Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.

Tag: Poetry

Birds Don’t Care

 

Eternity is a grooved spinning record,
and we go round and round,
forever guessing if we are a song
Or the melody.

Life finds it’s tune.
Nothing is quiet.
Our sounds, we suspect, carry.
How far we can only guess,
My whistling
may reach Neptune.
I am not certain of this.
Neptune, like God, does not echo.

Birds don’t care
about their songs.
As much as we do.
They care about eggs and nests
and the size of baby wings.
Cicadas lullaby the end of summer evenings.
But night doesn’t pick up
on the chorus
and begin to dance.

Fllies whizz their little ditties
by our ears.
And we brush them away,
like bad David Bowie
covers.

The flowers
murmur their scents
into the winds,
to blind the slave bees.
We mistake them
for pleasure.

Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard
that is being alive.
Nor its comedy of sudden death.

Love is the arrow that
fires straight into God’s
snowstorm
of the brief.
Patient tiny human lifetimes
hunting for first love.
Ignore the whirling and crashing
of suitors.
Who are,
All different,
all the same
all waiting.
Until she finds
the one that does not melt
away.

Poem: To Please Him

He climbs on me at night
to do bug things.
“Remember our first time,”
he whispers in the mean humming pitch
of warm August night locusts?
“Always,” I whimper.
He smoothes his antennae over our pillows,
like the handsome actor.
“Are you ready to die?” He sighs,
like small talk.
“Yes, I will die.” I plead.
He is pleased,
and I am safe.

It knew
I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped it in thick brown paper
and ran straight home
after it raped me.
I could not leave it there.
Not knowing where it was.

At breakfast
he asks, “So what shall we do today?
So casually that I am confused.
He touches my hand, his carapace hard
and unalive. I watch my thumb caress
the shell.
In small back and forth dread.
“What would make you happy?” I said
He smiles
and I exhale.

I told him tonight
His grubs live in me.
I feel them tearing to come out.
Praying daddy longlegs scraping
and burrowing for air.
His head on my stomach
listening and whirring insect songs to them.
I stroke the needle hairs on his back.
I know he loves me.

My deceit holds no estate in him.
I have vanished into what has hurt me.
Life forbids I feel nothing at all.
I will love my children.

There shall be

There shall be no law that prevents any person from deliberately hurting themselves.All recreational drugs will be taxed and subject to prohibitions in the same manner as alcohol. 

All abortions should be legal, free and obtainable without interference. 

The sale of weapons should be unlawful. Guns can be owned only with licences and all weaponry must be available free of charge. 

Healthcare will be free, financed by a single payer US system, with children placed in the front of any and all lines to receive care. 

Every person living in America must possess a licence to do so. 

Citizens must be at least twelve years of age to vote 

and, at least, twenty-six to serve in the armed forces.

Wet poem: “And So Was Gertie”

Mr. and Mrs. Stotnum Powder,
renown for synchronized postures
ran their noses around glass.
“ That cat has been staring at me,” said Stotnum
“At us, you mean ?” Gertie shot back,
much annoyed by the exclusion.
“It’s those big eyes;
they follow me, us, around,” Stotnum issued,
“Like it hates us.”
“It just sits there,” agreed Gertie,
“Doesn’t he have cat friends?”
“He might want company.”
Gertrude was thoughtful.
“It must be hard to be alone,” Gertrude bubbled,
brushing against Stotnum,
her back arched suggestively.
“ What would you do without me?”
He worried she was siding with the cat.
The splashing from above,
waved them apart.
The ceiling cracked open.
Sounds are tricky underwater,
He had never heard a scream.
Stotnum saw the face above them,
and then it’s paw.
Then the claws.
Quick as it came, it was gone again,
and so was Gertie.

Poem: Choices They Be

How clever could my choices be,

if what they decided upon was just me?

Then again I know this silly sap,

who clearly lived  without my map.

 

 

 

Poem: Bushwhacked

Poetry is the last thing

that would ever occur to letters.

The words  would testify if they could speak

that the process makes them queasy.

Most writers are ashamed to leave

an unintended verse.

Feeling they were bushwacked

while on their way to longer bursts.

But I prefer this short shit,

cause I know the reader will peek.

 

The Plodding Elegance of being Human

Our every moment,
endows our past.
To distant antiquities,
like childhood keepsakes,
lost in attics of joy and souvenir.
The plodding elegance of being human,
Of believing that we once were.
While dreaming of that
which will always become old.

Perhaps this is what God would do if he really cared.

It is time for another Israel in the Middle East only much bigger. Perhaps in Mexico as well. Life in these two geographic regions has been a miserable proposition for a long time. The West did not cause it. The Kings, Mullahs, and oil-rich chieftains kept their people in poverty and allowed them only God as comfort for hundreds of years. In Mexico, the poor were supported only by our tourism, our insatiable need for drugs and the Catholic Church.
Bringing these people here is moronically ill-advised.
We should use our weapons and military to carve out new Edens for the suffering instead of destroying everything to catch a few.

Perhaps this is what God would do if he really cared.

eden

Annex Mexico

We are entering a new century of wars conducted by swarming immigration. Water always flows downhill. Immigration will replace the nuclear weapon in the coming age.
People always move to where their life is better if they can. They will not neatly stay in a place where their children are in danger. I think human beings with stop short of treating each other like locusts, destroying intruders on mass. But one does have to recall Hitler.
The problem with our Southern border is manageable. Europe’s dilemma may not be so easy.
I think Trump is correct that we need to document people who come here, that’s only common sense. The Democrats don’t support this because they see human beings as voting blocks. The Republicans see immigrants from Mexico as vermin.
To me, our solution is simple and has been historically validated. We just annex Mexico and make it a nice place to live again. Tidy.

swarm-of-locusts

The Photographers

How can a photograph be copyrighted when it’s confined to the  public domain by definition? A song comes out of nothing.  A painting is as much the hand on the brush as it is anything inherent. Movies manipulate atmospheres and the medium simultaneously. A camera’s image becomes art only when interpreted in the aftermath. Could it be that photographers are more critics than artists? Could it be that there are no artists at all, only reviewers?

Photographers - page 158

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