PLANETARY STATUS REPORT!

March 6, 2026March 6, 2026

MOVE

I move in spite of my surroundings,
a wanderer immersed in lies,
I stop to gain direction and compass,
but I am left with nothing.

I move,
to gain breath,
I see,
clearly I am seeing now,
and if my voice cries out,
even though the shore is still distant,
God still hears me… Maybe…

Or,
God may screen my calls,
God may place me on ignore,
waiting for the celestial search results from Google.

All nature must conform,
All of creation must be co-opted and secured,
So my movements bring nothing.

I move despite God or gods,
I move to spite the gods,
I move away from the Devil,
I move because I have no choice.

I move and the moving changes everything.

March 6, 2026March 6, 2026

GRINKEN TIME

Grinken Time is almost here,
every fool should grab a beer.

Stand upright for the coming storm,
don't be afraid to oppose the norm,
expect a fire to burn up high,
and on a cloud His time is nigh.

Grinken time will be a hoot,
take a bite of the poison fruit.

Your olden day times are gone,
your parents are buried in the grave,
no one to save the lost throng,
as songs saved breathe air into a beast,
something ugly as Yeats said,
coming from the EAST.

An elder view from behind the hill,
casting iron in tired will,
persistent and enticing,
life and bread and water,
the slaughter,
the kill,
tested watchers still.

As day turns to dusk,
land fills with fire,
the city crier becomes a liar,
when his whisper is heard,
a muffled thump,
the sun rises,
you hear the bell ...

"All is well."
"All is well."

100 travelers make the break,
as waves crash higher and higher,
weary of their world gone by,
staving off the brash young wolves,
not taken,
not broken,
not ready.

"Steady my child" said old Keith,
all his teeth knocked out by the Gergin-Thieves,
"Stake out your BIG STAND"
and he pointed beyond the hills,
"A killer wind is carrying us along",
no song from Keith,
just passage.

GRINKEN TIME is for the BRAVE,
a quiet chain around your neck,
you can bust out,
stop being a slave,
accept the blood price,
ever nice,
as forks give way to knives,
and lives are tossed onto the pyre,
the town crier is first to burn.

Did we learn this time?

Did we gather wisdom and mead?

Did we get what we need?

Are the seeds abandoned on rocky ground?

A sound unleashed from the depths,
for sly cheaters and grifter slime,
a time turns over from corn syrup to blood,
and like a dud this "century" ends.

A rotten promise from a "friend",
a careless tryst with hooker fiends,
and in the KARMA laughter is heard,
no more words for this crooked scene,
spread upon the sands.

A gift from the ages,
for those left behind,
you won't find an exit,
just a whisper,
"Welcome to GRINKEN TIME!"

"HAVE A NICE FRAY!"