Connective Perspective

The poem below was written in stages, and inspired by many things, experiences both good and bad.  The darker aspects of this writing were actually about a story my grandmother told me regarding what happened after my Aunt Cathy passed away.

Cathy’s death happened suddenly and under strange circumstances.  I’ve written about it here, in an effort to get it out and try and make some sense of it.  What  was already overwhelming and horrible became even more tragic after my grandma told me her story, because it really illustrated to me how greed can corrupt and make people lose sight of humanity and basic human decency.

My aunt was an organ doner when she died, and before they cremated her my grandma received a call from the company who takes care of organ harvesting.  At some point during the conversation,  she learned that they were a FOR PROFIT company and what was supposed to be a final good deed turned into another way for greedy corporate interests to line their pockets.

My Grandmother was pretty firm from the get-go that she would only allow them to harvest the major organs, what could be used to help people the most, what Cathy would have wanted.  The company refused to listen to her request of “just those things” and insisted on going over every last bone, sinew, muscle, all of it down the list, even after Grandma clearly stated what she would allow.  So she went through the list and after she said “No” to the majority of the list, they told her they suddenly lost the file and made her do it all over again.

Can you imagine, mourning the loss of a loved one and then having a company call you up and insist on going over every last inch of that person’s body, who you will NEVER see again?    AFTER you had already, specifically stated that you are only comfortable with these certain things.  THEN, if that wasn’t insulting enough, emotionally exhausting enough, they tell you they lost the file and make go over the list one more time.  Then during this morbid conversation, you learn that someone is profiting on the body of your loved one.

I was disgusted when I heard about this and it is what inspired the part about corporate carrion crows, and desecrated slaves.   Now that I’ve thought about it some more, I think that is an insult to crows. Crows don’t have pockets.

When I wrote that part I was very angry and to be honest writing about this now has me feeling a bit angry again…

I don’t know the name of the company, I don’t know if my grandmother does anymore either, but I’d like to at least let people know what could happen.  I’m not against organ donation.  I’m not against people getting help that need it if the help is offered, or the body going to help advance science and medicine, but I do have a big problem with the lack of humanity that was displayed that day and the sheer lack of empathy by that employee.  I’m a bit disgusted to find out that something we all think of as an altruistic final act just serves to line the pockets of some messed up people.

I think things like this and the whole other multitude of problems we have really speak to the divide that exists in our world, how the planet and it’s people have been reduced to numbers on a graph on a daily basis in the name of profit.

Anyway enough ranting, here’s the poem.

Yes I am crazy

It comes with its challenges
My baggage.
The pain and the programming
The physical, spiritual, psychic scars
You get by,
Trying to be well adjusted,
To a profoundly sick society,
That might be from mars.

J krishnamurti could see the separation of me from we.

A fundamentally flawed perspective,
Is one that’s not connective.
Cuz whether or not you’re aware
That connections still there
And you put out comes back around.

The difference between a true master and slave is the difference between drowning and being the wave.

Scarcity is scary for someone who has everything that’s made out of nothing.

Look at how these

Messing with our destiny.
Trying to turn us into zombies.
Of a so called modern day and age…

And they turn profits
on desecrated slaves.
As desecrated prophets
Turn in desecrated graves

But we can still lift the fallin’

But who are they?
We could point fingers at everyone,
But what does that get done?

Let’s take responsibility
Let go of the apathy
Let go of the illusion
Of Me vs we

We can still lift the fallin’

Best believe that ultimately
We can all find strength and beauty
in our unity.
Make it a priority
creativity and opportunity
In our insanity.
Forever Free

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