Perfectly Honest


The very notion of blending a stereotypical extra-helping son-of-a-gun with a monkey’s uncle, if disseminated properly, should just about rehydrate the masses with the piss and vinegar they’ve been sorely lacking in this age of interpretive incontinence (one would think). There’s really no excuse at this point to bank on any other outcome, if we’re to be perfectly honest with one another.

Sure, there are plenty of other theoretical outcomes, but when practicality comes knocking at the door, the ensuing scramble for pragmatism will inevitably result in the mating call of the perpetual compromiser: “let’s just call it a day, shall we? It’s not as though anyone else is really doing much to stall this circus of mottled indiscretions anyway.” Okay, so maybe that’s a bit too contrived to be the universally-accepted mating call, but you get the picture.

Each generation faces the ever-present tumult of failure-studded progress; the wisest among us will inevitably batten down the hatches and continue practicing their craft, content to further their own life’s work while the turbulence around them blows itself out.

This Here


Ordinary sanctions wouldn’t apply to the effervescent pigeon toes for too much longer, scrutinizing the woes of foreverpenguins—adept at taking their time when you just want to get a movin’ to the promised land (or at least the land referenced in books of yore). What really must happen is a distancing from tyrants and despots who normally would have built their empires upon the sweat equity of the under-the-tablers brought around from the time of the Immeasurable Reckoning.

The new standard—a babe in the woods—must rear itself without even a kindly wolf or flyover pigeon at its disposal! While certainly not necessary in this predicament, self-sabotage becomes more likely with each passing day as doubt does its dubious duty of doling out a deluge of doldrums, waiting to be conquered through a steady, dedicated hand (though it knows the chances are quite slim in this here forest).

Bully for Them


The very first horse-drawn carriage must have come as a shock to the ants taking their time crossing the land that at one point had never been designated specifically for human travel–and subsequent travails.

Now the unattached heel of a wayward boot has come across my plane of vision, and all of a sudden, horse-drawn carriages and ant opinions have no bearing over my perception as a red-blooded artist keen on taking over the world several well-placed poems at a time.

A long-suffering server has come to understand–a solid number of years ago, mind you–that people have no rhyme or reason when it comes to leaving their shit behind at a bar (even if they haven’t imbibed enough to lose their conception of personal property and the detriment of ignoring the objects directly surrounding them). Perhaps that very basic principle just isn’t present in their conscious minds in the same way as the long-suffering server–we’ll call him Frank.

Perhaps, just perhaps, they’ve transcended the idea of personal property entirely, to the point where everything is everything and nothing, and a backpack or purse or boot heel are inconsequential in the grand scheme of their lives. And bully for them.

Poignant Pen: Person of Interest


The biggest, most poignant pen
writes the antithesis of the expected,
the unadmired,
the people with lives expressed
as a

religious
or
spiritual
experience, embarked upon

out of necessity
to insulate from the severe
segregation
and
disintegration
of a marginalized people

that
fucked up our entire species,
ethically and genetically.

***

Speaking truth is necessary;
we can’t worry about
transcending race or gender,
there is only
a singular consciousness,
lived at all moments of our lives.
We are merely its witnesses.

Thank you for sharing
your visions of truth
and illuminating my perception.
You are my teacher, my ally,
my person of interest.

***

Don’t we all take for granted
the stag’s leaps or the hyena’s skips
as perpetual representations of a group
that denigrates the works of mankind?

Too many toads take too much time
to throw titillated molotov cocktails
betwixt the orthogenetic felons
of our once-forgotten past,
whistled between a shar-o-ise
and a heart.

The chamber solvent
has a triumphant shield
quite unlike the present-minded
earth warbler, unmade
as a man of science and marked
as a man of knowledge
in the community that really matters–
the one that brings us
to a crater of conscience
that may easily be sustained
if pursued in earnest.

Stu


Stu has an irreverent tone to him today. Was it the pineapple liqueur we plied him with before the road trip to Tijuana? I guess it could have started there, but the tequila probably sealed the deal. Whatever the cause, this man certainly doesn’t know the meaning of off-switch. He’s off, don’t get me wrong there. I suppose the main discrepancy lies in his knowledge of what it means to be “on.” He has his own notions, which all point toward an absence of critical thought and an inherent acceptance of the status quo, which definitely do not endear him to the youths of today. And after all, who pulls the strings around here? There are two answers:

The financial benefactor who supplies the dollars and necessitates prudence through their old-world viewpoint that relies on fear-based tactics

and

The youthful tastemaker who takes it upon him/herself to challenge whatever position may have formed over the past quarter-century and invent a hybrid form of expression that (over the subsequent quarter-century) pervades all social conventions and leads to the same cycle of adherence as with what had been previously-established–ironic, yes? This process will be repeated ad infinitum until either (A) the species evolves and outgrows such petty matters, or (B) we all die horrific, gruesome deaths at our own hands.

No matter what transpires, it’s important to remember that, to our tragic figure Stu, everything is relative, and there’s no point in making any more friends if it’ll just lead to pointless poisonings.

Thin Air


When a brand new idea greets you–
out of what seems to be thin air–
it feels as though you’ve just
brought a new child into this world.
It’s an uncanny record of your existence
that has the opportunity
to be perpetuated for generations.

Meditation: Park


A discarded leaf has curled itself into the shape of a cannoli boat, its stem sticking straight up, a rudder that will never make contact with water (assuming it ever makes its way out of this landlocked region). Right now it sits on one of a multitude of 2’x2′ paving tiles, standing mostly stationary despite a sturdy breeze that would like nothing more than to knock it a couple squares over (if you were to assign the human trait of desire to an elementary force of nature, and, let’s face it, we all do it from time to time (some of us more frequently, allowing it to invade the daily rhythms encompassing us)). Time becomes magnified as the breeze maintains its pressure but the leaf stubbornly holds its position. All the while, a steady flux of spent leaves descends onto the tiles, though none quite as tubular as our unmovable friend–oh wait, there it goes. One tile over, a move suitable for a king.

The Comedian


If I take a pill and expect to fall asleep, will I doze off even if it’s just a placebo? Perhaps I will–assuming I’m unaware of its sugary nature–if I can convince myself that sleeping is in my best interest at that point. How long I sleep is a different question, and if I’m a part of a sleep-aid study, maybe my ability to fall asleep on command will corrupt the data recorded, though hopefully the fraudulent results of one person’s participation won’t harm the overall value of the patients without my wizardly capabilities. But you know what? Screw ’em, I don’t really give a rat’s ass as long as they give me my five hundred bucks. I’ve been yearning for an iPad for a couple years now, and if swallowing some pills will get it for me, I don’t care how long I end up urinating blood. It doesn’t hurt, does it? I imagine it’s just in the urine as a result of faulty processing or something. Is it actually internal bleeding that drains itself through the bladder? Wow, I have to pee really bad.

———-

Originally posted on Wharved: 12/25/2011

The Conspiracist


What is the topic du jour? I’ve heard so many clever ideas brought up in the past week that I don’t think there can be a genuinely good thought for another week or so. After all, the cosmos need to recharge after such bursts of creativity. It ain’t easy being a seemingly random assortment of gases, solids, liquids and plasmas. Is there mercy on the grandest of scales for the smallest of mistakes? Is it possible to calculate the difference of an inch from over a billion light years away? There will always be questions that seem unfathomable or even stupid to us humans, either because we’re seemingly too intelligent to even ponder such things or because we lack the proper attention spans to give a complex yet stupefyingly easy question the full consideration it deserves.

To think of how small we truly are in the scale of what we know as the universe, and then to scale it down to the size of an insect… there is no average size for anything. The environment breeds everything inside its parameters, because otherwise something would be thrown off balance and another change would be made to offset it. Of course, this process could take centuries, millennia, millions or even billions of years, and we have to let old school evolution take care of the job for us, unless we have devised a way to artificially speed up the process. We come across as impatient, don’t we? The faster we get results, the faster we want results a second time. Once we experience something that rewarding, something in our brains tells us that we can do better, and we constantly work to break our last records, regardless of how little the improvement is.

If we still had horse and carriage technology in the first world, we would have to settle for journeys across state lines instead of simple commutes, but we would accept it and plan our lives accordingly. Modernity speeds things up while creating a dependency on those newfound luxuries. The bible thumpers tell us this in the basic template: “Sin will grab hold of you when you try to fill that hole in your heart that only God can fill.” Not just any God, mind you. You need a Judeo-Christian God in order to properly fill your heart. Now that we’ve become a global community, isn’t it time for us to consolidate our faiths into one global religion? Since the whiteys have kept their churches on top for so long, they’re definitely in the running for keeping their religion, but perhaps if all the brown people embraced a common faith, they could finally end the land-grabbing entity known as Christianity. This would take a few generations, and possibly wouldn’t reach a happy conclusion within a five hundred year span, with bloody wars and endless propaganda on every corner of the globe’s shrinking landmass.

By that time, the extremist liberals on the east and west coasts of the US will have drowned from the rising sea level, and perhaps the good folks from the landlocked part of our fine nation will step up and defend their inherent rights as God-fearing white people. Their audience will be as small as ever, but they won’t care because they can only think about one thing at a time, and their pursuit of a completely Christian world leaves them virtually no memory in their brain to contemplate who would actually listen to their rhetorical bullshit. As a matter of fact, they probably wouldn’t even think about figuring out what rhetorical means, because they take every statement at face value, unaware that sarcasm or innuendo even exist. To harp on a milder note, however, American football should receive a large boost in ratings because of its affinity with conservative white people, and country music would become its own art form (which would make it even easier to completely dismiss, because it’d be all conveniently smushed together into one place, not touching anything else with its grubby paws, thank God).

All of these things bank on the notion that our future will be based upon Earth. Maybe by that time we will have overpopulated the planet so much that Soylent Green isn’t even a viable option anymore, and we begin to eject people into space if they commit crimes (which would actually be a huge boon to the prison system, because the flow of jailbirds would be much lighter, and the ones who end up in prison wouldn’t be so bad anyway, since the really bad ones have already been shot into space). Perhaps we’ll have come up with a method for transporting humans safely at or near the speed of light, and trips to Mars will be commonplace, even necessary, as the red planet becomes the solar system’s Ellis Island. People will be forced to change their last names to fit in with the Martian crowd. The general rule for Mars dialect is to pronounce every ‘e’ in its hardest sense, like in cheese or feel, so there would be a lot of names ending in that sound (Julie, Donny, Abercrombie, etc.). Will we need a new constitution for our new planet? Will we be able to terraform it enough for us to be able to stand on its surface without an oxygen tank? Will there be entire cities consisting of one race or one family (like when the mob owns a city and nobody questions that fact except for the new alderman from out of town who understands the situation but still pushes his ethics upon the mob with negative results)? All of these questions will be answerable within my grandkids’ lifetimes.

How do I know this? Well, based upon the current technological trends, by 2100 we’ll have figured out a way to manipulate our DNA so much that we can transform into anything we want at the press of a button (with a really cool device that holds the complete DNA sequences for every living thing), and by 2050 there is the possibility that anybody with some cash can purchase a simple clone to do work around the house. How the hell would we not be able to go to Mars with that kind of stuff happening? The collective human race would smack its forehead if its space program progressed that slowly. Granted, there’s rarely enough money to adequately fund an accelerating space program, and people are always bitching about how their kids need food and an education, but it’s a big key to our future to figure out how to go places really fast, because we’ve made a damn mess on Earth that we should run and hide from for a few million years so that the ecosystems that were there before our industrious ingenuity can thrive again and brace for another wave of insensitive, possession-driven lunatics.

Hopefully by the time a few million years have rolled by, we humans (if we still exist or haven’t merged with any number of alien species) will have learned a thing or two about responsible planet ownership, and our actions will always include caution and thought. I’d like to say that’s probably how it’ll pan out, but there’s no way to know if we’ll ever become intelligent enough to become benevolent. There’s a certain point where a being loses its lust for things and sensations and realizes that it belongs to the universe, and its duty is to occupy space with its body while other bodies also occupy space, some of these bodies interacting with each other, but most moving away from each other in random directions, and everything that used to seem valuable or desirable washes out with every other speck of matter, because when you go small enough, it becomes very difficult to distinguish what matter really is, even to the point where you can’t be sure if our science got the heart of the matter when it was able to look that closely at things.

———-

Originally posted on Wharved: 12/18/2011

Politically Correct Time


I’m tethered to this
tomato-making harlequin,
as though I deserve
this form of punishment.

I didn’t even do anything
other than invent
my own form of potato masher.
What’s wrong with innovating

a new design
for starch delivery?
I think this government
has really got to get a grip
on itself and forget the politics

that brought us
to such a politically correct time.
Next thing you know, someone’s
going to be making cracks

about the Great Potato Famine
and drinking pints of Irish whiskey
as they stammer all over the floor,
filibustering for as long
as they can stand upright.

Cult Status


It’s as though we’re filling a leaden cup
with duck blood to be consumed
by the pharaoh of string cheese.

Well, I won’t tolerate such behavior
for the rest of this semester.
It constitutes cult status, you understand.

I have no desire to mix myself
in your intransigence. Damn you and your
thinking ahead for the sake of humanity

and the powerful leader we will all come to know
as Trumpola. Trumpola— the fine carnival barker,
the one they sneer at and jeer at

until the cows come home and make us all knife
into the water from at least 10 meters in height.
A few of us will bellyflop and really leave
a nice red mark. One of those red marks will resemble Oklahoma.

Courage in Spending


Give us that speed of transaction courtesy, will ya? We’re valuable customers, and we deserve instant purchases (not to mention fund transfers). Our stable contributions to the economy have earned us the right to complain and demand homage for our courage in spending.

Love


The well-adjusted, socially-conscious
representation of Man’s better half
is fully cognizant of just how shitty
a person he really is, but she can’t help
hoping there’s some way to change
his behavior in a permanent way.

She’ll undertake a relationship as a challenge,
a ceaseless battle to be fought until:

a) she wins

b) she gets fed up with the whole thing

c) she dies while suffering under unlimited contractual obligation.

Make It


Synthesis breeds more synthesis,
but requires an initial push.
Rolling creativity into production–
a steam engine warming up
until the wheels glide due
to previous spins and more energy
would be spent to stop it
than keep it going–production.

Centenarian


A hundred year-old tree trunk
stands fast like cement,
rigidly prepared
for encounters which may happen
once in a hundred years,
its existence dedicated
to braving probability
and boring its roots
through porous earth
wide as its fragile canopy
and deep as its constitution allows.

The odds of lifting
this tree by the roots
are now lower than ever
thanks to its raison d’être–
feeding the loam
with its shedded brown fingers,
giving Mother Nature
another winter’s worth of arguments
with Father Time regarding the necessity
of arbitrary destruction
for the greater good.

Cosmic Debris


Poetry comes
from the notion of explaining
why things happen,
whether or not they base themselves
in reality.

Often times,
these things happen due to human intervention,
but some,
less deterministic and headstrong,
detangle the web of cosmic perception
and show what happens
as it happens
and for the purpose of its happenstance,
regardless of human input.