Thursday, May 22, 2014

Girl is gYrating signage - streeting up the WaLk (Inspired by e e Cummings)

streeting up the walk
(book bag, legs bare, flip-flops)
testosterone hates reality talk

girl exposed, ponytail, (or exposed girl)
sees the swishing sound (erect)
hears it in their eyes
strip joint
loud
funky
music
yes surprise
Gyrating signage, bosom profile
(swinging in the wind)

tongue slithering (paunch & crack)
disrobe your text and calm on in

trinket for your fleshy thoughts?

t
e
m
p
t
i
n
g

The Art of Denial

In my home the walls are made of air,
And the floors tiled with hallucination.
We walk around pretending they're there;
It requires delusion and dedication.

In my home when there's a knock on the door,
We hide behind curtains of illusion.
We're not here and don't want your rapport;
It causes disbelief and confusion.

They know they can see us quite openly,
But our feigned oblivion gives birth to doubt.
And the conflict between what they're told and what they see,
Is hard to accept or figure out.

And in my home we're a figment of imagination,
But if we confessed our lies and denial,
We'd reveal the extent of our fabrication,
And the cold truth we'd have to reconcile.

Monday, May 19, 2014

Well-trodden Path to Nowhere

There's a well trodden path to nowhere,
Traversed every day by those just like you.
And no matter the heartaches they share there,
It's something they'll continue to do.

You won't notice the veterans as you walk by,
With their souls amputated and scarred.
There's no hope for them, as they're waiting to die,
But for you, your future has not yet been marred .

They'll warn you in vain of the futility ahead,
But your deaf and foolish ego will not hear,
With ears muffled by fairytales you've read,
And still too naive to be critical or have fear.

The fear will come later on down the road though;
This can be promised as sure as the night will fall,
When the experienced have given up what they know;
And the ignorant will forget they were ever told at all.

The Hell Around Here

Around here we don't speak of his groping hand,
We don't see with our seeing eyes.
Around here no one takes a stand,
And everyone wears a saintly disguise.

Around here our cries of pain are laughter,
And his pleasurable games we abhor.
Around here the springs creak right after,
He gets up and stalks out the bedroom door.

Around here geniuses are blind fools,
And legs that are not crippled do not walk.
Around here we follow uncertain rules,
And our open mouths will not talk.

Yes, there's a lot of confusion,
In the hell around here.
We need a saviour's intrusion,
To relieve our shame,
And avenge our fear.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

No Match for Proselytizing Boys

There are two young Mormon males who loiter on corners and wander the downtown streets approaching strangers in the hope of spreading the word and securing their own place in the Celestial Kingdom. They are well-groomed, handsome, polite, sharp and religion-assured.

They are also a fucking nuisance.

I, however, am no match for them.

When I realize they are heading straight for me, in a panic I fumble with my keys, hoping to make a quick getaway.

But alas it is not to be. I’m too imperfect and klutzy and they are programmed machines who come at me with a strong and steady stride. Again, I’m no match.

“Do you have a moment, ma’am,” they ask in unison with sure, friendly smiles, as if we all don’t know what’s about to go down here – that they’re religious fanatics and I’m a heathen destined for their version of hell.

“No, I’m sorry,” I stammer like the frightened animal I am, “I’m actually running late, so…”.

Undeterred, they interrupt to let me know that’s no problem and firmly place a Mormon “business” card in the palm of my hand. They say it’s fine, they don’t need to take up my time. I can learn more about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints (LDS) in the comfort of my own home by checking out the website printed on the card – an item that has now been forced into my possession, thereby immediately becoming yet another chore with which I must contend. See? A nuisance.

My vehicle has become a veritable storehouse of religious paraphernalia that nobody else will take. Everybody else seems able to say no. I envy their conviction.

As for the Mormons, I thank them – actually thank them – for giving me what essentially is now garbage because that's where it'll ultimately end up, and promise I’ll check out the site. Just add this fib to all the other little white lies that chip away at my soul bit by bit.

But at the moment I'm not worried about my soul as much as I am relieved to be free of the Mormon boys. I only want to get out of there as fast as possible and in my haste practically kill myself getting into the car. I'm like a trapped rabbit who's been suddenly released by a wolf, not because the wolf has seen the light and rejects carnivorism on the spot, but because such a sly creature understands holding off on immediate gratification is likely to yield larger gains in the future.

They – the wolves, I mean the Mormon boys – say, “You’re welcome,” for letting me go, as if they have selflessly extended me a charitable kindness to their detriment and my benefit. They then skip off into the setting sun, careful not to touch hands as that might be misconstrued as sinful behavior since they aren’t married to each other and they’re both…well…boys.

Boy-on-boy love is a no-no in the world of Mormon Wonderland, with its magic underwear, planet Kolob, golden plates and prophet, Joseph Smith, a purported conman, to name but a few of the religion’s more bizarre beliefs.

And while anti-gay sentiment might not be a bizarre belief in the religious world per se, it is a bigoted, ignorant viewpoint and one the Mormon faith, like many other faiths, teaches. In this case, although the LDS Church does concede being gay may be inherent and consequently not a conscious choice, it nonetheless prohibits acting upon homosexual urges and thoughts because, as with any adulterous temptation outside of heterosexual marriage, this would be a violation of “the law of chastity”.

Mormonism furthermore spreads the misinformation that homosexuality can potentially be “cured” through prayer, self-mastery and other pious measures, failing which gay people must remain celibate. This by the way is a tweak in doctrine, as before 2007 when the LDS Church “clarified” its stance through a published interview with two of its prominent elders, homosexuality was seen as a disgusting “heinous” sin that had nothing to do with genetic or biological determinism.

Same-sex orientation was pure evil before, but now it’s what? An unfortunate birth defect God uses to test faith and encourage spiritual growth through adversity in a paternal act of divine love? Absurd.

Of course this leaves one to ponder, if a religion can revise its teachings in a sorry attempt to keep up numbers by appeasing evolving cultural norms, does this not automatically indicate an ERROR in dogma and therefore bring the ENTIRE faith into question or at the very least its varied interpretations?

You can’t have it both ways – you can’t say your particular religion is the infallible word of God, while simultaneously correcting this infallibility or disregarding the more unpalatable and barbaric tenets of a faith and its scriptures.

Ambiguity, error, and not to mention terror, imply a human hand, not an omnipotent one. It appears humankind continues, as from ancient times, to disguise evil in a cloak of fake divinity. And if you don't have an eye for it, appearances can be extremely deceiving. Evil, after all, is a master of deception, found in the most unlikely, holiest of places.

But all evil aside, when I am finally safe in my vehicle, in resignation I throw the Mormon card in with the Watchtower pamphlets and service programs from a myriad of denominations in addition to other religious propaganda I’ve been begrudgingly accumulating. What am I supposed to do with it all? Read it? I've done that and I don`t agree with their interpretations, nor do I want to emotionally invest in their fictions.

In any event, I don’t know if these proselytizing tactics work on others, but as far as the various principalities and dark forces vying for my soul, it does nothing but instill a stubborn resolve to avoid and reject ALL OF THEM.

Therefore, as a preventative measure to thwart future attempts at conversion and to protect myself from the cunning ways of faulty religion as well as a conditioned mind, I am considering a Flying Spaghetti Monster talisman around my neck, or pasting a bumper sticker to my car that reads:

DO NOT WASTE YOUR TESTIMONY HERE, FOR I AM A PIRATE, A BORN-AGAIN PASTAFARIAN AND MEMBER OF THE CHURCH OF THE FLYING SPAGHETTI MONSTER.

MAY THE SAUCE BE WITH YOU.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Starving for Attention (Poem)

An empty child sits on a promising box,
With rotten teeth he eats and talks,
He gnaws on a bruised, shrivelled apple core -
Bits fly from his mouth and land on the floor.

His voice startles the silence of the room;
Fridge hums to life from within its Freon tomb,
Faucet drips and pings against the metal sink,
Overhead florescent lights stutter and blink.

Clock chimes in with its reliable tick tock, tick tock,
House key hopelessly dangles from the front lock.
The child asks Teddy, "What'd you do today?"
But Teddy is falling apart and has nothing to say.

Mother will come home when she can,
Dad might call if he gets a long distance plan.
But for now a stranger has come through the door,
Willing to give the attention this child is starving for.

Wild and Free

In the dark crevices of the unknown,
I'm wild and free in places not shown.
It's where I am whatever I want to be 
Sovereign in my cerebral anarchy.

Possibility allows flight without a care,
Epiphany sparks through charged air;
It's a place where I travel synapse, space and time 
Just a psychic free-wheeling enzyme.

I freefall from the ridges whenever I please,
And surf churning ideals with radical ease.
It's where creativity rushes between the creases,
And the flow of thought never ceases.

Unencumbered by social propriety,
I can say anything in my inner society.
It is a place that no one else will find,
I'm wild and free inside my own mind.


This Damn Tree

I look outside my window,
At an old growth evergreen,
It blocks the landscape
And alters the scene.
I know behind it the Pacific
Presents a mesmerizing sight,
But unless I develop x-ray vision,
I won't see it, try as I might.

I'd like to cut the tree down,
So I can appraise from behind my glass perch,
And with telescopic lens scan the horizon,
In an opportunistic search.
I would take extraordinary pictures
Of the scenic ocean view,
And sell them at an inflated rate
To a privileged few.

But this massive piece of gnarly bark
Stares defiantly in my face,
A natural obstacle that devalues the worth
Of my fancy stucco place.

Alas, I'm sure others would agree –
I'd be able to enjoy the beauty of nature,
If it wasn't for this damn tree.

Impossible is Nothing?

Impossible is nothing
When in hallucination you dwell.
Where the sky is purple polka dots
And angels live in hell.

Eagles talk and human beings
Flap their arms to fly.
No mystery of how we came to be
And no reason to ask why.

Where no one dies
And there's no suffering to lament.
No need for gods or rituals
With which sinners must repent.

Impossible is something though
When in reality you reside.
And maybe as with many things
Impossibility is better accepted than denied.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Beyond Death - Poem

Tomorrow's procrastinations will have to wait,
Better decisions have come too late.
Gone before the priest could give last rites,
In darkness now he consorts with vagrant sprites.

Beyond death how he wishes he could go back in time,
Before the church bell rang its mournful chime.
When tears of anguish had not yet sprung –
Long ago when still hopeful and young.

In death he sees what life blinded him to –
Given another chance, he’d reincarnate with integrity and virtue.
He would love, serve, abstain, give gratitude and pray,
With faith he would walk in awe of each and every day.

But chances for redemption ended with death's last rattle,
No more will angels defend his soul in spiritual battle.
Their swords defeated by greed, hate and lust,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The Hoarder's Fine Mess (Poem)

Empty bottles overflow from a dented garbage can,
Dust settles undisturbed on a broken fan.
Nicotine sticks to the windows and stains the walls,
Dirty piles of laundry escape the hamper and litter the halls.

Margarine containers and old pickle jars,
Crowd in with torn dolls and battered toy cars.
Loose Queen of Hearts scatter, separated from the pack,
Along with a torn wrapper from some long forgotten snack.

Crates of unworn clothes and stacks of unread books,
Are crammed into all available crannies and nooks.
An overflowing collection of plastic shopping bags,
Compete for space with receipts and outdated tabloid rags.

Dozens of matted, stray cats meow somewhere,
A few are stuck under one of ten dryers in need of repair.
Rotten food and feces attract vermin and flies;
The stench of it induces vomit and stings the eyes.

But don’t worry - tomorrow the clutter will be put away,
Until then, though, right over here it must stay.
It’s too important to be tossed in the trash;
It has sentimental value and might be worth some cash.

Once upon a time this stuff held perceived significance,
But as it decays please explain what’s the difference?
Any importance has been lost and buried under the stress,
Of the much greater significance of this fine mess.

Friday, May 9, 2014

Inferior Apples

The best apples dangle from the top of the tree,
High up in stature, they're hidden from me.
I can't really see them but know they are there,
Sneering down while enjoying the crisp autumn air.

I stand in the tree's shadow and don't see a ladder,
But without marketable skills what does it matter?
I don't know how to climb and I'm fearful of height –
Elite apples don’t care as they hog all the sunlight.

My only hope is that they will fall pristine in my hand,
But if I upset the tree, from the orchard I'm banned.
Picking low hanging apples is thus all I can do –
Resigned to my station, I settle for fruit of less value.

The highest apples continue to gorge on most of the bountiful sun,
Leaving nothing but slivers of dim light when they're done.
The poor masses that congregate close to the ground,
Are left stunted and bitter and subdued, I have found.

While the choicest fruit grows sweet, plump and ripe,
I labour hard to collect that of a more unsavoury type.
This goes on and on until my confidence is eroded,
My posture stooped and independent thought imploded.

Until finally the superior apples get so heavy they fall,
And the inferior ones no longer seem so inferior at all.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Scavenger Wolf (Sonnet)

These wolves aren't of Farley Mowat,
Described as magnificent and proud.
And their street-wizened eyes know it,
As they howl their hopelessness out loud.

Their lonely voice impales the moonlit night,
But their seeming power is a deceitful sound.
Their mangy truth is exposed in the daylight,
As like dirty vermin they scavenge around.

With limp paws they search garbage and debris,
Their fur is matted and their stature small.
And it seems a romantic lie wolves roam free,
When through filthy disgrace they're forced to crawl.

Such is the plight of the fallen wolf and her clan,
Oh what a tragedy for both God and man.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

The Idiot Poet

I stand outside the liquor store, 
A poet starved for verse.
I put my words to melody,
And sing seduction to your purse.

I wear a feather in my hair,
A smudge of dirt upon my face;
I may smell of alcohol,
But only just a trace.

Don’t waste your time judging me,
I won't condemn your choice –
I merely suggest a few pennies,
And that you listen to my voice.

I apologize to the employees –
I only know four lines;
Perhaps they could provide inspiration
In the form of several wines?

But they say they aren’t a charity,
Where repetition is free to drive them mad;
So again I apologize for my impoverished words,
But they are all I've ever really had.

For I am the Idiot Poet;
Misunderstood and reviled,
Cast from storefronts,
And poetically exiled.