Friday, October 20, 2017

Requiem Sonnet for a Mall



Requiem Sonnet for a Mall

by Edward Gordon

The market sun sets on our mall for good.
Chain stores sit empty like derelict tombs. 
Vanishing kiosks without livelihood
Race with restaurants for an end that looms.

Lots of parking without driving around,
And bustling sounds—the clamoring kind,
Are gone like the overhead speaker sound
Shoppers could hear with their subconscious mind.

But finite square feet limited its sprawl,
And boundless demands Amazon fulfilled.
No crowds, no cash register protocol,
Just keyboards with bank cards hereafter billed.

A fossil fan of the spasmodic spree,
I reminisce our mall despondently.

(c) 2017 Edward Gordon. All rights reserved.

A Gothic Gospel



A Gothic Gospel

by Edward Gordon

Impotent angels watch over and weigh
The ancient horror of God’s great display:
A convict’s cross, and his child will pay
For errors we made on that good Friday.

Forsaking him to a darkened priesthood,
While loving the world much more than he should,
He left to those watching his blood-stained wood,
Hoping we’d better ourselves (if we could).

But flesh we needed to eat most he kept,
Snatching his body away while we slept,
And leaving with us a faith too inept
To ask for mercies we should not accept.

(c) 2010 Edward Gordon. All rights reserved.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Broken Street Sign



Broken Street Sign

by Edward Gordon

Our flaccid street sign hangs from a pole.
We finally chose to get it fixed.
Pointing in right directions its role.
Oh, but how cleverly we were tricked.

We voted it up, not thinking first.
The sign, therefore, drooped and bent over.
It seems the rusty pole was far worse.
So, it sways in damaged disorder.

Who can tell where it’s pointing today?
If the wind blows it points a new way.
Once it promised to show the right road.
Now we’re astounded, if truth be told.

(c) 2017. Edward Gordon. All rights reserved.


Sunday, October 15, 2017

I am Going to Die



I am Going to Die

by Edward Gordon

I feel my sentence approaching its dot.
I wonder how long I can say that I’ve got?
My Grandma’s obituary said ninety-two.
My dad made the mortuary at sixty, too.
So, what of my own flow on this planet called, Earth?
What time will it reclaim my water and dirt?
A lifelong debt that must be atoned,
Whether I knew it or not, it was always a loan.
And the inconvenient fact, I sometimes forget,
Is the interest accrued are my karmic regrets.
But those I’ve affected may forget once I’m out.
They’ll leave me to places I know nothing about,
Some space where I float upon slow astral streams
While my memories and meaning fade as lost dreams.
I wish I could bravely face my demise,
But courage is held by the faithful—not wise,
And faith falls at the feet of the words I despise:
That eventually, ultimately, everyone
Dies.

© 2017 Edward J. Gordon. All rights reserved.

Late Flowers



Late Flowers

by Edward Gordon

What is it with flowers that bloom in October?
Don’t they know the fall is not sober?
They’ll die in a month, but now they will shine?
Where were they hiding in the youth of the springtime?
It’s gone passed them now; it must be too late.
All the roses and Lilies have bloomed.
All were vased and brightened up rooms,
But these purple petals and yellow ones come
Soaking up water and the last of the sun,
Like any time now is better than never,
Or a flash at the end can be worth the beauty.
…and clearly, they’re right, as I stare in fatuity.

© 2017 Edward J. Gordon. All rights reserved.

Upon Meeting Dr. Smith

Upon Meeting Dr. Smith

by Edward Gordon

In He comes with His insulting silence;
It lets me know if i mattered He’d speak.
i don’t know His name (we never did meet),
But what kind of rube would not kiss His feet?

He’s better than me, so how’d i miss it?
With stature like mine it’s not hard to do.
Tried a “hello,” but to Him i just spit:
There are no hello’s from such dwindled bits.

i’m trash with a privilege to listen to
The greater-than-me who mumbles his words,
While knowing i’m cursed to do all i can
To keep me the mouse that keeps him The Man.

i’m chronically insignificant.
i could live with it if He’d leave the room,
But here He is with His butt in my chair,
So what can i do but not breathe his air?

© 2009 Edward J. Gordon. All rights reserved.

The Hanged Man



The Hanged Man

by Edward Gordon

Have a bite on the hand that feeds you
And know it never gives enough
Not giving just a little more when
God knows it could give so much
Every dog must have its day, too
Don't think yourself the worse
My friend, it's nobler what you do
Already hand's inside its purse
Now give it your best and give it its curse

© 2017 Edward J. Gordon. All rights reserved.

Beautiful Mallard



Beautiful Mallard

by Edward Gordon

A beautiful mallard
Ate a beautiful minnow
Before I shot it
On a beautiful lake
Made by God.

© 2017 Edward J. Gordon. All rights reserved.

Upon Visiting Ludwig



Upon Visiting Ludwig

by Edward Gordon

Feeling the grooves of his name and time
When I shoveled my heart into the earth with him
And I left a melancholy grave behind
To bury the best it has ever been.

© 2010 Edward J. Gordon. All rights reserved.

Mississippi Shack



Mississippi Shack

by Edward Gordon

Mississippi shack
Incumbent in grass
Wasn’t it ever new?
Windows out, just half glass
No water, door, electric, or gas.
Tenured spirits watch from within
Cars rushing by with brand new kids,
But try as they might, they can't comprehend:
When does a hell of a long life end?

© 2010 Edward J. Gordon. All rights reserved.

Autumn's Fog



Autumn's Fog

by Edward Gordon

Fog sneaks in the trees silent-muting their tops 
And makes its way down to the pavement I walk.
Wiping its mist from the hair on my arms, 
I’m suddenly wet in the cool coming on. 
For dark mornings grow up in the autumn at dawn,
And fog falls in the fall without any alarms.

(c) Edward Gordon, October, 2017

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Thoughts of Substance


The existence of things is separated by the graduation of reality: A dream is real until one wakes up, then the world is real, until one dies, then the higher-self is real, until one ascends, then consciousness is real, until it rests, then only the mind exists, until the mind stops, then substance remains as it always has.

Change occurs most at the lowest levels of reality and stills as things become more real. The Substance is eternally still, but the mind marches on according to rules that give rise to consciousness, which longs to perceive, so it imagines beings who go here and there seeking anything new, only to find out in a dream that nothing remains the same even for a moment.

Because the Substance is the only real thing and is infinite and unchanging, change can only occur at levels of less reality. We are separated from the Divine not by space or time or knowledge or nature. We are separated by reality. It is real, we are less so.

At the level of Substance, everything is solid and unchanging, but a little further down and the mind makes universes by laws that run like clockwork, and just down from that is consciousness which perceives it all through modalities of selves that incarnate into the physical world. And when those selves create dreams, those things in the dream are the least real of all.

So, nothing is really changing, but it always seems to be. And this is just the way things are with Substance. Do not ask where Substance comes from, because it is the only real thing. Don’t ask when it came to exist, because there never was a state of being when it didn’t exist. It is all that exists, so it always has existed.

The Substance is infinite, so at lower levels of reality, change seems to occur, but that change will occur infinitely, and so it is still confined within the Substance that never changes.

Substance experiences nothing new, not ever. Never has. But then Substance doesn’t experience at all.

Substance is not a person, but all persons are Substance. Substance is not a thing, but all things are Substance.

If you scream to wake up, you find yourself in your bed. If you scream some more, you find yourself. If you then scream some more, you will disappear altogether, because consciousness is not a self, but all selves are consciousness.

Substance is not God. God is the self and nothing more. God is just two steps up from a dream: Dream, incarnation, self…consciousness, mind, Substance. So, from the highest point of reality, God is not real. To the Substance, God would be like something a character in your dream imagined.

But then, on the other side of a dream, Substance is waiting as it always has been.

Edward J. Gordon
October 8, 2017

Monday, October 2, 2017

Stephen Paddock is Finally Famous!



Stephen Paddock is unfortunately not a mystery. He is the symptom of a disease the world has developed.

The Western World has grown so narcissistic that Paddock’s horrible acts of violence will continue. It’s not hard to figure out why. If you've ever met a narcissist, you know how enraged they become when they go unnoticed. So, what happens when they grow old?

It's a sociological phenomenon that as a person grows older society pulls away from them. The young take over and push the old aside. So, an aging narcissist will naturally become more insulted the longer they live, because they will not be pushed aside.

Nevertheless, as the world marginalizes them, it's not a far stretch to imagine they might seek a little payback. After all, there is a way to make the world notice them once and for all. All they have to do is beat the death toll of the last mass murderer. Then the world will know their name! And now we know the name, Stephen Paddock, don’t we?

You could argue that this is all just aberrative pathology. It’s unfortunate, but rare. It's a tale of the Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and it's always been with us. But there's a problem: The modern world is breeding narcissists; it’s become the new normal.

In a hundred ways, the world tells you that you’re nothing if you’re not a genius on Jeopardy, a contestant on a Master Chef, a singer on America's Got Talent, a litigant on Judge Judy. Something—anything. You’re nothing if not a celebrity. To spectate is to lose. With so many cameras in the world, how could you go so unnoticed?  If your personality is not worldwide, why should your personality even exist? 
Stephen Paddock: greatest mass shooter in
U.S. history—as of the time of this writing.

Every show you watch, every magazine you see while reduced to standing in a line at Walmart tells you the same thing about yourself: If you’re not young, model-esque, energetic, super-confident, and getting all the recreational sex, with all the beautiful people who recognize how cool and winning you are, and most of all, if there are no cameras to record any of it—you are nothing to the world. You’re condemned to watch the world and be ignored by it at the same time.

So, Paddock was bound to happen—and is bound to happen more frequently. Our society is has become a sugary medium for narcissism. With mass communication, the ease of publishing and producing books and videos, the ever-increasing population, and all the news all the time, featuring anything anyone does that will bring even one more viewer, narcissism finds its perfect petri dish.

The grand existential question is no longer “Who am I?” but, “Who will notice me?” There is no longer any such thing as being proud of oneself. Self-esteem is now based on how many views your Facebook video gets, how many “likes” your post generates, how many people will notice your selfie above the billions of others trying to be noticed. Happiness is attention.

In a world of narcissism, everyone stands up, but no one stands out, and when secular sanctification is all anyone wants, life can be very disappointing. Narcissism motivates a person, but as they fail to rise in the media they see on their computers, phones, and television, and as they get older and societal separation is assured, the world becomes one big slight.

Stephen Paddock is not a mystery. What he did is inescapably predictable, and in the context of a mad world, maybe even rational: Why die unnoticed?