… mine
You burn bridges and build walls
Usurper of truth, teller of lies
Forgive me if I do not take your hand
White hand, leprous hand, white as snow
The lesions of your thinking
Discolored by the deafening roar of hatred, intolerance & FEAR
I could feel sorry for you
If it were not for the swift kick
Of your Jackboot and the Searing heat of your tiki torch
Forgive me if I do not take your hand
White hand, leprous hand, white as snow
The prophesy has foretold
You will starve, you will lose all you had,
You will die by your own white hand
And when there is no more white
Who will be left to dig your grave?
Forgive me if I do not take your hand
White hand
Leprous hand
White as snow.

For more information about this project please see the following page: https://onbeingbecoming.com/the-end-of-language/

For more information about this project please see the following page: https://onbeingbecoming.com/the-end-of-language/

For more information about this project please see the following page: https://onbeingbecoming.com/the-end-of-language/

For more information about this project please see the following page: https://onbeingbecoming.com/the-end-of-language/

For more information about this project please see the following page: https://onbeingbecoming.com/the-end-of-language/

In brush strokes
Spring flowers white, yellow
Daffodils
+++++++++++++++++++++
Spring grows warm
Magnolia trees bloom
Not for long
+++++++++++++++++++
Spring flowers
Temporal beauty
One moment
time is sliding
down a slippery slope
slipping away
Daily progress
with pain in every step
These “golden years”
+++++++++++++++++++
Unable to sit
Unease prevents stillness
My restless legs
+++++++++++++++++++
Time goes faster
Losing track of days
One more bare limb
+++++++++++++++++++
Once, clarity
of a happy, sad youth –
memory fades

I was born in 1960. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I will turn 60 in 2020.
I turned 20 in 1980. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I will turn 80 in 2040.
I turned 40 in the year 2000. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
All of my present has been
neurotically ricocheting
back and forth between
my past and my future.
I turned 40 in the year 2000.
When I turn 00
I will return to
what I was
before I was born
At peace.
At home.
In total oneness with
existence and nonexistence.


My ears warm to
the sweet sounds of Spring as
songbirds return.
Morning horizon
Bright red, like rush hour brake lights
Warning in the sky

Splashes and Rivulets.
The rain dances then flows
washing, cleansing the
streets and sidewalks
by lamplight
while the city sleeps.
The sins of Winter
washed into the gutter and
time moves slowly.
I stare impatient
by the window
waiting for repentant Spring.







