Roll Call of the Lesser Devils 120-123
120.
It’s knot me
It’s never, ever been
But somebody keeps watching,
A perpetual quest to find something
That never existed at all.
It's all about names, dates
Times, places,
Saucers, plates, mirrors
Razors, one toot for the road?
It'll make my world, it's sounds, it's faces
A lot clearer.
Those guys: Try not to hassle or goad,
They're just the police,
And they're paid what they're owed.
Escobar, Pablo, Escobar, man...
I have nothing
Once an “A” in college.
Your riches disappeared between my ears,
And now there is nothing
But the sound of the ocean
If one's pressed close to one of these ears.
Excuse me,
This life is much too tight.
I take walks by fountains,
Sit below inscriptions
Too worn to tell their stories
Of politics and gentle greed.
Desperately without I utter
An invocation
And with a supple snap
The old worlds collapse,
There's naught a young man can do
In the way of doing an undo.
It is not my end to falsify proof.
The truth is a delusion,
A grand deluge
In this new world.
Breath is much too clean;
The cold air is much too sharp;
There is still time left
To soothe away the hidden barriers,
Expose the connections,
The network hookups.
Catch me now.
Your case will be convoluted and taciturn
Based on faulty de facto egoism
And hollow attacks.
I smile as the evidence burns.
Sly established, sloppy pigs,
Grant me one request,
Find your ass
And insert your thumb.
Do it for me but remember
That Jesus is the one who'll leave you blessed,
And I who will make you look dumb.
121.
Speak To Me Not
See the little plastic people
Climbing in their wooden diorama
They claw over bodies
Like chalkboard fingernails
Howling frightened goslings
Loosing feathers as the curses fly
Thought bubbles mark the fears
Of the toy soldiers who block the way,
And the artificial implants, saline titties,
Glue sniffing sycophants,
They say faithfully all the while,
“I am a real person. What are you?”
The little people take comfort
Only in themselves and those
They trust
Truths outside in bright, broad daylight
In plain view of the older gods,
And Sol and Yahweh and whatever star
Laugh at the people hiding
Because they know right where you are.
At night the plastic people flee
Before their true selves are unmasked.
The dark and silent moving shapes,
And flapping excess flesh for capes,
The awareness of their own negative worth
Could be considered hell on earth.
Hide your eyes, don't look
As the melting plastic melts and runs,
The light of the sun does that light of the fire shun
Not only that but the now
Will blind and burn
There's no hope of ever escaping
It's your conceited fantasy raping
You.
Speak to me not of who you are
I can see just fine for myself
And if you could see yourself from my eyes...
You have it all by far,
And by that I mean the wealth,
So tell me why
As the plastic fries
Are you so afraid to fade and die
In our childish culture war?
122.
You smile when you see me
A graceful indication
That the memories of our near happiness
Have not completely faded.
Is that what it is?
I hope I'm not too jaded
To know.
I smile back
Mainly out of recognition,
That barest minimum,
And time, and possibly a sense of duty.
Long ago the smiles meant
A hidden world, like the one beneath the waves,
Of compassion and mutual emotions.
Our love was fickle and fancy though
Sometimes like the rolling oceans,
One moment a peak
And the next a deep sink,
Just the thoughts
Are like an albatross. To me.
The glances, the nuances of deep felt kinship
Played across our faces like reflections,
Like the pretty patterns cast by afternoon shadows,
But the clock ticked away on that love.
Still I smile.
I know how the warmth got away
As surely as I know why
I feel no pleasure at all
When I see you.
If only I hadn't gone so far
To make sure it hurt
To be you.
123.
Tired wandering eyes
Tired of wanding the well
To make all those wishes come true.
The walls of the well
Down in the cold muck
Are as slippery as icy hell.
Philosophy decries
Victory for the wish maker.
Like the snake in the rose garden
Crushed beneath the heel,
The gardener who thinks slow
Helps none grow,
But if he acts quickly
His actions might end
An eternity of hideous sins.
So much for the serpent.
It was never really the snake's own fault.
Didn't you ever know?
Sincerity hinges on
Christian certainty
The garden lets Cynical
Be wedded to Optimism.
They had yet to pass that law,
Written by cold hearts that never thaw.
All this was done
For your penny's wish,
Victory is your prize.
Be careful though,
The snake that's pretty and green
May just have you hypnotized.
[Quick note: The poem that contains the Escobar references was originally given to Patrick Brabham, the artist. He kept it, which blew me away. I gave it to him in 1990. He still had it in 2000. I wish I had that handwritten original. It was very funny in a "strung out on blow beyond belief" sort of way.]
It’s knot me
It’s never, ever been
But somebody keeps watching,
A perpetual quest to find something
That never existed at all.
It's all about names, dates
Times, places,
Saucers, plates, mirrors
Razors, one toot for the road?
It'll make my world, it's sounds, it's faces
A lot clearer.
Those guys: Try not to hassle or goad,
They're just the police,
And they're paid what they're owed.
Escobar, Pablo, Escobar, man...
I have nothing
Once an “A” in college.
Your riches disappeared between my ears,
And now there is nothing
But the sound of the ocean
If one's pressed close to one of these ears.
Excuse me,
This life is much too tight.
I take walks by fountains,
Sit below inscriptions
Too worn to tell their stories
Of politics and gentle greed.
Desperately without I utter
An invocation
And with a supple snap
The old worlds collapse,
There's naught a young man can do
In the way of doing an undo.
It is not my end to falsify proof.
The truth is a delusion,
A grand deluge
In this new world.
Breath is much too clean;
The cold air is much too sharp;
There is still time left
To soothe away the hidden barriers,
Expose the connections,
The network hookups.
Catch me now.
Your case will be convoluted and taciturn
Based on faulty de facto egoism
And hollow attacks.
I smile as the evidence burns.
Sly established, sloppy pigs,
Grant me one request,
Find your ass
And insert your thumb.
Do it for me but remember
That Jesus is the one who'll leave you blessed,
And I who will make you look dumb.
121.
Speak To Me Not
See the little plastic people
Climbing in their wooden diorama
They claw over bodies
Like chalkboard fingernails
Howling frightened goslings
Loosing feathers as the curses fly
Thought bubbles mark the fears
Of the toy soldiers who block the way,
And the artificial implants, saline titties,
Glue sniffing sycophants,
They say faithfully all the while,
“I am a real person. What are you?”
The little people take comfort
Only in themselves and those
They trust
Truths outside in bright, broad daylight
In plain view of the older gods,
And Sol and Yahweh and whatever star
Laugh at the people hiding
Because they know right where you are.
At night the plastic people flee
Before their true selves are unmasked.
The dark and silent moving shapes,
And flapping excess flesh for capes,
The awareness of their own negative worth
Could be considered hell on earth.
Hide your eyes, don't look
As the melting plastic melts and runs,
The light of the sun does that light of the fire shun
Not only that but the now
Will blind and burn
There's no hope of ever escaping
It's your conceited fantasy raping
You.
Speak to me not of who you are
I can see just fine for myself
And if you could see yourself from my eyes...
You have it all by far,
And by that I mean the wealth,
So tell me why
As the plastic fries
Are you so afraid to fade and die
In our childish culture war?
122.
You smile when you see me
A graceful indication
That the memories of our near happiness
Have not completely faded.
Is that what it is?
I hope I'm not too jaded
To know.
I smile back
Mainly out of recognition,
That barest minimum,
And time, and possibly a sense of duty.
Long ago the smiles meant
A hidden world, like the one beneath the waves,
Of compassion and mutual emotions.
Our love was fickle and fancy though
Sometimes like the rolling oceans,
One moment a peak
And the next a deep sink,
Just the thoughts
Are like an albatross. To me.
The glances, the nuances of deep felt kinship
Played across our faces like reflections,
Like the pretty patterns cast by afternoon shadows,
But the clock ticked away on that love.
Still I smile.
I know how the warmth got away
As surely as I know why
I feel no pleasure at all
When I see you.
If only I hadn't gone so far
To make sure it hurt
To be you.
123.
Tired wandering eyes
Tired of wanding the well
To make all those wishes come true.
The walls of the well
Down in the cold muck
Are as slippery as icy hell.
Philosophy decries
Victory for the wish maker.
Like the snake in the rose garden
Crushed beneath the heel,
The gardener who thinks slow
Helps none grow,
But if he acts quickly
His actions might end
An eternity of hideous sins.
So much for the serpent.
It was never really the snake's own fault.
Didn't you ever know?
Sincerity hinges on
Christian certainty
The garden lets Cynical
Be wedded to Optimism.
They had yet to pass that law,
Written by cold hearts that never thaw.
All this was done
For your penny's wish,
Victory is your prize.
Be careful though,
The snake that's pretty and green
May just have you hypnotized.
[Quick note: The poem that contains the Escobar references was originally given to Patrick Brabham, the artist. He kept it, which blew me away. I gave it to him in 1990. He still had it in 2000. I wish I had that handwritten original. It was very funny in a "strung out on blow beyond belief" sort of way.]
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