Slavery in America gets but one month.  To remember.  Whereas WOMEN, who long before, were ancient slaves of yore, sold for little more than one ox or a couple cows; yet, they get but one day to celebrate their COURAGE...in giving birth for one thing, and for living with men for another. If we follow our matri-linear roots way past the times of memory and grieving, we’ll find we’re all sons and daughters of daughters of slave mothers.  We all share this lust for power over one another, except the Mother of Gaia, yer everyday pachamama.  [She gets one day also, called Earth Day, to share her love for the living. So...give yer love back: to mother sister daughter partner mate.

     At the end, perhaps, of the Long & Terrible Age of Wars on Women:

comes: 

give and shake

jimmy.mankind@gmail.com

 

end of then, start of now...

poems are shards of thought

    Broke upon                          

                   The rocks of reason

    Shattered–scatter-blown–by the roiling

    Ephemera of life and

    Illusion’s duty.                                      

Splattered against each other in too rapid confusion

for logic

(which only moves at the speed of electrons 

while poetry unlocks the heart

    To feel

                 at...the...speed...of...light.)

Whereas:

Poems dream-on

Despite the herds

And tides and

Give and Shake.

In spite of hunger,

     desire, and

           All that Logic.

For logic beforehand builds the bridges

That outlast us all.

      Yet poems dream-on;

      They want and keep Truth.

      That is their job.

      My poem is to want to please

Your golden dream of skin and yin and Face

To soar with You in honor and in Grace.

       –way past the time of bridges–

 To put the kibosh on logic so we can scream while we dance

       –laugh while we make love–

    Not to worry about books and bosses or

    High school indoctrinations

    That mandate entry exams to

    Careers as races for payments for policies

    Of...life insurance.  [you CANNOT insure LIFE.]

Life is spirit.

Or is it, would you rather it be? 

The mort-gage, the myriad measures 

of death we covet

on our paths to indentured servitude?

    Now...pretty soon, 

    (way before the bridges die)

    You’re gonna   ask and sigh,

why?  me?

And i’ll   say   You   because

    You gave me your number

    (we all have numbers now)

Permission, as if granted lives ago, by proxy,

    To open lines of heart,

    Already pulsing,

through the ever-present Universal Current,

    (I was ambitiously speaking

    Of Prana to impress

    And get close to you)

when you smiled

    (Embellishing the altar

                    At which I worshipped

                    In my graceless hard-up

                    state of thinly won

                    courtesy and appropriateness)

Then...

    Dear goddess of love and beauty

you showed the kindness

    (My religion is kindness,

    Said the Dalai Lama)

that You feel for all humankind:

You

Thanked

Me!

    (In rare ironic reality)

for simply coming by.

    As I,

Worshiping your existence, could scarcely breathe

    To sigh...

Your name…

for...

You were meant to be appreciated, treated,

    Protected, admired, and praised.

    Viewed and feted.

    Sated…

    liberated.  

You are the source of civilization, 

    The heart and soul and meaning of restraint,

    The guarantor of nature’s order

(by the need to appeal to your favor for the continuance of Mankind),

    And the source authoress of all comfort, joy, and good.

You are child, so future.

You are Woman, so therefore tied to pasts

    Passed on By Logic’s Rule of Women

    (chained to history’s graces and disgraces.)im

You are Reason: a Reason of the Heart

    (for the order your sweet smiles and tender kindnesses invoke

    saves me from a darkness that tries to fill me from within

    chasing ‘round my brain like mute children crying “Help!”

    filling me with

    guilty

needy angst

    enough self-doubt for: fear.)

So, Dear.Displaced.Angel. Sweet Refugee From Heaven.

Dear Bridge between carnal craving and spiritual security

    (Do they not have the same destination in mind?)

I do not want to win or get over even if I’m alone

and losing as I gain.

    (Why do we get confused?),

I am sweat (let’s face it).

You are Beauty (turn around).

    But you are not a decoration:

    Decorations fall from style.

    You are not a flower:

    Flowers fade.

You are what flowers turn to

when they seek the light

    (as I may turn to you,

sweet sunshine of my night.)

And You, bright miracle, thanked me for coming by!

You are like a poem:

a poem that wants to light the world with

...truth....

A poem that’s job it is...is to prove love.

So: start of now: end of then,

Future everlasting,

to all Women,

All men. 

–om tat sat–*

*this is that.~~sanskrit  {probably, all of this is one of that. The Way you, me, us, them, all are nothing but WE.}

ps~~how 'bout BMI for all las femmes of $2,000 a month ...for USA and Africa? i know one thing. it will be spent. and roll around the economy about 10 times before it fizzles...in a year. And then keep on going 'round.