A Tone in Singularity 20161008

Our choices float logs into the media stream in a letter box stuffed with coupons and credit card applications.  What we click on or focus for how many ticks in a twenty four hour cycle.  The mirage is intentional of painted clowns in masks, orange makeup, and power suits.  We herd reluctant sheep towards wolves we now spout as single alternative saviors bequeathing volition to systematic maze running.  We try to see each other through videos and hear each other through texts.  We carry that fuzzy distance of better not speak on that level of too-human of noticing what is beneath the patterns. 

The sexism grab the pussy is a planted landmine long ago for an intentional news cycle before this second presidential debate on Sunday.  Could you not see the marketing coming America; this entire charade of neo-liberal storylines and how can we get the herd to behave.  There is barely any talk of banking, healthcare, wage-slavery, drone-bombs, systematic racism, lowest-common denominator global labor, or climate change on a detailed mathmatically based policy debate.  No, we have grab her by the pussy.

We ignore the real political issues to debate that effect the basic living of humans across this planet.  Understanding the path of engorged hurricanes across former slave colonies ravaged by earthquake and storm in a blanket of a black island and white streaks evacuating from a U.S. Eastern coastline used as port from Africa.  The costs of two degrees and four of global temperature rise in oceanaic energy.  How we are not independent of the mathematics.  What we purchase, click-on, support, eat, burn-fuel for, love with, acknowledge with what choices we are willing to make. 

I listened to Cuban pianist Ernan Lopez-Nussa at the Jazz and Heritage Center on Rampart Street last night.  He was accompanied by members of Preservation Hall.  Ukulele, tuba, clarinet, saxophone, trumpet, and bongo drums fused New Orleans and Havana.  Only in New Orleans would this have no price of admission but consciousness.

I closed my eyes in a swirl of rhythms and scales meditating standing dead center in the rear of the hall next to a fellow poet.  There are visions inside us of what reality actually is inside the mathematics of the dimensions beyond the surface which is so obsessed with genetic procreation, power, and fear.  We can feel drum and the soft key of fingers triggering chords into what we are.  We begin to open our hearts after tragedies, of being told to stay quiet, to not be anywhere but in the digital idea of a human being hidden under rubble and cholera, minivans piloting west out of harm’s way with children strapped in and afraid.  The electricity we use and react with lack of access for a week, for a year. 

I hear you.  I see you.  I am imperfect.  I feel the waters rising.  I am offering my payment of attention to the ferryman hoping we will find passage together for neither of us can do this alone.  There is a sound we are making, a tone in singularity where all of this finds balance, not in the chest of you or me or any individual, but in the collective universe, let us sing our part, we players brave.