CONFESSION ZERO

When the storm comes, let us not run away screaming, let us enter its path and sing an ode, dance a jig to its reverie and remember that we are all part of the storm. I believe it cannot be any other way, for if we imagine ourselves as somehow separate from it, we’re as blind as we are destructive to the truth … © 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime

Now that we truly see them, the people of the world, why are our eyes not wet in the midst of scaly grief? Have we not shrieked in nameless terror long enough, been onlooker to nightmares of insensible winters beckoning to us from unfilled graves etched in awe? Now that we might truly see ourselves with the world’s stale eyes why do we condone the enduring massacre of even one more? Are we so fearful as to not flinch of our queasy indifference? We should be vomiting out our coldness and ingesting the puff-tongued hunger for peace. We need be humble and reaching not bombing and preaching. Too many bomb-split, blood-spilled, freedom-cuffed, breath-snuffed and killed. Listen… You can sense the dead eating our horror. Heed the dry bone now bleached under dawn’s collapse, perceive the stars and moon tremble and overlap the other. If you listen closely, you can hear immense wings clamoring for heaven. © 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime

Right after the sky had seemingly dumped all its gloom upon this world and sunny days lay ahead of us… some of us… maybe some lucky son of the rich. Just when the world could use some talk of peace and healing of wounds and unruffled reflection allowed to descend… or shine… or sidle between dry lips. O! That this world could make use of silence or a hushed and soothing reverie from the heavy chains knotted around our breath. The tongues are corroded over with idols and liars and hordes of impish drones and toadies and criminals, a fine mess we’ve made of it! A fine mess we’re into now, a world in disarray. And someone’s going to stop breathing tonight. A father’s going to cry, kill or pray as someone else will sleep far away from his grief. Sleep roundly without sorrow. The moving sand and running streets and flying steel pilfering the radiance will send a messenger, a virgin warrior, with tidings of community and expectation, only to return with news of a lifeless planet with lif...

War delivers something significant overlooked in our hurry, blindness of its reach leading demons to our bed. Our minds see too late the sacrificed in its jaws or upon its talons with “This war, this lie will echo,” stomping inside our heads. There’s not room for much else, shrapnel has invited itself in and eats our guilt with a shovel, burrowing to our center. Another soldier, a child, who believes himself impenetrable is taken to soil for our charade, cold and ashen now. Where is the anger for having been wed to this legion, for standing motionless as deceit commits so many? Where’s the indignation? What have we sacrificed to the ground? Do we believe we’ve ducked its swipe and come out unsoiled on the other side? Now, after we’ve learned, will we snuggle up to precious war and kiss its beneficiaries, too afraid to die? War bends for no one, save for utter defeat. These are the days of our significance, these we live, so grab the warring shovel and bury it of its damn...

The mouth of the good soldier, the stern jaw of the general, the small particles of human dust that move between them- better things than war to the rotten film of floating flesh. The bastard truth, in its last throes, had no teeth to gnaw at death to release its harrowed grip and deceit had honed its razors slicing truth to its mortal nub, veracity fell out the bloody center uncorking the gushing liquid now thickly oozing out of man. This that moves us and machine is what drives the engine of betrayal. It is not man. It is not beast. It is not breath. At birth we suckle its oily nipple until we desire it more than food, this, our liquid birth of machinery. It is with that in mind and nothing else that the stern jawed general let loose his guns. With precision, from years of training, he nailed his target, truth, between the eyes and it fell back calling out a futile "help," but rescue would not be forthcoming, it too had been felled. Death stands now before them bo...

It is not written anywhere that I know of that the eartH needs our silence (as well as our life, laughter and love), but I’d imagine it is so based on the fact that our noise brings nothing of any benefit to the eartH. By noise I mean war, genocide, murder, machines of extraction, machines of pollution, and most, if not all, machines of industry. Our foul noise truly has no benefit to our survival as a species and it certainly has no benefit to nature, at least none that I can see. (Where is it written that the eartH needs silence? I mean it sounds stupid, numbskull! It’s just another planet!) It may sound stupid to you, Curmudgeon, but I see the eartH quite differently. To me it is not just another planet; it is water, air, soil, vegetation, life. It’s not too difficult to see the eartH as an exceptional planet, is it? (Silence…) © 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime

The eartH was here before humankind. Life, Love, and dare I say, Laughter, began before us, we just personified things… If the eartH superseded us, then it is, in my opinion, and logically, the eartH that we owe our first known allegiance to. (What of our families?) Without the whole of “family” we have little ability to effect the changes needed to cleanse the eartH of our foul uses. (Are we not then required to Love one another in order to bring about any loving change?) Positive change, yes. But this still does not change the order of things. The eartH is humankind’s only “known” beholden, leaving what we believe to be, second. We should absolutely love one another, family is most certainly sacred as a whole, but we should never forget where we are. (So you think our love for the eartH comes before our love of one another, even our own children?) Yes and no. YES, in the sense that our first duty, stewardship, the cleansing of Home, long now neglected, comes “first”, t...