I've had my fill of the surface scene for now.
Navigating this new age mania and tectonic indifference.
I'm sailing underground to anchor up in glia monster town.
They're all poisonous down here but mostly harmless.
They flash colors, so you know where you stand
There's a steep learning curve, that's for certain
But everybody minds their own, without demands.
There's no sparring for the attention of the sun.
Everyone is in shadow; we're equally grounded.
No keeping up with the Joneses and Jetsons.
We're cool as ice bears and snow penguins.
No biters here to abbreviate your fate.
No gamblers to piss away all your pay.
No sniffers or grifters playing smelly games.
No angels on milk cartons, the young are all safe.
No stompers or sliders in red surface shoes.
Bleeding out on our palette of sweet, baby blue.
Sometimes the clack on the surface
seeps down through the cracks.
That's when the Gilas become a bit restless.
With a flicker of grace, the polluted are purified.
Soon enough, peace is restored to its place.
Sliding back into the charity of silence.
I'm thriving and have no desire to surface.
Tomorrow is the day – the day I dread.
The first of March. Declare the dividend.
I hate a scene but I, by nature’s quirk,
endure the drama, seated on the stage.
I never met a shareholder who said
‘I know you are the CEO. My friend,
we really do appreciate your work.’
Hostility is not so hard to gauge.
Today’s the day it all comes to a head.
A thousand profit-sniffers will attend.
Their eyes will flay me, glaring from the murk,
and though I do my damnedest to assuage
the fury, ‘carbon footprint’s tread’ –
it will not help me. Why do I pretend?
They want more money. Explanations irk.
Their unearned income is the war they wage.
Their eyes and exit signs pulsating red,
No Confidence the motion that they’ve penned,
malicious in the darkness where they lurk,
creators (or the symbols?) of our age.
(Dedicated to Sniffers.)
We are All animals, humans too
every One of us, me and you
God breathed life into Adam and Eve,
into each creature. Atoms unperceived
The animal kingdom is the Kingdom of God:
A harmony without heirarchy, below and above
All dogs go to heaven because all of us do,
every Soul returns to the Creator anew
Of course I avoid you.
Why would I want to hang out?
Sniffing around - looking for faults like a buck-toothed bloodhound
I know what and where my fault lines are.
Because I keep slipping into the same ones.
Your bloodhounds may have good sniffers.
But the eyesight not so much...
My faults, though significant, are not as wide as before.
I try now and again to stitch them up to stem the flow of blood.
I've also got some bloodhound in me.
That happens to be my biggest fault.
I can see your faults are a bit wider than before.
Have you misplaced your needle and thread?
Were I enamored by a pleasant fragrance,
like a magnet, I would draw sniffers to me.
If I were covered with filth, I would draw flies.
A profaned loud mouth would draw angry ears.
A childhood friend drew many girls to himself.
On the other hand, they showed no interest in me.
I inquired of him a reason for the difference.
He said, "Some guys have it; some guys don't".
To my annoyance, he never said what he had.
And I only knew that I did not have 'it'.
I think 'it' was some innate magnetism.
Perhaps he had no idea what 'it' was.
I only knew that magnetism was inside of him.
He didn't put 'it' there and couldn't give 'it' to me.
101222PSCtest, Our Innate Magnetism.
Unseeking Seeker
Is it or not, that is a luring question?
Is it nobler to remain silent or seek further aggression?
I choose to remain silent and stare at my four walls.
No need to get blind sided by a couple of meatballs.
There is pasta all around, drizzled with a buttery spread.
Finished off quite nicely with a slice of monkey bread.
Garlic baked in to attract all of the sniffers.
But the monkey sits alone, the bread it sure differs.
A lovely ensemble they make quite a pair.
Meatballs and a little pasta, maybe an angel hair.
They should stay on the table and off of the floor.
I’d hate to see these meatballs roll straight out the door.
Mystery
My 80s Days
When Jimmy was a kid in the early 80s, he used to take the piss out of glue sniffers. Hey you, you bastard! They used to chase him and his mate. Running in zig zags, never catching us.
Back further, the old stone house opposite Locking Gate Rise at Waterhead. We smashed the stones out of the walls. On the day it collapsed, I wasn't there. Wasn't me! I was watching Grizzly Adams. We heard the roar as it fell. My mum saw the dust cloud go past our window.
Soon after, new houses were built. I used chalk to write on the wall: Glen is gay! This lad wanted to beat me up but never caught me. He threw a big white pebble at me. It missed.
Years later, I remember the alternative girls. One had a house with Siouxsie posters on the walls. She looked the same. Stunning. Another gal ran barefoot. With blond hair, she played New Model Army over the CB. What did she do with the rest of her life?
The 80s. I remember.
When the green snout is full
rabbits spill on the lawn.
I worry night and day,
because the stoats and the Red Tails
are at work
even in whelm and nimiety
they hack and harrow.
The young kits are many,
the sun too bright.
Foragers forgo fear,
are palpable and open,
not just
the long-eared nibblers,
the hairs on many scutters
are laid bare,
the sniffers thrive,
are prone to be pounced upon;
their thin pelts all unhidden,
and being many,
and not running,
they are huddled.
If this spill will not ease.
If the grabbers not falter,
the singled-out dither,
the glut not wither,
then the green snake
will climb a way
to the nestlings hutch;
all so easily found
and quickly snatched.
I worry for
the small brown birds,
their mottled shells
still unhatched.
In this gorge and sate;
I fret for all this new life
that has arrived too late.
Some got a pathological need,
a dirty obsession for that coffin wallpaper
They wrapped themselves in the black widow veil
of murderous deceit
For what?
To taste the yellow snow
of an unclean life insurance policy,
a crimson crypt guarantee
They’re willing to scarlet signature go
to the pit of perdition below
With the gnashing of their plaque teeth,
their lying gangrene gums
have a bottomless covetous bleed
Oh how filthy is the color of greed!
Their gain green ways
is dirty money laundry madness
A purple reign whitewash rinse
is obscenely falling at a Faustian pace
The prince of this world
got them brown nose benders,
those bloodhound coin sniffers,
on a silver urn lucre loco motive chase
But the code blue folly of it all,
the gold digger worms
do-do come to a flatline crawl
And that dollar bill cadaver feed
is a pink ink lip lust envy
for violet dye poison ivy —
A sin dung beetle sordid concede
Oh how filthy is the color of greed!
Doctor narcotic slinging jellybeans and placebo
with one twitch of the wrist, one life goes on the tilt
distorting the dream and wrecking the rainbow.
His red-nosed ribbon circling twice around the block
most are panning for happy and coming up with salt
poppers become sniffers become lifeless rocks.
His minions slowly slipping one darkened soul at a time
shiny new nuggets recruited- thrashing in the krill
the black scythe taps another name into the shrine.
Doctor narcotic watches a thousand funerals pass by
through the black tunnel of his desperation mill
hardly a tear in his green jellybean eyes.
Ancient Aliens
They have always been here
ancient? – alien?
living amongst the unknowing
hiding in plain sight.
How have they altered
our past? – our future?
advanced or hindered
our progress – our failure.
How have they touched us
with an unseen nudge,
aligned the stars
that we might follow
crumbs of reason,
sat with us in silence
awed by our insolence
humbled by our fervor.
They view us from a distance-
time and space overlapped
knowledge and inexperience
in conflict with themselves.
Knowing that in time
experience becomes
the proving ground of knowledge,
knowledge the anvil
shaping the experience.
They are the flat rock skippers,
the kite flyers, paper airplane makers,
sidewalk chalk drawers,
mud pie makers, frog catchers,
butterfly chasers, bug touchers,
flower sniffers, feather collectors.
They will always be here
ancient – alien
wiser than their years
greater than their fears
in forever’s - ancient moment
alien – in human form.
1/6/2018
submitted to – Ancient Aliens – Poetry contest
Welcome KMart shoppers blares through the air as a mosh pit of greedy Holiday buggers hurl themselves through the glass and aluminum doors—Obese bodies press (children jammed between white-bread). Trolls in strollers screech in pain and howls of Christ mask laughter. The shopper's feet bombard the glossy, line-oh-lea-ummm floors as the overwrought, over-privileged, truffle sniffers, poke through the hundred and fifty percent marked-up—mark-downs, for things they already own in triplicate.
canned music
jiggle bells the room:
torn wrapping paper
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