Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Those Who Fend

Sorry to disturb you, chlorophyll is going. Radar is next.

Silence consists of fractions, immutable in the extreme.

Plenty of harsh words overreact, and what are people doing? You should know and arrive, at conclusions.

A difference carried away, times two, receives a portion of Earth. This is simple math.

People puddle incomplete, wishing about that disaster day, a star fell out.

You were the Dear Sir or Madam, once that day began. You were that voter. You were that in the way.

People are applied to people on a daily basis. The telltale signs remain.

If you read this poem aloud to people, you will be people aloud.

Your Asperger shows when you say, and we say, so.

All the noose that fits, they chuckle.

It’s September 11


The fateful day many

people think they

in saying we

must remember.

What must remember

that day? Surely exactly we

they will without

having again, eleven

must years after

to make a vow

about it. It was a strange,

frightening, disheartening,

sad event.

Remember?

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Hello Lumps in Gravy, Grave Provacateurs

Generalissimo Bubbly Pants, the immediate successor to ousted Princess Cloppingsound, glared into the infrared television, full of news. His nose lit the trammels of despair with a new populace. “How dare the heathens infer rejection of my favourite asymptotes.” He snorted, the lyrics of “Hello Dolly” dangling like the latest combat boot in this Afghanistan business. Envelopes filled with method acting open so that speaking parts can be delivered. We have become the new Reagan, added as footnote. As footnote, this statement can be pruned if not plummed for later consumption, when the very winds have ceased to bring salad days. Ronald Reagan yes, the same plain spoken heliotrope, when heliotrope means asshole, as it sometimes does, because words live in the roots of “things”. Battery acids my ass (it may not be comfortable); this may not be a funny political program, like clockwork and desperation. Bubbly Pants the most high rejoinders a reflection, pants down maybe, pants forward breathlessly. These days of active election in a delirious state conflate heroes and seltzer water. A word or two, filled with narrative, until we can figure things out. Things as in “things”. Princess Cloppingsound remains on paid vacation, a vista of passed days pressed forward, just as forward days press back. These “things” make no scents, someone sniffed, and everyone just had to agree.