Poem: Political Philosophy

Think of it, crazy rhythms and comprehensible conversational

nonsense words, that’s a party, but man that’s tough

to write at normal speed, because you can only hunt-and-peck

with your left hand, so when the ideas whoosh past

it’s too fast for you, you’re stuck and that’s all there is

to it, with this crawling pace it’s easier to sift out the sand

though, to see the shape of most things.

 

Is it?  Chuckle at your own arrogance, like you’re any closer

to the door or whatever it is in the center, just because you’re trying

my patience, it’s no easier to see the point now

that you’re putting an effort into understanding what

in the name of god is going on, it’s in fact more

frustrating stanzas clawing at nothing, but we’re not to ground yet.

 

You can instead realize that this poem does say something

about the way disability is double-edged, it forces an awkward power

into movements and speech, in many situations it seems to me

quite useful but I don’t fucking want it, the power to force

placation and pandering, eye-rolling donkeys to chew hay all day.

 

So you’re an alien, a stranger study to be made

of the world a symbol of how you’ve progressed,

which is not uncommon for the minority, all of us outside

looking in with judging disdain, but me they parade

with my trachea scar, it is horrid but a symbol

of power absolute, feeling a gross unwanted advantage.

 

Political philosophy is not fool proof at all, obviously

watching chatterers fumble, sweat and vomit

onto my TV screen and into my ears Sunday Morning

proclaiming what they’re told, whatever they’re told

regardless, everyone just does their job.

 

So here’s the challenge, take your job and shove it

whatever it is they expect of you, all of us together

must become uncommon, not just exceptional

but weird and misunderstood, standing on parapets

with a hazy surmise, seeing what’s coming

as none ever could and yelp horrified, by way of stating

the obvious, for we can’t deny it, any more.

Poem: Political Philosophy

Poem: Cloudcover

We live in a bubble speckled gray

gardens withering since the sun ghosted,

it visits now again mostly, it’s memory

wrapped in popsicle, with water tube noodles

beach balls and pails in comparison

to genuine mirth, because the sky is gasping

overgrown with rapid fungus hoisting

up on a petard I found with my cracker jacks.

 

Now the cover’s gone, so we all wear

like spacesuits walking and staking

vampire wannabes, they only want blood

to bathe in, driven mad by the greenhouse

fruits and vegetables rendered soulless

soylent chicken of the sea, knowing it’s people

we shrug and que sera, for humanity’s final

chapter is called cannibal reckoning.

Poem: Cloudcover

Poem: The Tread-Upon

Trapped in the subtext game, tiptoeing terrors and rerouting poison clans

to bring an end of the Overlords, or at least to equip an escape

from the sight of them, screaming and taunting

as one collapses in a heap, vomiting and falling on the floor

like a dying dog, regret passes through shock and horror

as they realize what they’ve done, and that we weren’t playthings

except that we were treated as such, those that scoffed at your smile

and giggled at your tatters, they would see what they’ve been

to us and they would weep, not out of fear because nothing’s changed

now or ever in the future, but in the mirror they’ll see

that their faces have twisted and changed, and they will cower

from the judgment of time.

Poem: The Tread-Upon