My ancestors believed witches had magic
My ancestors worshiped a golden calf
I'm embarrassed, such folly is tragic
I shake my head and have to laugh.
Today between females and males there are no lines
We say we can surgically change either side
We can power our cities on wind turbines
And Israel's guilty of genocide.
We can always squeeze more from the rich
We know there's always money to burn
No hurdle, no obstacle, no hitch
40 trillion debt, no need for concern.
So we're so much smarter than those shepherds in the rocks
They worked for their money, thought nothing was free
Fought off invaders, and tended their flocks
Could they have been closer to reality?
If there be love,
let us marry our heads
to jagged stone —
surgically carving the hearts
hidden within our depths.
Let us sow what could’ve been,
take chance with all our vanities
before passion turns to consequence.
Let us dig our graves this very moment,
arrange the canvas bloom,
hasten the stones along our waists
and submerge our young —
a mercy we were never shown.
Delicately placing our lips
on the wielder of memory,
casting the seedlings
to the depths.
Let us bathe in boiling wax,
hardening our skin —
so that when it comes
we are already gone.
But if love not be…
then why need we suffer,
if passion and fire
never graced us
their wound?
On how many levels
does true genius spawn
Is its gift comprehensive
or surgically drawn
Does it drive our emotions
like intellect swayed
Or stay pointed and focused
in only one way
Is it able to migrate
to conscience from mind
Can it cross a new border
or hill to be climbed
Will it outgrow the limits
indentured by class
Enhancing our psyches
— all borders surpassed
(Dreamsleep: January, 2026)
The surgeon
had successfully removed his libido
and fed it to the hospital cat.
Corridors became whispering tubes
for I.V. drip pushing wanderers,
their pale bottoms peering out
like beluga whales through the cracks
of gaping gowns.
He dreamed often,
the drugs swiped his mind,
he was a screen, that with flickering ease
erased and replaced his life
with crazily narrated electric poetry,
a hypersonic buzz
that pretzelled his thoughts.
A nurse appeared to him between
the sensual waves that spayed across
his surgically mauled mortality.
She was erotically enhanced,
her trance-dance of sexuality
poured into his flaccid organs
like a shot of ice-cold Taquilla.
Once she spoke to him - just once.
Her words were umber honey
between his parted lips.
He struggled to understand.
Clarity came upon him -
"You're my libido."
He had forgotten about the cat!
She purred softly
as she adjusted his pillows.
My typewriter
was not a good typewriter,
its keys were weighty,
you had to use brain muscle to work it,
nobody wanted it.
My son unpacked a home computer.
I stood by and watched
as all the electronics were laid out on the floor
and surgically knitted together.
I knew then
that I would be consistently out of touch,
and possibly would remain
stuck in an obsolete year
trying to catch up
from the rear of the field.
I wrote my first poem
on that clickity-clack manual machine,
then a dozen more,
all of them were heavy handed,
yet that hefty labor
made me think
I was crafting something worthwhile.
Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard,
chained as I was to its subsonic urgings
I could tell
the world was speeding away
faster than I could write.
When my kind of poet dies,
he is immediately ed,
for all his contemporary poems
turn into digital wormholes
that suck him into an unknown grave.
The young look to dead poets for wisdom -
truth is,
that those ham-fisted plodders
have long ago
turned into chunky typewriters
that nobody wants.
If I rely on myself for truth, I waste my time,
for who am I, certainly not the Creator. —by poet
My truths are bubbly and smile
as light shines from my eyes and lips.
Like a blossom unfolding through the ages, after my spirit
was regenerated, through boundless weather, I hearken to God’s word.
My truth is found in careful study, each scripture verse.
God’s sword is sharp, surgically removes my sin and shame,
scolds me, builds me up, points the way to paradise.
In family and friends, I look for what is real,
stand back if I must to size up,
not for judgment, just for clarity.
My truth is found in peace and calm, humility, strife.
Experience rounds out my truths, for I’ve seen miracles happen.
I rely on Christ to brave
through the darkest night; and colors; and poetry.
she has the wrath of a god but the mind of a human
the steel grip of an eagle, but she’s painfully weak
i shake like a leaf
since whatever she’s doing
makes me scared to the bone, i can’t even speak
whenever she screams, the silence that follows
deafens me more than her voice
don’t prick your finger, thread in a needle
none of us are here by choice
her stare burns my skin; it’s shabby and marred
the scars on my knees are surgically placed
i’ll keep it together
my face stays unscarred
but i look like my father; she says it’s a waste
There are surgeries for bigger boobs
And bigger butts, as well
As implants meant for males to thus
Enhance their size and swell.
An article that I just read
(New Yorker Magazine)
Described such a procedure
And the problems often seen.
Why someone’d choose to surgically
Enlarge, for ego‘s sake,
A body part that functions
Seems, to me, a huge mistake.
Cat's eyes glow in concrete
their wings are orange and green
best seen in low light conditions.
Organ pipes are often integral
with large holy edifices,
yet they foot-pedal like any unicycle;
some can be surgically removed.
Man must drink to live,
but by law
women get the first glass of wine.
People who mix together
become odd,
a world of odd things
spins on the tip of a needle,
a fine point
that is said to thread a seamless sameness;
these symbolic needle-workings
are also too diaphanous to be seen
by the naked skin.
Firstly the alligator belt has to go.
The highly polished pearl handled pistol
should not be on my slim hips
in a kindergarten.
I’m swearing of sugar and rum.
Blue suede shoes were never that cool anyway,
I have left several pairs at the back of a thrift shop
with a five dollar bill.
Wearing shades in February is not working for me anymore.
I’ve taken off the tassels of my dude cowboy shirt.
I have moved into Ohio
filling every available space with my yellowing soul;
have filed my fangs down to the size of gummy bears.
We (my huge prosthetic breasts and I),
have joined a Pentecostal church
and now babble eloquently in an angelic tongue
only fully known to rabid squirrels.
Constant prayer has turned my **** eruptions
into pure helium
and am now gainfully employed blowing up party balloons
in a local Dollar Store.
When the good Lord calls me I will be found
balancing precariously on the head of a pin
at last fully masked and surgically prepared for
my heavenly colonoscopy.
Swift, agile predators,
sharks patrol coral reefs
swimming silently and
stealthily among the
shadows, they pursue prey,
surgically culling
sick and or injured fish.
(Pleiades)
03/18/2022
In Search Of Prey Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Stars blink out;
another dawn triumphs over a defeated night.
The wounded and dead hidden by time zones.
Echoes of a brief brutality, too far off
to rattle backyard grills and beer cans.
Let us lift up our hearts in song
to drown out the drone
of arrowing smart bombs,
for we have taught our ears to un-hear.
the distant dead, their surgically dismembered voices
just sparrows chirping upon pleasant lawns,
We forget to regret the weakening wink
of their semaphore signals,
and no nocturnal flames dare pierce or mar
our pillowed and peaceful rest.
I
Some days we thank Creator God, and Spirit
naturally
Some days we think of Originator with limits
critically
Some of us thank the Universe, good fortune - Grace -
surgically
"Some of this I achieved on my own," and often,
"I am a self-made man." Genius Stupidity
II
The eyes opened and I saw light (this morning):Thank Thee Jesus
The legs past 60 years walked to the lounge: Thank you LORD
There are people in my life, and this cell phone life: Praise God too!
What made here is not from God's good earth? Gold but dirt and earth
I shall seek Thee to thank, daily, so help me Father, Son, Holy Spirit
The stars wink out over suburbia
another dawn has won over
a distant night.
The defeated and dead as always,
hidden between time zones,
a brief brutality too far away,
and not enough to smear backyards
and beer barns.
Upon my morning walk
I lift up my heart in song.
A soft breeze
drowns out the drone
of smart death,
the quieted blood of the gone,
leaving only
surgically dismembered voices
lilting sweetly
in this summer air,
If I look to the East
maybe a bird or two will arrive
bearing seeds of survival,
for now the pinpointed and targeted
tread no trace
thread no words.
After more nightly raids,
after the nocturnal flames,
the collateral and damaged
come to dream with us,
they come as the misplaced
and as our muted morning guests –
fortunately, we have
many soft and spare pillows.
Another dreary journey down deaths highway
The daily life of cursed work
Outside Glasgows fair kiss
The free tv shows views as cars driven by the undead squeeze past
The grubby bus window that no one seems to use
All heads in prayer to the constructed deity
Creators of a binary god
My eyes survey a barren space of kermit green
and mud filled divots
And as if positioned by a godlike hand
A family of dearest deer
unspoiled and prohuman glisten from sunlights kiss
A miracle not that a wonderful moment in
a day of unlived life
But as we pass another moment holds hand with the moment before
A boy surgically attatched to his phone and headphones
Catches sight of deer a frolic
And unopposed and unreserved a smile lit his face
And the bones that slowly kill me
loosen for a breath
And a scottish poet finds inpiration and a warmth inside his chest
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