Where From Here?

Odds are I’ll not live
To see the coming of the next species.
This time, conscious breeding
Will produce our descendants.

I suspect speed, agility and strength
Will matter.
Opposable thumbs might be critical,
If tool making is a survival skill.

Our progeny won’t thank us,
But history, or for that matter
Reading, will not be of much concern.
Building tree nests will be the rage.

Social security will not be distributed.
Of course, with a life expectancy of 25 years,
Retirement needs will not be paramount,
And elective surgery will not be available.

Approved

It was a near thing
Costco could have rejected me.
How could I survive
With my credit gone?

Where would I go
That no one would know?
It’s just a terrible mistake,
See how full is my basket.

But I was approved!
I can keep all the toilet paper
And my new 8 foot WIDE HD TV
Will allow for “The Tribute to the Common Man”.

I’m still not sure about the Wines and Guacamole dip.
If the barcalounger doesn’t fit my 3 by 6 balcony
I can always send it back,
And get the imitation leather love-seat.

With the earned credit of $850.00.,
(1.5% of the purchase price,)
I can get that crystal chandelier
Or a trip to Midland Texas.

Son of a Bitch

Motives are never quite pure.
We need to protect
Images that make us whole.
It is better than understanding.

Of course I was interfering!
That’s what parents do.
We can’t bear the crap that surrounds us,
And believe we can help.

Certain we’re not the problem
We stumble into dense undergrowth
Pointing the way out,
Without seeing traps.

It’s his fault,
And her hands aren’t clean.
How can they see us in such a light?
Do I deserve this?

What example did I set?
Was I wrong to worry
And point out pitfalls?
Why is this happening to me?

We lent them money.
We are not wealthy.
I am angry and hurt,
And don’t know what to do.

Reality

If my memories of yesterdays
Are little more than a poorly remembered dream,
Then life is a fantasy
Belonging to the sleeper.
If so, the material and the spiritual
Are equally ephemeral
And the journey,
Our brief surreal exploration
Of a bipedal upright creature,
Serves as a marker,
A re-ordering of events,
That encompasses both the possible,
And the moral.

Slide

It’s easy.
Just stop working,
And notice how the seas continue.
You will not be missed.

Lament if you are so inclined,
But don’t fool yourself.
It does not stand as a tribute or justification.
You have merely left the train.

The inexorable pull, easily accommodated,
Offers no dramatic pronouncement
As you continue to ignore diminishing challenges,
Passively waiting for divine intervention.

Joyce at 15 seemed unformed,
Not the best student
But bright enough to find challenges
That might fire her imagination.

She did, and slid down to meet them.
Now 30 with no job, no prospects,
And no remaining truth
To light her way.