If I'd Seen The Hungry Dino, I'd Not Be Dead
Stars spits light and belts, grows old and nobody cries
Universe slyly winks and eternity sees truth prevails
Earth vomits from Hell's pits and everybody dies
Justice opens eyes to say, life is crap-lost my scales
Unmeaning light its dying shadows scatter all about
The half-dead king rose from napping to see graveyard ghouls
In distance, queen was partying as fairies shout
Jack was drunk working with his imaginary tools
And the blind princess yelled, " Hells coming" with a shout"
Caveman said, I want very nice juicy dino steak
His wife laughed and said, "Then kill one would you please,
Last time you came home drunk, saying sorry my mistake"
He replied, " Hun, I was sure I'd get one with ease"!
Aint that the sorry truth ghost in the corner said.
"If I'd seen the hungry dino, I'd not be dead."
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Nov. 2nd 1973
Note. This poem was created for my nephew Chad, to read Monday in his third grade class.
T H E T R I C K S T E R
i've been an old scientist
for too many unmeaning deaths
had my weekly date with
an ocean of razor-waves
called
anxiety |
euphony if you get so far
C O M P L E T E
dubiety
//call my maker subroutine
StartExoComlinkCosmos();
... click. "Hello my Maker."
classical polylogs
and cigarettes
i fed you before the stars
and heavens // inside my mind
making new worlds \\
& to climb out of the pits
of our despaired hopes /monster
under the hair -dare|Already kissed
T H E T R I C K S T E R
:: 12-01-2016 ::
Is there such a thing as unmeaning,
And can nothing not be stated,
As a question or inquiry into something,
That we don’t know, to be awaited?
Even if we don’t know today true,
About where the universe came from,
And even if we say that it flew,
With nothing once, we still have a ROM.
‘Cos that knowledge might become,
Slightly more defined in the future,
‘Cos infinity can be called a sum,
Of one number onto others, sure.
When someone’s face is unmeaning,
Please don’t just pass them by,
Because it pertains to your feeling,
So stop sometime and say hi.
Logic to a word,
Though spoken to be written
A problem to be solved
Logic to a life,
Though born to be died
Irresponsible’s rise up the coup de tat
Logic to a meaning,
Though everything provoked might unmeaning less
Promisless to promiseness successful
Logic to an essay,
Though written to be read
Law to be governed-followed
Logic to a reason,
Though given out to stancelize
Bribe to be bribeles
Logic to a thought,
Might be creative or fallacy
Education to life
Logic to a professional
Responsibility to duties
Pillars of leadership to be followed
Logic to a poor ass!
Uncollocative and unploronged points
All people are equal
Floating on a river of fire
sitting in a cooking vessel
you were invoking the rain god.
Your hollow words had holiness
of unmeaning.
The sky opens the third eye.
Are you going to offer your
tongue to a footwear
of a proxy blood ?
As a hymn to goddess of wealth,
sugar is thrown out of window
and yellow rice dances before a mirror.
And here I bleed silently
for the shooting star*
who could not conceive.
*A kind of primrose whose purple flowere have
backward curving petals hanging down. The
flowers move skyward on slender stems
turning their face upward after fertilization.
Satish Verma
Theologically unpigmented now, a whore
Hoarded from tongue to tongue, that will not kiss
Eternity in the shambles of the mind
Whole universe and Holy God dispersed
Omnipotence in us and primordial fragment of dust
Redemption as creation from silence unmeaning
Designed my soul to speak of awe where nothing is seen
Brittle finger tree slouching alone, ignored on by the breeze.
Days float under your toes,
no hands of friends to hold.
Poor, brittle finger tree you pray to the Son and sleep in the rain.
No heart to listen,
no pocket watch to keep—no time to know
how old you’d be if today a cake appeared with candles aglow.
Brittle finger tree wrestling alone.
Recklessly diving into the ground
unmeaning to disturb baby birds whom house themselves
in your little, bitter world.
Brittle little finger tree, someday, you must grow.
As people pass they find themselves apart of your earth.
You’ll feel the circle of life—you’ll imagine
pretty little girls and boys carving their love into your skin—no blood--- no blood will flow.
Brittle little finger tree, your last breath has flown.
Taken from your finger tips, left dying on sallow grounds.
No one can always stand straight. Lean, my brittle little love, alone.
I.
At Bredinsburg Road Cemetery
the fence pillars
stand arched
on each side
where the empty space of
shoulder bone meets shoulder bone.
II.
I tread lightly
here,
tombstones
white chipped shale
scattered and tilted askew
flat like deli plates
tossed wilily nigh
lengthwise into the ground.
III.
Some,
bear children’s names
angel’s feathers rubbed off
by the wind’s thin unmeaning elbows,
huddle like baby teeth
dappled
in the shadows
of wealthy marble monuments,
plaques that say
even in death we are above you.
IV.
Beneath
my dampened sneakers
moss the consistency of marshmallow
squishes silently,
a whimper
of earth.
V.
Behind me
faint foot fall
like the murmur of an infant
paddle
through the thick of dead leaves.
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