Friday, October 22, 2010

New Poem: Deal?

Chris Lott, in a Facebook post, said he missed the "poetry" of my blog.  I don't know if he meant mine, but here's a new poem I'm posting for his sake and I hope he comments as a result.  Oh the pressure!



I wanted a mind
not like a steel trap
but a platinum guillotine
the way my father taught me,
how to stick it to the sucker like a needle in the eye,
how to puncture the white underbelly of his pride
with a samurai ritual knife, how to disembowel
and afterwards stuff his own entrails with his flesh
and feed him to himself as sausage, sausage,
feed him to himself as sausage.

Early I learned
how to cut human pride
with a buzz saw in my hands
sawing away pretensions
to nobility without connection,
intent to expose the rotten infrastructure
of the Beast and its functionaries:
tie-wearers, thralls, desk jockeys
who feel they rule the world
happy in their ancillary bureaucratic power
like little Napoleons
watching one administration come
and another go
content in their G status
and the pension and wife and fireplace
and dog and braided rug
like a picture in Home and Garden
don’t ya know, don’t ya know?

I learned long ago
how to divide the corpse into equal portions
after slaughtering an ego,
how to arrange the corpse beetles
for a celebratory parade
in their velveteen tights--
three pair each, the nimble six-footed dancers.
And come the shiny cockroaches!
I dance on the graves of the proud
in patent leather shoes!--
but I digress.
                        I was fessing to my tendency,
learned from my father,
to skewer others emotionally
for entertainment’s sake
though I have tried to turn this gift
to therapeutic use with some success
but many complaints, to be honest.
Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
Why wouldn’t I be honest?
Who reads poetry anyway?

If I go slicing around
not caring whom I wound,
remember that I do it for the general weal
intent on one thing: to excise
the dead imitation from the living,
to rescue the eternal
from the temporal curse,
the thorn in the proverbial paw
of the proverbial God sacrificed to man.

Come, Lord Jesus.
It is the only hope for our blindness.
I see miracles every hour
and the world says I’m crazy,
that I suffer from delusions.
What if they aren't delusions?
I don’t think they are!
Hoo hoo! Ha ha!

I promise, Lord, if you come
I will no longer wound my fellows
with this vicious tongue of mine.
I will not do soul-surgery in public
and watch them bleed
even though it's for their own good.

I promise to be nicer,
more like Jesus,
more like you.





  1. I sure like the rhythm of "how to stick it to the sucker like a needle in the eye."

  2. Thanks, Chris, and consider this a happy birthday wish for your, the restoration of poetry to my blog.


  3. Anonymous9:48 AM PDT

    "to slice
    the dead imitation from the living"

    Great line.

    How the living cherish their dead imitations! The truest callings are always unappreciated. That should be the litmus.


  4. I see you are screening your comments and mine didn't make the cut.

  5. Your doubting my honesty and courage injures me more than you can know. I hit "publish" when your comment went through, in turn commented on it, and nothing showed up. Technical glitch.

    For the record, you accused me of narcissitic intolerance in the poem (to define your comment in my terms) and I replied, "It's only a poem, Sis. It ain't my life."

    Should you wish to re-post your original criticism, feel free.

  6. Oh, the comment Jerry made, now that I recall it exactly, is "Take the log out of your own eye."

    Indeed, the dilemma of the narrator--how to do that.



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