sonnets & vignettes…the ghosts of gnosis…collateral damage…prose, prozetry & leftover poems on love, nature, the passing scene…sometimes mystical, sometimes philosophical, largely agnostic.
One tedious long struggle
penned in my mother tongue –
I step, I stop, I stumble
until four lines be strung.
Its conflict’s never up, its
plotline never ends!
Its people more like puppets
who never find their friends.
Think I’ll give up wrtin’
for somethin’ more excitin’
§
Noted in the margins: did you notice there’s no “A” here? 😎
Everything you see is only half-seen
Not to mention blinks that leave you sightless
Mind cannot connect with endless green
Nuns’ coifs in the skies above the cypress
So, to me, with poetry the rules go
any poem might need a second chance –
after all, it’s only quid pro quo –
some guy racked his brain to make it dance.
don’t give up so quickly on a poem
give it time to guide its message home
§
Noted in the margins: The sonatina is based on a painting of wheat fields with cypress.
Summer is better
because it’s easier
to put on shoes
than boots
and I like the way
The Great Nubian tree
stands over and fans
the smartass shrubbery.
Summer is better
because salads
dont get cold
if you don’t
stop what you’re doing
and come to the table
Summer is better
because there’s more
daylight – but you knew
that. Everybody knows that
and poems have to be about
stuff not everybody knows…
so I’ll be back later, I guess.
Lions don’t make war
on gazelles – although they could.
They’d rather just have ONE for lunch
.
That irresistably beautiful tabby
you love with all your human heart
has no compunction about eating
the runt of her own litter
.
Man fances himself
wise and kind-hearted
but is he even as intelligent
as a cat?
all my life
I’ve heard diverse preachers preach
that every man’s born wanting
to reach out and touch
some piece of truth or other –
that we all have this need to believe
.
well, if’s that is so, I think
y’all should know that that
makes humanity in its entirety
pretty damn vulnerable
to exploitation concerning
diverse brandsof horsefeathers
.
we are a race of easy marks
for the charlatans and the sharks
.
There’s a sucker born every minute?
P.T.Barnum’s brain was reptillian
so his calculation mighta been off
by as much as a billion
.
.
It is primative
beyond belief
to imagine that
in order to survive
everything else
must be wiped out,
exterminated –
that negotiation
is inferior to
annihilation
.
I believe in Goodness –
or call it Love
or Understanding…
Intelligence, whatever…
the antithesis of evil
.
Temperance
is its prophet…
among other
sacred attitudes
of moderation
.
Kindness is better
to honour than
some divinity who seems
to never answer
.
To think a tree
has less right to exist
than a fruitless
you or me…
or a goat, or
a foreigner
.
The naming of things
the separating –
compartmentalization –
is the origin of alienation;
for in so doing
we’ve ripped the thread
that is ourselves
from the tapestry
.
Hubris originates
in so-called monotheism:
the insistance that
words on a parchement
are god and my god
can piss farther
than yours.
.
.
Sentences that start with shit
Are always bound to be a hit.
And follows fast the couplet piss.
Will it please? It cannot miss!
Too coy? Well then, sir, here’s to fuck
Sure to prove you are no schmuck
And even if your rhymes are cunted
Self-named “adults” won’t be affronted.
.
For censorship, I have no use
The tongue can parry great abuse.
This said, what passes thus for art
Has even less wit than a fart.
.
§
.
Noted in the margins: old fashioned? Me?
Fucking right, I am – and this is seriouysly
dedicated to all the pinheaded idiots
who think a foul mouth suggests talent.
Time’s twisted shank
eternally out-of-joint –
rank, the stench leaking through
russet blood-stained sands
spilled out a cracked glass…
and rape a globalized sport
.
Hopeless women
helpless shadows –
mere smudges
but for sighing complaint
.
But I will not sham decree
man’s consort any better
’cause they ain’t!
So soon do they offer
their loins for future rounds
of the Flanders Field game
I feel they put the mindlessness
of masculinity to shame.
.
What a piece of work is Man ?
a fervent butcher, bone-cracker
meat-packer to the jeering crowd
turning every Eden to stockyard
nailing a victim to a barn door
like some hapless owl. . .
and women are no less foul.
.
§
.
Noted in the margins: it grows daily more difficult
to believe in my own species!
Did you know those Italian guys
who called the cop in the skies Jupiter,
also called their emperors pontif?
Kinda makes ya wonder, doesn’t it..a
nd if it doesn’t it should!
.
Popes, princes, rajas –
is any not an oligarch?
and every sort of crowned
and uncrowned monarch
supports the status quo –
part of the job, you know,
their shared vocation –
to maintain their position
by reinforcing subjugation –
and history shows
they were all of them pros
at the trick of collective hypnotization
.
Religion keeps the poor man on his knees,
even the out-of-a-job treated like employees
and terrorized by assorted divinities,
while clerics appease with hollow promise,
ridicule the sane (hence, doubt-filled)Thomas.
They unrelentingly sow fear of annihilation
throughout every goddamn congregation
.
Divide and conquer; divide and rule
Religions are designed and used as a tool
and if you don’t see it – buddy, you’re a fool.
.
§
.
Noted in the margins: I know: I keep saying the same stuff over and over!
.
.
A sort of eulogy for those who have died prematurely
It was when Roz died that I knew
I no longer believed in god.
Not that god anyway –
The resurection thing.
.
Going over it in my mind
I can see her death as the final nail
in the theistic coffin – belief
had finally taken hold (somewhere
in the bowels of my being)
that ashes to ashes was it.
Period. No second go.
No Easter bunny bullshit.
.
There is a reason for everything?
No there isn’t. A cause isn’t a reason.
When a pig lines up behind a chicken
one has not produced the other.
.
Lapsed catholic meet community-shifting Jew:
we had found each other in protestanism. Litterally:
a kids’ summer camp in Pennsylvannia.
I had the better voice, but I never sang holy holy holy
as good as she did. I think she really got off
on bellowing the god-in-three persons bit.
.
So much more could be said, but I’ll leave it
with Nietzsche: without music
life would just be a mistake
.
§
.
Noted in the margins: spoke three languages,
played more than one instrument, worked for several
humanitarian causes…why is she gone and I’m still here?
.
.
.
Counter-catechisms 