Long Rhetorical Poems
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They lived across from each other
on and off the center floor dorm hall,
both on the much discussed
controversial LeftWing side.
Yang perused Yin's CDs,
"I see you like that ***** music,
Elton John
and Luther VanDross
and George Michael.
I didn't notice that before."
Yin responds quietly
calmly
amused:
First,
I don't believe music is gay or straight,
but most everything wave-linear co-related in-between
harmonic and dissonant,
diminished and replenished.
Lyrics may be wavey *****
or straight-line predictable
but usually flow well
either spiraling way
telling co-relating creation stories
of nature's neural positives
and negatives
surfing back and forth
in and out
before and after
here and there
now and then
and yet to climax
polypathic health
as polyphonic wealth.
But, Second,
Feels to me all music,
maybe all muses,
are *****
when I think holistically about it,
us,
them,
verbally thought and non-verbally felt,
internally touched
By a rhetorical moment
we curiously know as music
without noticing how radically unlikely
regenerative processes
compassionate evolutions
could ever reproduce such homo-ingenious sounds,
rhythms,
patterns,
colors,
textures,
stories,
epic original empathic creations
and co-empathic octaved recreations
within such a LeftBrain heterosexual white privileged
RightWing capitalistic
narcissistically greedy
UnQueer Line Marching Against
the Great Historic/Futuristic muse and prophets
of unboxable harmony,
despite dissonance,
resonance,
despite fading resilience of Baby Xers,
polyphonic yin-mused light,
despite polynomial not not
climate of touch and feel
polyphonic dualdarkness.
Meanwhile Yang
couldn't hear too well
since opening the window
facing spring
listening
to a cranked up RocketMan,
while athletically dancing to hot not unqueer music,
and Yin's ears swayed tenderly after and before
***** musing
straight talk.
waltz partnered by the phantom
that was your once loving self,
undoubtedly accompanied by
potent hopeful aromas, yet
undertoned by doubt upon
translucent features materializing,
your true colours, feared interference,
ghostly eyes boring elsewhere.
a dance now sluggish as
upon the lower limbs formation,
choosing actively to escape
abandoning miasmas
of potent rotten love
intoxicating with dependence
that's not mine to chase.
unanswered questions linger
inescapable transformed rhetorical
that should've, for once,
forced a truth from your lips
that burn with lies, eternally aflame,
bringing every soul down with
your unfaithful, meaningless kisses.
lone upon the laminate dance floor,
as if a shattered mirrorball
the shards bursting fool's hope
right in the heart. pained reflection
of better times, ignorant
of the vast masts of red fabric,
washes through like waves—
yet drowning, flooding with woe
meandering every vessel
it swirls with acid
leaking from streaming ducts,
mixing with cruent crimson wine
from your backstabbing
dance affair, filling,
scathing the lungs aflame.
the last sooted breath stings—
tasting like bitter betrayal,
piercing the heart with finality.
it gazes as your heart swells,
for the next pretty thing,
and it shrinks tenfold
with hopeless realization.
She says she tries to be both tender
and challenging with herself,
to fall less,
to dance more,
to help others fail less
and athletically prance more.
As she drives past the library,
closed for Sunday liturgy,
she sees the Seventh Day Adventists
on the front corner
with their sign
large enough for motorists,
"What is TRUE success?"
Although understanding this question
is rhetorical
with a dogmatic answer
readily at hand
for those with more adventurous
challenging responses
and dialogical interests,
she honks her tender feminist horn
and shouts out to celebrate
"HEALTH!"
White Adventists
turn darker red
and reply
"Not HELL
but Heaven,
each day on Earth God's patriarchal Sabbath,
for those with eyes to see Trust
and ears to hear Truth."
"Not HELL," she returns
while pulling over;
"Health is true success."
"What about spiritual
and politically empowering success?"
the sign-holder challenges
without much obvious tenderness.
"Mental health
is spiritually empowering health,
at least in my experience.
And yours?"
"I may see your pointedness.
But, what of true economic success?"
"Cooperatively invested financial health."
"Religious and cultural success?"
"Natural/spiritual synergetic health,
or so it seems to nondualistic
tenderly challenged me."
"If health is success,
then what is wealth?"
in your challenged tender pathology,
heading toward Hell."
"You are among those
who segregate sacred sabbath health
from secular business as usual wealth,
in an unhealthy bipolar nature v spirit way
I fear,
without intending blame or shame."
With your same bipolar challenging division
you could also choose to hear
dipolar tender invitations
in-between hell and heaven,
secular wealth and sacred climate health,
natural informing spiritual questions
like, What is TRUE success?
As she pulls away,
tenderly upward
and challenging onward.
long in the attic,
now unboxed,
treasure trove of
old Polaroid photographs;
priceless!
pulled from
the gaping mouth of oblivion.
one family album,
in particular,
sucks me into the vortex
of nostalgic memories.
instantaneously,
I'm spirited back
to my salad days.
ah, my youth...
an opulence of memories;
fun times with Dad,
and Mom, too.
oh, wow, a family portrait...
look at how young we all look!
questions, questions, questions...
so many rhetorical questions
flood my mind...
"who took this one?"
"where was this?"
"what became of some of these folks?"
"how many are still living?"
bringing a smile...
baby photos of mine,
a kindergarten photo.
bringing a tear...
photos of long deceased relatives;
I miss them so!
precious moments in time
I wish I could relive.
photos I haven't seen
since childhood;
many taken before I was born
hit me like a jolt of electricity!
some, faded
some, still vividly clear
i smile at so many young frozen faces
- familiar and strange -
smiling back at me.
myriad of emotions
on my face
as I rummage through
a dusty box of memories.
Top notch legal scholar Erin Go Braw
(less concerned about being fair versus
abominable, irrevocable, and execrable
unforgivable oversight most holy "M" & nonce)
cabinet of high priests,
sans spelling chieftains ready to claw
your person to bits,
and they presage remote clemency
which decision told, when Jeff Sessions
decides final punishment to draw
now, (see excerpted lines
visited with glaring flaw
"Benediction For Lord Apple Macintosh"
where ...bot sized wetbacks, setbacks,
and drawbacks, required a secret char),...
intimates a "hee haw"
and rock'm n sock'm pull no punches
square at yar triangular jaw
YES, on account misspelling,
whence Grammarian Jude Law
at the least aims (to topple a prospective
title of eminence grise), banning access
to such undeserved
catbird seat, sans Rhetorical perch
laughing while ja plaintively call for maw
darn Oxford English Dictionary - but naw
can do, and hence paw
mister trumpeting
"FAKE" wordsmith raw
flesh will turn into....
unreadable print until closing text
that elaborates how holiness felt vexed.
To ye (a freshly minted scalawag),
these 20/20 eyes bulged agog
while steaming with invective
at what attempted
to pass as sacred poetic blog
when thee (Matthew Scott Harris),
now pronounced, an illiterate,
immoderate, and inveterate å!@#$%?
with a severe cerebral clog
(meaning prefrontal lobotomy
not out of the question),
you m~r mangy whelp of a she dog
(my humble apologies to canines),
less deserving than being
whipped near death's doorstep flog
after henchmen (strongly
resembling Alaskan BullWorms
guarding this royal hutch,
herein Cupertino, California.
It’s one in the morning.
I zoomed into Lisa’s room
and threw myself on the bed where she lay reading
in a near virtuoso, Fosbury flop.
She bounced, jostled by my mechanical bed wave.
“I hate goodbyes,” I said, indignantly.
“You’re not strong on hellos” she said, not looking up.
“They’re so bone-marrow deep,” I went on, “they steal hope away.”
“Did that sound pretentious?” I asked her silence, a minute later, somewhat self-consciously.
Lisa took the yellow, #2-pencil out of her mouth—just long enough to answer.
When she studies, she chews on them, seemingly eating them like french fries.
“Yeah,” she says, “but I get cha.”
“I know,” I said, smiling at the ceiling, because in a rooted and real way, she always has.
I’d be a different person if we’d never met.
I feel very grateful for that.
“Your boy’s flown?” She asked, using her pencil to hold her page and finally looking up.
It was an ironic, near-rhetorical question, she knows he’s gone and she knows I know she knows he’s gone.
“Yeah,” I admitted.
.
.
Songs for this:
4am by girl in red
Don't Stop The Music by Rihanna
blushing! by BETWEEN FRIENDS
When two choose each the other
Having decided this, their fate
A bond, a pledge, a vow replaces
That which, unchosen, cannot wait
Even when it requires a warrior resolute,
Vitality deathless, and sacrifice continuous,
Eternal must the pledge be, or
Risk betrayal's scourge sinuous.
It is at the pit, against the fiery horde
That Absalom dulls the finest sword
This is what it takes to stand at my side
Antagony to injustice is my cause
Knell my soul to abandon, divide
Eidetically my failure would resound, preside
Sorcerous dreams expounding my flaws.
Indebted to peace, yet still facing war
Soliloquy sweet, punished yet more.
When the lashes pernicious slander my spirit
Have you the stamina to fight weaponless, naked?
Ardently ask the goddess Irit
That throughout the nightmare, you survive unwakéd?
Impassioned, immortal, immoderate, rhetorical
Would you, could you, if so, should you?
Illusion or real, my fight is defense
Leave destruction behind
Lose selfish pretense
Give willingly blood to the unjust blow
Impatiently wait the night for the dawn
Vicious dark creatures attack love's glow
Effervescent, they dissolve at the light, and pass on.
Because violence feeds violence, and hate cannot withstand love's rapture.
less than twenty four hours after dashing off a poem
explaining why i wanted to die
found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis,
a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel
from the anus of this guy
which bout with rectal obstruction
found me doubled over
with lower abdominal distress
whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows
against the cellar brick wall),
thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh
and managed to muster the means to bare
frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
the Acme brand Metamucil,
which akin to drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract
supposedly loosening the stools,
which optimism (product
didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh
if that expressed intent
to cease livingsocial would try
humph enjoining
this lvii year old married male
to cede victory
to the grim reaper, who would vie
as winner de jure
to this common fellow invoking libretto
ohm resistant understudy waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
without successful defecation
despite the oppressive urge to bolster this uriah
heap of balled up and tuckered i.e. pooped out
five foot and ten inches of lovely bones
thence mouthing retraction
of former thought to cease existing,
though a non-bull lever
in any power broker qua mankind
relief at long last
provided posterior answered prayer
yet, this scrivener scrutinizes
his recurring pain in the ass jagged torture
and asks
a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?
When I die
will the sky be rhetorical,
will it still turn red at eventide
or shall the world die with me?
I think it may become
a hypothetical fur-ball,
just an idea
I had been anxious about
for neigh on 74 years...
...a theory now caught within a dying throat;
just a little furry representation of the world
that will pass away with me
into the next imaginative realm...
...all of which would be convincing evidence
of an afterlife ---- except
that I will have left all my earth memories
in a leather suitcase full to the brim
with assorted junk
that I had lost, mislaid, or discarded
over a lifetime
and so ----- theoretically
I may have to dream-up a new red sunset sky
and begin again.
there is a war within the mind that we do not understand
the esoteric knowledge that invokes every man
the human being is more then physical flesh and bone
because the body of the spirit is not it's eternal home
the being of a human is mind, body and soul
but the collective conscience connects each being as a whole
we exude the energies within us that manipulate each thought
as we accept the patterns of what the mind was taught
but if there is a balance within God's creation
how does one confirm thats its not manipulation?
for the forces that may be tend to be hidden from the eye
as the mind compensates the truth for what we call a lie
if there is evil in the world how do we know it exists?
is it only in the mind for the mind to resist?
or does this evil affect our spiritual and physical beings?
or do we intentionally forget until we believe what we are seeing?
knowledge may be creation but wisdom is the knowing
creating a hand grenade is not the same as throwing
there is a balance in life that many physically understand
but to comprehend the spiritual balance one must reach into the heart of man
Jesus spoke of love to help tip back the scale
but many denied the word believing the truth to be a tale
if this world was built on deception, secrecy and lies
how do we repent the world if we do not open our eyes?
how can man forgive the world for the laws it has transgressed?
unless man is faithfully willing to put his spirit to the test
to know thyself is a gift from every collective mind
as reality begins to drift into the vastness of father time
the epox of self-awareness is the beginning of a spiritual endeavor
as the journey of mortal legs walk into the land of forever
the path that was laid before the man who can see but lives without sight
was created to test his faith not his strength nor his might