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Writing will be the life and death of you

Writing and I communicate in on-again, off-again partnership

head, heart, lexicon involved in the oddest of threesomes

intent: my truth,  however shrouded in hieroglyphics

eerily similar to the dissonance of betrothals at brothels

 

Be it orthodox, multi-interpretational or indecipherable

with art or anything else, when is less more and more less?

or enough enough, for fulfillment, mere satiation or slighter?

the muse impossible to satisfy, often barely romanceable

 

Daveed says everybody has one murder in themselves

I call myself a hunter, a mere stalker of words

search, then sight, followed by aim and fire

is it a flesh wound, a hollow miss or inspiring fulfillment?

 

Being a lazy poet with a sloth-like indolence

“a minimalist” as I often spout with elan

a subdued pilgrim of the single word poem

be it ever elusive, not even half a haiku

 

Of no known western habitat

neither of dictionary nor thesaurus

a free agent of precious short scribbling

yet capable of intimacy with seekers

You Know Who

He emanates an ugliness beauty parlors couldn’t fix

it’s not imaginary that victims hear his psyche cackle

his every breath spews a malevolent excretion

A most prized possession being a mirror bloodied and in shards

 

Grievance bleating his perpetual static state

warped by depraved and inconsolable neediness

his vessel always on the ready with decomposing bile

branded the mega alpha and omega but of the self-con

 

All life viewed through a prism transactional

a life long loser incapable of addressing reality

Solomon once wearily shrugged after saying,

“you can’t fix evil, it’s unrecognizable to itself”

Alphabet Soup

Picked up a couple of foreign words who were out hitchhiking

puzzled when they inquired how they could compensate me,

I finally said “two syllables apiece, yes, that would do just fine”

“We only know milky cows” they exclaimed, “no silly bulls”

 

They disagreed with me that phonetics was a Nokia etiquette app

and that syntax wasn’t the financial result of a Baptist/Catholic merger

Fortunately, our tête-à-tête was set aside for a musical interlude

as we sang a saucy rendition of “you say tomayto, I say tomahto”

 

One turned crimson when I brought up the basics of conjugation

replying “make nouns, not me, the subjects of your prepositions”

I responded angrily “your synonyms are my antonyms”

as we resolutely failed in developing any lingua franca

 

Arguing over adverbs being the driving force in commercials

I punctuated my vehemence with “pronouns aren’t for amateurs”

we eventually came to conclude it best to call the whole thing off

and, for a more copacetic journey, we switched to sign language

Qs minus the As

Do we ever really escape being down to earth?

Why isn’t it unlawful to poach eggs?

I’m Irish so shouldn’t I have become a Catho-holic?

For anyone serving in any religious hierarchy, what’s the moral choice:  perpetuation, subjugation, apostasy or emancipation?

Does hate have a known gestation period?

What’s the formula for becoming a pyromaniac of the heart?

One of my early crushes instructed me to make my arse sparse — did literal me do the right thing by joining Jenny Craig?

I was born minus wisdom teeth — am I a protected class?

Where exactly is it that poetic justice is the law of the land?

Are bad relatives ingrown ingrates?

Faulkner’s first draft of “Dying As I Lay”

Tossing another token to John Prine who epitomized offering more with less. I liken this to a song rather than a poem but I’ll leave that definition to the reader.

Hey, dying ain’t all it’s cracked up to be

so don’t you go listening to that Fibber McGee

nobody’s thinking ‘I gotta hit the finish line strong’

’cause there ain’t any victors collecting the spoils

 

Living serves up messy helpings of joy and dire

on the level with the devil and singing with the choir

as my hourglass sands silently collect at the bottom

I’m wishing I’d taken the surprise behind Door #3

 

Did I master the rudiments of bountiful living?

or was my existence knowledge minus application?

how about throwing myself on the mercy of the court

Alex, why yes I’ll go ish kabibble on final jeopardy

 

At the end of our paths of becoming a human emeritus

we remain our own executioners serving out a life sentence

I’ve learned not much changes by putting the tea kettle on

IPA salvation at the brewery gives you much better odds

 

But what about if I decide I want to come back

unfinished business, get me my jacket of flak

you know if Google’s got an app for that?

We all wish for the one offering just rewards

 

So before I coldfoot it out of this Hotel Final

where it’s always checkout hour with no revival

I’ll offer one last howl before my final sunset

serving up these words as a last communion.

Poetic Questions, and Possibly Some Answers

“Poetry is in” chirped my neighbor

alluding to the latest nova burst iteration of wordists

“So were bell bottoms once” I responded

cattily striking my well practiced perpetually penniless pouty poet pose

 

For isn’t the common calling of the poet’s creed to be out?

while illuminating the invisible and its overlooked inverse

and yes, we know when the truth of our targets has been pricked

regardless of simultaneously superfluous and nutritious validation from others

 

Do not label the poetic process a struggle

blood is absent, sweat generally sparse, although tears may present (for seasoning)

when a creation becomes infinite or even close enough

the miraculous rush of the birth itself cannot be equaled

 

What crosses the line of mushing poetry into commodity?

as creativity is art, not to be rated or ranked

appreciated or not, certainly

reach for compelling to our kin of the minority species, those championing insightful word collections

The Silent Life

Not too long after squeezing out of the womb

encountering the first of many inferred admonitions

my proferred alms became assurances

“I’m just here to observe”

My blankness thus ingrained, designating me negligible and safe

 

Yes, I indivisible-ized myself

choosing residence in the shadows

abiding in my multiple sanctuaries

facilitating a minimalist social repertoire

in a life of frugal mercies

 

Banking facts, figures and ideas

my stockpile of interactive fuel

aided by ghostly guide dogs for the tentative and unsure

quiet reading, yes. silent viewing, okay. thinking (to myself), affirmative.

expressing feeling? danger !!! danger!!!

 

What about questions?

is the stone to be polished or rolled away?

as if I knew anything about either

fleshing these bones — a step too soon?

for to speak is to create a real me

A Holiday Ditty

Santa Claus is now consistently blitzed
The sleigh is perpetually on the fritz
and the elves are demanding to be called little people

St. Nick can no longer take the heat
moaning “Jeff Bezos just can’t be beat”
noting the North Pole ain’t exactly a commerce hub

Just what else could go wrong?
Jeez, is that Rudolph smoking a bong?
and now he and his fellow flyers want to join the Teamsters

Santa can’t tell Dancer and Prancer apart
yep, it’s long past due for a heart-to-heart
for Blitzen’s kibitzing with Vixen and Cupid’s flinging daggers

The working conditions are extremely tense
buoyed no more by free myrrh and frankincense
Wunorse Openslae and two other elves have filed for disability

It was way past time for an intervention
or maybe a simple circumvention
is there anyone up to fulfilling Father Christmas’ challenge?

Shouting “Whoa, red went out with the Cold War”
arrived that mainstay heroine of feminist lore
The only being who could rectify this Kris Kringle disaster

She’s a far distant niece of Santa, this Santee
as competent as only a woman can be
but can she alone turn the tide on Yule’s unfinished business?

Full of fire and pure impropriety
proud bearer of her glamorous notoriety
Santee was a ninja before being a ninja was cool

“Get me the addresses and names”
“We’ll haul my uncle’s butt out of the flames”
“Me and my fierce lady warrior Amazonias will finish the job”

There was no time to dillydally
Aboard came Artemisia, Boudica and Grace O’Malley
Little Debbie was in if no ho-ho’s were to be served or uttered

Logistics being the entire key
Undelivered gifts equal outright blasphemy
Santee needed her wizardly wizardesses to step up grande

So out went an air force of drones apace
enveloping the universe’s deep dark space
the deliverance of offerings on their way to the deserving

All the children received their fervent wishes
alongside the ranks of the blessed moral militias
for it’s the choice of deeds and not waste-of-oxygen speakers that matter

Santee later checked in with her uncle
Him now imbibing only the nectar of honeysuckle
she wanted to know if his holiday wishes came true

“They certainly did my fair niece”
“I’m now clad only in blue-tinged fleece”
“Might I call you now the one and only Christmas chaffeuse?”

“No, this was just a one-off event”
“I’m now seeking out other discontents”
“You can rest assured future December 25s are in many good hands”