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Sunday, just-past Sunday |
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Culture?
Ha.
Teapots telling time to Amontillado
Notebooks - "In hell there is no beer"
Candles obviously molested by pudgy hands
Sandpaper and a broken die next to teapot
Ahmad Tea glances down at shiny cylinder
As the lamp glows against the blinds
The light in the transition of a bloody rage of ninja
Over obelisk big screen topped by dwarf avatar
So it is, we build our peculiar nests
Rummage in them like peculiar pets
Daydream of validation and love one day
Visions of butterflies and warm woolen pines
That memory of beauty bubbling out gleeful
Popping across the third eye like Monkey
Playful, a hint of deathgreed layered in ancient haunts
Lost loves among the daffodils and thick drooping moss
Beer mug full of 5-times brewed tea and bucket of life
All ideas in things even in the stomach of the night.
Gleaming through smudged blueframe apartment windows
Eyes across space soulgraze dismay we fall and fade
Ashes curling through pothole alleys as children laugh and scream
A horn on the forehead, prehensile tail.
America's Motto for 2008 = "We make all the rules, and obey none of them."
Onward into it, then, we'll use our artificial chromosomes to build armies of small creatures to do our bidding, swarm control lifts and machines that run on the energy of thousands of little feet.
Or just put ourselves to work, hamster balls that turn turbines and shift the water about, electric insect machine.
Idea from the cob building book - "Everytime you use a machine for something, you lose some of your power." Oohrah, forgetmenots scattered on the medians of the endless highways.
Mirages
Battered old head, a vision today
Walking in 4 am sleep dep haze
How long was I ignoring the asphalt god?
Surely this massive tangle of black stone
Slouching across the hills like fallen silk
Has a face, a name, a purpose.
Today in a different place than yesterday,
The subtle desert whisper across sage
Shadows bobbing close and near
Distorted like rumbling beasts charging blindly
Toward some hivemind understood distant unknown…
Gods…
Maybe Tolstoy is right and it's all determined,
Maybe we are totally severed floating in space as Sarte,
What can be said about the lure of such balms?
Our heavy patriarchal ribbon roar of commerce
That weaves us among forests and cliffs and seas
He claims his sacrifices of the unwary and unlucky
Jesus' Golgotha suit in twigs under a blackened tree
Long greasy spots on interstates with anguish metal scars
Dread and laughing, perhaps, as he sees us so temporary
Laid down as wide as he is, he will never be obscured
Until that fateful day of smoldering molten annihilation in the core
Enshallah, the Muslims say,
"If God wills it."
Well.
If Time wills it, it will be, eh?
Everturning wheel named Inevitability.
Never know until looking back
And then the question of one's salinity
Rises quickly to the fore.
And the kukri descends whipsaw blur
Cuts off the haunting pestilence, if lucky,
If the strike is untrue the circles are shattered
Broken ends splayed across the conscience
Storm battered broken butterflies of remorse
Fluttering around the charred ruins of a bridge.
But on foggy roads with the long walk to anywhere…
It may be wise to offer some silent mind to Papa Asphalt.
This was really good, reminded me of old silent movies I used to watch. Those first 8 lines, less feeling, more silence, more objects, but the emotion is still very real. The teapot, the beer mug, the silence, the pure and sacred silence. The blinds, the avatar, the light breaking in, the light of hope and God. All %u2018things%u2019 do surrender to feeling. Enjoyed reading your poem.