A SUNNI KILLED A SHIITE

 

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A Sunni killed a Shiite

A Shiite killed a Sunni

The great prophet Mohammed

Looked down

And cried

He said

You have dishonored your family

You have disobeyed my Teachings

You have sealed the gates of Paradise

The Imams with tongues of hatred

Have smitten the name of Islam

Broken the laws of Allah

 

The Prophet has spoken.

 

GOD WARS AND DOCU-DRAMAS

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The Gods always seem to be at war with each other.

I see it on TV.

A friend has it on their smart phone as an app.

People walk around or sit all day

staring at their mini-screens or big screens

watching the Gods at war.

 

Some of them just enjoy the Gods of war.

Others type as fast as their thumb and fingers can move

either helping the Gods at war to keep fighting

or they are busy typing away

thinking they can get the Gods of war to stop fighting.

Maybe they can.

 

But the real war, well the real war

is convincing

all of those people

with or without big screens  or mini-screens

that the Gods of war are not worth   watching.

And the Gods of war are not  worth  fighting for.

 

The Gods have fought before.

And only men suffered.

The Gods do not suffer.

They are Gods.

Only men suffer.

Women suffer even more than men.

 

Are the Gods   only at war  for us

like the Greeks  said they were?

Trying to save us

from themselves

or from other Gods  not quite so benevolent?

Only the Gods  would know the answer.

They are Gods.

We are only  men and   women.

 

Have we ever asked the Gods

why

they were at war?

Would they even want us  to know

how imperfect their world was.

After all,  a Universe  of Gods  where they  had to fight  each other?

You would think  as Gods

since they already know everything

they would be at peace.

 

We are the Gods  to ants  and roaches.

We watch them or

we kill them.

Do  we ever try to help them?

They just like to watch us fight.

It’s the only way they know  they are safe.

 

As long as we’re not fighting,  hungry over them.

Why are the Gods at war?

 

 

 

 

 

 

QUANTUM OCEANEERING

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After years of grouping little bits into place

it first occurred to me

while vacationing in the French Riviera

central mechanisms would connect

when expected to switch.

 

Courses at MIT

and the Atlanta School of Solemn Mechanics

could not have prepared me

for microwave overload

tinkering with random thoughts always

activates loose memories

takes hours to unscrew

tightness from astringents

and in-capacitors

preferring to twist resistors

until their transmitters overheat

and their diodes blow.

 

Never had too many

loose tanning oils to contend with

sunstroke will sometimes cause cancer

cooling fans always run at full speed

in case I have to tackle waves

you do understand

when blue water hits the beach

the silicone crystals in the sand

vibrate at the same frequency

as the unknowns in your head

processors always blink

millions of lights

on and off

message’s you can’t afford to miss

even when wearing your speedo

or thong bikini

or nothing at all.

You do understand now, don’t you?

 

GRANDPA

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With his brittle bones

and his sun cracked face

he rode near ‘bout every mile

of the round-up trail.

 

He licks the wind

and stares out at nothing

tobacco dripping lip, spits.

Hell, I fought the sun,

and I won

fought a sneakin’ coyote once,

he lost.

Broke rattlesnakes in half

between bare hands.

Got caught in the drought of the Tulsa ride, too.

 

Thought I’d die in that damn burning desert

never have I thirst, so much

for one wet drop.

They found me about four miles from Breakers Pass.

Eighteen-ninety-seven,

that was my last long ride.

Too many damn city boys

tryin’ to run the drive.

 

And now my grandson drives off

in that noisy pick-up.

He’ll never know the dry taste

of sand and grainy dust

between your teeth.

Wind kicking in your face

like a thousand angry hoofs

punched in your mouth.

 

And my friend,

cold black night.

 

Damn all this fancy fiddle.

I FOUND MYSELF ON AN OLD BOOKSHELF

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You were obscure,
I found you sitting by yourself
alone on the ledge of the bookshelf
you were frozen and unborn
almost a single bookend without a book

but you stood tall and dusty
proud to be an ancient volume
on a hand burred shelf
of solid polished oak
delicately carved
for a hand to rub and feel
the smooth curves
leading to well worn edges
and time tattered pages
from a volume of your work.

 

COAL MINER

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The twisted wreckage of your dreams
haunts all my waking hours.

I pick up my weary baggage
and silently walk toward the end
of a drought worn stream.

Your voice is flat and hollow
no longer does your music move me
but in the deathly dusk of the fallen sun
your tears shine in a sparkle of diamonds.

MARCY’S OVERCOAT

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It sits staring at me.
Sprawling, cozy and secure
in its own private space
on my cushy black leather couch.

I won’t dare touch it.
Marcy’s overcoat
tan and tailored
like Bogart, Sherlock Holmes or Columbo
well, maybe not Columbo.
They all wore one
every cloak and dagger
the British had to have them.
All that damn rain
and a good place to hide a gun
during a war.

This one is Marcy’s.
No wrinkles, no stains
only the scent of her exotic cologne
from a small shop in Paris
so one of a kind.

Strands of her long, shining blonde curls cling
beaming her surrendering smile
and squeaky siren laugh.
Her petite sexy body
is a firecracker in July
kindled to burn the passion
to the tips of your fingers
moving rapid fire through your body
and charring to the core.

Sadly, she won’t return for it.
She is like that, Marcy.
Always gets everything she wants.
A first time, good time, every time
graciously letting everything fall behind her
as if she had a royal consort on her heels
every minute of every day
picking up all of her discarded victories
then suddenly, as always
transformed to total failures.

Not me, though
but her overcoat, for sure.

THE MACHINE KILLED CREATIVITY

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The machine killed creativity.
I saw it for myself.
It bludgeoned all artistic strides
and massacred the rest.

Musicians first, were bound to atoms
then cast down to synthesize.
Pouncing notes on wired keyboards
for light waves to analyze.

Painters great, were also slaughtered
by brushes of true bits.
Destined for their graphic tabs
and bland electric teats.

Sculptors once again were chained
by circuit boards and digits
building funky little trites
of solder, wire, and widgets.

Writers were then gathered up
and tortured by their software
making acronym of literature
while cleansing hard drives bare.

Movie folks were also brandished
and scattered without vision
destined for the rerun click
from the mouse of indecision.

Poets, whom of course were last
bore out the worst derision
they were left with but a hint
of electric mysticism.

The machine killed creativity.
It will show you no remorse.
Keep your wafers powered up
to wait the next resurgent force.

 

RIVETS AND BUNS (A War Story of Love)

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Her soft hands
warmly knead my flour
a precious cargo
booming to land another flawless mission.

To Paris on her smell.

He doesn’t feel the final rivet snap
blooming foreskin
shielding the butt tip of his cockpit
as it rips apart
on his final approach
to her runway.

He smells the Paris of her hands baking.

MOVING PICTURES

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You have always been a movie to me
knowing I could never touch you.
Now you sit and stare at me
from the other side of a bottle
on this table here between us.

I feel as if the magic is missing
you are not the star I dreamed of.
Once you were my shining light
in a dreaming heaven
of a momentary wish.

Now I see what I am left with
is not what I had hoped for.
And I see what I am watching
is not what I enjoyed.

You have always been a movie to me,
and now my life plays in reverse.
I never could quite touch you
and now I know.
I’ve touched too much.