They even have a golf course

They iive in a dome, 

you know. 

Those people. 

The ones that live in the dome. 

The weather is always pleasant. Entirely

climate controlled. The grass is always green

The lake stocked with fish. 

There is a turtle who suns himself on a rock on the shore

year round. 

The people in the dome

don't have freeze-thaw cycles. 

Potholes are extremely rare. 

No one waters their plants

in the dome. 

It rains on scheduled days, always at the same time. 

Regularity is the hallmark of the dome. 

School starts September 6th. 

Christmas always falls on a Wednesday

no one remembers a not-white Christmas.

Except for the one year, 

when the snow generator was on the fritz

but they made due with popcicles 

and iced candy canes.

It's always DST. GMT -6. 

Days are long, nights are short. Roosters

only crow on schedule

And cats never wake anyone up early

for a meal that isn't due till dawn.

There are no alarm clocks in the dome. 

People are happier that way. 

Work with the sun, sleep with the dark. 

listen to someone play piano in the moon light

and if they're lucky, the Vanderhorn boy's voice

has not yet changed. He's always had

such a lovely soprano. 

Things do not change in the dome

they are not meant to.

They are as they've always been. 

Green glass, gloss and glamour. 

And you are most certainly not invited. 

Shitty poems for fun but never profit.

I am a ram. 

A biblical ram

One they build altars for

on Saturday morning television

reruns. The altars are made

from smooth round stone

without an ocean in sight

in the desert

among the sharp rocks

and burning bushes

The ram is sacrificed

that is what needs to be done

to maintain order in the world

Sacrifice me

maintain order

make it right

shelved by Dewey number

the only thing

that makes the world clean

a number 

on a label 

on a shelf

set on fire

as the ram screams

I scream

I scream to make the collections

make sense

with file and order

but it's not a shelf

it is the universe

 I am a ram

sacrificed 

to keep the universe

expanding

as it ought

on schedule

so they say

when they talk 

of such things

fire and stones and television

pillars

and no angels

stopping the hand of the faithful

at that last moment

the ram is necessary. 

Because of the ram the world turns. 

Sacrifice me so it may go on. 

Confession time:

I am rubbish at poetry. I have been trying to do it more and more.

I think very literally.

But perhaps I will give it a try, and post it on this blog.

I will call it, perhaps, "Poetry for Literalists and People Who Do Not Understand Poetry" by Someone Who Does Not Understand Poetry.

Y/Y?

The tiny gods of ennui

Sisyphus drives a mid-range car

and lives in a flatshare 

with two other roommates. 

There's always the flatmate 

whose parents have spoiled him. 

Prometheus drives a Mini Cooper

The only thing more douchy

would be a white Smart Car 

Which Persephone got 

from Hades

for their fourth anniversary. 

Which he gave in place

of the traditional fruits and flowers

for the obvious reasons. 

They all had nice lives, his flatmates

or at least Sisyphus had no complaints. 

Persephone was around half year. 

Prometheus had daddy issue. 

But at the end of the day, didn't they all? 

The dishes were done regularly. The fridge

was always stocked. Their Siamese 

house cat Buttons seems content enough. 

Hell, they even had five hundred television channels

with the pornography unlocked

(Dyonisis visited once,

and he knew how to do those sorts of things)

They had dinner parties once a month 

and did those normal people things

Jobs and book clubs (the job for Sysiphus,

the book club for Prometheus), 

For Christmas they'd even subscribed

to the Cheeese of the Month Club. 

And someone else maintained their lawn. 

It was... to all degrees and purposes... 

perfect. 

And horrible. 

Pushing a boulder up a hill time 

and again was less glamorous 

than one might think. 

Nor did Sysiphis understand

why a man who spent his days

as a loan officer

and night having his eyes torn from 

their flesh 

needed a hatchback douche-mobile

version of a fine European car. 

At least Persephone had the decency 

to pay her rent in advance,. 

We call this Tuesday.

Cats crept in the night. Then pounced, crashed and destroyed.

The Secrets of the Day

It's a never-ending gravel road, life.

Well, it ends. In an overturned field, 

made impassable by frozen mud

in the dead of winter. Hidden

somewhere up ahead. Some unknown 

distance. It will end sudden and dirty

crackling straw beneath car wheels

Breaking things already 

on the verge of being broken. 

And that's it; life is over. 

Gone. 

All roads end. 

Somewhere. 

Over the next rise, 

or a thousand miles away. 

And you're tired. And you're cold. 

And you shut off the engine

in the dark. Tilt the car seat back

And Die. 

Post-post modern.

History is written by the victors. Eventually the victors die.