on the dusty trail,
or was it the long, hard road?
where we met an old fellow in a worn jean jacket, right?
or was it a young lass in a brilliant yellow sun dress?
and he/she said…
we’ll never know for sure
what the hell was actually said
since we didn’t come here for facts or truth
or anything resembling real reality
with its oh so chewy truthiness—
these days a good tale will do, right!?
just make sure you capture our emo-o-otions,
heartfelt: soaked blood-red with hard-fought true dat-a-tat-tat,
and match our madness, ALL THE MADNESS!
the age of waist-deep fly-ridden horseshit
is well underway and the marketing guru
will have you follow his lead
to its illogical end: buy that shit now
for a limited time low price!
the politico, at the podium clamoring
for all that is just, right and american
will have you follow his lead
to its illogical end: vote for him now
for what once was will surely be again!
then is now and now can be then again!?
today shall be yesterday and tomorrow will be better than today… maybe!?
everything will be all right, we’ll figure it out, our ideas are better than theirs!
believe me — trust me — have faith in my righteous indignation!
meanwhile the flies continue
with the endless work of egg-laying,
their most honest work after all,
upon the waist-deep and gradually
growing shit heap
they’ll be hatching soon…
just today I walked a couple hundred yards to a gas station for coffee,
the road was neither hard, nor particularly long, but my 20 oz. plastic
coffee cup boasted of how its beans were hand-selected with care,
expertly roasted and… WAIT— GAS. STATION. COFFEE.
they’ll be the overlords soon,
an ending, one of many possible endings,
hopefully a bit more aware of all the shit
and the flies’ ceaseless buzzing…
Tree songs wailing with wavering wind gusts. Beasts, wild and urbane, relating rhythmically. Bearcats bumping. Kids colliding. Warblers … WARBLING! Meanwhile, pensive poets ponder pristine pentameter. Preposterous! Among the great gathering a tremendous squabble, rabble-rousing alongside reasoned reflecting. Over yonder a proud pile of rock, hardly rocking, not quite resonating, but still wholly riveting. Clouds coalescing, snakes slithering, stars shimmering, even misanthropes menacing. Everything spread thin through space and time, groaning. No thing, notwithstanding. Personal pleas persist— we are the liquor, the language, the lamentation and the luster. Now’s our time to beat upon the collective drum and blow the great horn. Go forth and sound your way.
gargle that sludge bucket bouillon ~
persistent grumbles, kids near lawn ~
pound bunkum into my fecund satchel ~
grab the vegetalia with salad tongs ~
piercing acumen despite weak knees ~
groundbreaking thunderdumplings! ~
piss off already, weak-ass pound cake! ~
pine nuts make our pesto mighty, punk! ~
look out, look out! —
the color of space on your face.
sun and stars, wind and moon
all-up-on your face-face-face.
overcast rainy day face
alongside hot melt-face
and icy fro-frozen face.
so much face reflecting
inner-space and outer-space.
so’s your face, so’s my face.
toast with no suitable spread?
no matching socks remain?
the cows rebel against the cheese?
the well runs dry?
nothing remains for you and I?
EVERYTHING IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!
All real or imagined immediately in this moment,
today and forever whether you like it or not—
Breath by breath nonsensical, ephemeral reality!
This isn’t poetry, it’s real, incongruous, messy life.
I’ve surely had too much drink, too much everything.
Such fleeting, visceral, sloppy un-reality—
Sure to be gone in a few blinks…a sneeze-blast,
an epic bean-fueled bout of excessive flatulence.
Continuing mayhem whether you like it or not.
I do and I do not, so what? Wanna fight about it!?
I don’t want to fight. Life is too terribly short and we
all hurt, all tears salty, all blood red. Not worth
the pain, not worth anymore pain. Love those you
love with all you’ve got and consider carefully why…
why not the others? Are they any less worthy?
Tomorrow, Tuesday, will surely be today by then.
We all must face the minotaur in our own way.