Tomatoes (A Poem)

In honor of my home state of Washington legalizing human composting I dug up (hahaha) an old poem where I consider the alternative to burial or cremation, although I didn’t know it was a thing at the time I certainly was intrigued by the idea and the beauty it holds in it.

https://www.recompose.life/

or https://crosscut.com/2019/05/dust-dirt-human-composting-coming-wa


If an heirloom tomato were

a body part,

might it be a kidney.

Quartered and sliced

aspirating a fine mist

seeds and juice spill

and soak into the cutting board.

A cherry tomato would be an eyeball,

of course.

The only difference between

the old me, listening to Led Zeppelin III

and me listening now,

is that I now have the wisdom to not

try to hit the high notes.

Restraint.

An over-ripened Roma

might be a thyroid gland,

or boiled and peeled it

becomes a swollen lymph node.

Slices become columns,

now juice and seeds are puddling,

columns into squares.

Of course the Beefsteak would be

the typical enlarged American heart.

Maybe when I die I could be composted

by the state, then They could sell me to

gardeners across the region.

My final act of charity.

Tomatoes (A Poem)

If an heirloom tomato were

a body part,

might it be a kidney.

Quartered and sliced

aspirating a fine mist

seeds and juice spill

and soak into the cutting board.

A cherry tomato would be an eyeball,

of course.

The only difference between

the old me, listening to Led Zeppelin III

and me listening now,

is that I now have the wisdom to not

try to hit the high notes.

Restraint.

An over-ripened Roma

might be a thyroid gland,

or boiled and peeled it

becomes a swollen lymph node.

Slices become columns,

now juice and seeds are puddling,

columns into squares.

Of course the Beefsteak would be

the typical enlarged American heart.

Maybe when I die I could be composted

by the state, then They could sell me to

gardeners across the region.

My final act of charity.

Too Many Mistakes (A Poem)

Well, i was laying on my side, melting into the mattress,

liquid layers of vibrations, carrying me away.

i was listening to my aura, as subatomic

particles in mid flight; like a helicopter above and

around my head. i felt the energy created through a lifetime

my heart beats like a time bomb, everything whirring

into a directionless direction.

I could feel the anger and resentment

built up in adolescence, aimed at the world

-which didn’t care either way.

I could feel the weight of the damage done over the years

trying to punish this body

that caused so much pain

-and it turns out this body doesn’t care either.

corroded stomach lining,

eaten away by battery acid.

weakened bladder, what does it matter?

if i’d had the resolve

and the right concentration

i could’ve continued my transcendence

back into the subatomic Original vibrations

but i was distracted,

again,

by the fear of having made

too many irreversible mistakes.

History

History is like a mistress

She comes in thick like a fog

and shrouded by clouds

She wraps her arms around us

and whispers something like,

Don’t think, just do what you’re told.

history is heavy,

and it weighs me down

with expectations.

expectations from mySelf

and my family,

at times even from

my country and society.

History is burdensome,

as i feel obligated to

return to habits formed.

formed under moonless nights

shrouded by clouds,

ignorant and happy

sustained by feeling.

History is reflexive,

before you know it, you’ve done it again.

and again and again.

History is comforting and familiar,

like morning breath, or the combination

of a particular conditioner and her hair.

history is like sharing a coke,

or warm apple pie

sitting on the windowsill of antiquity.

history is not the ledge,

it is not the forest of mystery

history is the killer

of spontaneity and creativity.

If we want to be free

we have to find a way

to make peace with our history.

We can’t just keep preaching

individuality. to make pieces of the whole,

fractured further into an identity

but somehow we still feel alone,

we’re owned by feelings

and the corporations know it

it doesn’t matter how you identify

there’s a cross section waiting with

arms wide open to take you in,

and someone on the other side

saying it’s a sin. we’re as unique as

our parents, that’s about as far as it goes

so before we get caught up

in the idea of individuality

we should ask ourselves

what is it we’re willing to pay.

Because Coke wants a piece,

and Disney, and Fox,

Google, and Facebook,

even Jack in the Box.

so if we’re not careful

they’ll own us too,

in fact they probably already do.

YOU ARE THE DEAD!

In this world death is boredom,

it is the sinking feeling in your heart

and your chest, pulling you down into the

couch. A voice echoes, rippling through the corridors of space

trapped within a mind.

When you are the dead you don’t care about anything.

Death is routine. It’s having the same reaction to a similar set of circumstances,

and feeling like every day is exactly the same

I know this world well.

It’s a living hell.

In this world death follows you daily

 because it manifests as the illusion of freedom

Real death is in action, as in the action of following

thoughts.

                   trapped within a mind.

                                    constantly trying to leave something behind

 You are the Dead.

 

(Note: the title is from the arrest scene in 1984, where Big Brother busts into Winston’s apt. and we hear, “You are the Dead! Remain exactly where you are. Make no moves until you are ordered!” Not meant as some proselytization of Buddhist theory. Since the poem seems to take from some of the themes of 1984 this scene came to mind and thus the title.)

What is freedom? Are thoughts free? What are thoughts anyway? When we choose to believe in the form of a thought, we die. Or so I’ve read.