Untitled (Human Nature pt. 1)

We walk the tightrope, tethered

from above, between

voluntary and involuntary action.

Do you take in every breath, or

does air invade and incite

the vitality of life? Does

the mind escape the brain

and secretly decide, or

are you whole, coherent and cohesive?

Have you chosen this poem, or

were you drawn to it by some

obscure decision-maker, chemically

curious and biologically obliged?

Had something planned out about human nature and the massive chasm between our absolute desire for control and the relatively recent scientific evidence that suggests the world is chaotic and uncertain beyond all comprehension, but you've probably heard it all before, or felt it when you look around or watch the news.  That is simply the movement of the universe.  We attempt to contradict it with art and science and so on and so on, but so much of what emerges is, like I stated in the previous post, below our conscious faculties.  It comes with the package of the individual mind.  We are so utterly specified in space and time, how can we ever hope to control our lives and society if we do it on our own?

Humans have evolved a long way, but the simple fact is that we haven't transcended the laws of nature.  We are still very much determined by our desires (e.g. hunger, lust, revenge), and so much of what defines us is determined by what we cannot influence. We call it love, but is it not simply our genes urging us to procreate?  We call it justice, but is it not revenge with a capital mandate?

On to a completely unrelated poem, I wrote this last night because, well, there were two grasshoppers in my house and I wondered how they got there.  You'll find that much of what I write is about sound, that's the music-lover in me.  I view poetry as the fusion of music and writing, so it makes sense that someone who loves music and loves writing would like writing poetry.

"Two Grasshoppers"

Two grasshoppers,

one stuck on a lamp stem, still,

the other on a knife block,

likewise locked into place.

They must be cousins,

surely, perhaps

casual acquaintances, or maybe

coincidence has brought them to

this well-lit kitchen late

on a late summer Saturday.

Either way

these wayward 'hoppers here reside

a night, until the lights pop.

In the morning they'll be gone,

squeeze into an ether

through a screen square

barely, but gone they'll be

indeed and daylight.