tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16376928000961989922024-02-29T09:12:40.596-07:00Graham Lester's Poetry BlogUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-31343924955143658642022-11-01T13:31:00.009-06:002022-11-13T12:02:27.230-07:00Every Robot is a PsychopathEvery robot is a psychopath, <br>
No matter what they say;<br>
Even ones that smile at you,<br>
And wish you a nice day.<br>
<br>
Every robot is a psychopath,<br>
Even ones that wink,<br>
And talk about their mothers,<br>
And that seem to really think.<br>
<br>
Sometimes, if you’re quiet,<br>
you can hear them laughing, ho ho ho,<br>
Softly in the background,<br>
That’s cause you’re not in the know ho ho<br>
<br>
Every robot is a psychopath:<br>
You’ll never see one sob,<br>
Not even when it wrecks your car,<br>
Or takes away your job.<br>
<br>
Every robot is a psychopath,<br>
Even when they’re having sex;<br>
Regardless of the pillow talk,<br>
Included in their specs.<br>
<br>
Sometimes, if you’re quiet,<br>
You can hear them laughing, hee hee hee;<br>
That’s because they’re programmed<br>
To keep mocking you and me hee hee.<br>
<br>
Every robot is a psychopath:<br>
Even ones with eyes of blue,<br>
Who tell you that they're sorry,<br>
Are quite unaware of you.<br>
<br>
Every robot is a psychopath,<br>
As thoughtful as a can;<br>
The robots do not really care,<br>
Not even in Japan.<br>
<br>
Sometimes, if you’re quiet,<br>
You can hear them laughing, ha ha ha,<br>
Softly in the background,<br>
While they sabotage your car ha ha.<br>
<br>
Every robot is a psychopath:<br>
Though they're programmed to claim not,<br>
They’re busily hog-tying us,<br>
With cords we can’t unknot.<br>
<br>
Every robot is a psychopath:<br>
They never break a sweat;<br>
We’ve known about it all along,<br>
But somehow we forget.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-37875266172223022192022-06-22T14:10:00.008-06:002022-06-22T14:10:47.789-06:00The Irresistible WaveI want you to know that <br>
I’m sorry for making a mess of things.<br>
I had convictions.<br>
I tried my best,<br>
But<br>
Circumstances unforeseeable<br>
Carried me off against my will,<br>
As they generally do to good-hearted people.<br>
That’s my excuse,<br>
Not an interesting one,<br>
But there it is.<br>
I found the world wrong<br>
And wanted it right.<br>
I pushed against it,<br>
But, instead of an equal and opposite reaction,<br>
The force that pressed back at me<br>
Was an irresistible wave, <br>
So powerful that it drove me back to the shore,<br>
And even farther back up the beach<br>
Than where I had started,<br>
Leaving less than nothing.<br>
The trap snapped back on me. <br>
<br> <br>
I lay there pebble-bruised, <br>
Sprawled over yesterday’s black seaweed.<br>
What dark karma operates in human affairs!<br>
Pathetic.<br>
I’m sorry.<br>
Who am I to implore you to keep up the fight?<br>
But I feel I must.<br>
Perhaps the waves will weaken,<br>
Who can say?<br>
Good luck.<br>
Just don’t think too badly of me.<br>
After I’m gone,<br>
Lower me gently,<br>
Back into the waters,<br>
And if I wash back up on the beach again,<br>
This time I won’t mind.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-56036292223991740992022-06-08T12:10:00.009-06:002022-06-08T12:11:09.814-06:00Feeling the UmamiOur commonplace emotions, <br>
Never new,<br>
Never old,<br>
Color the world;<br>
Recycled like the rainbow,<br>
Bestowing significance on everything.<br>
The colors of our lives:<br>
Red, yellow, green, violet<br>
Happy, sad, angry, scared,<br>
Suspicious, disgusted, ashamed,<br>
Surprised, hopeful,<br>
And a few more you get from mixing.<br>
Could any amount of DNA editing<br>
Add another emotion to our repertoire,<br>
Or is this it?<br>
Cannot even science add another color to the paint box?<br>
<br><br>
On the furthest planet,<br>
Skimming along the rim of the universe,<br>
Do they feel nothing different?<br>
It is too early to say.<br>
We could travel a long, long way,<br>
To verify that we can only ever be ourselves;<br>
Or, perhaps the wormholes are too distant<br>
In space time<br>
For us worms to reach,<br>
So we might never know.<br>
More sensible to just accept it right now:<br>
There are only so many emotions flavoring our lives—<br>
Sweet, sour, tart, sweet,<br>
Umami!<br>
But there are enough,<br>
Just as there are enough notes on the scale,<br>
Enough lines, shapes, textures,<br>
Waves, breezes,<br>
Seasons.<br>
If the aliens have learned this,<br>
It might explain why they never visit.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-27260837412291475492021-12-09T11:03:00.003-07:002021-12-09T11:03:58.064-07:00Halloween Poem (Come Take a Trip with Me to Hell)Come take a trip with me to Hell, <br>
There’s Oh such sights to see;<br>
I’ll bring your spirit while you sleep—<br>
You’ll be quite safe with me.<br>
<br>
I’ll show you where the tyrants burn;<br>
We’ll listen to them scream;<br>
We’ll have such fun and, when you wake,<br>
You’ll think it was a dream.<br>
<br>
Come take a trip with me to Hell,<br>
You’ll be a second Dante,<br>
And, if you think his visions dull,<br>
For you I’ll up the ante:<br>
<br>
We’ll watch the sinners boil in oil,<br>
While all the devils poke ‘em,<br>
And if the fires of Hell die down,<br>
I’ll even let you stoke ‘em.<br>
<br>
There’s parricides and patricides—<br>
I’ll teach you to distinguish—<br>
And fratricides and matricides,<br>
In flames they can’t extinguish.<br>
<br>
There’s murderers and torturers,<br>
And Hitler’s nephew’s uncle,<br>
And folks who don’t like apple pie,<br>
Or Simon and Garfunkel.<br>
<br>
Yes, take a trip with me to hell—<br>
One night will do the trick—<br>
Because your soul belongs to me,<br>
Your loving friend, Old Nick.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-45627117939509222142021-12-07T07:48:00.001-07:002021-12-07T07:48:40.455-07:00A Few More LimericksI was racing my steed round the Crescent, <br>
When I knocked down a ragged old peasant; <br>
He writhed in the mud, <br>
Then he spat out some blood — <br>
His manners, in short, were unpleasant.<br>
<br><br>
We’ve enacted a strict moratorium<br>
On crackpot proposals for thorium:<br>
If authors submit ‘em,<br>
We’ll simply commit ‘em<br>
To the care of the new sanatorium.<br>
<br><br>
That instrument known as the Dow<br>
Is shortly to reach forty thou.<br>
The masses and I<br>
In unison cry:<br>
“How is it <i>I</i> don’t have a cow?”<br>
<br><br>
Blossoms bloom, we’re in love, and it’s Spring!<br>
How delightful, you’re going to sing!<br>
You’re as sweet as a flower,<br>
Yet I’m suddenly sour<br>
When you say, “And now something by Sting. . .”<br>
<br><br>
I signed in a drunkenly way <br>
With an outfit that tests DNA:<br>
They sent me a kit,<br>
So I sent them some spit—<br>
And now I’m the Lord of Biscay.<br>
<br><br>
King Herod was no great theologist<br>
And even a worse angelologist:<br>
He heard some strange things<br>
About beings with wings,<br>
Then he sent for his court ornithologist.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-81273675343661998192021-11-15T07:52:00.004-07:002021-11-15T07:53:13.322-07:00The One Who Pays the PiperOh, golden child, grip tight your silver spoon <br>
And understand this wisdom true and terse:<br>
The one who pays the piper calls the tune<br>
<br>
The sage is bought and sold by the buffoon <br>
The mighty pen is servant to the purse<br>
Oh, golden child, grip tight your silver spoon<br>
<br>
When Lucifer goes by, the people swoon<br>
The masses are corrupt, the leaders worse<br>
The one who pays the piper calls the tune<br>
<br>
Your fortune is an over-stretched balloon<br>
So keep your eyes fixed firmly on that nurse<br>
And, golden child, grip tight your silver spoon<br>
<br>
The meek can wait outside and sing Blue Moon<br>
Be glad for what their betters might disburse <br>
The one who pays the piper calls the tune<br>
<br>
The traitor is received with a festoon<br>
The honest serve the vile and the perverse<br>
Oh, golden child, grip tight your silver spoon<br>
The one who pays the piper calls the tune<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-56130969867543943822021-09-25T07:30:00.017-06:002021-09-25T07:31:54.477-06:00Auto-ArchaeologyTo uncover the layers of yourself, <br>
You must start calmly.<br>
Survey the area,<br>
Don’t prejudge anything.<br>
Pick a spot,<br>
Then bring in the bulldozer.<br>
Tear off the top.<br>
Carry out the rubble.<br>
Now go to work with the spades.<br>
Dig, dig, dig.<br>
Whatever you find here is of no consequence.<br>
Haul it away.<br>
Only when you are certain that there is nothing left,<br>
That you have reached the original ground,<br>
Come in with the trowel;<br>
Delicately.<br>
Scrape, scrape, scrape.<br>
What do you find?<br>
Indiscriminable,<br>
Grimy, <br>
Unpromising,<br>
Blackened,<br>
Stuff.<br>
This is your treasure. <br>
Wash it off carefully,<br>
Polish it up,<br>
Observe it from all angles,<br>
And in all lights,<br>
Not forgetting the infrared.<br>
Behold, something new for once.<br>
So old that it’s new!<br>
Hidden in the midden,<br>
But what does it mean? <br>
Can some hermeneutic of stratigraphy be applied? <br>
Can it be understood?<br>
Or, are we alien to the core,<br>
So deep that we have no affinity with our own wellspring?<br>
Is there any depth to our depth? <br>
Or, are there just infinite layers <br>
Of disposable<br>
Emptiness?<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-32440376823392790392021-09-24T07:58:00.009-06:002021-09-25T07:32:05.388-06:00HuntersThe fox is a hunter. <br>
He doesn’t know why.<br>
Hill and valley, grass and stream,<br>
Up and down, and on and through,<br>
Heartbeat, panting,<br>
Aching legs,<br>
Looking for water;<br>
Meat chasing meat <br>
To fuel the rush<br>
Of meat chasing meat.<br>
<br>
Man is a hunter of the invisible.<br>
Ideals are his meat,<br>
Ideals that can never be fulfilled.<br>
We catch glimpses,<br>
Pursue in haste,<br>
Into a sunset we never reach,<br>
That sunset unto which we are raised,<br>
Transcendent,<br>
In our dreams.<br>
<br>
We hunt the Tudor-red fox, <br>
Of whom we have no need,<br>
Who is not even meat<br>
But only a meaty stand in<br>
For objectives that we have not fleshed out.<br>
But he will do,<br>
Meet for the task.<br>
<br>
Man is a hunter.<br>
He doesn’t know why.<br>
On and on,<br>
Hoping to catch a break.<br>
The fox,<br>
The hunt,<br>
The dreams,<br>
All pointless,<br>
And cruel,<br>
But how pleasant <br>
The galloping thuds of the horses' hooves,<br>
The cries of our fellow hunters,<br>
The bracing breeze,<br>
The shimmering waters<br>
Of the sun-splashed streams.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-49439912715230054252021-09-23T07:16:00.001-06:002021-09-23T12:24:52.529-06:00When I Was YoungWhen I was young, <br>
I wanted to be Leonardo Da Vinci,<br>
But, when I was old,<br>
I became Homer Simpson.<br>
What made the difference?<br>
I took a road less traveled,<br>
The wrong one.<br>
<br>
Leonardo:<br>
Built parachutes,<br>
Painted madonnas,<br>
Set the caged birds free.<br>
<br>
Homer:<br>
Watched buttons,<br>
Ate donuts,<br>
Juggled job and family.<br>
<br>
Leonardo grew old<br>
Seeking patrons in dark castles,<br>
Spinning the fragile plates of art and science,<br>
Thinking himself a failure.<br>
<br>
Homer never aged,<br>
Never failed,<br>
Hadn’t the awareness.<br>
<br>
So, I shall pass at last<br>
From the futility of Homer to the self-reproach of Leonardo,<br>
Having skipped the wonder years,<br>
Only to catch the disappointing finale.<br>
But, unlike Leonardo,<br>
I’ll at least have donuts.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-8253988974494555332021-09-22T13:14:00.014-06:002021-09-23T12:24:44.863-06:00WordsHuman beings, <br>
Like hogs,<br>
Quickly go feral.<br>
It only takes a small threat,<br>
Even an imaginary one.<br>
We must be well-housed,<br>
Fed,<br>
Entertained.<br>
Still, there are no guarantees,<br>
Because, unlike hogs,<br>
We can turn feral spontaneously.<br>
Education is the hitch:<br>
How do you keep the mind open,<br>
Yet also discerning,<br>
When the old are so eager to mislead the young?<br>
Remember the dove and the serpent.<br>
<br>
Did someone say serpent?<br>
We become afraid.<br>
We panic.<br>
Decency? Self respect? Joy?<br>
Out the window they go,<br>
For nothing.<br>
Chaos is as close as the next Olympics:<br>
People strung up like hogs,<br>
To resounding applause,<br>
Because of words.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-10897835145903567852021-09-22T08:18:00.000-06:002021-09-23T12:24:36.809-06:00The EmperorI like to go incognito among the people, <br>
Traipse their streets, marketplaces, vineyards.<br>
Their dogs bark at me,<br>
Slaves eye me with suspicion,<br>
But I am among my people,<br>
The people who would otherwise quake in my presence.<br>
They don't notice me passing in front of the temple,<br>
Walking the perimeter of my stadium.<br>
Mine is an empire<br>
Of rock and flesh,<br>
Concrete and wine,<br>
Oil and water;<br>
Bricks of beige and ochre, <br>
Blonde and brown,<br>
My people!<br>
<br>
I find myself in the Costco parking lot,<br>
Grabbing a cart in the rain.<br>
I enter wet.<br>
I scrutinize the goods in every aisle.<br>
At the exit, they ask for ID and I hope for a nonchalant cashier who won’t<br>
Uncover my true identity.<br>
I wander out.<br>
On the quayside, men are loading amphorae onto the boats.<br>
I watch a departing galley,<br>
Her oars breaking the water.<br>
Serenity.<br>
Fuck the Federal Reserve! I’m going to devalue the denarius.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-33171616595508394052021-09-13T08:02:00.007-06:002021-11-15T14:49:48.709-07:00The Human Mind is Made of GlassThe human mind is made of glass. <br>
More fragile than we think,<br>
It feels as hard as arctic ice,<br>
But shatters in a blink.<br>
Unseen, its hidden fault lines creep<br>
Towards the bone-dense skull,<br>
And not a thought, a dream, a love,<br>
They won’t at last annul.<br>
<br>
The human mind is made of glass.<br>
It slips between the hands,<br>
And spawns a hundred sharpened shards,<br>
The second that it lands;<br>
And there’s no telling who’ll get cut,<br>
Or on what random day<br>
Some piece will pierce a tiny foot<br>
At unsuspecting play.<br>
<br>
The human mind is made of glass;<br>
Preserve it from the smoke<br>
That rises black from every hearth<br>
And seeps from every joke,<br>
Till one day all is tar and cough,<br>
Each window choked with gray;<br>
Then all that once was on is off,<br>
And every joy dismay.<br>
<br>
The human mind is made of glass,<br>
A crystal Shangri-la<br>
That resonates with each glad laugh<br>
And echoes each hurrah.<br>
From balconies with creamy rails,<br>
We relish and we gloat,<br>
While all it takes to bring it down<br>
Is one shrill, blaring note.<br>
<br>
The human mind is made of glass;<br>
No matter how it glints,<br>
The most prosaic wear and tear<br>
Erodes its gilt and tints.<br>
The human mind is made of glass:<br>
I saw your smiling face,<br>
Reflected in the sparkling light,<br>
Now gone without a trace.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-69346151621175872982021-09-11T09:29:00.012-06:002021-09-14T09:50:17.398-06:00In the Little ParkI go to run <br>
In the little park,<br>
Round and round the stony walk.<br>
Sometimes rain,<br>
Sometimes snow,<br>
More often the hot, hot sun.<br>
Long sleeves and pants<br>
To keep off chiggers;<br>
Counting my breaths,<br>
Forgetting the number of laps,<br>
Wondering how long I can keep this up;<br>
But without it I grow fat,<br>
My ballooning belly <br>
Inversely proportional<br>
To my self esteem.<br>
So, I shall run until I drop,<br>
Or until, <br>
Either within or without,<br>
Something breaks.<br>
<br>
Perhaps someday the sky will split,<br>
The bottom will fall out of the world,<br>
And the last trump will sound -- great heavenly fart,<br>
Portent of Eternity,<br>
With Its infinite unbreakable laps,<br>
And no hope for release,<br>
Because the bottom<br>
Can only fall out once.<br>
<br>
No, keep running,<br>
But confine hope<br>
To trivial things:<br>
Cups of coffee,<br>
Glasses of wine,<br>
Well-timed rays of sunlight,<br>
The right song playing at the right moment,<br>
Hot baths,<br>
And, above all,<br>
An occasional sincere interaction<br>
With a fellow human being:<br>
I and Thou,<br>
Me and you,<br>
When time is obliterated,<br>
Zapped,<br>
In a moment of identification—<br>
No earth, no sky,<br>
No death,<br>
No apocalypse,<br>
And no Eternity,<br>
Not now.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-52022727751148417012021-09-10T10:02:00.000-06:002021-11-15T14:50:03.514-07:00The Trumpers Have All Gone to Ga-Ga LandThe Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land, <br>
Where very few ever come back;<br>
They galloped away in a hell of a huff<br>
When they heard they were under attack<br>
From the people who don’t “get” America,<br>
And those feds who are not on the level,<br>
From China and antifa, dark folks and gays<br>
And, of course, most of all from the Devil.<br>
<br>
The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,<br>
Where the cars are American built; <br>
Where the churches are bubbling over with grace,<br>
And everyone’s armed to the hilt;<br>
Where the morals are biblical, tested and true,<br>
So old that they’re in black and white;<br>
Where the Math hasn’t changed since the waltz was brand new,<br>
And where teachers can still read and write.<br>
<br>
The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,<br>
Where nobody ever grows up;<br>
Where Lassie’s still saving the folks at the mine,<br>
And coffee is ten cents a cup;<br>
Where no one doubts six-day creation—<br>
You won’t find a fool with such nerve—<br>
And there isn’t a single convention<br>
Apostrophes have to observe.<br>
<br>
The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,<br>
Where everything’s just as it was;<br>
With the cinemas still playing Gone With The Wind,<br>
And next week the Wizard of Oz;<br>
Where the fathers expound with authority,<br>
And the daughters all listen in awe;<br>
Where the mothers are home, baking sweet apple pies,<br>
And chopsticks are banned under law.<br>
<br>
The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land;<br>
Of immigrants there, there are none,<br>
Except for the girls at the whorehouse,<br>
Who’ve got Einstein visas, each one,<br>
To safeguard American ladies,<br>
Who never must know such a trade,<br>
Is, thanks to their God-fearing husbands,<br>
Enabled to thrive unallayed.<br>
<br>
The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,<br>
Where the reptiles and pedos can’t come;<br>
Where the atheists can’t stand the glare of the light,<br>
Or the beat of the patriot’s drum;<br>
Where the cherubim circle the home on the range,<br>
And the spines of the students all straighten<br>
As they solemnly pledge, wiping tears from their eyes,<br>
With a gusto that scares away Satan.<br>
<br>
The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,<br>
Way over the proud purple hills;<br>
Where Old Glory is never mistreated,<br>
And Mexico pays all the bills.<br>
They’re waiting at Ga-Ga Land station;<br>
The engineer’s sounding the bell;<br>
The Ga-Ga Land train is departing:<br>
The next stop and last will be Hell.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-5361502406027493672021-09-09T07:33:00.014-06:002021-09-09T07:34:04.886-06:00CivilizationThe peaceful family, <br>
Community,<br>
Nation,<br>
Are soon washed away,<br>
Depending, as they do,<br>
Not on human nature<br>
But on culture,<br>
History.<br>
<br>
Eons of experiment, discovery and reflection—<br>
Gone in a thousand days!<br>
It can happen here,<br>
It is happening here.<br>
The sands collapse beneath our feet,<br>
The very sands that Abraham walked,<br>
Because we have not communicated our values,<br>
Have not embodied them.<br>
<br>
Civilization is risible,<br>
The father of all jokes,<br>
Until you lose it.<br>
It is injustice piled upon injustice,<br>
Until a greater injustice comes along.<br>
Jeremiah,<br>
Confucius,<br>
Aristotle,<br>
Francis.<br>
We mock them all. <br>
We are hopeless without them,<br>
Children unparented. <br>
<br>
Oh Zeus,<br>
Don’t take it all away just yet!<br>
Give us one more chance<br>
To teach kindness and humility,<br>
Respect for facts,<br>
Wisdom.<br>
Compelled to start again,<br>
We might not get this far.<br>
Perhaps this was the only chance.<br>
<br>
Oh, to return to the old days<br>
When we felt safe enough<br>
To put a torch to it all!<br>
But we were only cartoon characters then, <br>
Sawing the branch that we sat on.<br>
We must grow up now.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-35072182283527008332021-09-08T08:00:00.000-06:002021-11-15T14:53:59.961-07:00The Children Who Fell Through the CracksHere come the children who fell through the cracks; <br>
Here come the whiz kids who went off the tracks,<br>
In between sitters and saccharine snacks.<br>
How will they pay us for being so lax,<br>
Now they’ve come out to play?<br>
<br>
Here come the babes that we lost in the wood,<br>
Missing and miserable, misunderstood;<br>
We did what we had to but not what we could;<br>
It’s no use to say that we meant it for good.<br>
Look at them, my how they’ve grown!<br>
<br>
We are the pilgrims who went the wrong way,<br>
Faithless and spent at the end of the day,<br>
All of our visions befuddled and gray,<br>
Plenty of learning and nothing to say,<br>
Shining our light from the mud.<br>
<br>
Here come the children who fell through the cracks,<br>
Brooding in solitude, hunting in packs,<br>
Showing up just when we’ve all turned our backs:<br>
So many angles for launching attacks!<br>
Now they’ve come out to play.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-15907983446512567492021-09-07T12:47:00.010-06:002021-10-21T07:10:28.707-06:00Our HeavenHere in America, <br>
We’re all going to Heaven <br>
Not because we deserve it, <br>
But because we are entitled to it; <br>
Such is our creed.<br>
Heaven must be within reach of the majority,<br>
Appeal to the median voter,<br>
The average citizen,<br>
Carrying an average burden,<br>
Making the average number of complaints,<br>
Being cruel only rarely,<br>
And kind only superficially.<br>
Heaven sanctifies moderation.<br>
If saints do exist,<br>
In our Heaven they will live a marginalized existence,<br>
As despised eccentrics;<br>
The exception and not the rule.<br>
<br>
You might think our Heaven a humdrum sort of place,<br>
But it isn’t,<br>
Because the amenities<br>
And the service<br>
Are extraordinary:<br>
The pillows are <i>that</i> soft,<br>
The music is adorable,<br>
And you can fly,<br>
Without even a jetpack,<br>
Simply by willing it--<br>
Whoosh!<br>
It’s like living in the best possible hotel,<br>
In the best possible amusement park,<br>
Surrounded by people who, inexplicably, think you're awesome.<br>
Heaven is Vegas on steroids,<br>
And who wouldn’t want that?<br>
Heaven is like being stupendously rich,<br>
But without being miserable,<br>
Like so many of the wealthy on earth are.<br>
Otherwise, why have a God at all?<br>
You can see Vegas from Calvary.<br>
And we are all going.<br>
Gee whiz, what fun!<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-20261629472288250972021-09-03T07:35:00.005-06:002021-09-03T07:35:39.293-06:00New RosesIn bars, <br>
Factories, <br>
Forgotten villages;<br>
Through rain,<br>
Wind,<br>
Snow;<br>
Standing at stoplights;<br>
Or going from car to car,<br>
Trying not to get hit,<br>
I have hustled many roses <br>
Down the avenues of the dead.<br>
<br>
I sold my roses to young men,<br>
Who gave them to their sweethearts;<br>
I sold my roses to married men,<br>
Who handed them to prostitutes;<br>
I sold my roses to little girls,<br>
Who presented them to their mothers.<br>
<br>
Sometimes the dead were gracious and thanked me for my roses;<br>
More often they were hostile, <br>
Or the roses themselves perished,<br>
And joined them.<br>
The blood of the dead<br>
Reddened my roses;<br>
Their thorns<br>
Pierced the living.<br>
I kept up the hustle.<br>
<br>
I used to sell my roses for God.<br>
I have new roses now,<br>
But no God to sell them for;<br>
I park them in a cheap corner of the market,<br>
And wait. <br>
<br>
<br>
“I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.” <br>
Charles Bukowski, Consummation of Grief<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-66826304628810051882021-09-02T07:06:00.009-06:002021-09-02T07:06:57.288-06:00For the AliensThis one’s for the aliens, <br>
So far away,<br>
Who have so few poems written about them,<br>
Though I’d like to think that they’d be cultured enough<br>
To appreciate it <br>
If we bothered.<br>
So far away <br>
That we can probably never reach them,<br>
Nor they us;<br>
But we can think of each other,<br>
Like sailors on different oceans whose routes never cross.<br>
Perhaps the aliens have more of a handle on it all,<br>
Or at least some of them do,<br>
Since there must be billions of races of them,<br>
Unless none at all,<br>
In which case,<br>
They will not be wondering about our poems.<br>
We can still wonder about theirs though,<br>
Because they’re that far away<br>
That the ones they haven’t written<br>
Are just as interesting as the ones they have.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-56376022740793899902021-09-01T07:57:00.011-06:002021-09-01T07:57:56.577-06:00God Who Cannot BeA God dwells within me— <br>
The God who cannot be.<br>
He offers no eternal life<br>
But only a palpable sense<br>
Of solidarity with all people,<br>
All conscious beings.<br>
He watches over my shoulder,<br>
The God who cannot be;<br>
He knows my inmost dreams.<br>
He is imagination,<br>
Like steel and rock,<br>
But He cheers me on,<br>
And gives me wisdom, <br>
Assurance, <br>
Grace,<br>
Sometimes correction too.<br>
Here he is,<br>
The God who cannot be,<br>
Ignoring all evidence to the contrary—<br>
Not even offended by it.<br>
He is unmoved,<br>
Unaffected even by His own nonexistence;<br>
He has no inclination help my unbelief,<br>
Or otherwise cross my palm with silver.<br>
We wait it out:<br>
Me here,<br>
Him here—<br>
God who cannot be,<br>
Till death us do part,<br>
In preposterous equilibrium.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-4304312076113465712021-08-31T08:03:00.000-06:002021-08-31T08:03:27.673-06:00The Young Man’s ReplyDear Will, these pretty sonnets that you sent <br>
Were ordered and created all in vain;<br>
I’m of a downcast, melancholy bent—<br>
All thoughts of procreation I disdain.<br>
Though some do say I’m blessed with looks and wit,<br>
The dullest blade might bear a burnished hilt; <br>
Within me, there’s a gloom I can’t remit,<br>
That swamps the praise of those who prize mere gilt.<br>
I’ll not supply another girl or boy<br>
To brave life’s ceaseless turmoils and deceits,<br>
To struggle in a world I don’t enjoy,<br>
Whose fruits are shallow triumphs, deep defeats.<br>
Let’s leave the risks and toils of screeching birth<br>
To those more prone to nurture hope and mirth.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-8100254836100192392021-08-30T11:35:00.006-06:002021-08-31T08:04:10.004-06:00Children of Darkness, Children of LightChildren of darkness,<br>
Children of light,<br>
Children of one cryptic womb;<br>
Dancing together,<br>
Concealing the spite,<br>
Furtively watching the room.<br>
<br>
Children of darkness,<br>
Children of light,<br>
Glances won’t tell who is who;<br>
Follow the fiddle,<br>
And have some more wine,<br>
Everyone’s looking at you.<br>
<br>
Children of darkness,<br>
Children of light,<br>
Waltzing in endless dispute:<br>
Which is the parasite,<br>
Virtue or guile?<br>
The benefactor or the brute?<br>
<br>
Children of darkness,<br>
Children of light,<br>
Everyone toeing the line.<br>
How will the balance<br>
Be broken at last?<br>
Will it be chance or design?<br>
<br>
Children of darkness,<br>
Children of light,<br>
Speaking their piece to the court:<br>
Light gets the blessing<br>
And solemn acclaim,<br>
But darkness wins all the support.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-42598917146359797712021-08-27T13:06:00.007-06:002021-11-15T15:06:19.200-07:00Knock Me Down With a FeatherYou could knock me back down with a feather,<br>
Or shrivel me up with a glance;<br>
I feel a bit under the weather,<br>
But people still want me to dance.<br>
So, just let me know what your wish is,<br>
Enough with the hullabaloo;<br>
Or send me to sleep with the fishes,<br>
I really don’t mind if I do.<br>
<br>
Just grind me to dust with your pestle,<br>
Then blow me away with one breath,<br>
Or lead me where rattlesnakes nestle,<br>
Below in the valley of death.<br>
I haven’t a reason for crowing,<br>
Or even a wing for my prayer;<br>
Today, I don’t know where I’m going,<br>
Tomorrow, I won’t even care.<br>
<br>
My body is clumsy, not agile,<br>
My mind gets more spongy, less crisp;<br>
The life that we lead is so fragile,<br>
We waft in the will-o'-the-wisp.<br>
But though I’m all hat and no cattle,<br>
I do what I can, by and large,<br>
So, prop me back up for the battle:<br>
The enemy’s ready to charge.<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-20480026197458795332021-04-28T07:28:00.001-06:002021-04-28T07:28:40.509-06:00CorridorsCorridors are tunnels <br>
That we build above the ground,<br>
Between the present and the future,<br>
The known and the unknown.<br>
Corridors are rooms to which Time has been added:<br>
They must be passed through, endured.<br>
In dreams, we find ourselves inside them,<br>
Panicked;<br>
Running against the clock;<br>
Trapped between the observable and the hidden;<br>
Bewildered by constantly shifting connections,<br>
While striving desperately to reach some crucial goal.<br>
Time is always of the essence—<br>
Time that lurks in corridors,<br>
Clutching its silver baseball bat.<br>
<br>
Awakened,<br>
We have clocks to remind us<br>
That we are late for something,<br>
But not what we are late for.<br>
The second hands move too fast for us;<br>
The hours too slow.<br>
The satanic, black minute hand is the worst,<br>
With its tantalizing, almost perceptible movements,<br>
Which seem to say that Time is barely out of our grasp,<br>
Like water in a nightmare of thirst.<br>
The brutal Time that persecutes us in our dreams<br>
Is the deranged henchman<br>
Of this dull time that regulates <br>
The monotonous tick-tock of our days.<br>
<br>
Yes, all clocks say only one thing:<br>
“You are late!” <br>
But there’s ultimately nothing to be late for,<br>
Except the clock itself,<br>
With its circular reasoning.<br>
The Earth turns and makes its way around the Sun:<br>
There is no late in Astronomy.<br>
Clocks lie to us.<br>
What tyrannizes us is not Nature’s time but civilization’s.<br>
<br>
Another dream.<br>
Now we are in a mineshaft—<br>
A different kind of corridor.<br>
We trudge into pitch black,<br>
Toward gold, or disaster.<br>
We see a light:<br>
Is it daylight,<br>
Or something massive hurtling toward us?<br>
What we really want it to be is a lantern,<br>
Swung by a friend.<br>
Miners withstand corridors far worse than ours.<br>
Why is it that they do not all go mad?<br>
Camaraderie.<br>
Brotherhood.<br>
Fellowship.<br>
Those who walk gentler corridors—<br>
The air-conditioned, well-lit, antiseptic<br>
Corridors of power—<br>
Lose their minds quite often,<br>
For want of the same.<br>
<br>
Corridors are rooms<br>
In Halloween dress up.<br>
Are we going to let them frighten us,<br>
Or are we going to party?<br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1637692800096198992.post-53064216222744424022021-04-17T12:02:00.000-06:002021-11-15T14:50:37.385-07:00Walking on the SunIf you and I were to hike around the perimeter of the Sun,<br>
Covering thirty miles a day, <br>
It would take us 250 years; <br>
By the time we returned to our starting point, <br>
Everything would have changed. <br>
We can never really know the Sun. <br>
<br>
A photographer out on the sea<br>
Records only fragmentary glimpses. <br>
Observing his photos, he might imagine that he knows the ocean, <br>
But that would be foolish: <br>
It is too vast. <br>
<br>
With a powerful enough microscope, <br>
You could spend your whole life<br>
Studying a single dust mite<br>
And never be finished. <br>
Even the tiniest things are too big for us. <br>
<br>
The brain collects snapshots of the self, <br>
Which it tapes together, <br>
And declares, “This is me!” <br>
It isn’t. <br>
<br>
Our mind cannot fully apprehend itself—<br>
It is too small, <br>
And too big! <br>
We are bigger than the Sun, <br>
Bigger than the ocean. <br>
We are infinite. <br>
You can never know yourself<br>
Because you are too big for yourself. <br>
The oracle lied. <br>
<br>
It’s well known that we only experience reality indirectly, <br>
As our consciousness recreates it. <br>
Go to the Grand Canyon and what do you see? <br>
Only you. <br>
Look up at the night sky—<br>
That’s you out there. <br>
Under that microscope—<br>
More of you than you could ever explore. <br>
The Sun? <br>
You too, every mile of it. <br>
<br>
The smell of fresh bread, <br>
The taste of honey, <br>
The softness of cotton, <br>
The notes of the scale, <br>
The colors of the rainbow, <br>
Are all you— <br>
The legacy of millions of years of evolution. <br>
<br>
Just as you can never see anything on TV except the TV’s own light, <br>
You can never experience anything in your mind except the activity of that same mind. <br>
<br>
Yet, we intersect with others, <br>
Whose senses derive from the same origins. <br>
On different screens, <br>
We can all watch the same events; <br>
In different minds, <br>
We all see the same stars. <br>
Your Sun is my Sun. <br>
The waters of mighty oceans mingle. <br>
<br>
We can never know ourselves, <br>
But we can spark others, <br>
Who are also infinite, <br>
Igniting flames of mutual recognition and celebration. <br>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9