Long Dying Poems
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And the Poets and musicians and creative types
Of all description
Will throw off the yoke of the body snatchers
And bring on a thousand years
Of peace, love and creativity
But Satan (God’s Evil Twin)
Can’t be defeated forever
He will lurk out there
Until the time is ripe
And mankind again falls under
The spell of the body snatcher
Bureaucrats and corporate clones
Govbots and faceless bureaucrats
And poetry and creativity
Again is banished to the dark corners of our souls
The poet within me
Smiles
Knowing that some day
He will defeat the bureaucrats
That so oppresses the world
Someday
They will be the ones
Hiding in the shadows
And the poet will have his revenge
Until that day
He bids his time
Occasionally coming out
Taking over my soul
And writing these stories
Before returning to his hiding space
Deep within my soul
Tomorrow I put on my suit
And return to battle
With all of the other clones
Automats govbots
And faceless bureaucrats
And my poet
Smiles
Laughing while my soul
Slowly twists
Dying in the wind
And I begin another day
In the city of Washington
The center of the beast
Hell Central
The center of the cosmic conspiracy
That has lasted centuries
Man has lost
We are all slaves
To the machines
The poet screams
But is not heard
The machine can’t be bothered
The system does not compute
The anguish of crushed humanity
The system demands
More and more
Until the life within is crushed
And we embrace our enemies
And are absorbed
Resistance is indeed futile
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The neon hums like a dying wasp~
flickers Roy Orbison in wounded pink,
while the gulf wind tongues
the screen door’s loose hinge.
A quarter rolls from my palm,
kisses the chrome throat
of a machine that remembers
Patsy Cline, but not my name.
Some nights, the bartender lets it play
the same cracked track~
Crazy—on loop till dawn,
while shrimp boats cough diesel
into the salt-thick dark.
I press B-17. The gears grind,
spit out a melody warped
by hurricane sweat,
by the weight of all the songs
it swallowed and never digested.
When the power fails,
the jukebox still glows~
a ghost lit by its own stubborn heat,
singing to the empty stools,
to the tide’s slow retreat.
Is government control of humans’ birth, aging, and dying
In century 26, as practiced by a new World State;
Different from 20th century’s use of eugenics,
Which used “fitness” to determine people’s reproductive fate?
A high-tech London, where humans’ material needs are met,
Setting of Aldous Huxley’s, Brave New World, utopian tale;
Sterile world of human cloning and conditioning to castes,
Recreational soma drug and sex use on widespread scale.
In respite from his boss’ – the DHC’s – awkward confessions,
Bernard and Lenina fly to the Savage Reservation.
There they meet Linda and her young adult son, John “the Savage”,
Fathered by DHC 20 years before, on vacation.
Bernard publicly presents Linda and John to DHC,
Bringing Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning [DHC] down.
DHC flees from “sin” of involvement in natural birth.
Bernard and new celebrity, John “the Savage”, gain renown.
Finally, John rejects the soma, sex, and clones of London,
Spurns Lenina’s moves and keeps soma from “lower” Delta caste.
His retreat to do penance draws crowds and curiosity;
Leads to suicide by hanging – John’s perceived freedom at last.
This Brave New World’s parallels to eugenics cannot be lost,
Since, in both cases, the state had a hand in who lives and dies.
American Breeder’s Association, “better babies,”
Forced sterilizations – how U.S. eugenics took its guise.
Human cloning now – gene, reproductive, or therapeutic –
Raises a host of ethical, moral, and other issues.
Somatic nuclear transfer to clone human embryos
Evokes Brave New World’s ‘soma’ in copying people’s tissues.
Eugenics – legal in U.S. until 1970’s;
Its dehumanizing nature gone from society’s norms?
With current human cloning research, genetic ‘shopping’, more,
No one’s safe ‘til humankind is respected in all its forms.
4/20/17
Quote by author: Angel feather colors hold no meaning,
if the messenger of God is not a paragon of virtue.
Every year she wore the plumage with such grace
and her beauty raptured every being around the liquid festival
Caribana black and gold tassels pasted on each tender nipple
She lost herself in a night of debauchery. One that took her further away from truth and the love that she so hungered for.
dance little lady dance
by a dirty man's glance
you don't stand a chance
That night she went too far and ended up by the side of the river. Her face streaked of mascara dripped onto a shattered heart, and turned into a million shards of glass. A celebration of life turned deadly cold beneath the winds of deceit. Sand blown bits of broken moon entered her soul as she lay still on the ground. Heaven's stars muted stunned, held space as
a concrete angel
invisible but able
touched by a glacial pulse
noticed she was still breathing but scarcely, so wrapping the dying girl in feathers woven from God's fibrous root, she washed the red off her soaked plumage, and cleaned up her wounded back. Two vestal hands bathed her with life's essence, and just like that, she was born again.
"Choose Life" was the last thing she heard uttered to her faint ear. Then she heard the sound of a beautiful silence, as the Angel of God spread her glorious veiny wings and flew away.
the grass held its dew
and the wind blew
a woman child grew
A foundation of expectations,
paving the way for growth.
It mirrors previous memories.
You don’t deserve to move on.
You could not live with your own incompetence,
These bad habits can’t be beaten out of you.
Your privilege is the dirt.
This quicksand is endless,
The darkest pit, made to swallow you whole.
Can you hear yourself dying?
The parts of you that must be destroyed.
Weak and broken, wither away.
Your public and painful execution will teach others.
Your arrogance blinds you.
Rid this world of your filth.
O' pale king, atone for your sins.
Old fool,
You could’ve been so much more.
I was meant to be beautiful.
I'm told the universe is 14 billion years old.
Expanding at the speed of light.
If we're lucky...or unlucky
We'll live to be a hundred years or so.
Just a flash of time to dance our dance.
Sing our song -scribble a rhyme.
Be a garnish on the plate of the living or spit on our beloved star time.
Who is this grand being or thing that made everything?
A loving God or sadistic magician?
Did living just seed from the soil of nothingness?
Are we singled out, each one of us, to be part of the script?
To add to or take away from the collage of living and dying.
What's in the next life, a giant reflection of this one.
Magnified by infinity under the lenses of an /absolute /
To bake forever into the echoes of our lies and truths.
Until the universe shrinks onto the head of a pin.
Then what!
The Shine Of Secret Love
In the ensuing evening of low-moon time,
I am continually astonished at the rate of the dying.
What has happened to these endless dead,
These unliving shadows dressed in ripe memory?
Such sentient moments spent in a haze
nailed to the wall,
Such ancient voices still speaking of vanished lives,
Of obscure conversations in the old morning hours.
These dead souls still know the
turns and the names of the ancient avenues;
I can see their faces again and
hear their familiar voices in the coughing fog,
We can sit here in this darkness and
Leer at the lascivious naked moon,
Strutting up there, looking for the shine of secret love.
Or we can walk this slow avenue holding hands,
Maybe find the Life Stone of our lives and heartbeats.
Maybe we can stand under this curious streetlamp and
Kiss for an hour.
Now that we are here,
We don’t know how long we'd stay,
We don’t know how much room time would give us,
Let’s aim keenly at our target.
Now that we are here,
Dawn has opened its door to us,
The night has not concealed us in its chamber,
We can rekindle the dying embers.
Not that we are here,
Let’s pull taut falling hope,
Propagate our desires as we await refreshing times,
Anticipate heaven's light in gloomy climes.
Now that we are here,
It’s an unrelenting tussle for the prize,
A diligent push through the tempest,
Until our feet find their place of rest.
Now that we are here,
It’s a transient sojourn,
Let’s spread wings of loveliness,
It creates a wide expanse for our flight.
March 22, 2023.
Dedicated to writing words
when a long day endures;
it's my escape from stark reality...
in them I find depth and immensity!
Writing words has lured me into the glamorous literary realm,
making me choose loneliness; have I made the wisest choice
by exposing truth and not dying vainly for a long-life dream?
Does life have a specific purpose without a strong voice?
At times I may seem distant, lost, moody and deafened by noise and sound...
letting brash fantasy take over, not wondering if it is really worth
devoting an entire life to writing words when many pleasures abound?
It can't be explained by me: it's more complicated than the mystery of birth!
At dawn, when wind blows...
Beyond might tree grows,
Can its root rescue
Dying tree anew?
Even though mountain
Floats root, its fountain:
Growing up at ease,
High and strong, should seize
Inner wind's rough hands,
Jogging wind's commands-
Keen on dropping all,
Lest the tree does fall.
Much might, rage enshrined,
Nails wind so unkind,
Oiling it with zeal
Pressure couldn't heal...
Quiet tree's pleas, kneel leafs
Repeatedly beefs-
Struggling tree, wind pulls...
Timing fall schedules.
Until it obeys,
Victory wind conveys.
Waiting wrath won't stop;
Xenophobic cop-
Young unyielding root,
Zealously dilute!