I don’t know how to do fun,
it may be a genetic abnormality
inherited from my alcoholic father
and from my emotionally abused mother.
Two weak genes assuredly create
an unwanted characteristic
not obvious to a casual acquaintance,
but expressing itself long-term.
My now ex discovered it six months in
and walked away with the fun girl
who lived next door~
I just couldn’t compete with all that bubble.
My matriarchal genetic line
of narrative
not quite sublime
resonantly erupts
regeneratively abrupt
Loves repeating
robustly carnal wisdom's long
drawn out song
Continuously unabated
with unconditional
transgenerational regard
something emerging more positively
than simply not not hated
Unlike our discontinuous patriarchal lines
drawn win/lose competitively
dominating lies
across sandy soils, now quaking
under shaking stubborn feet
awaking.
Where Mom will wake
each morn to greet
this life feels glad
to peacefully repeat
While Dad will scowl,
invoke defeat
his love was lost
in-dust-trials
of empty sad
manufactured repeat.
Monotonously monotheistic
monopolizing maniacal statistics
monoculturally atheistic
monochromatically dominating
anthro-supremely
down with EarthRights
hedonistic.
If we are servants to our genes. Who is the master of our minds?
Your genetics are great. You only look thirty.
He said this to be a tiny bit flirty.
It backfired though. Here is the reason why.
Only one score and three, she started to cry.
This is the tale of who? Let’s say for the moment,
the sake of mythology, it’s the story
of your shadow. Whether for you or me
begs the better question. It’s not a monument,
perhaps a confession; the embodiment
of false resurrection. How for you three,
my three lovely daughters, I stump by the tree
of stalled percussion, slow rising and hesitant,
quick to detach, quick mourning abandonment.
I was born by stand-still theology.
I prey without reason, worship instinctively.
My only real fear is one of imprisonment:
That you’ll understand the breath that deceives
sets fire to the forest of oxidized leaves.
Cry alone into a opaque stupor
Arranging pain with thoughts so tender
Night began to haunt my mind
Cancelling my heart so fine
Even now My temper flourishes
Removing all sense of purpose.
Jimmy’s Genetics
I used to see them almost every day
Same bus stop
To go our separate ways
Ginger freckled haired boy
And his Mother
Little Jimmy was a curious kid
Always questions
Why Mum why Mum why Mum why
Always made me smile
One day bus packed like a meat loaf
Jimmy and his Mum sat close
Jimmy’s eyes were darting around, he even looked at me
And I could see he was thinking of something
Another why Mum formulating
“Why do I have ginger hair Mum” ?
Quite obviously he was the only one; Mum
“Its in your genes Jimmy”
absentmindedly answered Mummy
she was busy chatting to somebody
Jimmy scowled and looked at his legs
I knew what he was thinking
As he picked at a crease in his Levis
The very next day
Jimmy wore shorts
And the next
And the next
And then plain grey pants
Don’t think I ever saw him wear jeans again
Guess Jimmy hated being the only boy
With bright ginger orange hair.
"Yippee-kai-yay," and cry "Eureka!"
showdown with the fabric matrix,
no more reason to be weaker
in a tumbleweed of strife.
Let us tinker, let us fiddle,
modify the doggone atoms,
cut the piggy from the middle,
quick draw with the splice of life.
Make it beter, make it stronger,
more resilient than coyotes,
make longevity last longer,
kicking nature in the head.
It's darn tootin', keen and peachy,
we're the cowboys of creation,
paraphrasing Friedrich Nietzsche:
"Hasta la vista, God is dead."
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