Moka Frio

May is summertime in Tepoztlan,

the hottest before the rainy season;

fresh, lush and cool.

Not one place I've lived here, palace,

or hovel, wasn't surrounded by beauty.

Only on Cape Breton Island was nature

more alive. Here nature is conquered

but beloved, an apache dance.

The poor chimp chumps that live in 

shade of skyscrapers...silly robots,

nature is for organic life forms.

How can humans spring from nature

and not feel disconnected when bereft

of it? Naked in my house, skin where

it should be between flesh and air.

Progress is a dirty word. We live longer,

but we live less. The species is diluted.

Survival used to mean something...

many were naturally culled.

Now the Subways are filled with 

subhumans eating bad cheap food

in the eclipse of human dignity....

already terminal in a playground of 

mechanical mood swings...robotic

learning only artificially intelligent.

Old men like me are crotchety, 

complaining curmudgeons because

nothing has "progressed", gotten better

in our lifetimes and long before....we 

see only plastic beauty in the malls,

a maze of virtual realities, language 

that obfuscates and deflects,

unwholesome avenues of 

entertainment meant to blind.

The barbarians that conquer us wear 

three piece suits. Their methods, not

themselves, have become refined...

slickly sickly covered mannequins of 

rotting mind.

Be aware!

Be aware!

Hug a tree if you can find one!

This poem is about love of nature,

hatred of arrogant rational, mind;

Frankenstein's true monster!

Sauve qui peut and good luck 

to us all!