Verse Vs. The World
A Summary Collection
Inheritance
The hurtling globe revolves on a hint of inertia
Rolling and gliding through the heavens’ breath
We, inheritors of nature — rolling, gliding —
Live by the torch, die by the torch ~
Rolling and gliding through the heavens’ breath
We, inheritors of nature — rolling, gliding —
Live by the torch, die by the torch ~
Moon Silk
A sheen mist scumbles the waning moon
Smeared as an artful dodge of the concise
Diffuse, viscous, beyond a thin curtain drawn casually
The fealty of lazy pleats limn in their cryptic tale
This here, a limerick borne of night’s gilded light
A masterwork of airborne dew thumb-stroke smudged
In orbit, its veiled narrative quarrying for syntax
A fifteen-watt bulb obscured by stage silk ~
Smeared as an artful dodge of the concise
Diffuse, viscous, beyond a thin curtain drawn casually
The fealty of lazy pleats limn in their cryptic tale
This here, a limerick borne of night’s gilded light
A masterwork of airborne dew thumb-stroke smudged
In orbit, its veiled narrative quarrying for syntax
A fifteen-watt bulb obscured by stage silk ~
The Air Has Spoken
The air speaks . . .
Intones, ministers fair-warning
Dropping on a tone-deaf populace choosing not to hear
— incantations falling on self-boxed ears
Caring not a stitch for the vibrating
frequencies arrowing pointed words, petitions to no effect
— the ho-hum mass — absorbed, unimpressed — fluttering in the angry gusts
They had their chance to listen, were given opportunities by which to heed
— flags once triumphantly poled ripped to shreds by the howling violence . . .
The air speaks. It blows them off the face of the Earth ~
Intones, ministers fair-warning
Dropping on a tone-deaf populace choosing not to hear
— incantations falling on self-boxed ears
Caring not a stitch for the vibrating
frequencies arrowing pointed words, petitions to no effect
— the ho-hum mass — absorbed, unimpressed — fluttering in the angry gusts
They had their chance to listen, were given opportunities by which to heed
— flags once triumphantly poled ripped to shreds by the howling violence . . .
The air speaks. It blows them off the face of the Earth ~
Armistice Day
The cessation of hostilities hung a carcinogenic haze
blackening lungs bled white
The promise of a generation pulverized to bone-meal,
crushed with — by — machined-precision
A nationalist bone-powder left to fertilize continental soil,
salting field, forest and fen: an alchemy to end all . . .
Such grotesque arithmetic, having tallied the splay-splatter
of exploding livers and hearts and lungs
Scoring to the bone a blast-furnace roil having boiled over
the acid of hate’s fated psychosis
To the neck: blade — jugular — lacerate — scarlet ribbons,
the machined-belts of bullets
Pouring one-thousand one-ten-thousand one-hundred-thousand at a time;
and the creeping artillery: an apocalypse to end all . . .
But there, in the eerie quiet of the end, they had the deferential respect — the benevolent grace —
to call it on the eleventh-hour of the eleventh-day of the eleventh-month . . .
What poets ~
blackening lungs bled white
The promise of a generation pulverized to bone-meal,
crushed with — by — machined-precision
A nationalist bone-powder left to fertilize continental soil,
salting field, forest and fen: an alchemy to end all . . .
Such grotesque arithmetic, having tallied the splay-splatter
of exploding livers and hearts and lungs
Scoring to the bone a blast-furnace roil having boiled over
the acid of hate’s fated psychosis
To the neck: blade — jugular — lacerate — scarlet ribbons,
the machined-belts of bullets
Pouring one-thousand one-ten-thousand one-hundred-thousand at a time;
and the creeping artillery: an apocalypse to end all . . .
But there, in the eerie quiet of the end, they had the deferential respect — the benevolent grace —
to call it on the eleventh-hour of the eleventh-day of the eleventh-month . . .
What poets ~
Ringing
A stereo-field abides
the liquid addiction, the centrifugal
tone of starlit rhythms but a sonic beat, pulsing
These silver notes, their ringing stare
dash-flashing across fluid boundaries,
mad with lust . . . with the velocity of wonder
Their arching shots—space-piercing—
singing as they run a ring ’round
all that we know (and think we know)
Listen . . . that ringing in your ears . . .
it will drive you mad with wonder and lust
it will clean your clock ~
the liquid addiction, the centrifugal
tone of starlit rhythms but a sonic beat, pulsing
These silver notes, their ringing stare
dash-flashing across fluid boundaries,
mad with lust . . . with the velocity of wonder
Their arching shots—space-piercing—
singing as they run a ring ’round
all that we know (and think we know)
Listen . . . that ringing in your ears . . .
it will drive you mad with wonder and lust
it will clean your clock ~
Vibrato
The vibrato of a living Earth sings,
the vibration of taut strings struck
The ringing notes: singing, swaying,
vertigo rhythm perched on a precarious edge
For it smells our fear: the capsizing,
the going-under, the sinking to floor like a stone
Coloring the day in its subterfuge, its secrecy,
entrancing us with a choral arrangement bathed in mystery . . .
So, can we pretend for a second
that this sound—this otherwise panic-inducing sound—could, instead, incite calm?
That it could actually numb-down senses guarded, leery, accustomed to panic?
can we do this? should we do this? do we dare summon such courage?
Or . . . shall we bag all such thoughts and just lie our way through?
waving off imminent desolation as we wind our way through the masquerade?
Admittedly, that does not sound half bad:
whistling a tune, the graveyard swinging by . . .
For the Earth will shift; it will shatter and collapse
our precarious rickety shacks set atop all the obvious fault-lines
We know this, we know it all too well;
and yet, we can know this without having to admit it
The collapsing, the tumbling down, down,
into the Earth riven, baked, cracking the lips of desert wanderers, their crackling haggard tone
Begging — pleading — for an ounce, a dram,
a vibrating torrent to pull us down, down to the deep dark ocean floor . . .
I can almost see the whistling man now:
mocking our faithless hysteria as he struts, carefree
Lying to himself and all within earshot,
a touch of vibrato rippling the edges of each and every note ~
the vibration of taut strings struck
The ringing notes: singing, swaying,
vertigo rhythm perched on a precarious edge
For it smells our fear: the capsizing,
the going-under, the sinking to floor like a stone
Coloring the day in its subterfuge, its secrecy,
entrancing us with a choral arrangement bathed in mystery . . .
So, can we pretend for a second
that this sound—this otherwise panic-inducing sound—could, instead, incite calm?
That it could actually numb-down senses guarded, leery, accustomed to panic?
can we do this? should we do this? do we dare summon such courage?
Or . . . shall we bag all such thoughts and just lie our way through?
waving off imminent desolation as we wind our way through the masquerade?
Admittedly, that does not sound half bad:
whistling a tune, the graveyard swinging by . . .
For the Earth will shift; it will shatter and collapse
our precarious rickety shacks set atop all the obvious fault-lines
We know this, we know it all too well;
and yet, we can know this without having to admit it
The collapsing, the tumbling down, down,
into the Earth riven, baked, cracking the lips of desert wanderers, their crackling haggard tone
Begging — pleading — for an ounce, a dram,
a vibrating torrent to pull us down, down to the deep dark ocean floor . . .
I can almost see the whistling man now:
mocking our faithless hysteria as he struts, carefree
Lying to himself and all within earshot,
a touch of vibrato rippling the edges of each and every note ~
Lest We Forget
Lest we forget . . . about the summer sun and the saffron beams flooding tropical green grass in the wake of the rains, the birds all calling because they can, because along the way we seem to have forgotten: sing a song (if you can carry a tune) . . .
And lest we forget . . . that there are forces greater than us and forces lesser than us, and people greater and lesser than us, and that some of those—the greater and the lesser—deserve what they get, while some get only what the others deserve . . .
And how could we forget . . . that deep in our heart-of-hearts thumps an organ-displacing beat which (if ever anyone cared to try this) would mirror all the tick-tack scratching of seismographic instruments patiently logging the dead-still just before “the big one” . . .
And if ever we do forget . . . the treachery of hate objectified as tradition and delusional fear masquerading as conviction ceaselessly foisted upon all by prigs looking (more and more often) like the hypocritical douchebags they are, well then: For shame! For shame!
And let us fail to forget . . . about grace under fire: the brave—not reckless—standing firm, slow-strolling beneath life’s withering barrage, face taut and chin-blocked to the gale-force-wind as if it were no more than an easy breeze in autumn . . .
For we should never forget . . . that needling nuisance at the core of our humanity: you know, the one with all the answers and all of the self-praise who is just as often dead wrong and full of self-pity? And more over, that it is up to us all to knuckle that bastard under—to stand up in spite of ourselves . . .
For (lest we forget) . . . there is a life to be lived and a life that has been lived and that reconciling the two is the plunging asteroid set to displace our idiosyncratic oceans in a wall-of-waves that will—sure-as-shit—submerge us in something larger (for once) than ourselves . . .
And finally, lest we forget . . . about all that forgotten, going so far as to highly resolve right here and now to make a plan—a solemn pact—to scour through and revisit, to reminisce and compartmentalize, to relive and (if need be) repress all those things we are bound, by-chance or by-choice, to forget ~
And lest we forget . . . that there are forces greater than us and forces lesser than us, and people greater and lesser than us, and that some of those—the greater and the lesser—deserve what they get, while some get only what the others deserve . . .
And how could we forget . . . that deep in our heart-of-hearts thumps an organ-displacing beat which (if ever anyone cared to try this) would mirror all the tick-tack scratching of seismographic instruments patiently logging the dead-still just before “the big one” . . .
And if ever we do forget . . . the treachery of hate objectified as tradition and delusional fear masquerading as conviction ceaselessly foisted upon all by prigs looking (more and more often) like the hypocritical douchebags they are, well then: For shame! For shame!
And let us fail to forget . . . about grace under fire: the brave—not reckless—standing firm, slow-strolling beneath life’s withering barrage, face taut and chin-blocked to the gale-force-wind as if it were no more than an easy breeze in autumn . . .
For we should never forget . . . that needling nuisance at the core of our humanity: you know, the one with all the answers and all of the self-praise who is just as often dead wrong and full of self-pity? And more over, that it is up to us all to knuckle that bastard under—to stand up in spite of ourselves . . .
For (lest we forget) . . . there is a life to be lived and a life that has been lived and that reconciling the two is the plunging asteroid set to displace our idiosyncratic oceans in a wall-of-waves that will—sure-as-shit—submerge us in something larger (for once) than ourselves . . .
And finally, lest we forget . . . about all that forgotten, going so far as to highly resolve right here and now to make a plan—a solemn pact—to scour through and revisit, to reminisce and compartmentalize, to relive and (if need be) repress all those things we are bound, by-chance or by-choice, to forget ~
