The Evolution of Humanity
(The Heavens and the Earth)
There is no Time.
There is no Space.
There is no Matter
that lives with grace.
The beginning begins with Badídee,
an emotional rawness in vitro,
a self-absorbed psyche withering up
as he incarcerates all that there is
tightly within his bodiless bosom,
untouching, unseeing, unmoving.
Feeling his hold on eternity
evaporate from the pores of his demise,
Badídee turns inward to his feminine self,
to the side he has ruled and repressed,
raping her as a last act of defiance.
And she, Monatu, the Mother of nature,
chokes life from Badídee as she receives
the very seeds of his defiance
into her own bodiless bosom,
and from those seeds conceives the Cosmos,
Time and Space and Matter,
demanding unwavering order from each,
unwavering order without excess.
In Time, she crafts the immortal soldier
marching forward, ever so consistently,
into an eternal future of harmony
and dissonance, bestowing on this
warrior of the wary the tedious task
of measuring the age of all things real,
and the burden of carrying all real things
to their natural and orderly end.
But Time without Space is like the psyche
of Badídee, untouching, unseeing, unmoving,
destined to shrivel and die a stagnant death.
And so the Mother of Time fashions Space
into an unending battleground
for Time’s forward march into the future,
making room for the perpetual
procreation of Matter from Matter.
To her offspring Matter, Monatu machinates
the mobility of movement in Space
and the unencumbered ability
to metamorphose without restraint
but with mortality as its price tag.
Once the Mother of all things real
propels Time into ever expanding Space,
accommodating a continuum
of Matter begetting Matter begetting,
she grants free will to the begot,
establishing a guideless Cosmos
whose destiny is anything but providential.
As this Triad cries out its first gasp for life,
Monatu’s afterbirth spills across her bosom
causing Time to blink, and Space to Shrink Matter
into a single mass, first imploding inward,
then exploding outward with a bang,
catapulting solar systems of molten Matter
onto the shoulders of Time,
as this custodian of reality
gallops close behind the heels of Space
in their unending drive toward eternity.
It is during this stampede into chaos
That a raging river of red
flows from the spine of Time
Coalescing into the Sun,
and the Earth and her siblings, and it is here,
through the umbilical cord of gravitation,
that a daughter of the Cosmos,
gyrating in concert with her ecosphere,
receives the sustenance to support life.
We now have Time..
We now have Space.
Can we ever have Matter
that will live with grace?
Swirling blobs of ionized gasses,
communicating globs of plasma ashes,
enveloping storms of lightning masses,
sire the cellular saddle upon which
evolution rides the genitals of Time.
And so, the ancestors of humanity
conceived out of explosive skies,
step onto dry beds of vegetation
from the sea beds of coral reefs,
still dripping ink from Darwinian wells.
Those ancestral creatures from the distant past
traverse the solidity of Earth,
first on their bellies, then all fours,
suckling its surface, determined to live,
as a newborn suckles its mother’s breast.
With ever present Time madly driving
awakening dusk towards sleeping dawn,
ever changing seedlings of evolution
germinate the Earth’s rich soil
with living links of sustenance
forged together into mighty chains
by which life is preciously held together.
And across this chain of sustenance,
life forms learn to cope by their wits…or not at all,
the witless drowning into extinction
in their own pool of Darwinian ink,
the witful intuitively understanding
Monatu’s demand for order without excess!
And so, in this small sector of the cosmos,
with Monatu’s descendants hard wired
to assure their survival … or not,
Time gallops towards eternity
as sister Space accommodates
the begetting of Matter from Matter,
species from species from species,
Time’s ageless spine sweeping across the Earth
with the mindless movement of a clock
gradually killing off witless life forms
foolishly finding themselves in its path,
much like the calm eye of a tornado,
blinded by its own violent vorticity,
touching down indiscriminately
over the lives of unfortunate souls
having not the sense to avoid its wake.
As eons pass, species come and species go,
the witful ones climbing up the spine of Time
staying out of his shadow, above the fray,
learning to keep themselves out of harms way.
As they are carried through millenniums,
these creatures of wit quietly metamorphose
into ever growing links in Earth’s food chain,
links forged into interlocking conjunction
with each other by driving needs to live.
And they do so without protest, without question,
they do so blind to their own creation,
they do so according to Monatu’s
demands for order without excess.
Order, order is our creed,
excess, excess defines our need.
we can think and so we are,
and so we think and are no more.
Within the blink of a cosmic eye,
while Monatu, Mother of Nature, sleeps,
the life form called mankind appears on Earth,
not from a garden of imagination
or from the flick of a deified wand,
but as a branch of the Hominidae
those upright walkers of ancient times
who drank from Darwinian Wells to sire
the Neanderthal, the ape, and the chimp,
along with their cousins, man and woman.
As Time gallops from eon to eon,
the human brain begins to thrive
with confidence to survive, to stay alive,
and keep all predators at bay,
Hominids who demand their say,
and have the dire need to pray.
Humans displaying intellect and mirth,
exceptional attributes on Monatu’s earth.
Thousands of cries creep across the cosmos,
cries of need buried deep within the seed of fear
of what lies beyond the human psyche,
beyond the grasp of mankind’s ability
to cope with its unrelenting need
to move out from the shadows of order
and into the rays of enlightenment,
exaggerated cries to imagined gods,
bringing stunning Stillness to her knees
and then shattering her brittle bruised bones
into a cacophony of echoing shrills.
Monatu awakens to this assault
upon the very cosmos she gave birth to,
an assault by rancid fumes of burning flesh,
rants of sacrifice to gods of vapor,
to Zeus, Aphrodite, Odin, Vidar
and other deities of paper.
Never since the wailing of Badídee
when she choked the life from his bosom
had Monatu heard such impaling screechings,
thunderous beseechings, and arrogant demands
that mankind be heard by its gods.
This gentle architect of Creation,
this grantor of free will to the begot,
listens quietly to the rants and raves
emanating from those anomalies,
those creatures calling themselves human beings.
They are like no other witful life form
living within Monatu’s ordered domain,
life forms that consume within the food chain
only to the extent needed to survive,
life forms that seek shelter sparingly,
life forms that kill only out of necessity,
life forms that would never murder or maim
in the name of imagined deities.
And like the volcano that first erupts
with a majestic plume of blackened ash
foreshadowing impending disaster,
Monatu erupts from her quiescence,
spewing these certitudes to her offspring …
Pray to gods if you will and if you must,
and live your lives beyond the cusp.
But should you transgress
consuming more than is needed,
my order unheeded,
should you murder and maim
and mess with my earth until it goes lame,
should you do these things in part or in whole,
your species will die as do all witless souls!
She’s no writer of psalms, or carver of tablets.
nor does she whisper of teachings divine.
Just a painter of colors, a sculptor of clay,
colors and clay destined to dance
to Nature’s own rhythms,
once kissed by Her brush
and formed by Her fingers.
Then she leaves them alone,
the colors and clay,
to make their own way,
she leaves them alone — to live and decay.
With layers of paint she composes the sea,
icy swirls of turquoise and teal,
turquoise and teal — clutching surreal
upon the white froth of bluish green waves
breaking away from the strokes of Her knife.
Thickly applied grays and thinly placed whites
pound against translucent crosswinds,
as streaks of viridian and violet glaze
quiet the intensity of Nature’s hand.
The icy swirls, the breaking waves,
the translucent crosswinds,
a crescendo of hues,
of blues, of yellows, of reds
reaching a Beethovenian climax,
resolve into a respite of calm,
into magical moments of reflection,
a mirage quickly shattered by the onslaught
of still another motherly surge
of painterly energy.
Holding the pallet knife, heavy with paint,
She lights up the sky with cerulean
and whites — and lays down the moon,
modulating this ocular scene
with raining beads of dripping magenta
and slight traces of ultramarine.
In the shadows of silence,
a frightening fury
thunders out from electrified clouds
hovering over an ambivalent sea,
and just as quickly dissipates
in synch with the Maestro’s music,
leaving behind in the wake of his chords
a respite of calm, a brief moment
when tangerine peels are caught dancing
on turquoise and teals.
With sun softened clay and much more to do,
this Matriarch of Matter brings into view
a collage of mountainous peaks
trespassing into cerulean space —
and serving as homes to imagined gods.
These phallic intruders of the oceans
and earthy violators of airspace
begin their unwavering assault
from awaiting birth-rooms of life,
the barren plains and sea-beds
that define the canvas upon which
this Artist composes Her creation
— once again.
And once again no doubt
her creation will be unmade by humanity
in the name of something greater.