I Wrote a Poem but Who Gives a Shit: Linguistics

It is 10PM here. My boys (children, not frat house friends) are asleep. This is a poem about words, as can be presumed by the title, and maybe the way that our decisions are rendered comes bathed in the light of words contextualized by our own cluttered and confused noodles. It is all very Chomsky and boring but it is a poem. As promised.

Linguistics

Avarice spiced like licorice, I told her.

And she explained that I only say that

Cause they look the same.

Others may compare it to an orange rind.

And even others the smell after rain.

But when I think of avarice I think of licorice.

But also birds.

 

But maybe I like you cause your name

Can be beautifully transfixed into,

resembling

an impression in the back of darkened Polaroid,

the word nude.

You drip of sexuality but only because we think

Of sexuality in a dripping manner.

The mixture of fluids and gravity

And she smiled saying, yes,

Yes, that is sex.

Precisely.

 

And she reveled in my name

And how it can be jumbled into rice.

Like the ending of avarice and licorice, I say.

She loves rice, white rice, the boring rice.

And she loves me.

And somehow the world comes together

With linguistics being the common bond,

the glue

That forges villagers to villainy,

Lunatics to sublunary fools like us.

A quaint quantum atom to its ever-faithful brother.

And oh the world we would have if we’d spoke another language.

Can you even imagine that?

I cannot, I said.

 

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I Wrote a Poem but Who Gives A Shit: Winter Storms

I don’t understand anything really.  But it isn’t in that guru way, like “true knowledge comes from realizing you know nothing.”  I just don’t get it. The world is chock full of wrong answers that sound great.  This is a poem about that, I guess.

Winter Storms

I have heard it said
That real love involves delicately
filing one’s fetters,
Like shuffling papers in loose hands
And sliding them effortlessly
Under the ribs of another.
It is supposed to feel like ejaculation.
It is supposed to feel like entering
A new fish, something like an Oscar,
Into a new bowl.

There are also those
Who compare it to a trumpet soloist,
Dipping softly into a song,
Wailing, as they say,
Putting one’s elbows outward;
Addressing one’s presence.
And having the song become lax,
flaccid in your arms,
A sleeping child brought in from the car.

Like constructing an orange
Without the use of a caliper.
Or a compass.

Anything related to circles,
Let’s say,
Is comparable to true love.
The kind with the coolness
Sunglasses that never go out of style.
Jagged toes cut across a skyline.
A mispronounced Thank You that gets a coy “You’re welcome”.

But then again, who knows?

Poetry: Mike Teevee

This poem is about my eldest son, Bennett, and a morning in which he witnessed the slaughtering of his grandfather’s cows.  I was both sickeningly proud and curiously appalled by his lack of fear toward the carcasses.  The poem is also about Mike Teevee, the cowboy kid from them Willy Wonker movies.


Mike Teevee

Perhaps this is the end of the broadcast day.

They were shot and killed, beheaded even,

before we awoke.

The splayed bodies of the newly christened dead

spewed a mockingly pallid rivulet of steam,

a remembrance for the once-was,

the way you can still hear a set is on

even with the volume muted.

Dissipating

somewhere around our heads

while the cavalier fog was trying its damnedest

to add a touch of low-hanging profundity

to the lurid proceedings.

And it was a palatial masquerade

but we simply sat back in our recliners.

The bloated white stomachs

mimicked weather balloons

and threatened to lift

the carcasses skyward.

“Boy, what a good show.”

He held its tongue and such verdant

word play was rendered in those moments.

But I kept it to myself,

for he was suddenly discovering

the quotient of the stars,

that all was dissolving,

the universe,

with its million halo-headed

clusters and clouds,

was breathing.

And with every exaltant push,

a red wagon on a yellow day,

comes the pull,

an oxen, divine and laden,

marbleized on a proud wall.

The cow was created to be killed, I told him.

It was a magnanimous tragedy

and the ache of it never touched

that calloused way he stood over them.

So proud of his humanness in that instant.

So proud to be on the side of the butcher

with his sharpened knives blackened

by a dense iron-enriched patina.

Why are you standing over it?

Smiling and dancing with voracious glee?

It couldn’t be possible you sensed

how lucky we were and how unlucky

we would eventually become

and in the end

before the end

the most human of our actions

is the slow subtle tapping

of some vibrato laced flamenco.

Dance that fiery dance that holds

the heavens aloft.

Eat the flesh of others

and resist the urge to recant

when your flesh is eaten in turn.

 

And the deadpan reporter asks,

What do you think of all the killings?

His cowboy hat, his dial rung back, says,

What do you think life’s all about?