Hey, naked baby macaque, who stole the hair off of your back, but left you that blocky hairdo? Perhaps, you didn't think your look through?
POEM: Don’t Tease the Monkeys
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Tag Archives: poetry
POEM: Mask of the Introvert [PoMo Day 28 – Confessional]
I vibrate wariness at the approach of strangers, and have a face within my Janus repertoire that is labeled: "off-putting." An approaching stranger, having passed by those cues, will -- at some point -- realize something is off, as if I'm holding my breath 'til the conversation's end - but not that, precisely At any rate, they will yield to whatever it is, in due time. [Maybe, I seem contagiously itchy.] Remarkably, I went decades without realizing any of this. To be fair, I never get a good look at myself at the moment I'm meeting a stranger. [And, if I did, I wouldn't have the brainpan bandwidth to do anything with the information.] Now, I'm training myself to behave elsewise, but the score is still 50 years to 1.
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POEM: The Mazy Days of Plague-time [PoMo Day 27 – Rondeau Quatrain]
With mazy movement, I stagger through my days, my stops and starts are dull and purposeless. My stops and starts are glum and purposeless. With mazy motion, I stagger through my days. Earth 's circled sun since last I was unfazed, but I can't say what has encircled us. With mazy movement, I stagger through my days, my stops and starts are sour and purposeless. My life before seems like a febrile craze. How goes the flow of time? It's merciless, but leaves slim chunks of time for nervousness -- too staccato a rhythm for a true malaise. With mazy movement, I stagger through my days, my stops and starts are grim and purposeless. My stops and starts are dim and purposeless. With mazy motion, I stagger through my days.
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POEM: Misinformed GPS [PoMo Day 26 – Pantoum]
In one hundred meters, turn right! In five hundred meters, U-turn! Turn left now... Recalculating. In three hundred meters, turn left! In five hundred meters, U-turn! U-turn, now... Recalculating. In three hundred meters, turn left! In one hundred meters, turn left! U-turn, now... Recalculating... Recalculating... Recalculating. In two kilometers, turn right! ¿Debería hablar español? Recalculating... Recalculating. Do you think this is funny, Hal? ¿Debería hablar español? Hal, I swear I'll have an Amber Alert put out on this car. You don't think I have computer friends? You don't think two can play at this game. You want to play thermonuclear war? It's on!
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POEM: Counterfactual Life
Where we born with an infinity of lives at our feet -- chosen by how one steers all the forks in one's road? Or, are all those alleged forks false gods?
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POEM: Sun Slave [PoMo Day 25 – Aubade]
Warm light filters through the window, killing the perfect night. The gravity of bed still holds - as eyelids deny sight. And life's order would wrench me out from under the cover, but for the allure and the bliss of my love, and lover. Why must the sun be on the march? Why must we heed its place, and surrender that entwinement - chest pillow against face?
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POEM: The Remote Viewer, Or: Dark Cell [PoMo Day 24 – Rhyme Royal]
She was a remote viewer, so they said. They hoped she'd see beyond the bunker wall, but she'd only see where eyes were live, not dead. She saw conversing spies out in the hall. She heard whispered words on the monster's ball. But she could never see inside a crypt - 'less breached by drifter or derelict. You see, she borrowed eyes as well as ears. Somehow she drilled her way into strange minds. She knew their secrets, but also their fears. And if one thing could make a mind unwind, it's taking all one's fears to be confined within a shell loaded with its own dread, walking one's demons where angels fear to tread. They sought the perfect spy, but got madness. Who knew she'd look home to see a dark cell. They'd tried to shrink noise, but broke the badness. She'd take trips to their minds and bring her Hell. She'd never try to kill- just let brains swell, to waterlog with horrors and demons, 'til they committed killings and treason. And so she found freedom, but not saneness.
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POEM: Cyborg
it's the bits of machinery that play out the chicanery the cogs that grind against the gears are devils without whims or fears only sins writ in corrupt code traced out by the edges and nodes systems of systems are networked to play the game, then go berserk and I'm a ghost in that bad code
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POEM: The Shepherd Dream [PoMo Day 23 – Eclogue]
I lie on the sloping hillside; damp grass tickles my neck. I hear the bleating beasts kibitz as dogs keep them in check. My eyes closed to the azure dome, until eyelids grow dim. I open wide to see the sky, and note that it grows grim. It's time to consult my sheepdog, "Should we beat it, or stay?" He barks to me, "Now can't you see, the clouds 're dirty wool gray?" "I see it clearly as my hand, but what does that shade mean?" "It means you're not a shepherd, and you may need the latrine."
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POEM: Infinite City
In my dream, the city stretched out beyond what I could see. Colorful concrete pillbox roofs spread to infinity. Oh, such an infinite city must have some great allure. Miracles, mysteries, mayhem, and madness - that's for sure. What secrets reside behind those thick and dampening slabs? What unknown fortunes have been lost, that now are up for grabs? How many souls are lost right now? Panic starting to rise. How many will be found in time due to those spying eyes? There's some magic in this city, I'm sure that there must be. For everything can happen when you stretch to infinity.
