A Day After

A frozen not yet suspension
of objects - their objects
some objects of their things
their things in merge
between practice - the public
pantomime ultra habitual
of their lives
in their own words
coupled with observations
undercycling a continuum
of events, theoretic social
metabolism and the history
both symbolic and non -
enormous tracts of people
organized by color, size
effort, delinquency, car
offspring and times
to data base per week -
these are the items of
the universe - the shape
a redemption manifesto
in Divine Love
as part of forever.
Here is where taken apart
it is all examined
for a nation of gimmicks
in quota and realm,
here the clock
fixes and ticks.

So the War is a Collectible

What a strange surprise
it all was, ending up
here I still remember
scrimshaw.
Not useful but somehow
handmade, detailed,
and executed
with extraordinary skill
by human beings.
We had a neighbor
with technical abilities
predictive in nature,
the way he brought
the right things home
each time - the rumors
to the working girls.
What were they that year?
How many times had we spoken
and of course, he was right.
With robotic self-centers
entitled to myths,
scrimshanders around
the world were
obscuring - cutting
then obscuring again,
we were running,
crouching defending
and cramming. While
the rest was up-ending
we were soul searching
and blame-laying, observing
from the roof
at regular intervals, checking
for patterns in the muse.
On the balcony jets left
with threats and promise.

So the War is a Collectible

What a strange surprise
it all was, ending up
here I still remember
scrimshaw.
Not forthcoming but somehow
handmade, ornate,
plainly executed
with extraordinary skill.
We had a neighbor
with technical skills
predictive in nature,
the way he brought
the right things home
each time - the goat meat
to the working girls.
Where were these that year?
How many times had we spoken?
With robotic self-centers
entitled to myths,
while poets around
the world were
obscuring - rewriting
then obscuring again,
we were running,
crouching defending
and cramming. While
the rest was up-ending
we were soul searching
and blame-laying, observing
from the roof
at regular intervals, checking
for patterns in the muse.
On the balcony jets left
with threats and promise.

Poems Written by Poets

who have not heard
the uspsurge of a fighter jet,
not stood in line
with the lights out,
a basket full of rice,
beans, candles and soap,
the actual essentials of life

who have not packed up
or pleaded or hedged
about staying
to see just a little more
of the firepower of mankind,
to hear a few more
incoming whistles and whirs

who have not listened
to the radio and coralled
the family pets onto a balcony
to decide who to let go,
the hamsters or the cats?

Who read this and wonder,
why so angry?

The Bling and Shiny

Not sure why promises are made,
they are the good waiting
for details and staff sargeants,
with the new senator,
his flirty waltz with heresy
is a complex plastic
of exquisite pitchiness,
the organic stripes of fire
price and he is also
an employee in every museum,
chairman of vote market
as spic as it is span,
terrible in the flashy
way vocabularies are robbed
to stock the franchise
of new poetry for better
wars, a clutch of yin-yang
buzz words for bang.

United Christmas of America

I've opened up this part of winter,
fact-checked the Currier and Ives
but this is a country of uniforms
and equipment, warehoused
and waiting in the con-temporary
beast-wizened through handbooks
and workshops that produce.
Not a shred of evidence
indicates otherwise.

Homunculus Of Oaks

At dawn where
hangs, the way we slip away
while monitoring the way
a pulpit stands or a voice
interupts the politics of sleep,
in every direction
an aversion to certain words:

ambidextrous, skin bag

"anent" (usage by Follett)
black, slang of thieves
on mash and bead,
quick aged on oak chips
bulldogged encyclopedias
where some take the waters,
others, palms and bitters
its - elf dependent
immediately on invention
beyond that
several baptisms

mean nothing.

The true and puritan
executioner got paid
yesterday in camp gear -
her knuckles promised
more gas chamber
monkey business-

arbitrary analogy of the unfit
borrowed time but who knows it!

mothers at the library
look for rides home
a pleading in their eyes
tells everyone, help me

there is no end to capability
-canonical cancer sweeps
the awards shows

no surprises in the excess
of hair cuts: misery, activism
and the look of several
off-campus apartments
to set up for a memoir
and rescue stray puppies
in army surplus dungarees.

FACT: war equals money
and 'other things'.
Why not just say it?

This Sunday belongs to no one,
the leaves it scatters testify
to vagrancy, lack of effort.