Material Life


Absolute science and art of being whole
            at one and under no delusion that
                        mankind (or nature) give a shit
                                    whether you amount
                                                to something or not.
                                                            Narrowed down
                                                                        nothing

nothing but matter matters, matter, content
            of life (serious, love it) hate
                        death, for the hell of it, to
                                    see what it's like in
                                                the heart of
                                                            darkness.

Deeper and deeper I go
            but who would bother to kill me
                        or love me? Belonging to the drums
                                    of wooful war I
                                                woof and bay like
                                                            every other
                                                                        dog.

Down I go to the depths of material life
            the material is spirit wrought
                        by the material world. The
                                    drum and jet plane
                                                the bird and sumac
                                                            the pollen
                                                                        seed.

No answer is forthcoming for the young fool
            importunes to ask too frequently
                        the fool's question. What
                                    is my next move. He
                                                steps lightly and does
                                                            not seem to care
                                                                        quite where.
                                                                                    The

material world is reality, my friend
            and sadness is the spiritual root
                        without which the love-nut
                                    may be reached only
                                                by stretching
                                                            the emotions
                                                                        bare

raw, where desert delights exhibit
            movement in the sunlit light. Where
                        none find their way
                                    without following leaders
                                                sometimes the wrong way.
                                                            The path
                                                                        is

apart from the dance or the dancer who
            cutting cross country laughs
                        at his perennial fright of being
                                    caught outdoors, out of sight
                                                alone with the wind and rain
                                                             for days on end
                                                                         in hiding.
                                                                                     Up

on the roof, the telephone ringing,
            books getting delivered to the library free,
                        gratis, no fight, no love
                                    a meager understanding
                                                of what rolls
                                                            the earth.
                                                                        Gravity

rolls the earth (and may sometimes rock it)
            each of us achieving the gravity of a planet
                        and pulling the world apart with our loves.
                                    Taking existence beyond the limits
                                                set for it, into
                                                            the universe
                                                                        beyond

We went out beyond the surf
            into the adirondack of trees waiting,
                        wanting nothing, mountains
                                    wanting to grow slowly.


Copyright 1985 & 2007 by Robert Ronnow.