
62 Random poems – you’ll be thrilled by this masterpiece of both fire and ice poems – really good poems you’ve never read elsewhere except you know James Pearce.
Enjoy this first …
Truth is bunk.
It rarely matters whether beliefs are true or false, it matters whether or not they work, and the ends toward which these belief-tools are aimed. Values are the means through which these ends are chosen; values are the foundation of any truth-claim, and values are matters of moral or aesthetic judgement.
Values cannot be justified by appealing to their “truth,” for that would be exemplary of petitio principi reasoning.
Values can be assessed as the rules of games, the outcomes of which are determined independently of the rules.
What purpose is served by a given belief? What does it DO? If it does nothing, then it is a useless “truth,” and who has need of useless truth?
- poem 4556
Forgive me if I become a heartless monster,
But I gave and gave and gave until, at last, I
Gave myself away. Now nothing remains but a
Flat broke and bitter shell of the reasonably
Nice guy who once was. But what sort of hermit crab
Will come along to inhabit this shell? I can’t
Say, but it won’t be kind and it sure as hell won’t
Be generous and needy people, homeless on
The street, can kiss my ass. No unpunished good deed
Have I committed, but rest assured, that error
Will not be repeated. Your poor choices are not
My problem. So go slink under the viaduct,
Starve or freeze or die of disease, but you’ll always
Have your tobacco, your alcohol, and your drugs.
- poem 4555
Come forth, lord Agita, for the time has come to
Balance the checkbook and pay the bills. Nothing can
Stop the hip-hop across the scapulae, nor the
Square-dance in the gut. Oh God how I hate this, but
In heaven there are no bills and no checkbooks to
Balance, no shipping charges, no taxes and no
Hidden fees. Fucking hidden fees are the worst. They
Hang out in the dark and bushwhack anybody
Who hasn’t read the complete terms and conditions,
Which is mostly lawyers. And they are the ones who
Are hiding the fees. So learn to read fast, go off
Line, or deal with it. I condense it down into
A bimonthly anxiety attack which then
Tends to spread itself all over my poetry.
- poem 4554
What thought comes this way? Eyes closed, lean back, deep breath, wait.
Nothing interesting. Take a hit and wait. For all
X, if you don’t know X, don’t fake it. Ask around.
It rarely matters whether beliefs are true or
False, it matters whether they work or not, and the
Ends toward which these belief-tools are aimed. Values are
The foundation of any truth-claim, and values
Are matters of moral or aesthetic judgement.
Values cannot be justified by appealing
To their “truth,” for that would be exemplary of
Petitio principi reasoning. Values
Can be assessed as the rules of games, the outcomes
Determined independently of the rules. Well,
I waited and that’s what came. My apologies.
READ: Conquering Bad Marriage: True Story Of A Filipina Woman
- poem 4553
There comes a time no time for procrastination.
Doors slam, neighbors indifferently yell through thick brick
Masonry. The decision must be made. What kind
Of day tomorrow may – caterwauling linchpin
Uncoupled from the boxcar, caboose on the loose
Railing headlong into the past – be. Everyone
Floats, some small few aware they float, some smaller few
Able to direct the drift. The mathematics
Of glib drift, Absalom’s monument; a stone child.
Somewhere the switchman sleeps, sometimes he throws switches
In his sleep, caroming down inclines in rigid
Obedience to some law that is not the law
Of passion. They say we are conceived in sin; no,
We are conceived in syrup, salty, sweet, and thick.
- poem 1211
The agnostic syllogism, like any good
Syllogism, consists of two premises. They
Are: One, “The god-concept can be formulated
In a way that is not self-contradictory.”
And, two, “The truth of any concept that is not
Self-contradictory is possible.” Therefore,
“The truth of the god-concept is possible.” It
Isn’t that the agnostic doesn’t know whether
There is a god; if that’s all it was we’d all be
Agnostics. It’s rather that the agnostic knows
There is a possible world in which God exists,
But doesn’t know which possible world he is in.
Pretending one way or the other does more harm
Than good; get comfortable with uncertainty.
- poem 1207
She spends a great deal of time making you want her.
She selects her wardrobe the night before, just the
Right mix of slutty and subtle, she gets up an
Hour early so the makeup is just so, hair falls
Exactly right, everything is shaven and smells
Good. She examines her image in the mirror
To make sure her expression is perky. She has
Flirting down to an art, she does things with her eyes,
The deflection of her gaze, laughing at every
Joke, even those that don’t deserve it, turning a
Compliment in ways that swell more than an ego.
But she’s forbidden. The cost of violation
Is your career, your reputation, your income,
Your future. Nevertheless, the odds are even.
- poem 1195
You and me, wandering off alone, nowhere to
Go, just staring at the toes of our boots, kicking
A stone, watching it clatter down the street, into
The gutter, through a storm drain. Western skies, mottled
Scarlet like the fleece of a lamb about to be
Incinerated by the nuclear bubble
Of a hydrogen bomb, silhouette retreating
Figures made small by distance and perspective. There
Are times I’d like to make you go away, dump you
Just like every lover you’ve ever known, but if
I did that, where would it leave me? You’re always here,
Always with me, always inside, my only true
Companion, my only respite, only refuge,
The only one to enter the valley with me.
- poem 1193
Where’s the lamp? Is it over there, on the desk, four
Feet away from me, or is it in here, inside
My skull, embedded in the complex processing
Of my visual cortex? The year, I think, was
Nineteen-sixty-nine, and I sat for easily
Six hours, in my room, gazing at the lamp, trying
To determine where it was, in me or outside
Of me. When I explained my quandary to my
Friends, they looked at me like I had two heads. “It’s right
There,” they’d say, exasperated, gesturing toward
The lamp. I figured I was the only person
In all history weird enough to ask such a
Question. But then, my first semester in college,
My first philosophy class, I was not alone.
- poem 4552
Woke up sick, not sure why. I don’t think I’m going
To be able to do long road-trips alone for
Much longer – not merely my constitution but
My finances can’t handle it. I ate trail mix,
Beef jerky, protein bars and tomato juice for
Four days (one regular meal was a salad). Can’t
Afford to eat better, can’t afford to stay at
Hotels en route, don’t own a sleeping bag to crash
Randomly – I may be a bit old for that kind
Of spontaneity anyway. When my guts
Are like this, ribcage to pelvis, I’m sure I’ve got
Cancer or something. People wonder why I hate
To travel. The interesting thing is that I love
My children enough to do it just to see them.
- poem 4551
The joys and wonders of three undergraduate
Guys living together off campus. Fondness of
Memory. Dishes stacked in the sink, the problem
Of the commons embodied. Cleanliness, with a
Dog, is a non-issue, as is the remotest
Approach to organization. So that’s where I
Developed my bachelor habits, the ones women
Can’t stand. Take note my dearest son, with whom, to my
Joy and amusement, I crashed last night. After such
A long day, the old man nearly passed out. Come the
Dawn I see with the glee his present reality,
Which is a memory resurrected for me.
Enjoy this, squeeze it for every drop of juice it’s
Got, make moments you will recall in sixty years.
- poem 4550
Two smokin’ hot not five feet to my right, really
Doing business, spreadsheets on laptops, serious
Tones. Another at the counter in those jeans that
Get renamed every so often, but she looks poured
Into them. Heels just shy of stilettos. What is
The acceptable professional height? Three and
One half inches, maybe? There’s a fine line between
Professional and prostitute. To my ventral
Left, a job interview in progress. Sounds like she
She just hired him to start shadowing tomorrow.
I’m old enough to notice that these businessmen
Are all women. But just try telling that to a
White Republican. They call it a coffee shop,
But it seems to me more like a den of foxes.
- poem 4549
I lost a friend. For fifteen years counted among
My best, for no reason known to me. I texted,
Asking if he wanted to get together, a
Not-so-common occurrence since we now live far
Apart, and I happened to be in town. He said,
“Not interested in meeting anymore.” Might I
Inquire why? “Just not interested.” Likewise I’m sure.
That last remark was snotty but I was hurt, I
Hadn’t seen him in over a year. That’s what it’s
All about in old age, losing and grieving and
Finally losing it all. The Terraqueous Park
Is where I always return when I come back here.
Even in stark winter and bastard winds, even
In high summer. The amorphous green sea is blind.
- poem 4548
The Garden of Eden reads like a set-up. Two children
With no knowledge of good or evil, no understanding
That disobedience is wrong, being told not to think
About a polar bear. So what do you suppose they did?
They thought of a polar bear and acted accordingly.
The punishment seems wildly disproportionate to the
Wrong. Why would a just or loving God do that? Perhaps it
Was that free-will could not be given; if it was, the one
Who gave the gift would be ultimately responsible
For all of the wrong done with it. Rather, free-will had to
Be taken, stolen. Its very seizure a first wrong done.
Original sin. Free-will was not a gift, we took it
As a child might surreptitiously sneak a peppermint,
While the father surreptitiously sees and looks away.
- poem 4547
My footsteps clatter down this old road, abandoned
Except for the scattered bones and the vermin that
Feed on them, skitter, scatter, chirp and run. I don’t
Know how far I’ll make it, but it doesn’t matter.
There’s no destination, nothing at the end of
This road except more road. No food, no water, no
Hunger and no thirst; there is nowhere left to go,
No goal, there is no point to it, just one foot in
Front of the other till one of them falls off. I
Have a twisted tree-limb of dead wood too dry to
Rot, I’ll use it for a crutch in search of just a
Bit of shade, or till the other foot falls off. In
Either case I’ll lie there, where the sun never sets,
And wait for the vermin to make short work of me.
10 Ways to Get a Telephone Solicitor to Hang-up on You
- poem 4546
Deflowering Clementine, unraveling a
Gordian Knot of Saran Wrap, sticking always
To itself. Each scrupulous separation sticks
It elsewhere. Oh, the temptation to tear through it
Like Alexander, but not yet. Spread those gorgeous
Wings widely and we’ll explore the stars, forces as
Tempered as Rough Riders charging up San Juan Hill,
Careful to avoid daisies and black-eyed Susans.
Deflowering Clementine, pedagogy’s own
Duty, the instructor demonstrating how to
Peel back the petals and suck out the nectar, and
How to spelunk down deep and hard, in the abyss,
In the caverns at the bottom of the sea – by
No man explored. I will be forever the first.
It is a manufacturing process. Pistons
Pump, surface against surface, tolerances pushed
To the verge of deformation, lubrication
Is necessary against the friction and heat.
Flywheels fly and belts burn, everywhere there is the
Moan of metal pushed to its limits. The sodden
Air fills with salty-sweet smoke, oil and rubber, the
Scream of tinsel strength – the verge of melting – stretching
To resume its original shape if it does
Not first break or shatter, to the detriment of
Everyone involved. Producing something of steel
Which may last for years in a world of middle-sized
Dry goods. The analogy is self-evident.
Making love is a manufacturing process.
I want to make love to you, soon. I want to meet
You at the door, kiss passionately, removing
Your clothes before the door is completely shut. I
Want you naked before me, I want to press down
On your shoulders and I want you to know that this
Means for you to drop to your knees. I want you to
Tease me hard with your lips and tongue, take me deeply
As hard as you can, then back to your feet to be
Impaled by your own creation. Take a seat on
The table. Sit where meals are served, legs akimbo.
I stand between them, enter you, and dance to your
Guttural song till you shiver with joy – withdraw
Slowly, bend you over and enjoy the vista
From behind for a while. I will erupt in you.
I love you, I think, but then, what is love? I say
This as we lay naked, side-by-side, in the sun.
I hold something back, I don’t say this to her, I
Just can’t give everything to love as I once did.
Once I was a fool. Twice I was a fool. Sixteen
Times I was a fool. I’m beginning to get the
Hang of it. I want to forget the repeated
Lesson, but the reflex in me will not allow
Touching the hot stove. I want to love you, embrace
You like a spoon, from behind, and slowly enter.
I want you to stay, but I don’t know what to say
That isn’t a betrayal of everything I
Know and believe to be true. The best one can hope
For is here – focus, pay attention – and right now.
- poem 4545
To win trust you have to be consistent and you
Have to endure. That’s called integrity. If you’ve
Got it, it won’t take long. If you haven’t got it,
It won’t take long. You can’t help yourself. It’s all a
Matter of the habits you’ve developed over
The course of your life, and the amount of effort
You’re willing to expend in changing those that need
Changing. Habits are the things you do without a
Thought, without being aware of them, and for that
Very reason they are hard to hide. It is not
Possible to fake integrity, because if
You fake it consistently for long enough, it
Becomes real, just as a man pretending to sleep
Becomes a sleeping man — thus also with virtue.
poem 4544
An anxious mess trips and traipses around the house
Doing ten thousand things, each one left in some state
Of incompletion, the attention span flitting
From blossom to blossom, a pollen gatherer
Hard at work. The dogs, now empathetically
Anxious, follow every move close at foot, and with
Any turn, suddenly, in the midst of some shard
Of fleeting thought (as is often the case) there’s a
Scramble of nails scraping on hardwood, and sometimes
A fall, cursing all the way down. The job will through
Mysterious means get done, but it will take ten
Times as long as it would have for a person less
Anxious about travel, which is a hard one for
Me. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve done it.
- poem 4543
It was just s’posed to be funny, but it got me
In shit. There had been another typical mass
Shooting; they’re so common now I can’t remember
Whether it was a school, or a mall, or what. True,
I was pissed about the “thoughts and prayers” response,
But I thought the sarcasm would be obvious,
Especially since the proposal was, itself,
Somewhat contradictory. But no. Four hundred
Death threats against me alone, and they threatened my
Children, my students, and my boss. I had no choice.
There was only one thing I could do, and that was
Resign. So I did, and was out of a job for
A lot longer than expected. It was just s’posed
To be funny. My sense of humor is lethal.
- poem 4542
To a friend in Germany who just got bad news.
How are you? That news you delivered a couple
Of days ago seemed pretty devastating. Are
You okay? I just met you. I like you. We click
In many dimensions, notwithstanding that thing…,
What do you call it? The Atlantic Ocean, that
Comes between us. Don’t go and fucking die on me.
I mean it. That would suck. I want to meet you in
Person. I’ve got your manuscript. It’s longer than
I expected, but I will read it and make your
English idiomatic when necessary.
All of my friends seem to be writers. I’ve got more
Manuscripts to read than my body has cells. But
I’m flattered that people want me to read their stuff.
Remain in the flesh so I can meet you in it.
- poem 4541
Thank you for the freedom from caring about the
Lack of intimacy in my life. Thank you for
The wisdom not to know, and the fire burning to
Find out. Thank you for the fatigue that keeps me out
Of trouble. Thank you for the pain that prevents me
From falling too much in love with life. It has not
Turned out well for me, does it ever? But I no
Longer raise my fist and curse my birth – a wrathful
Waste of what time and energy remain. I no
Longer resent having been thrown here, shot like a
Big-headed cannonball from a birth canal, with
No knowledge or consent ever sought from me. Had
I known what I know now, there is a good chance that
I might have said no, and chosen nonexistence.
- poem 4540
Happy endings I have learned never to respect
And look dourly upon Pollyanna and the
Smilers, an Evangelical Gospel quartet
From down around Moline; they’re here to tell you folks
About the palimpsest, what it means, and about
The consequences of misinterpretation.
Prisoners of misprision, inevitably;
The feint of heart, dodging mortality, have lost
Their taste for char-grilled cherry scruples. They need stuff.
Meaning, truth, purpose, everything must go! Lowest
Prices anywhere! Hurry, rush, run…, although it
Works out in the end, for the agreeable sheep,
The goat-song is nonetheless sung in the dark on
Speakers about the size of refrigerators.
- poem 4539
The difference between lying and promise-breaking
Is not so terribly subtle, but a matter
Of knowledge and intent. To convey as true what
Is known to be false is to lie; to promise or
Give one’s word with no intent of keeping it is
Also a form of lie. But to promise in good
Faith and then to break it for reasons beyond one’s
Control – this is no lie. This is not even a
Thing of any moral wrong; it is a form of
Failure, to which all mortals are prone. Indeed, should
One attempt to conceal one’s failure, some degree
Of turpitude sneaks in; but who owns it and takes
Responsibility does all that’s possible.
If such confession is called a lie, there’s the wrong.
- poem 4538
Stirring the dark nest, divided in so many
Ways. To run or not to run; whether tis nobler
In the mind to flee the stings and barbs of twenty
Thousand outraged wasps, or to stand, and by standing
Hope for anaphylactic shock. But hope is such
A consistent traitor; how is it that that it keeps
Returning, like a friend who steals petty cash and
Thinks I do not notice? I’m not sure I should give
Credence to premonition, but I think I’ll meet
Death on this particular highway. That would not
Be my preferred method; I was hoping to trip
And fall on LSD, but it is what it is.
Turn and face the familiar. Blanche is under the
Dashboard. Stop hiding. Take a seat and we shall ride.
- poem 4537
I like beers that bite back, that are crafted to be
Savored and not slugged down, hand over fist, as an
Alkie would do. I want them to take a while to
Drink, I want them to scream out, “Thou shalt not ignore
Me!” Thou shalt not employ me as background noise while
Doing something else, thou shalt not drink solely for
The buzz. If your purpose here is to get drunk, I
Shall rip out your tongue and throw it on the floor, and
You shall return to your carbonated horse piss.
Which, by the way, is the actual name of a
Beer brewed for the Kentucky Derby. At certain
Events, like sports, it may be okay to allow
Beer to become background noise. But for the most part,
No. A palate can be as good as a pen*s.
- poem 3350 [didactic verse]
All human belief about God is necessarily
False, in some detail if not largely and completely, if
For no other reason than that these beliefs are expressed
In human language; no human language is adequate
To capture the essence of God in a conceptual
Box. Even to claim that God exists is to place upon
Him, Her, or It the same label that we would place upon
A table and chairs. But God is not furniture. Such talk
Is nonsense, not because it is meaningless, but rather
Because it is inherently and inevitably
Inadequate. That is why scripture is always written
In verse. That is why I eschew metaphysics most of
The time. And that is why it really doesn’t matter what
We believe, but it matters tremendously how we live.
- poem 3749 [didactic verse]
Explaining Agnosticism in sonnet form.
Belief without commitment is ephemeral;
Such beliefs change from day-to-day. In that sense the
Agnostic might seem a pendulum, believing
One day and not the next. Faith differs from belief
In requiring commitment, and that is what the
Agnostic will not do – one way or the other.
The advantage is that the Agnostic gets to
Try on beliefs like shopping for new clothes, see how
They fit, how they look, and what they do. Sometimes the
Agnostic might even buy a few, but seldom
The kind of coordinated wardrobe that could
Count as ideology. We can’t think without
A network of beliefs, but the Agnostic does
Not quite grasp why we need be limited to one.
- poem 4535
The Hallelujah Chorus as Remixed for Blanche.
If it’s cancer, I don’t know yet, I may opt for
Non-treatment. What’s so great about my existence
That I should seek to extend it through the countless
Grotesqueries of chemotherapy, or the
Internal burns of radiation? Which part of
My life justifies the extension of the pain
Which never ceases? What contributions have I
Made that amount to anything? Oh, don’t throw my
Children in my face. They are their own people now,
They don’t need me, and that’s been made adamantly
Clear. I feel like a waste of water and carbon.
I hope it’s not too painful, or slow. I won’t ask
My sister to babysit, she’s had enough of
Death. I will take control and make my own exit.
- poem 4534
I picked up a slug. It crawled, imperceptibly,
Across the deck. An impish grin came over my
Face as I held it out to her and watched the stark
Horror come over hers. Mission accomplished, it
Was tossed into the grass and I washed my hands, to
Discover that the slimy film left behind would
Not wash off, not even after three tries. It took
Hard friction, with a dry cloth, to remove it, and
Afterwards my uncharacteristically
Smooth hand felt as if even fingerprint ridges
Had been removed. Is that possible? Must be some
Kind of digestive juice. Have criminals tried this?
Or cosmetics companies in anti-wrinkle
Cream? Now that would be knee-slapping hilarious.
- poem 4533
Of the two-thirds of our lives spent awake, how much
Is spent waiting? How much being bored? How much in
Busywork? Add it all up, you do the math, don’t
Forget commuting to and from work, and that leaves
How many microseconds for what? The TV,
The phone – which has grown into a many-headed
Monster – the computer, the starship, the horse and
Buggy. I wonder if my great-great grandfather
Spent more or less time waiting. And if it was more,
Did it matter less? Maybe they had answers I
Lack, maybe they sat around the campfire and told
Comforting stories. I seem to have no stories,
Comforting or not, unless I tell them myself.
Oh, okay. Yeah. Right. I think I see how that works.
- poem 4532
Any direction which would call for them to look
Inward and own up is met with strong resistance,
Interrupted, talked-over, or shouted down. It
Looks like a place they dare not go because, most times,
They have some flimsy story which makes what they are
Doing okay, and they know it will fall apart
If they look too closely. So, no, I don’t think they
Find inwardness strange, I think it is frightening,
But not a fear born of the unknown; rather, a
Fear born of the very well known, which they seek to
Avoid with all that still remains of them, until
They end up cold and pallid in a gutter or
On a slab in the county morgue. This is life and
Death, not some abstract moral relativism.
- poem 4531
The hardest thing, for me, about growing older
Is doing it alone. With a string of lovers
Reaching back forty-five years, and three marriages
That failed, it seems clear that this outcome was not what
I expected. To be honest, I never thought
Of it at all, one way or another. Something
Deep inside seemed to be steering me away from
Solitude – without success. The second hardest
Thing is the pain, mostly skeletal, which never
Relents. The third is fatigue, which steals time and days
Away from me till I can no longer keep track.
The easiest thing about growing older is
Facing death, which no longer appears as menace,
But as alleviation, comfort, and savior.
- poem 4530
God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
The first thrust came from the Roman Church, its doctrine
Of confession and forgiveness. It is said that
No Mafia Don ever misses confession.
Then Luther, outraged by indulgences, only
To dismiss all action altogether, and his
Followers, who made God the great, gracious giver
Of free passes. All one must do is believe, how
One lives is a matter of indifference – as long
As one is always sure to ask for forgiveness.
More libertine than blood-soaked Nero; do as you
Please, licentiousness deified. Believe, and ask
Forgiveness, even on death row. We have killed God.
What was left for us to murder, except ourselves?
- poem 4529
The whole house is silent save for the ice machine
Dumping a load into the tray, and this damn fly
That seems to regard my bald head as the orb it
Must orbit. The sunlight slants low through the window,
Late afternoon, the yellow star caresses the
Green hillside. This dust mote in the beam may be as
Old as the universe, it may be the remains
Of Alexander the Great – see how the mighty
Have fallen. Time gives us each our own judgment day.
I shall pass into nothing and I will not care
About anybody, anything, anyhow,
Anywhere. As Dostoevsky returned to the
Tables after his faux execution, I spend
My remaining time with typical unwisdom.
- poem 4528
There is a difference between Alpine yodeling
And the kind that was once found in country music –
No longer, as if they’d grown ashamed of their roots.
There is a similarity, without question,
Between yodeling and whatever it is that
Auctioneers do with their voices…, except that the
Yodel comes from deep in the throat, the auctioneer’s
Call from more toward the front, but there’s still that rolling
Chant from somewhere behind the tongue. Oddly enough,
I wish I could do that. I’m not even sure why.
Maybe because yodeling is a song of joy,
And I could use such a song now and then. Yodels
And bagpipes would make an interesting mix, at
Four in the morning, to wake up the neighborhood.
- poem 4527
Staring out through the stench of the pool of sewage
Collecting above and slightly to the right of
My heart, dead center in the factory of my
Ribcage. Work comes to a halt. Call in maintenance
To snake the drain, pour in some acid to dissolve
The shit that congealed there. And the hair. I once had
To live in the future, because I had one and
I did not want it to end as it ended. So
Much for my futile efforts. Ten years after I’m
Dead, only my children will remember, and when
They pass, no one at all. The tomb of the unknown
Poet. Let the weeds and the insects stand their posts.
Let all of humankind and the earth pass into
Dust. Immortality is the dream of a fool.
- poem 4526
Grim determination. So be it. Jaw set and
Locked. Brow drawn and vision focused. So that’s how you
Want it. Then that’s how it will be. At no time did
I wish for it, desire it, or seek it – it was
Foisted upon me without my compliance or
Any consent. But now, here, I am encircled
By circumstances, surrounded in situ. You
Want a piece of this? Come and get it. You haughty
Bastard, you know I have no chance, but you’ll know you
Were in a fight before I go down. I know you’re
Not there, I know I’m talking to myself, but I
Really don’t care. I’ll still kick your ass before I
Breathe my last. If it was all just an accident,
So much the worse. Who is there to beg my pardon?
- poem 4525
How can a man thrive in tribal society
When he neither plays your tuba, lives in the haus,
Nor in the igloo? How is an outsider to
Make it, and what tragic history has raised this
Intolerance between ancient Nigerian
Families? Is hatred imbued in the human soul,
The remnant scar of original sin? Or could
We escape fate and call ourselves free? Violence
Is the question, not the answer. If we do not
Foster the future, the future will leave us and
Never even notice. Gandhi brought down mountains
And did not raise a hand, and died by the gun. What
Mathematician could possibly solve for this
Most troubling and perplexing of possible worlds?
- poem 4524
It doesn’t matter to me what you believe, just
As it doesn’t matter to God. I don’t care if
You don’t believe I exist, or existed, in
The event of my death. Would I be so petty
As to concern myself with these – like a housewife
With nothing better to do than watch overly
Dramatic soap operas on TV? Does God
Eat chocolate bon-bons? But I care deeply about
What people do to each other, and I pay close
Attention. I know who to trust and not, I know
Who may call for action. I do not need after
Lives to see justice, there will be consequences.
The inevitability of consequence,
In Eastern religions, is what’s known as karma.
- poem 4523
Today is the summer solstice, the longest day
And shortest night of the year. After today, the
Darkness begins once again to encroach. After
Today the sun begins to retreat southward and
The cold begins to advance, reminiscent of
A battle front in which the allies, on the verge
Of victory, have somehow been turned back, have botched
The campaign and are suddenly in retreat…, for
Six months. Then, on the winter solstice, the tide of
War will once again turn. The Vikings saw nothing
Inevitable about the victory of
Light, and felt compelled to summon Wodin by the
Candles they placed in the evergreen trees. Perhaps
Today we should begin placing lights in the trees.
- poem 4522
Dear Mom, Life’s really hard lately, pain every day,
Rain every day, depression dancing like dark flame
On the periphery of consciousness. Some days
I long to come and join you, even if it is
In nothing more than eternal dissolution.
Poverty looms always over the horizon,
The money you left me misspent on an unwise
Marriage – but that is past, nothing to be done. I
Fear at my age I won’t live long enough, be strong
Enough, or have the energy to get myself
Out of this one. I wish you were here, if only
For the reassurance. Tell Dad I’m still working
On forgiving him. I’ve made some progress, but there
Are many miles to go. See you soon. Love, your son.
- poem 4521
For my next trick, I shall turn myself inside-out;
I shall open my mouth and spill out my guts, right
Down to the metatarsals, right here on the stage
Of this hitherto blank page. It’s kind of gross, but
My trick-after-next is to magically make
It interesting – perhaps beautiful, but that’s
A bit of a stretch, limited to randomly
Select engagements. Here we see the outside-in
Imagination, busier than Times square at
Mid rush-hour, Friday afternoon. And memory,
Torn and tattered and moldy, almost to the point
Of liquification. Here we see the dark star
At the center of it all, around which all else
Orbits, into which it will fall and disappear
- poem 4520
I’d like to kick back and wait for a thought to come,
One which holds at least potential interest, but
That does not work so well on mornings when it’s rush,
Rush; run, run. On those days I rise early, but
Even so, dare not wait – one never knows for how
Long. Instead, I focus on the here-and-now, and
Watch what’s going on. No matter how trivial,
Like trying to write a verse while an appointment
Looms, there is always something happening, always
Aspects of it common but invisible. I
Take a snapshot of that moment in words, making
Sure to fit it to the form, and that has to pass
For the verse of the day. Though I do think the ones
Written at leisure are, all-in-all, better verse.
- poem 4519
Ever notice how difficult it is to write
A verse without using the first-person pronoun?
Perusing a plethora of poetry will
Readily reveal this difficulty’s true depth.
Even the great names shake them out like grains of salt
On an otherwise bland dish. But, unless it is
Some kind of translator’s ruse, the same is not true
Of poetry from the East, whence the speaker does
Not insert itself; rather, the words appear as
If from nowhere, speak of something else, and vanish
As if going back there. This truth goes deeper than
Mere cultural aesthetics, it goes all the way
To the root of the difference between eastern and
Western religion – but scripture’s always in verse.
- poem 4518
The question of God has been haunting me lately,
An ancient ghost come whispering in my ear to
Tell me the solution is easy. Already
I have it in my possession, but don’t know it,
Like having a coin in my pocket that I picked
Up as change, which happens to be priceless. All of
The problems, all of the nonsense erected down
Through the ages by sages who thought they honored
God when placing God where nobody could ever
Reach. But they did Him, Her, or It no honor; they
Formed first a police state and then a joke few would
Take seriously. As might be expected, God
Is supremely patient. And now I see it. It’s
As simple as redefining a single word.
- poem 4517
I turn my back a moment – would you look at what they’ve done?
A travesty of me they’ve made, a cartoon character,
A fool, a clown in a comedy of errors! Something
Even I could neither believe in nor trust. At worst a
Monstrous tyrant of the very kind I have condemned, at
Best a comforting grandfather who wouldn’t discomfit
A mouse. They’ve dressed me up in nonsense, curse those Greeks to hell!
Just kidding. They describe me as if I were a puzzle
With no solution, not because of its subtlety or
Mystery, but because it is self-contradictory!
Then some poor guy in Montenegro is supposed to make
Profound sense of this. I don’t help because I do not wish
To encourage this farce. Perhaps it would be best to scrap
The whole thing and start from scratch. Ol’ Scratch heartily agrees.
- poem 4516
No one is consigned to hell for what was done or
Left undone. No one is consigned to hell for what
Was believed or disbelieved. Judgment is no mere
Folly or entertainment, such are a sadist’s
Tastes. Hell is reserved for the self that was not self
Created, usually less by choice than by
Negligent habit. The walls of hell are raised by
Indifference, the fires of hell stoked by anger, fear,
And hatred…, all as if by accident. Who? Me?
Neither is hell a punishment but a reward
For a certain kind of self, granted at last what
It has always sought – anger for the angry, fear
For the fearful, hatred for the hater. Death is
Not a necessary precondition, of course.
- poem 4515
The wisteria vine writhes up some hapless tree,
Draped in spring with blossom-clusters of royal blue
Or lavender, a scent mindful of freesia
But not as strong as gardenia, beautiful to
Behold but quite murderous in its serpentine
Strangulation of that innocent arbor. So
It was with her. Unwholesomely naïve, I let
Her take root in my soil, nurtured and encouraged
Her, saw her through the worst stages of dread illness
And the poverty of her woeful plight, only
To discover – she could not help herself – that she
Was strangling me, and if she succeeded, we would
Both die. It took weeks of taxing labor, but at
Last, I have transplanted her. Far away from here.
- poem 4514
I have met people who lack a capacity
For introspection. You cannot believe how strange
This seems to someone who grew up doing little
Else. How can you not see what you are doing? How
Can you not know what you have become? How can you
Think that everyone else is blind when you choose not
To see? And on a slightly different note, how do
We know if they’re people? What mark distinguishes
Them from the undead? I once went into the world
Expecting that everyone would be an abyss
Behind a reflection. It has taken a long
Time to learn that some ponds are puddles, and vice
Versa. The deepest oceans, however, can be
Considerably less challenging to discern.
- poem 4513
I am a stationary drifter — don’t move much
From place to place in mappable space, but I’ve been
To locations difficult to conceive. I’ve been
Where the populace consists of infinite sets
And listened to the Gods speaking some divine tongue
I could never master. I’ve been to the outer
Edge and extended my staff beyond it, I’ve been
To the inmost depths within the darkest darkness,
Seen the creatures dwelling there and learned what there is
To fear. I have been to nations full of rage and
Hate, but I have yet to find one full of love, though
Many claim to be. I have traveled at the speed
Of thought, beside which light dimly pales, and I have
Very little need to step over my threshold.
- poem 4512
Time giveth and time taketh away. There is no
Creator but time, nor any destroyer but
Time; neither is there any dwelling place but time,
And those who speak of eternity speak of naught
But time protracted to infinity. There is
Only one direction of time, there’s no going
Back. There is only one velocity of time,
One second per second, there’s no leaping ahead
Into the future at any faster pace. All
Of the Gods in all of the myths and legends of
Humanity are nothing but incarnations
Of time in assorted guises, depending on
The function focused on at the… time. How will it
Turn out, for good or ill? All in due time, it seems.
- poem 4511
Said the bloodsucker to the parasite, I’m not
Symbiotic, are you? Said the parasite to
The bloodsucker, hell no! And I’m nearly through. There’s
Not much left to take from this broken, pallid, and
Nearly lifeless form. Not much, you say? Nearly, you
Say? Then there is still work left to do! Egads! You’re
Right! The heart still beats, though slowly. The brain still thinks,
Though darkly, through a glass. We must put a stop to
All this bloody nonsense. The parasite made a
Pun which the bloodsucker did not appreciate,
But let it go in the interest of greater goals
To be achieved. Let us, then, return to work, with
Due apologies. And when all breath at last has
Left, we’ll find ourselves another naive victim.
- poem 4510
Storm coming in. How I love the beauty of the
Imminence. The leaves outside my window twitter
And tweet like some machine-gun semaphore I could
Never possibly unravel. The low voice of
The west wind can shriek and howl like death itself but
Not, I think, on this cold front – a dark grey woolen
Blanket drawn across the sky. As metaphors go,
Not so great, because one does not get wet drawing
Up the covers. Rather, perhaps, then, how about
The labia which swallows us with great tumult?
We get wet, so does the earth, new life emerges,
Yes, I think that works. There is something entrancing,
Erotic, about the coming of the storm. I’ll
Lay back and listen as it passes just outside.
- poem 4509
We are born with the monster fury spawn within.
There are times when it may be aptly unleashed, as
When injustice triumphs – for the moment – or when
Forceful self-defense is necessary. Beyond
That is the endless struggle to keep the Furies
In check. The infant’s life is controlled by them, each
Small discomfort, no matter how ephemeral
Or trivial; but the infant is helpless to
Do anything but cry. Imagine infant rage
In an adult body. It would be a beast of
Many inconsistent heads. Bad moods roll in on
Thunderheads. Do not unleash the Furies. Aimed at
Someone else, but the acrimony lands on me.
Do not unleash the furies. Now it is too late.
- poem 4508
At this moment I hate all women on planet
Earth. Equally. I’m sure it will pass, but right now
It is visceral and decalescent. When I
Got divorced the second time, I took an oath to
Myself that I wouldn’t ever have another
Woman in my life. I had it tattooed on my
Left shoulder, in Latin. I’ve broken that vow twice,
And I’ve paid dearly each time. It’s simply not worth
The bullets I have to take; but then, I seem to
Have a strange penchant for dysfunctional women.
Enough is enough. I am happy alone, or
As happy as it’s gonna get. I have enough
To scrape by, and I must develop the spine to
Make my desperate heart obey my algid mind.
- poem 4507
How can I get you to listen when you won’t let
Me finish a sentence? How can I get you to
Understand when you invariably cut in
And talk over me? How can anyone expect
A mortal man to maintain patience and not raise
His voice? You walk away in a huff thinking we
Just had a quarrel over some topic that I
Never brought up, never intended to discuss.
But you think what you think and insert it at each
Opportunity. When I begin to believe
That it is impossible to talk to you, that’s
When the relationship begins dying – a long,
Slow, painful death full of spite from which there is no
Resurrection. Hell is people who won’t listen.
- poem 4506
Death come kindly, in the night while I sleep, never
Mind what dreams may come; what hell could be any more
Hellish than this life? The fardels have broken me,
The undiscovered country holds no fear for me;
I look with some contempt on those for whom it does.
Death come easily, without violence, neither from
My hand nor any other, nor from the hand of
Nature which knows no compassion. Creep in ballet
Slippers, on point, without the slightest sound, while I
Am lost in the emptiness of an old man’s dreams.
Death come soon, for I lack the energy or will
To drive this buggy; I am but a spectator
And will remain so till I die. Not even my
Decrepit organs have value to the living.
Other Tribulations of Job – Imagine Job
- poem 4505
Xeno’s paradox applied to economics.
Please don’t destroy me, you could do it easily
And you know it. Inflow and efflux, concepts you
Can’t grasp, not because you are unable – merely
Not interested. There’s no infinity, in
Fact never mind theory, because infinity
Contains an infinite number of subsets, each
Infinite, but of lower cardinality
Than the former. Yes, that’s right, infinities can
Be larger or smaller. I’ll explain later. Where
Was I? The well can run dry, and when it does, we
Both die. We either have to reduce the rate at
Which we drink from the well, or we have to think of
Some way to find extra water. More marriages
End over money-matters than adultery.
- poem 4504
The march of the platypodes across the barren
Outback, the rustle of the rustlers as gentle
Tumbleweeds roll by; ravines etched by rivers down
Madison and Fifth, once long ago when the good
Lord developed an itch – right in the middle of
His back, where he couldn’t reach it. He created
Adam, but the damn man had no nails, so he then
Created Eve and they reproduced like fleas. The
Bloody hell with this, the good Lord exclaimed; He made
A backscratcher and left us to our wits. The tides
Roll in and out and in, and when the messiah
Returns, it will be our job to clean up the mess
Isaiah made and live in bliss, or not, or just
Sing of cabbages and kings and similar things.
- poem 1580
Some people are not built for reflection…, almost
As if, when packing their cognitive equipment,
The mirror was cast aside. Some people cannot
Be directed to look within, either because
There is nothing to see, the direction is not
Understood, or sheer damned stubbornness. They are like
Charging bulls, not to be reasoned with and not to
Be placated. It is best just to get out of
Their way, if they’ll let you. And if they won’t, repeat
The mantra: I am not attacking you, why are
You defending yourself? These people are stranger
To me than space aliens; I spend most of my
Life within. I rarely travel because I am
Always busy working somewhere that can’t be seen.
- poem 2940
Help! I’m a prisoner of poetry! I am
Being held against my will at this desk, before
This glowing computer screen. I’m not permitted
To go anywhere or do anything – except
Drink coffee and make more if it runs out, and pee
If necessary – till I have produced something.
Well, I’ve produced something. So what’s the deal? I have
Flowers to water, lawns to mow, a dark stout for
Drinking, kittens to bury and wood to burn. A
Whole tree, actually. Oh. I see. Poetry
Has yet to finish with me. It has something further
To say. Very well then, say it. Go ahead, say
It. Much as I expected. Put it on the spot
And it’s got nothing. Good help is so hard to find.
- poem 3763
In the last days of the Roman Empire, Nero
Became Emperor. Power and personal gain
Were his only real interests in the position,
And probably sex with whatever passed for porn
Stars in the ancient world. His upgrade of Roman
Infrastructure was to burn the whole thing down, while
He “fiddled,” which I’ve long suspected to be a
Euphemism for masturbation. He slaughtered
People for sport, to keep the masses distracted,
And not even the greatest athletes dared best the
Emperor in contest. His ignoble and well
Deserved death came too late to save the Empire, though
Many good men tried. It has been said that those who
Do not know the past are condemned to repeat it.
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