Perhaps we a becoming a love sick nation. Looking at hearts and bodies and longing so hard. Our poetry becomes very abstract because perhaps we are in such pain about our separation from others. We feel that no matter how much work and food and booze we consume we are aching inside. Is it enough to have luxury, to have dreams for the future, to look good to our fellow man when the pit in our stomach is grinding away in there with no way of expressing it, with no language for love. Feeble efforts make us feel less sensitive in the end. Who knows where modern man will find himself. Some day the earth will heat up in our greed or explode from nukes and the machines we have created will be the last thing to decay after the cockroaches. The positive message is just to stop being lame and coy and fearful about our needs. I mean me I'm doing a bit better. I have a sense of how important this thing called love is. I'm not playing naive or wasting my time on bull. Progress is not only about the future, which may never be, life can be so tragic, Romeo can die in a second as a building can collapse in his heart. Statues can get erected of great men and women as the legacy of a person out weighs or deepest existential needs. Our money will not purchase what we are after, our money is just something that could buy a palace and slaves, even a harem, ever after, sun falling down, rain showers, a hand clutches outward for an Authentic Experience, Contentment, Ecstasy Blooming, Growing, Changing, and Scattering. What is human? To chase our tails to fight and fight for something we do not understand because we were told to look away from our hearts desire. Like a painting of the sea, waves can be imagined, sound of the ocean spray, seagulls making there calls. Yet the painting is not real. Even when touched it has very little to give. So give. Give. Clean the mind with sand blasting. Be open to the possibilities. The hour glass never pours backwards but always slowly moves relentlessly forward.