when the way gets twisted and scrunched into a narrower and narrower and narrower path so tight you simply gotta tear your way out not even thinking of who might be on the driveway when you- ...in two secs, the jury will be arriving unanimously at the verdict that your sick, sorry ass is so guilty you will hang high - so help me - for even tryin' to end it all - kickin', screamin', beggin', cryin ' "Yeeeee-hah!"
Got me a real doozy. A classic, set-piece fairy tale:
“Drunk White Rabbit Crashes Black Grizzly Meth-Party Deep in Woods, cussing “N” word.”
I was only blinking – hey! couple hours, maybe. No more – but I woke up, dudn’t I?
A split second from coiling up for the aggro spring-pounce back into the ring, snorting, shadow-punching…
in but a split second, but one cotton pickin’– Never mind…
…to a future that never happened quick enough to crowd outwhat had come to crowd it out.
So… kinda’ casually aware of an eternal now.
Tuned, to the rising-falling breath of life and death, plus assorted intermediate heavings of the mother earth.
Sensitized – nay, heightened – passively observing the sunlight as she shifted,
slightly lifting her weight off my thighs.
Stole my blanket – you get my drift? – in a yawny, stretchy mood.And in one maxed-out, richly layered, poignant line-drive, photo-finished, round 15, 3-2 split-decision judgement call, I… Aah shit, I would’da done the same if I came back a million reincarnations more. So what I didn’t want the day to go just yet izat wrong? …And that wuz when it pounced. Contrary to public opinion, the prey seldom feels the fear because there’s not enough time to feel, since they get taken down before they know- wha-? f-? Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. II
Originally spelt “High? Cool.”hey, djew know? the soul, like a gecko’s tail, regrows yet, the body? hell no Turning darker now, and still I couldn’t move, lifeless on a bean bag, face-to-face with the tv, one hand still on the remote. I thought I must look ridiculous to my patron diety, Lord Kumbhakarna, and prayed for him to come to my rescue, just this once. He is big, real big – eats Humvees for a snack. He can protect me, nurture and train me to do good. Though it’s a marvel how he manages to fit everything in – everything! – on a mere six months of hibernation, and six short months of food. Kazap! …And it was done. “Doc, I think we got something! A pulse. A palpitable pulse!” Thank you, Lord, for saving my soul and butt. You’re quick, I’ll say, for a big fat dude. Zat mean I gotta do work on that there body now…? Moving along…. III Tomorrow. Dream it then, and draw strength on credit from tomorrow… when the sun must come back bravely on the dot, and in every direction these darknessess disperse – yeah? – and skitter-scatter off. Courage required only for tonight, Capt’n. Because I’m still pinned, immobile, to a tactically defenseless, suicide-friendly, designed-for-sacrificial-altar spot… Watch my ass, bro. Don’t let up. The black and white re-runs are circling like a pack of wolves.
…was that poet guy, wasn’t he, who leapt off a boat into the water one night grabbing at the reflection of the moon?
Sappy end to a legend, I thought. Don’t you think?
After all, he was real, supposedly, and talented. Made government official and climbed high too. Ministry of Health or something. The same one who whipped up the eternal line:
“Drew a blade and slashed the water; even more the water flowed.”
Meaning to say he maybe wasn’t such a hot-shot civil servant after all;
or maybe the politics was rather so fluid in those days it just kept coming and coming and coming, and wouldn’t stop.
Others have been designated Poet laureate, and might have received a stipend. But he was so close to deification, they named him ‘immortal’, just like the lines he wrote. And everyone knows immortals don’t eat mortal food or, crucially, drink mortal booze. His hatred of politics was as clear-cut as a blade across a throat.
On one hand, his fame was mainly for the street-cred that pulled him lengths ahead, letting no competition come close: the knack of a delicate, wafting scent, transforming into a raptured expression, at the lilting aroma, discernible on the opening of the day’s first jar of booze.
On the other, he was posthumousy conferred distinguished alumni of the exclusive Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grovet. Pure, unadulterated and distanced from the ugliness of political intrigue and betrayal – playing wine, drinking chess, chillin’ out in the cold, clean heights of Coventry;
Conversely, he was the old mastermind behind the older tapestry, victor of shadowy battles which others fought.
Despite getting it in the ass just like everybody else, he wrote and wrote, unfazed even by some sappy output, such as: “…the tear from the eye of the girl whose heart didn’t know who it hated most.”
No matter how much bulldust you try and drench yourself under, something in your soul just knows.
Much, much too late. It’s so, so over.
I really truly completely hate you now.
I never doubted it before, but let the world erode my anger
whenever the negativity and cynicism arose.
I let the soft-pedal, feelgood, sweet-talk, inspirational whatever do its thing,
and Gaia me into the few stock corrals sorting out that confusion of human emotional truth into a few neat bundles of clear-cut options guaranteed never to be seen as wrong:
generousity, tolerance, forbearance, environment, minority rights, animal freedom, non-violence, sustainability, niceness to children, universal love, sisterhood of woman, brotherhood of man… one big orgy together in a van.
Well, my people have got each and every one of these, and we’re holding them hostage until you are ready to negotiate. And we will consider this message received and read and clearly understood.
So, no point activating the Call Number Blocker on your phone.
Well it’s not like we’re separated or anything,
and our feelings haven’t, y’know, gone astray, and all.
Plus it really hasn’t been terribly long; not if you go by some people who only
run into each other on the landing, like, maybe, once a month or two-
husband and wife, parents and children, sibling and sibling,
and whatever combination lives together these days, sort of.
Heck didn’t I just Twitxter you a day ago,
and you Basefooked me two before?
You pop up on my Coocle Girgle all the time, and– what else do we do?
Yeah I sent you that Mutter Invite, remember?
and your committee accepted my avatar on your Monsta Ultimate Assault Team too.
And thanks for your ‘Like’ on my Corporated Affirmation — now I need just two more to get in.
Oo, guess what? The new tracker I put on your blog? It says you’re definitely trending!
If anything, now, more than ever before, I feel we’re kinda closer.
Sorta like we’re dancing in step, and whirling through the dance floor,
doin’ our own thing, oblivious to everyone else chatting in the room,
just you lookin’ at me; me at you.
You know, kid, this could lead to something.
Something spontaneous, unexpected, totally outta the blue.
What they call a moment, a happening, a connection…
baby this sounds old-fashioned nerdy, but I’d say we are connecting.
Honey this could really be.
I think I can feel it.
So close, so weird, but not totally unheard of
if in the next few minutes I suddenly start trending too,
like crazy trending, like broom-broom trending,
like trending my ass off, sugar,
and, elevating eleventeen gameplay levels,
and be right there
trending next to you.
…time i had a little… …tell you it was only… …lookin’ at a genuine..? ….what’s the point of trying…? …no one said it would be… …doo0 you mean exactly…? …so this is how the story…? …strange i can’t remember… …I’m asking you, you’re asking me….? ….and just who is going to believe…? …well, this is one fantastic… …time we did a stocktake…. …find this quite amusing… ….nothing else I’d rather… …happy now? there it is… …and will someone please? Please? …only thing I’m saying… ….will someone please, I’m begging? ….no longer quite so funny… ….look stop, just stop, now stop or I call security… stop. One thing you can bet on… if you don’t stop that fat lady getting on the stage, she will soon start singing.
30 days at a poem a day at x number of poets with limits
neither to the variety of ideas, concepts, insights;
nor shapes, styles, sentiments;
nor lengths, depths, heights to be expressed? For real?
Awesome. Mind-blowing. Nice.
And – may I say? – so charming, elegant and bold.
If rhymes were rifles and rhythms were magazines and alliteration
the rat-tatting staccato of semi-autos, spitting trajectories of symbols, syntax and satire near and far,
free-form, and yet- within the babbling chaos- assonant
to the screams of mothers on that awful flesh-bursty tearing at each poem’s bloody birth,
then may I lick- nay, slobber- the dirt under the divine shadows upon wherever the bottoms of thy Holy Feet may fall.
Just- my Eternal Goddess- if it isn’t going to be any trouble at all,
when what you have conceived develops into the foetus, and the foetus into contractions,
and the contractions intensify unstoppably into the stupendous volcano of a thing
no tyrant, no dictator, no world bank, mineral cartel or pharmas big and small
could ever hope to stopper-up,
and so run away screaming “revolution”,
because they have no new language to understand
(and only if it doesn’t mess up anyone’s schedules and coffee-break at all),
please, pretty please,
when they are rounded up and lined neatly along a Chinese wall,
or herded into a hangar-like enclosure with shiny white square tiles
(O Goddess, whose dust I breathe was caressed by the shadow of the bottom of thy Holy Toes),
may we have just one, only one, all-inclusive, up-sized and don’t hold the mayo,
continuous, unabridged, director-cut, maximum-securitized, free-of-charge, MMA,
mega-mother-flucker of a poetry-reading
to apprise them of it all?
Today is but tomorrow’s regret and yesterday’s retribution.
You don’t havta’ get too serious on a one night stand, you know?
That roundhouse punch you saw a’comin, gathering momentum like the train that forgets to slow down at your station, then remembers – too late!
then, neither stepping on it, nor on the brakes, it kinda briefly hangs, levitating…
- repentance served, apprehension amortized, karmic retribution temporarily experiencing difficulties…
What you see after the WHAMMO! is nuthin’. Just some tweety stars, or starry tweets, or both – some goin’ clockwise; some anti.
The train has left the station empty.
Y’don’t kick, y’don’t scream, y’don’t even know – can’t remember, darnit – if you were gettin’ on or off.
Attagirl. Come to daddy.
It’s ok, baby baby baby baby baby.
We know it’s not your fault.
Through all the lifetimes in all the ages of the universe, it has never been you.
‘fraid it was me. All along.