Saturday, March 23, 2013

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. 

Friday, March 22, 2013

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
to keep the universe
as it ought
on schedule
so they say
when they talk 
of such things
fire and stones and television
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.


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... 

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,. 

Thursday, March 21, 2013

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. 
All roads end. 
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. 

Wednesday, March 20, 2013