Sunday, February 23, 2020

Enjoy Selected Poems from Fractalverse: Volume Five!

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You call yourself good.
And yet you turn away as immigrant children
are torn from their mothers’ grips—?
And yet you ignore the crimes of your so-called president,
a traitor to this country, a thief who stole the presidency
with the aid of a cabal of criminals and a vile Russian government—?

You call yourself good, but are indifferent—?
You didn’t vote in November 2016.
You aren’t going to vote in 2018.
You’re still somehow good?

Or maybe you did vote.
You voted for the Orange Twitler.
Or you voted third-party because you believed the bullshit
about “that woman.”
Her emails! Benghazi! Oh my!

You call yourself good.
You have a job. You think that makes you good.
You provide for your family.
You think that makes you good.
You’re “normal” to your neighbors.
You think that makes you good.
You don’t rock the boat.
You think that makes you good.
You play the game, pay your taxes, and do as you’re told.
That makes you good, right?

But it doesn’t.
You are in fact no better than the finest Nazi
who lived and breathed and watched his
countrymen fill railcars with human beings
destined for extermination.

To hell with you and your soulless “good” life.


A leader is only as good as the nation he leads.

How far we have fallen.

News only once a week these days.
Whistling past the graveyard, yes.
I can’t bear to watch.
My views on humanity haven’t just bore out;
they are literally being proven each and every day.

People don’t hold values anymore.
They hold disvalues.
They embrace evil with clutching hands and corrupting hearts
and celebrate their originality and vile intent.
They look at history, declare it dead,
then do everything they can to repeat it.
Originality my ass.

Are we worthy of the stars?
The growing mountain range of shit-evidence has a very clear
and rancid answer.
Star Trek is almost a cruel joke, a farce.
I have a hard time not laughing when I watch it.

These days. These monstrous, hateful, shallow, toxic days.

A nation is only as good as the leader it follows.


The incentive is never great enough.
Choice appears as a ghost, perhaps hopeful, never really desired.
Freedom is most cherished when it’s behind glass.
The crowds pass by and ooh and aah,
and talk to their kids about how mighty it is,
how potent,
how beautiful.

Repetition and routine aren’t its enemies, as so many believe.
Age isn’t either.
And childhood isn’t necessarily its friend.
Few read the brass plaque giving this information.
They stare instead at the once-proud beast languishing in the corner.

How many smiles must I force to my lips?
How many times must I declare that I’m a “people person”?
The world is inoculating itself against common labor.
The mob bosses would rather we all starve.
They hate that beast most of all.

You aren’t free, you who pass by the glass.
You aren’t even really alive.
Your mind isn’t your own.
Practically nothing you think you own is either.
The banks own it.

I despise you as much as I do the mob bosses
and the zookeeper.
Probably more.


Waft of myrtle.
Seventy percent chance of showers tomorrow.
Drunk dusty green gradient swallows the exhaling earth.
The river is tired of summer. In the evening I can hear her sigh.

It feels like skiing downhill these days.
Food teases my taste buds once more.
Stridency has gone off to hibernate.

Perspective comes like a tiny hill won in a fierce battle,
and is lost just as often.
Rest loosens the joints of arthritic passivity.
Many times it feels anything other than restful.
Anger has simmered for so long in my bowels
that I fear for them.
Age, after all, is unforgiving.
It never lets go of a grudge.

If the universe is nothing but matter,
then all of this is for naught.
But I know better.
I touch the truth of it in my meditations.
That’s my evidence. That’s my testimony.
The bullies of this culture will never chase that out of me.


Through this age of blindness, of noise, of—cackling, screaming, pleading ...
this age of masturbatory self-dealing, wheeling, groaning ...
this age of destruction writ large, of the purveyance of all things profane,
this age so insane ...

This climb along the curve. This celebration of the unworthy. The parties for
the dead gunned down so that highly salaried hit-men and –women can
breathlessly shriek on. This hit, this finely cut insta-gram of social cocaine:
show me yours and I’ll show you my better.
Cancerous ennui. TL;DR!
Everything is worth looking at; nothing is worth noticing.

Orange boil twitters lies as his mind shrinks with the speed of Moore’s Law.
Bloody semen gushes from his head, spatters over his deluded followers.
They celebrate and lick wildly at one another, and post photos, and squirm
and writhe like the MAGAts they are. News isn’t news anymore: it’s an X-rated
beta-max video, wah-wah music and licking and spewing.

Nothing matters. Purpose has collapsed from termites. The hills are aflame.
Sky orange, orange hate, wimpy laws passed by wimpier lawmakers.
Orange boil comes on them, and they lick wildly at one another.


“It’s just fog.”
“It’s just rain.”
“It’s just the sunset.”
“It’s just the sea.”
“It’s just a tree.”
“It’s just a movie.”
“It’s just a song.”
“It’s just a painting.”
“It’s just a story.”
“It’s just a flower.”

I endeavor to live each day without “just.”
I, after all, believe very strongly in the soul.
“It’s just a soul” is the kind of thing soul-dead monsters say.


The white—momentary, nearly lost in various blue:
just a tiny slice of sky.
The sun had already set.
Smeared blue becoming bluer and bluer,
then purple, then sleepy purple, then black.
But that momentary white!
Changing sky.

I was the only one to see it.
Anywhere. In the whole universe.
I know that.
And so it talked to me as a friend:

“You saw me,” it said. “And you loved me.”

“I saw you,” I replied. “And I give thanks for you.”


Framed by fall and the inconstant kiss of open quiet,
or the descending zig-zag of golden wings goldly shifting afternoonly,
the tiny linear glitter of spiders’ webs pulled into curves of cool geometric mutiny,
shadows of gold lengthening and reaching into decades of wondering grief ...
(or is that wandering grief?) ...

So far the blue dome of the white day has yet to reveal her answers,
as I demand of all days, meek little human that I am.
Courage so often isn’t a battle with indeterminacy
as it is mere apathy towards it.
The days come and go regardless of my will.
Or yours.
There is no spot where the universe rests absolutely.

Hunger. A headache just over my nose. Hangnail, right pinkie.
Just caught my breath.
Thinking of the cool grass outside, and missing the rain.
The rain.


To-day. To-wit.
The sway of the world.
Slow. Cumbersome.
Indescribably beautiful.
Life hangs everywhere,
turns yellow, red, orange, brown ...
releases from its parent,
floats to the steady-damp earth.

Meaning paints on the blank canvas of meaninglessness.
Heaven laughs. Hell withers.
Memories swirl here and there,
gusting, griping, grumbling,
settling over forgotten furniture.

End of a year: what does it mean?
The chill air hangs on me like a promise.
The road I walk is lonesome and smells of myrtle and pine.
Meaninglessness spray-paints over the masterpiece meaning labored over.
Both laugh and clap each other’s back
before going out for a cup of coffee.


What a time we live in.
Here we are at the Age of the Decision.
Here we are at the Age of Concision.
Here we are at the Age of Collision.
A century hence—will anyone be alive to read these words?

The Age of Decision.
We have to decide.

If anyone should read these words in the year 2118,
do anything but romanticize this time.
At least two out of five human beings in 2018,
in the overblown, overdone, overrated country I live in,
desired death and destruction, oppression and suppression,
pollution and consumption, indifference and apathy.
Romanticizing that is foolish and ignorant and incredibly dangerous.

The human species is a desperately flawed one.
It deserves none of the dominance it has gained over this earth
and all the other species that have managed to survive alongside it,
and the millions more that haven’t.
If you are reading this in the year 2118,
the good, the decent, the true, the spiritual won the war.
And make no mistake—it was a war.
An all-out war.
We who share your values did not want it.
We who share your values did not start it.
But we did finish it.
We finished it totally and mercilessly and ruthlessly.
That was the only way we could’ve survived so that you can read this.

The Age of Decision.
The Age of Concision.
The Age of Collision.

Don’t romanticize it.
It was an ugly, hateful, horrible time.


Coming Soon: Conversations With God: Volume One | Reflection & Protest Poetry

This is a new series, one birthed by extemporaneous poetry I wrote right here on this blog. These are verses of reflection and protest in a world gone mad with authoritarianism, denial, consumerism, and herdism. They are not for those who insist on keeping their heads in the sand. You've been forewarned.


What did you spend your life doing?
Did you answer the unique and primal ache
each and every one of us has?
Or did you (almost certainly) ignore it?
Life is: school, marriage, kids, house, job, retirement, death.
And in-between consuming as much as you can
to stifle that ache.
And in-between:
constantly comparing yourself to your neighbors and coworkers.
And in-between:
kissing as much richer or more powerful ass as you can.
And in-between:
being steadily inured into Oblivion by the constant
messages of advertisers:
You aren't good enough!
You aren't rich enough!
You aren't sexy enough!
You're getting old!
You're getting fat!
You're socially unacceptable!
Why aren't you using fabric softener on that limp collar, loser!


The tentative release date is May. I'll keep you posted as the edits progress.


Yes, I Will Vote For Him | Protest Poem Against Bernie Sanders' Supporters

 Note: Now we learn:
Russia wants Bernie to win the nomination.
Russia is helping the Sanders campaign.

The Bernie Bros are celebrating.
They say Bernie Bros are Russian bots.
We need to back off attacking Sanders.
Bots! Bots! Bots!
Only a few of us are humans!

We need to come together,
the Bros cry mournfully.
We need to unite behind Bernie,
who is surely going to be the nominee!
We need to stop attacking him!
We need to stop holding him to account!
We need to drink the Kool-Aid!



Yes, I will vote for him.
Unlike you did for her.
Yes. I will.

You are directly responsible for the Orange Ass Boil.
Never once has a single one of you owned up to that fact.
Not once.
But I'll still vote for your guy should he be our nominee.

Your guy now, as then, is a fatuous, overblown, graying windbag.
His "revolution" was blown out of the political water
by a far superior opponent with far superior plans and support.
She's the actual and true president of this nation,
as I have called her ever since that horrible day in November 2016.

Remember when your guy refused to concede until the very end?
Do you remember how much that hurt her campaign?
Do you remember how none of you took responsibility when
the Orange Ass Boil "won"?*
Do you remember how none of you saw the
Russia-lovin' lady doctor/loony-bin third-party candidate
as the political horror show that she was, and is still?
How you refused to listen to those of us who understood
that Benghazi and the emails and the pedophile pizza parlor
were all made up by foreign enemies and the brain-dead
numbnuts among you?
How you bought into all that bullshit wholesale
and shared it widely amongst your friends?
How you memed your ridiculous "Bernie or Bust"
idiocy all over the inter-webs?
Remember that?
I do.

I'm supposed to let go of all this,
to shriek and scream for unity,
to forget what you did.
I'm supposed to, in other words,
call for the very thing you refused to do
when she was running,
when she was leading,
when she was warning us all about
the Orange Ass Boil.
How many posts from your fatuous, ignorant, wind-bag herd
did I read saying how you wanted the Orange Ass Boil to win;
you wanted him to destroy everything;
you wanted him to tear it all down;
because only then, you reasoned (using that term very loosely),
would your dreams of a socialist utopia be born.
You wanted the Orange Ass Boil.
Anything but her.
Remember that?
I sure do.

Now our democracy teeters on the very precipice of authoritarian doom;
and our world burns;
babies are being ripped from mothers' arms at our borders
and our LGBTQ brothers and sisters are being oppressed
and our highways are crumbling
and our sick are dying needlessly.
Because you got your Orange Ass Boil.
Because you refused to vote for her.

So you can shut your pie-hole about unity, asswipe.
Oh, you'll get it.
If by some perverse, unholy machinations
your guy actually wins the nomination,
I will vote for him.
But I will hold my nose doing it,
and will almost certainly vomit in the car afterward.
But I'll do it.
I'll do it because, unlike you,
I try to be a moral being.
Unlike you,
I don't buy the bullshit propaganda and misinformation.
Unlike you,
I don't pout like a fuckin' baby when I don't get my way.
And unlike you,
I have actual empathy for folks,
and fully understood two years ago what the Orange Ass Boil
was going to do to so many,
and what he'll do to so many more
should he somehow win* another election.

You don't want that, do you?
Well--do you?

I'm not so convinced.
Because what are you going to do if
your guy isn't the nominee to face him?


*Along with your ignorance and idiocy,
the Orange Ass Boil "won" by cheating and colluding,