Honest Robot Chicken Love

 

 

I call you up and talk a while
of what you're doing and will do,
and share bit of the same, on my end.

You tell me about the Robot Chicken you just created
from your inexhaustible imaginings and magic pen,
I tell you I'm reading an e-book called Radical Honesty,
I offer to send you excerpts,
but you say that's all right, you're honest enough.
I'm sure that's the honest truth.
I'm still working on this myself,
so to be honest, sonshine,
the best part of our talks
is when we sign off
and I inform you yet again
"Love you!"
In saying it to you, I say it to myself,
the honest truth I need to hear
unto eternity
about you, about me,
God/dess, the universe,
the omniverse,
the robot chicken squawking
as it pecks for robot worms
in an alien landscape.

We are all robots
on a journey home
to becoming real,
"I love you" the magic words
that help us heal and feel
into that state.

And so I state yet again
to you and to myself
(is there really any difference
between us two?):
thank you,
I love you.

from your inexhaustible imaginings and magic pen,
I tell you I'm reading an e-book
called Radical Honesty,
I offer to send you excerpts,
but you say that's all right, you're honest enough.
I'm sure that's the honest truth.
I'm still working on this myself,
so to be honest, sonshine,
the best part of our talks
is when we sign off
and I inform you yet again
"Love you!"
In saying it to you, I say it to myself,
the honest truth I need to hear
unto eternity
about you, about me,
God/dess, the universe,
the omniverse,
the robot chicken squawking
as it pecks for robot worms
in an alien landscape.

We are all robots
on a journey home
to becoming real,
"I love you" the magic words
that help us heal and feel
into that state.

And so I state yet again
to you and to myself
(is there really any difference
between us two?):
thank you,
I love you.

Haiku: Quick Look-See

"For the consciousness
will come to life if it wants to. And if the consciousness picks a
mother who wants to abort, then the consciousness is only here for a
short trip. A look around. It is like the seed from an apple tree who
travels into the next yard but does not mature. It looks around and
tries again. Any consciousness that wants to be born is born. And it
picks a mother that wants to carry a child all the way." - Seth, channeled by Jane Roberts

she will abort me
K, will try again later
for now, quick look-see

As I Wander In The Day

Song from the perspective of a wanderer who chooses to be without
a specific home base aside from the whole world...

AS I WANDER IN THE DAY

I camped in the park last night,
the whispering breezes ruffled the lake,
over it all the moon shone bright
as I lay there awake,

feeling there could be no harm
in what my life was bringing,
I was happy I was warm
and the stars were singing,

but as I wander in the day
sometimes I wish I could disappear,
faces, faces turning away,
they don't want to know I'm here,
they don't want me to come near,
always going somewhere fast,
I can feel their hidden fear
as they hurry past.

They think I'm less than they
because I have no home,
but they're stuck in sameness every day
and I'm free to roam.
Home is wherever I may be,
I accept what i can find,
it's not always easy
but I have some peace of mind.

But as I wander in the day
sometimes I wish I could disappear,
faces, faces turning away,
they don't want to know I'm here,
they don't want me to come near,
always going somewhere fast,
I can feel their hidden fear
as they hurry past.

O My Brothers (Beethoven's Cry)

A song I wrote based on Beethoven's famous letter to his brothers, on his deafness:
http://home.swipnet.se/zabonk/cultur/ludwig/beeheil.htm

O my brothers, can't you see
what ought to be clear
you are blind in blaming me
because I cannot hear

If you felt the pain I feel
because I must stay alone
you'd know it is real
I am human, I'm not made of stone

How you wrong me
how you wrong me
you do not know
you do not know

Oh my brothers,
it feels like yesterday
I could hear perfectly
the gods took it away
a cruel joke on me

If I try and pass the time of day
I feel such anxiety
I can't hear what people say
and like you,
they misunderstand me

How you wrong me
how you wrong me
you do not know
you do not know

O my brothers,
it's not my choice to live this way
like a banished man,
I go from day to day
with just one hope, one plan:

Only art, only art holds me back
from taking my life
I will overcome this lack
I will create amid this strife

And so I choose: patience, patience,
patience, patience, patience
to be my guide,
Oh Powers That Be, grant to me
one pure day of JOY,

When, oh when
shall I feel it again--Never?
No, oh no, it would be too hard!

How you wrong me,
how you wrong me,
you do not know,
you do not know!

Death, Banana Slugs, and the Afterlife

My 9-year-old son Ben and I were hiking one fine day in Buena Vista Park, along one of the many trails off the beaten path. He was clearing away the underbrush with a long stick, when he inadvertently slugged a banana slug. The creature was not mortally wounded, but we could tell by the way it cringed before us that its life would never be the same. "I won't let it
suffer," said Ben, and I averted my eyes while he flailed away until his sad mission was
accomplished. We resumed our hike, and then, overcome, we stopped again, clinging to each other, mourning the fate of the poor gastropod, so recently oozing through the woods without a care in the world. We conjectured that it had probably already arrived in heaven and was strumming a harp--but how did banana slugs play the harp? "They hold it with their feelers
and play with their tails," said my imaginative son. "But what if it was a BAD banana slug?" he mused. "Then it would be in hell!" I put the question of what banana slug hell would be like,
and he confessed he had no idea. "Maybe they have to try to dance the cha-cha-cha," I suggested. But Ben had lost interest in the discussion and dashed off in search of another stick--one unconnected with the fate of banana slugs, here or hereafter, cursed or blissful.

AH, SUNFLOWER ME

Ah, weary sunflower me,
reaching, seeking, questioning:

"Glorious sun,
how can you love one
way below
your brilliant show?
I'm not a sun, I'm not a star,
I can only turn my face to thee
adoringly
from oh, so far..."

The Sun's reply:

"Beloved, you too are a sun,
and you and I are one.
Learn to look within and see
the shine that equals mine,
unstop your ears and hear the song
I sing to you, all day long,
sing with me:

'I am the lover and the loved,
I am the light of day and night
below and above, 
I am on course,
I am the source,
I am the source of love."

Ego a Go-Go

Look at me!
Appreciate me!
Compliment me!
Me, me, me, me,
if you don't see me
if you flee me
who will free me
from the prison of me?
Who will I be,
all alone, with no one to see?
I need you and you need me
to be real, to be "we."
You'll see me,
I'll see thee,
you'll look at me,
you'll appreciate me,
you'll compliment me,
I'll do the same for you (maybe),
and we will cry so joyfully:
"you and me,
we, we, we,"
all the way home.