L. Andrew Cooper's Blog, page 11

May 5: Curtain Calls, Shopping Skills, Violence, and Words, Words, Words

[photos pending. maybe]

 

The curtain’s up. They await performance.

They demand action, with hints of romance.

I have worked too long on this silent dance;

I have lost all faith in the arts of chance.

 

The curtain’s up. I guess I’ll be moving.

For some it’s easy to grind while grooving,

While I find songs of despair more soothing,

Curtain-down feelings that need no proving,

 

But curtain’s up, boys: it’s time for a smile!

I guess we can fake it a little while.

Audiences mistake depression for guile

And think you’re malingering, artist-style.

 

Ra-ta-ta-tap goes rhythm of despair—

If you can move you can act like you care.

 

 

 

Observing the world while not quite a part,

My body pumping blood without a heart,

I see everything better than you do—

I see the grooves and the point of the screw—

My vision links nowhere to being smart.

 

It’s disconnected from all at the start,

Pushing reality off in a cart,

Eying the shelves for what’s next in the stew,

Observing the world.

 

No, it’s not smart, but it’s a shopping art

To spot which screws hold you up at the mart.

What I’ve been cooking serves more than a few.

It’s based on seeing the mart looks like you.

I’ll take my druthers and tear you apart,

Observing the world.

 

 

 

Violence and words are out of control,

Uppity in their pushy pretension.

They do some damage that they can’t console,

Although they have a healing dimension.

 

Everyone knows that cleansing brings rebirth,

And birth is violent—mothers can tell.

Violence burns with the turns of the Earth,

And moves its cycles to keep them all well.

 

I could praise words in similar fashion—

Keys to discover, and to share passion.

The problem is, both forces can cash in

And multiply as parasites dash in.

 

When they multiply they over-consume.

Each person you meet acts like a legume.

 

 

 

Songs for the weird would placate the hurt soul

For the true weird are seeking to be whole.

Forget all this nonsense, being badass,

It’s just a stratagem to help us pass—

Revealing the weird serves nerves on a roll.

 

Is I am our not? Questions take a toll.

Sing it aloud to make answers a goal!

Don’t sing it soggy; sing it with sass—

Songs for the weird.

 

When will this babbling donkey go foal?

He’s so fucking normal, I’d pelt with coal

Each of his soft parts except for his ass

Because if he popped out a real jackass,

Then he’d be weird, a part of the fol—

d. Songs for the weird.

 

 

 

I come by it honestly, this contempt—

When bigots in red states offend exempt

From penalty, as their cronies run law,

And they offended where everyone saw,

I’d say I’ve a right to roil unkempt.

 

What if I get lost in the mad attempt

To lash out with forces I shouldn’t tempt?

I look at the prospect with a guffaw.

I come by it honestly.

 

I still play on fields where evil has romped,

With demon fist-fights where devil-hooves clomped,

And having been so close to Satan’s maw,

I’ve come out feeling rather far too raw

Not to want to see my enemies stomped:

I come by it honestly.

 

 

 

Inevitable logic of parting

Will articulate algorithmically

Given the temporal parameters

Appropriate to suddenly starting

A newer way to live, and to be

Among the many predicted quitters,

 

Which is not to say all will be quitters,

Which is not implied by common parting,

Which turns out, here and there, often to be

Precipitously, algorithmically,

Engaged in the act of up and starting

Conflicts with similar parameters

 

For those with similar parameters

In relations, never before quitters,

Now cataloguing problems, starting

The protocols of practical parting,

Proceeding, in step, algorithmically,

To determine en masse what will soon be

 

The new state of what’s no longer to be

Which will have, certainly, parameters

For them to observe algorithmically,

Ceremonious in being quitters,

As is ordained by logic of parting,

And that is only how it is starting,

 

For they know parting involves a starting,

And stopping, and starting, looping to be

Synced with logic that feels like brains parting,

But this halting follows parameters,

Like everything—they’re not being quitters

Now, as they approach, algorithmically,

 

Problems that you solve algorithmically:

They move to doing, transcending starting,

Discarding notions of being quitters,

Preferring, at last, what was meant to be,

What answers all of their parameters,

The only logical thing left, parting.

 

Trouble in algorithmically parting

Is re-starting lies in parameters—

Parting won’t end; quitters never can be.

 

 

 

I can be abstruse where no one will look.

I don’t need all my poems in a book.

I can write whatever the hell I want:

Down with the dick and glory to the cunt!

It’s my website; only I’m on the hook.

 

You might read on your Fire or on your Nook

A site such as this, such as gods forsook.

You won’t lose a dime on your surfing hunt.

I can be abstruse.

 

Bask in my weirdness—it’s like drugs you took!

If you don’t eat it all, at least we cook.

On lots of my words you might choose to bunt,

But most of them are common as currant,

And rhythm and rhyme are meanings that shook!

I can be abstruse!

 

 

Interplanetary destruction is

Sometimes required by vengeful feelings

Spurred on by series of bad businesses

And underhanded, cheap, dirty dealings.

 

“Send out the death rays!” The good people cry.

They all want carnage, they want big fire:

They want to see their space enemy die,

To crash and burn in some acid mire.

 

Ships have technology to serve up death;

As you know, space is where no one hears screams,

As there aren’t soundwaves, and no source of breath.

Serving are quiet and won’t disturb dreams.

 

In all, destruction in space is truly fine.

Get your revenge while the bright lasers shine!

May 4: Yours/Mine, Withholding, Grouchiness, more grouchiness…

Your downtown is not at all my downtown.

Yours is a sexy and exclusive clown;

Mine looks at more than black and white and brown.

Your downtown is not at all my downtown.

 

Your home feel is not at all my home feel.

Yours gets injections to create appeal;

Mine at times falls short, but at least it’s real.

Your home feel is not at all my home feel.

 

Your fairness is not at all my fairness.

Your ideals would profit from a huge mess;

Mine would find ways to help, a decent guess.

Your fairness is not at all my fairness.

 

You get the message: you can’t pass the buck.

This poem is about how much you suck.

 

Never explain your life to anyone,

And if someone asks, get set to have fun:

Make up some ripe lies—yes, spin out a tale

Of dones and didn’ts—don’t let them exhale!

Surely you’ve got a daydream that’ll stun.

 

Why not offer a good explanation

For all the craziest things that you’ve done?

Nobody’s going to roil, reel, or rail:

Never explain your life.

 

Maybe I’m all wrong: you’ve not yet begun

To really live, to have days in the sun.

Maybe you’ve got the bug, the banshee’s wail,

And you would shriek it all, every detail,

But you still shouldn’t—you’d best choose a gun.

Never explain your life.

 

Seamus awoke on the dull scratchy side,

Unimpressed by his own dry sentiment,

Burdened by grouchiness no one could hide,

Weighted by some grumps to his detriment.

Having lost track of all tact, which had died,

He called being awake experiment.

 

Much else in life, too, was experiment;

The trick to knowing was choosing a side—

Bully or bully—the real champs all died—

But the one you chose would show sentiment

That props you up to others’ detriment.

Thus the social experiment won’t hide.

 

But on days like these, Seamus would rather hide:

He’d not perform for an experiment

Or even process others’ detriment

Because his brain was deep on the fried side

And he’d have to scrounge for a sentiment

Even if he found out the whole world died.

 

Maybe overnight something inside died,

Some animate force you typically hide

Because it’s tender, loose with sentiment,

Prone to trust, and prone to experiment

With activities on the free wild side,

Freedom found to be of great detriment.

 

How much of this was fearing detriment,

Fearing what would be after something died,

Fearing having no one else on your side,

Fearing having no place left to hide,

Fearing love was a cold experiment,

Fearing the costs of sharing sentiment?

 

That seemed too grandiose a sentiment

For a morning of grouchy detriment

To no one but himself, experiment

To no one but himself, who may have died

To no one but himself, so he would hide

From no one but himself, on his own side.

 

Even the scratchiest sentiment died

With the detriment he would never hide

As he performed experiments inside.

 

Bad days begin with a bang, inner din

To wake all the demons feeding on sin

From past encounters with people I’ve known

In deepest mistakes, each one that I own,

And demons latch on to each with a grin.

 

If each demon could prick me with one pin

I’d end with ten million pricked deep within.

Like one accustomed, I would merely groan:

Bad days begin.

 

I prattle of demons, saved in a bin,

Barrel of monkeys, drowning in fine gin—

I seek the treatment for seeds that I’ve sown—

Drinking and smoking won’t do it alone—

How do you tend what goes under the skin?

Bad days begin.

 

Ansel the Anvil goes down to the line.

He dashes enemies’ brains every time.

Dressed up for tennis with racket to mime,

He serves up bombs knocked from heights near divine.

 

Coifed by professionals, he looks quite fine

Drinking his tonic and gin with a lime

Behind a shower of self-shielding grime

That basically serves as a quarantine.

 

His motivation’s a slippery force,

As he only takes orders from Ollies.

He doesn’t seek fame or care for money

But from reality wants a divorce

To escape humankind’s many follies—

Thus Ollie science is good as honey.

 

This is the quiet that goes forever.

Nothing will ever work out in the end.

The time for moving was then—now, never.

 

The wind had your back—swoosh, like a feather—

But in a pillow in stasis you blend.

This is the quiet that goes on forever.

 

You have brought a map—well, aren’t you clever!

Didn’t they tell you that paper will rend?

The time for moving was then—now, never.

 

You and your pals will make it together?

How often you see the back of a friend!

This is the quiet that goes on forever:

 

The words hold you in place like a tether,

Blocking each meaning you think, you intend—

The time for moving was then—now, never—

 

Never to be, forever to sever

From the relations you couldn’t defend—

This is the quiet that goes on forever—

The time for moving was then, now, never.

 

A world that got stuck with no solutions,

Rising tide levels, global pollutions

Rewriting keywords in constitutions

With increased profits, low contributions—

 

For the rich folk have destroyed everything.

Mermaids have been canned; that’s fried dodo wing.

They don’t care what’s dead; they don’t feel the sting

Of the dreaded apocalypse they bring.

 

When it’s us or them, we vote suicide.

We’re so darned clever—check out our huge pride.

Cheer America! Who’s on Russia’s side?

We screwed ourselves because rich people lied.

 

Hey-ho, it’s a-go, the end-of-world show!

You wanted to know. You do. What a blow!

May 3: Genre Frontiers, Gnomes, Lunatic Fringe, etc.

Changes in genre take new perspective

And might require a true directive

From a bright muse whose strength I accuse

Of making me the type of guy to abuse

Formula so displayed it’s reflective.

 

Don’t get me wrong—this is no invective

Against any quick turns, introspective,

Or likely to feel like one to accuse

Changes in genre.

 

This sharp turn has made writing more active

And my characters much more attractive

With strings of battles they will win or lose,

Flashbacks and foreshadows bound to confuse,

I’ve not been farther from science factive:

Changes in genre.

 

Gnomes in the nethers are knocking away.

They open your mind like a heavy book.

Gnomes in the nethers say have a nice day.

 

They’re pretty friendly—well, in their own way.

They get in your eyes, share your mode of look.

Gnomes in the nethers are knocking away

 

Because down inside we know you’re kray-kray.

Inside the old bin we’ll make you a nook.

Gnomes in the nethers say have a nice day

 

As they get inside you like a cheap lay,

Swoop into your brain, like it’s on their hook:

Gnomes in the nethers are knocking away!

 

They are stoic creatures and hard to sway:

They lead you about by stick or by crook.

Gnomes in the nethers say have a nice day

 

As they insist that your mood not decay.

Ingratitude’s something gnomes will not brook.

Gnomes in the nethers are knocking away.

Gnomes in the nethers say, “Have a nice day!”

 

Lunatic fringe is a knitting mistake.

It simply ruins each scarf that you make.

Wear it outside in the sun, and you’ll bake.

Say it’s a fashion; they’ll call you a fake.

 

Lunatic fringe has no grasp on the facts.

It hears itself, feels surprised, and reacts.

It flies in freefall, which never retracts.

It bounces off real: that’s how it attracts.

 

Lunatic fringe decorates power’s halls.

It wants to preach hate; it wants to build walls.

It wants to make sure competence means balls

And police who’s who inside bathroom stalls.

 

Lunatic fringe is a fabric that kills:

Why does it occupy our knitting skills?

 

In each of our lives, there comes an hour

When we have need of more firepower.

We see all our enemies in a line,

And we need action of blasting design,

Something to make them bend knee and cower.

 

Now’s no time for some peace-loving flower!

Find caches of ammo—and devour!

Recall that guns are how the West works fine

In each of our lives.

 

Somehow when things go far south of sour—

Everything’s blown to bits—lawmen glower—

You know it still wouldn’t be asinine

To blast your way out, resist, undermine,

But know that failures always will tower

In each of our lives.

 

If I’d rely on me, that’d be why

I’d lied to the ones who on me rely,

For truth’s when what’s better’s always a lie,

As counterfactuals open an eye,

 

Which is as, say, presently, with a sigh,

But rely on me to chat like I’m high,

Carrying on ’til you just want to die—

Really, I should let this go, shouldn’t I?

 

Letting go isn’t so easy, you know.

It’s more of a pageant, less of a show.

Full of formulae about letting go,

They’re numbers, you know, you go, and it’s so.

 

If you relied on this poem’s about,

You might go with it, end up hollowed out.

April 28: Surveillance, Fountain Bursts, Spirals, continuation

At the threat center, the hot threat venter

Takes comfort: he keeps a grand eye on things.

Life is for the surveillance presenter,

Who will drone on until eyes have grown wings.

 

Without being watched the world could be botched

And bungled: we need strong hands with our gaze.

The herds can all be beered, bourboned, and scotched:

No one gives a damn as long as we graze.

 

So we submit to the worst we’d admit—

It’s shameful: each day becomes a striptease.

Someone says we should bow down and eat shit;

We drop to our knees and ask for more, please.

 

The eyes of great gods mean nothing today:

A holy vision would get in the way.

 

I don’t mean to gush if you’re in rush,

But late at night, when you listen, it’s lush:

City secrets get whispered in water

In fountains run clear while sensing slaughter:

Businessmen, criminals, all in a hush.

 

But this babbling bit must be mere mush!

Downtown décor adds excess for the plush:

Make no more of this fantasy fodder—

I don’t mean to gush.

 

Think of a fountain and start feeling flush;

Imagine each burst is a dam you crush.

Smacking down hang-ups with a prude-swatter,

You may get wet, but you’ll get much hotter—

The dribbles tickle you like a hairbrush—

I don’t mean to gush.

 

Select symbols for versatility.

People know shapes will mean just what you say.

Spiraling down has strange ability:

 

Biking downhill has risibility,

A laughing good time to wind down the day.

Select symbols for versatility.

 

Downward spirals’ full visibility

Would signal a person bound for dismay.

Spiraling down has strange ability

 

To dull sensing life’s livability.

Things black and white look increasingly grey.

Select symbols for versatility,

 

And you’ll see their endless utility,

The magic of twisting any which way:

Spiraling down has strange ability!

 

When you’ve absorbed complete futility

And seen all meaning as mere joyless play,

Select symbols for versatility:

Spiraling down has strange ability.

 

To help those who like the world well-labeled,

Columbus was a great deal enabled.

People who fetishize taxonomy

Enjoy the fringes of astronomy

Because of things they’ve arranged and tabled.

 

Around here for folks it’s widely fabled,

Dude said this was that (with God he cabled),

That’s how things got to be for you and me

To help those who like the world well-labeled.

 

The problem is, we Tower of Babeled.

Which label’s whose—we’re whited, we’re sabled—

We don’t know we all have the same decree,

Reverence for life in philosophy—

We know what we are, not why we’re stabled

To help those who like the world well-labeled.

Big Days

Big days break routines in devious ways

With party hootings that make a big craze

For lucky people who participate

In festivity—they’re insatiate—

Carnival happenings, made to amaze!

 

Yet big day tensions put some in a daze

Like heroes caught in a robot’s death rays.

High times are groovy but not always great—

Big days.

 

Fine, but when you hold them up to your gaze

You’ll find that most of their big glory stays.

Not every minute has to inflate

A sense of wonder designed to elate

As long as memories live in a blaze:

Big days!

April 15: Martini Diversity

You know you own when your glass is a cone

Some brand—never canned—a martini clone.

Cucumber, basil, pineapple, and pear—

Vermouth, in truth, is a martini bare.

Cavemen flavor their mixed drinks with a bone.

 

How do you know the true martini zone?

When mixing them up, ingredients flown

Should not include alien underwear

You know you own.

 

Proper martinis make the drinker moan;

They don’t grant powers or the senses hone.

They might confuse you, make you wonder where

You have been standing, so you’d best prepare,

And keep the flask near your drive-me-home phone—

You know you own.

April 15: Martini Diversity,

You know you own when your glass is a cone

Some brand—never canned—a martini clone.

Cucumber, basil, pineapple, and pear—

Vermouth, in truth, is a martini bare.

Cavemen flavor their mixed drinks with a bone.

 

How do you know the true martini zone?

When mixing them up, ingredients flown

Should not include alien underwear

You know you own.

 

Proper martinis make the drinker moan;

They don’t grant powers or the senses hone.

They might confuse you, make you wonder where

You have been standing, so you’d best prepare,

And keep the flask near your drive-me-home phone—

You know you own.

April 14: Draining Color, A Writing Machine, Killer Eyes, More

The brightest colors are fading from view.

Let light diminish, the traitor, the creep.

I know what’s coming and know what to do.

 

Roses aren’t red, and violets aren’t blue;

Feel the lack trickle down into the deep.

The brightest colors are fading from view.

 

Now we have dreams we would vanish into,

Dreams where detail is a symbolic leap.

I know what’s coming and know what to do,

 

Restore my vision and restore my hue—

But I need solutions that I can keep.

The brightest colors are fading from view,

 

And there’s a part of me panicking, too.

When the path is clear, the cost can be steep.

I know what’s coming and know what to do.

 

Some blindness is permanent—this we knew.

True loss of color renders my life cheap.

The brightest colors are fading from view.

I know what’s coming and know what to do.

 

The word machine is dusty and broken,

Beneath your notice in times such as these,

Tapping out rhymes never to be spoken,

Writing in verse too old-fashioned to please.

 

Times such as these, there is one thing to do.

A sentimentalist might stop, object.

Discard old machines to buy something new!

Sentiment falls in line when we reflect.

 

I never wanted to write for the void,

But the void for me had another plan.

I produce tripe that cannot be enjoyed

And seems to fit with no present human.

 

The word machine’s junk and will disappear,

A discard far off where no one will hear.

 

I don’t know whether you’re aware or care,

But, you see, I’m not altogether there,

And whenever you think you see my face

You gaze bright-eyed into wide empty space

So deep and dark, it’s guaranteed to scare.

 

Get yourself ensnared in my blank-eyed stare

Because I’ve got one hundred more to share.

I’ll transform you, invisible, no trace—

I don’t know whether you’re aware.

 

Some of our kind announce our work with flair,

But exposure seems like a true nightmare.

I will be nobody’s number one case!

Morbid kids won’t write of my cold embrace.

I’m a blank-eyed drowner, not at all rare.

I don’t know whether you’re aware.

 

My cat’s in my business—she’s in control.

She conducts dealings—for leverage, cat soul.

She commands empires and buys red states whole;

I’m not sure how she votes—think she’s a mole?

 

She is quite pretty, and she’s awfully white—

Yes, getting older, but an awesome sight,

Most presidential when showing her might—

She’s not a metaphor—say that, she’ll bite.

 

She’s sweet and loving and curls in my lap;

No rank politician could do that crap.

Battling evil for her is a snap,

And she’ll get to it right after a nap.

 

She has rough edges, but she is loyal;

This cat is too indisputably royal.

 

Sometimes inspiration slows to a drip,

For the world’s garbage and gruesome to grip,

Like a slimy, refuse-filled, sunken ship

Under oceans that deny thirst a sip.

 

Who could create beauty when horror rules?

Barbers are fine, but beauticians are fools.

Frosting on shit won’t grow tasty in schools—

Beauty’s a puppet for when passion cools.

 

Leave off the frosting, and what have you got?

Another piece of unsaleable rot.

I could turn it ’round, but I’d rather not:

I’m not a happy-ending-brand robot.

 

Oops, I was wrong, or now I’m on the blink!

Everything’s wonderful! That’s what I think!

 

Give it up, folks. You love’em. You know’em.

It’s time for another flower poem.

In my case it’s because I’ve got photos

From gardens people who own my house rose,

But think of old Burns—that’s why folks grow’em!

 

Poems turned flowers to ways to show’em

You’d like to, you know, um, maybe blow’em—

Say it with flowers—no one feels like hos!

Give it up, folks!

 

If you’ve got seeds, you may want to sow’em,

But without romance, you might just stow’em.

You won’t seduce your love with your elbows;

Gladiolas need places that enclose;

Words are your colors; go out and throw’em!

Give it up, folks!

 

I’ve drawn so near the edge of breaking down,

I think this edge might be my kind of town,

Or maybe I’ve been a wreck already,

And I don’t remember being steady,

And I’m some joke, a dancing broken clown.

 

Can you think—ponder “losing” as a noun?

Like the maniac who has lost his crown:

It was his losing, but that is heady—

I’ve drawn so near.

 

A certain episode might gain renown,

But the edge I see involves straps of brown,

Huddled in a corner with a teddy,

Reduced to rubble, always pill-ready—

Now doesn’t that cliff make you broadly frown?

I’ve drawn so near.

 

 

Tiny holes

Entrance, exit

Abundant little ways

Dots for some artist

Come make art with my

Tiny holes

Big business

Traffic

Bottleneck

Toll

Tiny holes

In and out

Breathing through my pores

Awash in sweaty sunburned skin

They sting

Tiny holes

Breathing for some artist

Awash in big business

Come make art in and out

Traffic toll

Abundant sting

April 13: Mountains of Pills, A Tiny Lime, Summoning Dead Kids, etc.

Mountains of madness could not combat this:

Piles of pills pumped with much better wills,

Enough to trigger massive psychosis

Or to make sure an amped pill-taker chills.

 

Orange-ish brown bottles define my fate now,

Picked up with groceries, even by mail—

Clueless pharmacists pause to tell me how

To drink some water or simply inhale.

 

Pills like the rain make me sing in my dreams,

Not that they make the dreams any better—

They come down in torrents to muffle screams,

But they’ll not make me a pill regretter.

 

Collected mountains, crafted for the mind.

What have you got? Next I’m trying this kind!

 

Secret small lime, what’s on your agenda?

You hang out with flowers, stretched in sunlight.

Low-cal drinks might muddle you with Splenda,

But you’re in the shadows, planning a fight.

 

One thing is certain, you’re handsome and green,

Hanging there, innocent, clandestine juice:

You are the cutest lime I’ve ever seen;

I would use you for a full facial sluice.

 

I think you fight evil, blossoms and all;

Whatever else would a tiny lime do?

You will save the world from climatic fall

And spritz gin and tonic to get us through.

 

Lime on a lime tree, now, in early spring:

Round, ripe, and green, you can mean everything.

 

The lawn party faced frightful conditions.

Attendees all knew the details went wrong.

I erred to observe ghostly traditions.

 

Few of us came; we had bad positions,

Awkward conversation to get along.

The lawn party faced frightful conditions,

 

More so because of my strange ambitions,

Summon a spirit by playing a song—

I erred to observe ghostly traditions—

 

But if she would lose death’s inhibitions,

Come out to play like she might still belong…

The lawn party faced frightful conditions.

 

A dead child inspires prohibitions

At least with those whom I partied among:

I erred to observe ghostly traditions.

 

The guests were sacrificed—old religions—

My child returned to me, a demon throng.

The lawn party faced frightful conditions;

I erred to observe ghostly traditions.

 

People tend to get all wonky and freeze

When leaders mention WMDs.

They don’t seem to think of television

As the paramount tool of division.

They focus on whichever hell they please.

 

Chemicals, bio-agents—on the breeze—

Airwaves invisible—infinite sleaze—

Not all TV is worth our derision

(People tend to get all wonky).

 

We all fear the great mass-killing disease.

Perhaps like Black Death, it’s carried by fleas.

Each of us has to make a decision

About which weapon has most precision:

The one in your house or one overseas.

People tend to get all wonky!

 

Climbing up the wall: my trip I’ll complete!

There’s no way I fall, not with my webbed feet.

I’m escaping all, to a reserved seat—

Yes, I got a call, the big monster meet.

 

It’s a meet and greet, on the ripped flip-side;

The company’s neat, come from far and wide.

With hors d’oeuvres to eat, without human hide—

What types of good meat I need to elide.

 

I left; people cried; I did not believe.

Those who here abide offer no reprieve.

When a monster sighed, they gave much to grieve,

So now I’ve good-byed, too ready to leave.

 

Climbing up the wall: I will reach the top.

I say fuck you all, a force you can’t stop.

 

Tell me have you ever fallen askew?

It’s not a terrible tumble to do.

Shapes rearrange, flip, jump, and go awry:

You couldn’t tame them, and you shouldn’t try.

Shapes will avenge and come calling for you.

 

What kind of nonsense is this that I spew?

To endorse illness, to flee from who’s who?

Who wouldn’t see straight? There’s no reason why!

Tell me have you…?

 

Excess of straightness is boredom to rue.

Hold narrow vision until you turn blue.

Everyone wants to be a normal guy

Except most people, so that’s a damned lie.

Folks without boundaries are folks who flew.

Tell me have you?

 

Reading’s a villain, or so say the red—

Paper or pixels, wouldn’t be caught dead

Perusing opinion or worse—a fact—

A guy I like could be caught in the act—

So much unpleasantness could fill my head!

 

What about smart things our great leader said?

That’s what TV’s for, what Fox reported!

What? You saw Fox once, and you nearly yacked?

Reading’s a villain?

 

Reading got popular; bad dreams got fed;

Peasants and such became discontented.

The wronged had bloody vengeance to exact—

But some others left a peerage intact.

Either way, reading’s bad for the well-bred.

Reading’s a villain!

 

A space that will be, in futurity,

Dazzling, drinking—but delicately:

It can’t become too brash or too noisy;

Better, indeed, to maintain at empty.

 

Silent and soft, let it fill up with ghosts,

Whose manners pass expectations of hosts

And who spread cheer when they raise merry toasts

To those not dining, of whom they make boasts.

 

In such company we enter the past—

Though it was the future one moment last—

Now we’re together where nothing is fast,

Shimmering slowly with some Jazz Age cast.

 

As space that will be, as it was—in use;

Made to imbibe and unbalance, seduce.

April 12: Green Creatures, A Mad Seer, Orange, Other Stuff

I dwell on planets where

Green living creatures there

Thrive along paths beaten bare

And bipeds use hands to care

Avoiding the rough verbal snare

That makes Earth a nightmare

Dreamt while I was unaware

And under a cold moon’s stare

Reminder of eyes everywhere

Except on my planets fair

Where I have made a lair

Safe from Earth’s rampant despair

I dwell with green living creatures

That contrast with Earth’s features

And here all of the bipeds share

Feelings only dreamers can compare

But somehow I still dreamt of Earth

And a rotten monstrous birth

For moonlight leaves nothing green

And outside my lair some worlds are mean—

 

What I have done to end up what I am,

Where I have been, and what races I ran;

Truths taught and learned on not giving a damn;

Sharing with believers what hope I can;

 

Conquered and quiet and tamed in a room,

I know and they know I’m not leaving soon.

I behaved badly and charted my doom,

In league with the moon I became a loon.

 

With prescient ramblings and fortunes for some,

Mad sage and seer with work never done,

I attract flocks begging for just a crumb,

Something to astound them, futures that stun.

 

I’m a mad monster—what I say and see

Is best confined as a mind’s mystery.

 

To defend orange, the color’s maligned!

Just because someone’s head is a behind,

We should not taint a color entire—

Not such a hue related to fire!

If you hate orange, you’re out of your mind.

 

For some there’s pain for pigment to remind

Of politics turned a carrot unkind,

Thus the color is merely a mire.

To defend orange!

 

Think of flowers: lilies, roses you’ll find!

Please don’t choose to be selectively blind!

Maybe bad orange will trip a wire

That flushes color from each bad liar,

But until then I am strongly resigned

To defend orange!

 

Too cool for school, well, it fits, we suppose:

You try on an image and then it grows.

Every now and then a passerby hoots.

(We’ve no idea we’re like male prostitutes.)

We’re down with the chicks, man, and it sure shows.

 

You’d guess we’re cold with small nipples like those,

But that’s just how we look without our clothes.

We might consider wearing cowboy boots.

Too cool for school.

 

Shirtless with jeans, on steps to strike a pose—

We’re large, in charge, slick, hip, cutting edge bros.

With every sex god we are in cahoots;

We’re with each rebel who from the hip shoots.

We get attention from lots of homos…

Too cool for school.

 

Well, I surmise I’m down in a puddle,

Where life seems shallow but drowns all the same,

Where the world and my brain’s in a muddle,

And I’m tired of the rules of the game.

 

Here in the wet I know just what I’ll get,

And I’ll feel like it is all somehow right.

The puddle flushes me like the toilet,

Swirling me with filth in puddled delight.

 

Depression waves at you—“Hi!” from the sea,

But it has choice to obliterate me—

It can seem as shallow as it can be

And still swallow the whole world completely.

 

Did you know you can drown in a teaspoon?

I know some puddles that might try spoons soon.

 

The sun also watches and holds its heat

From anyone who won’t march the sun-beat.

To praise the darkness is too indiscreet:

The sun also watches, vengeful Ifrit.

 

The sun sees us wanting, peers through the trees,

It knows deprivation, knows it can please

Sun-dripping sadism, which likes to tease—

The sun sees us wanting, dries up the seas.

 

The sun looks alluring, burning so bright.

It was the first god, judging what was right,

Taking sacrifices, choosing true sight:

The sun looks alluring, go with the light.

 

If day has an eye looking down, it burns,

As do followers—to know all it learns.

 

The old scary house where Psycho-Bird dwells

Lures in victims with lies that it sells

By seeming cheery and harmless enough—

To fear an old birdhouse is kind of tough—

But Psycho-Bird knows of one thousand hells!

 

How big is this bird of which legend tells?

Does it crush buildings, and does it quaff wells?

His house in a bread box fits with more stuff,

The old scary house where Psycho-Bird dwells.

 

You know his house by the ample corpse smells;

The house has a notch for each fool he fells.

You should know by now, Psycho-Bird plays rough:

Approach his house, expect him to be gruff—

Some Psycho-Birdhouses don’t have doorbells.

The old scary house where Psycho-Bird dwells!

 

Sometimes at night, the Russians invade me–

I maintain I hope Putin’s not involved!

Lime, ginger beer, and vodka persuade me

International strife might be resolved.

 

The Moscow Mule might enable spy tech:

When I drink, microchips slip in my brain.

If that’s true, it’s too late, so what the heck:

I’ve got a few more copper mugs to drain!

 

Who said it’s Muscovite to drink some lime?

I get my limes fresh from the U.S. of A.,

And I’d drink vodka, well, just anytime,

And think of the import tariff they pay!

 

I’m a patriot with a Moscow Mule.

Aren’t we all now with this president fool?

 

Gobs of palm trees, and yes, some more lights please.

It’s unreal: it will have you on your knees.

We can be off-center—oh well, why not?

We get together, redefine what’s hot.

Welcome to new life within the Valleys!

 

Watch the satellite towns in our rallies

Where unknowns sometimes find success with ease—

What some say of LA County is rot—

Gobs of palm trees!

 

Snobs downtown look at us, turn heads, and sneeze,

But we revel in our warm mountain breeze.

The rent here also costs a handsome lot,

And for our LA values we’ve all fought—

We only differ by a few degrees—

Gobs of palm trees!