Recently, I've been writing a lot of poetry that I would define as the equivalent of a doodle or a sketch
in the art world. Not much of it makes sense, they're usually pretty abstract, and only one out of ten
are ever any good. But they keep me sane when I'm traveling and away from my computer. In this
thread, I'll periodically post one or two doodle poems that have any sort of merit to them.
Have fun!
Idealogical Rheumatism
It seems to me
that we'll all be in wheelchairs someday.
Wheelchairs with spokes like snipped guitar strings
and gutted seat-cushions that leave
little breadcrumbs of foam behind
when we shift positions.
All our bureaucratic muscles -
braided licorice sticks
or twined telephone wires -
are going to atrophy
eventually
and we'll all be confined to
thought-based nursing homes
where ideas are spoon-fed to us
from Gerber's baby food jars.
All our good intentions
are turning into peas-and-carrots
vomit-mash.
Wal-mart is throwing hand grenades.
Oh my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!
Would God I died for thee
Oh Absalom, my son, my son!
The Rollback man (America's own symbol of prostitution)
smiles benignly as little hornet-swarms of bullets
make hole-punch gaps in flesh as patriotic
as spongy apple pie and surgically stitched
baseballs.
Little splinters of shrapnel
kissed by the lips of gods that sit cross-legged
in New York City and play with passenger jets
are staining old glory
with gangrene froth.
But it doesn't matter how many peace signs
are sketched or tattooed or spoken
and it doesn't matter how many how many
of Jacob's multi-colored coats
(fatigues the color of Shi'ite synagogues and dirt smeared turbans)
are stained with slaughtered lambs blood
because in the end we realize,
Absalom is already dead.
