Forget about the space ships, Uncle.
as you dis'd the golden holy halls.
Extinction really is forever,
and the launching pad for miracles is right here --
male/female spirit intertwined,
interwoven with wild grass and the flight-path of birds,
wrapped up in a blue-green ball of ocean,
of child in meadow and meadow in child --
all spinning, all feasting, living, dying, and most important
playing
There's only one other option, youknow
(and who needs that!?)
At the risk of sounding Puritan,
there really is such a thing as a wrong choice:
the one with crowds and long lines and ugly buildings,
the one that is increasingly (dare I say it?) square,
and doesn't roll
and doesn't rock.
Go outside the house, outside the mind
where the choices do.
If a stone tumbles out from under your hiking boot,
put it back where it was nestled
lichen-side up.
It's the only survival that matters,
and the only fair way
to keep on laughing.
