Languages and Viruses

Some writers use poetry

To propound great thoughts

Through deeply intoned vowels,

But poetry is only language,

And you can use it as if

Chatting with a friend

About passing daysScreenshot 2019-02-19 at 14.01.53

And pastimes.

You can pull them in,

Get a laugh or two,

And make them

Trust you

Before thrusting

The knife deep

Into the abdomen,

Drawing it up

Toward the eyes,

As you let evidence

Of your betrayal

Provoke glares of

Rage and bewilderment

That linger in

Those final moments.


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The Kids are Proper Communists (#poem)

(Note: This poem is about the younger generation in general and not about specific individuals.)

I’ve always supported freedom and equalityScreenshot 2019-02-18 at 09.28.18

I wanted minorities to have equal opportunity.

I believed in promoting a liberal social order,

Showing non-aggression and peace at the border.

I wanted to teach the world to live in perfect harmony,

So that our new Utopia would all be down to me,

But my kids are proper communists,

They want to overthrow the state.

They will give everyone what they need,

And take whatever the wealthy can pay.

Workers will take the means of production,

And profit will be a thing of the past.

Even if there’s no greed reduction,

The billionaire power will never last.

They’ve declared private property a lie,

And reliance on investment income will die.

The worker and his value no longer alienated.

The greed of the bourgeoisie no longer sated.

My kids are proper communists,

Syndicalism will arrive any day.

My kids are proper communists.

You better get the hell out of the way.

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East Texas tribute to Robert Burns (#poem)

I wrote this poem for a Burns Night celebration.

Now ol’ Robbie Burns was a good ol’ boy,

And we good ol’ boys stand up for each other.

But that ol’ boy was less cowboy and more of a lover.

That scoundrel was wilder than an acre of snakes,

And he thought the sun rose just to hear him crow.

He’d chase anything in a skirt that shakes,

Whether for love or just for show.

He hated farm work and was a real buzzard if you get what I say.

He got his mother’s servant, Elizabeth, in a family way,

But Robbie already had his mind on one Miss Jean Amour,

But Jean’s father said her and Robbie’s love would be no more.

Robbie didn’t mind as he loved another lady, Mary, anyway.

And he expected to get hitched to her any day.

I tell ya that boy was so full of himself he could strut while sittin’ down,

And when it came to the ladies, Lord, he sure did get around.

He was just fixin’ to move to the Carribean

To marry Mary when she up and died,

And he published a book of pretty good poetry,

And decided to stay in Scotland with a braggart’s pride.

So what in tarnation did that boy do next

But up and move to Edinburgh to make his fame.

When he couldn’t get in Nancy McLehose’s pants,

He just got out his cards and dealt a new game.

He started wooing her servant, Jenny,

And got himself a son from this new flame.

As he got older and his fame grew,

He moved back to the country to start life anew.

He gave up the wild ways of his past,

And joined Jean Amour in a marriage that would last.

Together they had nine children, but only two survived.

They stayed married till the end, but he was only 37 when he died.

During his life, Robbie was known for many of his wrongs,

But you can bet your sweet behind he wrote great poems and songs.

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Ancestral Burden

They say we carry the dead with us,wren footprint
And most are surprised by the weight.
We hoist them up on our shoulders,
And imagine our strength is adequate.

But invariably we fault and stumble.
We stagger and trip and fall.
We can’t see a way out of this trouble.
Each partition becomes a wailing wall.

We drop them in the middle of our marriage.
We trip over them when we try to dance.
We always feel disparaged,
As the dead look on askance.

So bury your dead before too long.
Let them rest and rot in the ground.
And you’ll find you will grow strong.
If you don’t keep the corpses around.

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Monsters (#poem)

It’s years since I slitheredbegging devil
From the antediluvian muck
And took my first steps
In a reeking miasma.
Prying open eyes
Unaccustomed to light,
I recognised, first, evil.
I awoke to enemies.
I set out with purpose.
They must be dispatched hastily
For the good of the world.
I drove a stake through the heart.
A rake across the face.
Forced hands into wood shredders.
Poured molten lead through ears.
Drug bone saws across the crotch.
Water boarded with acid.
Castrated and then decapitated.
Immersed in boiling oil.
My knees crushed the trachea.
A sledge hammer smashed the spine.
I yanked fingernails from their beds.
I opened and salted wounds.
I disregarded feelings.
I disrespected wishes.
I locked grudges indefinitely.
But all my efforts have failed.
The monsters, demons, and evil spirits
Are still with me.
If you wish to stay,
You must get to know them.

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A New Riddle of Cosmology (#Poem)

An explosion beyond comprehension sent allimg_2072

The ingredients of the cosmos careening through the void.

Light, matter, and energy diffused chaotically,

Taking billions of years (as we now know them)

To fall into some kind of order, to establish

Some vaguely predictable interactions of

Cosmic proportion. Somehow, trillions of

Particles began to cooperate to form

Molecules of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen,

oxygen, phosphorus and sulphur.

Countless others scattered to the stars as well,

Of course, but light and heat and magnetic waves

Traveled 93 million miles from the sun

To make arrangements with carbon and the

Others on Earth just to produce you,

With your weakness for basic arithmetic

And your strange susceptibility to allergies.

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Perception (#poem)

What if the hyperreal really isn’t real,img_3901 (1)
And the news never happened?

Our perceptions are just pixels, photons,
Bits and bytes scattered on a screen.

Gods and monsters both just
Misapprehensions of a troubled mind.

But whose mind is responsible for
The anxiety provoking representation?

Surely some eternal consciousness
Has not conspired to create in you

The illusion of evil and the construction
Of unlimited chaos battering the bulwark

Of what was once known as rational thought,
The eternal barrier against the evil of doubt.

So rest easy, troubled child, your current form
Is ephemeral and passes in an instant.

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