Archive | April 2017

Locust, May 4, 1970

 

The pictures are black and white,

but even though the passions

are embers, I still see them

as green, with black dead eyes.

Some of them have taken off

their masks and turned away,

but the fury in the black faceless

eyes of the others is real, and empty.

There’s a kid off to the side

flipping them the bird; I think

he bought a bullet for his trouble.

The pictures are all black and white,

but even though the passions are

embers, I still see them as red.

Red pools in the parking lot

flowing down to the rain-gutter

over a hundred fucking yards away

from the damn Guard and their rifles.

They are only pictures, only embers.

God help the breeze that fans them.

 

first published in Wind Row, Spring, 1984.

Advertisements

Sestina for Prolonging the Act of Lust

 

What are we after here? A little pain,

a little pleasure? Let’s talk some while

you’re on me, and I’m in you. At least

for the moment as the passion is spent.

We are growing deep within the belly

a passion strong enough to raise the dead.

 

It’s what you’re after isn’t it? Not dead

enough to give yourself over to pain

without pleasure in that spot below belly?

A second, a moment, something to while

away the time.  Soldiers fought, freshly spent,

resting in the trench, they’ll guard at least

 

the passages which have seen the least.

There might be something to raising the dead.

Think of all the time that sorcerers spent,

and link it in your mind to the pain

at the demands of the hot body while

you wait just hanging about on a belly

 

for something more to do than nurse a belly

full of frustration and longing for the least

stimulation to keep the glow a while.

That’s the point I’m trying to make. The dead

aren’t really dead, just working through the pain,

a weariness, some frustration. A little spent

 

but believing in life. If only people spent

half as much time caring for a belly

as it fills up they’d laugh at the pain,

warding off sleep or giving up. The least

bit of joy grows pleasure and dead,

or not, we’ll enjoy and build while

 

others are just curling up to slumber; while

others allow desire to fade. They’re spent.

They can’t see what sorcery sees. The dead

are just waiting around on Hel’s belly,

resting. The flesh grows new strength. At least

they feel the laughter in pain.

 

Oh yes, the pain it lasts a while

and veils at least as much as was spent,

but the belly grows lively, below we move the dead.

 

first published in Living With a Stranger: self portrait, 1993.  Also published in Love is Just Lust Misspelled, 1994.

 

 

 

The Korean Peninsula

I had a thought today, perhaps not a good thought, but a thought none the less.  What if the Russian Federation under the leadership of Vladimir Putin has designs on North Korea for himself.  With the election of Donald Trump with Federation help, and Putin’s supposed leverage on the now president, he has the tools to make Russia look great by solving the Korean Peninsula problem of nuclear weapons expansion for the world and for American and European interests.  With the help of China, the two major players in the old world could invade and replace the current government with a relieved American population under Donald Trump feeling that they had just dodged a bullet.

America, under Trump, would then maintain their presence on the South Korean border for a short time to maintain the illusion that it still maintained a powerful economic, military, and political position in that part of Asia, when in reality it has just folded on a very large game of Risk.  Russia would then have gained a major economic trading influence it had begun to loose with the Russo-Japanese war of 1805.  The loss of Northern Pacific leverage ceded to the US with the acquisition of Alaska in 1867 would take on a lesser role in the Pacific for Russia, and through the course of the next 100 years with global warming opening up the Arctic to shipping, Asia, already an economic power house, would lead the world in a far more independent fashion from European and American influence than any other time in the twentieth century.

This is just a mental wander on my part, a sci-fi parallel universe kind of thing, but it is not out of the realm of political events that I was taught in school.  To quote the kleptocrat currently in the cat-bird seat, “people are just saying, I don’t remember what people or where, just something I saw on the TV-news.”

A Note

 

We have nothing

in common, but for some reason

I wish we did.

It is just desire,

just my balls talking to me again,

stupid biology that causes my brain

to trigger all those responses

of home, hearth, and caring:

love if you will.

Yet I know it’s just

an illusion.  Something someone put

in my mind when I grew

up.  It has always been

wrong before.  And I’m tired.

I am tired.

If I could rest

beside you, inside you

for a time or two;

the fire that is behind

my eyes, the lust to do

might consume itself,

crumbling into ashes, coals.

The heat that was left

would be for you.  Your body

could give me rest, perhaps

even clear the cobwebs in my head.

Though you’re right about avoiding

touching.  Next thing you know

someone cares and convinces

themselves that they love.

And someone gets burned

by the flames that are kicked up with

a passionate grasp of life.

Or the heat grows cold

without fuel.  Tears can

put out flame, and rain in winter

pounds the ashes of an old camp

into the dust.  You’re right,

we have nothing in common.

Still, I am so tired,

so terribly, terribly tired.

 

first published in Living With a Stranger: self portrait, 1993.  Also published in Love is Just Lust Misspelled, 1994.