POEM: Information Age Ailment

Screaming streams of information
pelt all corners of the mind.
Neurons are constantly
flickering with flinches. 

Meanwhile, the body 
whispers its secrets
in the hushed tones
of a prayer uttered 
during a shootout. 

POEM: A World of Loathing

a cat abhors a vacuum
vacuums abhor tangled hair
tangled hair abhors a hairbrush
hairbrushes abhor Victorian Spanking Fetishists
Victorian Spanking Fetishists abhor Victorian prudism
prudism abhors immodesty
immodesty abhors modesty
modesty abhors whores
whores abhor cheapskates
cheapskates abhor expenses
expenses abhor ledgers
ledgers abhor ink pens
ink pens abhor writers
writers abhor synonyms
synonyms abhor antonyms
antonyms abhor continuums
and so on...

it's true that Eddie Rabbitt
loves a rainy night,
but who loves Eddie Rabbitt?

[the Coalition for 
Names with Double-Letters,
that's who!] 

POEM: Hypnagogic Voices

I hear voices --
a cold burble of voices --

too dim and distant
to extract meaning,

too inexplicable not
to inject a rationale,

or a slate of reasons:
-the impulse 
toward void filling

minds despise quiet,
filling it with 
puzzling prattle,
and making any 
hash of sound
into cryptic natter,

until sleep descends

POEM: The Mind of Urban Cattle

What's a city
through the eyes
of a mid-city cow?

Growing up on a farm,
I can't say I ever questioned
how a cow perceived 
the pasture --
vast tracts of 
green, green grass
seemed like a natural habitat,
though I recognize 
that a philosophical cow 
might see nothing natural 
in its circumstance, either way.

What of the fast moving vehicles?
the horns?
the best grass fenced off?
the rush of humanity?
the bright, white lights?
the stink of human life?

Can they tune it all out
as well as they seem to?

Zen mind / cow mind?

I wonder?

POEM: A Leak in the Sunny Side

Rounding through the pass,
I crossed from the cold
to the sunny side.

But while I transited
from the damp & mossy
to the dry grass
side of the mountain,
I carried the cold with me.

The ubiquitous sun 
would not warm me,
but rather I seemed
to suck the warmth 
out of the world --
as if I were a portal,
and the light landing
upon my skin was shunted
to some parallel universe.

I was the world's window
left open with the heater on,
and the temperature
differential pulled a steady
breeze in my direction,
to who knows where?

POEM: Knee-Jerk Speciesism

Photo Source: Ken-ichi Ueda – 
https://www.inaturalist.org/photos/121 [via Wikipedia]
I glimpsed the red hourglass,
vibrating in a stone wall --
a Black Widow spider,
bouncing on a thin web
spun within the void
of an absent rock --
that gap forming the
 spider's recessed hide.

And instead of being happy
that the spider 
had found a fine shelter,
I worried that a child would
stick a careless mitt 
deep into that wall hole,
and be bitten on the hand.

In retrospect,
this seems so unfair 
to the spider.

POEM: The Power of That Which Bumps in the Night

The last lamp out
dips the room into darkness
[sudden darkness]
and in the nothingness,
before vague shapes form,
a clunking sound triggers the
stab of an adrenaline spike
into ones chest --
mainlined frisson, or fright:

the heart thumps,
the chest cinches,
the stomach lurches,
breath is sipped spastically,
and an involuntary noise escapes 
from some unnamed place within.

The power of strange and startling 
thuds and whumps 
has fueled many a storybook, 
but though the mystery
is rarely solved,
we get over it soon enough. 

POEM: Lighthouse Keeper

The lonely lighthouse keeper,
peering through a deep-set but narrow window
at waves smashing onto the rocky shore,
spouting upwards in a fanned geyser.

So much depends 
upon his maintenance of momentum,

but the better things go,
the more dreadfully boring is life,

and when things go poorly,
there are russian roulette
odds of tragedy.

Like life on a mountain,
but when someone crashes 
into the mountainside,
the mountain-man
is an unlikely participant
in the tragedy.  

POEM: Starlight

I shambled out to watch 
the fine-fired light
of some bright but distant star.

The message in that moment
was old news -- 
more than ancient
less than relevant,
yet it was
the only news
on offer. 

If one traced
that line of light
back towards its source,
one might find
the source no longer existed,
its last instant
recorded in the caboose passage
of light as it whizzed past. 

POEM: Cloud Life

i watch the drifting clouds
and my mind synchs to their speed
and i wonder whether i'm the cloud
or the cloud is me
and i know that i'm not moving
and yet i feel i am
and i know that i'm not weightless
and yet i feel i am
and i know i can't live aimlessly
and yet i feel i can