Monthly Archive: December 2018

A Captive Audience

You’d better watch what you say.

You’d better watch what some parts of you still want.

Your subjectivity could be suspected of being infected
of what now is deemed improper for public consumption.

If you’ve got the gumption.

You’d better not like fictional characters who are mean,
who are greedy,
who are lascivious
or vicious.

You’d better not be inclined to explore your own dark parts
and instead revile all of them en masse publicly.

Do you harbor secret fantasies about bodies younger (or older) than your own?

Do you get excited by people with power, with beauty, with flaws?

Are you a monster? With claws?

Did he say yes? Did she say no?

All of the dramas have now become traumas, and the only cure is public shaming.

Naming, and pointing, and blaming.

Do you know what has become verboten will probably change?

It’s not so strange.

You just better stay up to date.

And when changes occur, don’t wait.

The Product of an Overactive Imagination

He carried it as a ball
in a sack he wore around his waist
when he visited dream time before dawn,
when everyone else was aching to wake,
their organs swelling,
their bladders full.

He took the product from dream to dream
riding on a wooden wagon drawn by goats
who wore tiny brass bells
and sprigs of rosemary.

As he moved between dreams
through high plains and vast expanses of sand,
the product’s name shifted,
the strokes and curls of its letters,
in bright greens and dark reds,
snaking their way around the canvas wagon cover,
slowly mutating to fit whatever camouflage
dictated the current dream’s assumptions.

He used a goat goad,
fashioned from a thick, curled branch,
to fend off mouths and horns and damp noses
when he pulled over and poured a wee dram
into a tarnished copper cup
to ease his passing.

In several strangely related dreams,
he was called Nick,
and his wagon became a sleigh
and the goats reindeer,
their scented sprigs blossoming into mistletoe
and the sand turning into drifts of driven snow.

The call of the product pushed him
ever forward and beyond,
until he paid no more attention
to changing form as he travelled
than he did to the beating of his heart
or the air he breathed.

And the little presence that he squandered,
like trails of crumbs dropped along the path
of a drunkard gnawing on bits of dried bread,
brought smiles to the faces of some who noticed
and scowls to others who always seemed to expect more.

Under decorated trees in wrapped boxes
or stuffed in fluffy socks beside lit candles
or buried in tombs on the breastplates of queens and kings,
he pressed the imprint of the product
as deeply as he could.

And then he moved on.

Buddha’s Lament

Oh, I wish I had my baby soul
and didn’t have no place to go.

I’ve grown so eld here on a roll,
my swell is now on overload.

I wish I had my baby soul,
would kinda be like days of old.

Memba times bygone we took a stroll?
Our world was wide and we had goals.

Oh, I wish I had my baby soul,
down the river with a pole.

The bliss of youth still takes its toll,
and start and stop soon are whole.

sale ending soon

are you focused on this thing:
sale ending soon!

that cocksucking, shithole gummed-up gear
karma dharma in your ear

sale ending soon
man on the moon

does your focus, hocus-pocus,
fix on just some things?

the same damned things?

sale ending soon
heal any wound

can’t seem to let go
all of your fears

gotta keep safe,
every one of your dears

sale ending soon
as you belt out this tune

then you wallow around
in results that it brings

the same damned things

sale ending soon
when will you prune

those some behaviors
not your saviors
that don’t make you swoon

sale ending soon
it’s coming on noon

give your last kowtow

and when you raise your head
lose your face but gain instead

the imprint of an emptiness
that baffles every circumstance

shoveled in a winter funk
living like a sacred monk

the voices have all left your head
in their place serene instead

a stream snakes up a rocky climb
a dream wakes up while in your mind

feeling free across the sky
unravelling goes by and by

did i ASK for a refund?

though my Amazon delivery apparently failed,
i woulda thunk that its drivers would have prevailed
getting me all six of the items my order entailed

yet when i examine the tracks of the delivery trails
digging into the facts discovered and unveiled
only three out of six had arrived in my mail

and, for some still unknown reason, the others derailed
and now they’ve refunded, and it feels like betrayal

though i can always reorder, as they have availed
i’d like them to tell me why the first order failed

was the scope of my items not easily scaled?
had the drivers been working and then they just bailed?
was there some other trace, or had that ship long sailed?

yet, eventually, i just relaxed and exhaled
and ordered again the same items assailed

now i’ll leave you since i’ve kept you abreast and regaled
and recounted my conundrum’s still unresolved tale

Inner Nature

Why does outer nature grab my eyes
—the cool mist of the morning air,
goats who bleat their feeding cries—
since inner nature’s also here?

But then a single drop of rain
wets my face and frags my brain.

My inner focus tends to curl
’round beliefs concerning joy and pain—
the back and forth of ancient swirls—
forgetting that it’s all the same.

Why does my focus stay outside,
as if I’m on an endless ride?

Both in and out are quite a pair.
They tend to ever slip and slide,
but never more than I can bear.
I guess unless I die inside.