36

To Ride Conscience

I like to go directly – as a bird flies.

I write poems only because I yet wander.

Problem: do I these stains too much criticize,

As like dirty sheets long needful to launder,

Or, can they live who'll see brilliance in this scum?

But to them I'm not writing. Only to you,

Who, for the Genius, let's not call this your sum.

Or has 'genius' come to define something new?

Does 'Inspiration' now mean searching for hours

For the perfect words to express your powers?

I'd rather enjoy than write poetry, too.

Nor would I care to associate with this.

Yet now I'm committed, but what aid from you?

You've told me the Boss is two joined in a kiss.

You've told me in that I'm a little past due.

While I run from poverty, trapped in a truck,

What are you doing, meanwhile, to assist us?

I romance a void while hard earning a buck.

That's your genius, not mine, though pay's a small plus.

I much prefer free time palatial and cash

Such that each cent I spend adds ten to my stash.

The Boss, one that's two, then ensue not but few.

37

To a Prophet of Activated Coincidences

I speculate if it’s to God that I pray.

I know that I’m heard but I don’t know by who,

Though such might use birds ‘pon something to say;

Owns a sense of humor, divine in me, too;

Regards human science an infant’s rattle;

Gives attention to me though I don’t know why.

Should such decide that one not lose some battle

It shall be won, be it by flood, ice or sky.

If such, which I fathom little, are not God,

They are yet of who, leaving me daily awed,

Clearly merit(s) every human’s whole regard.

As a translator I’m not likely the best.

And I am too honored to humbly serve you.

Yet so must I apply, s’long as I’m your guest.

I don’t know why I’m here, so ask you in lieu

Of absent chain of command, going straight to

The top. I’ve spent my life starving to survive:

Perhaps your attentions to pity are due:

Perhaps I am a saint, therefore do not thrive.

Well, here I am. You know me. I spurn you not.

Please use as like what’s yours, though little I’ve got.

If that much accomplish then I’m quite the bard.

38

Thorough-Fare

No greater evil than in name of the good,

None more psychotic than who call themselves sane,

Not more fake than what to officialize would,

Not more inferior than some standard deign,

Nothing more guilty than who assign blame or shame,

None more deluded than who claim see the light,

Naught more Jesus than what’s given Satan’s name,

Naught more Satan than what’s claimed as Jesus’ height,

I live midst a world of illusions and lies.

If a thing be not fraudulent there’s no prize.

Since I’ve just written some truths there’s none for me.

So what shall I define this day to receive?

All would speak the truth insofar as they can,

And damn me since to ‘insofar’ I don’t cleave.

So I shall pre-scribe my world better for man:

Let truths spoken surpass the normal this day,

To ears worthy to hear if such be my own.

And if what’s perceived be what the Mirror say,

Hide me from evil, all I see the good shown,

You’re the one playmate who can, nor I need buy,

And I so value your magical reply

That without you there’s no point to poetry.

Some things you do seem mean, but I try follow.

Nor know I why humans you so tolerate.

If to me their skulls were better made hollow,

To you it must seem that for brains they’ve fish bait.

Permit me, since agree, to choose for the sea

The most perfect meals to feed hungry fishes.

Then, since no feat to you, invite them to tea

On ships with planks to walk to our just wishes.

Being efficient, and kind at heart as well,

Such will help your fish, too, which numbers have fell.

Man can’t lose, I to rhyme justice, you the Mind.

When you’d like to get creative let me know.

‘Til then I’ll not dwell on it, something else write.

But I ain’t got much time. Some wind we’ll soon blow.

I’d rather drive easy, at eighty a fight

To write poetry and keep it ‘tween the lines.

Gotta hurry up, but point’s invisible.

Come on, brain, get with it: a rhyme now that shines.

Well, maybe not, but at least it’s visible.

Three to go, ten free minutes or at eighty.

Damn, ain’t nothin’ rhymes with ‘eighty’ but ‘weighty’?

Well, ain’t profound, and cheats, but unties the bind.

39

So Be It

Hi there, little one, not gave enough credit.

Though poems don’t rain stars of appreciation,

Eighty miles per hour yields chance to have said it,

To pick you this flower regarding your station:

I see you healthy, not a worry, bright smiling,

In comfort safe, at peace, yet shining with life.

Something a fight this way poems to be styling;

Yours was worse, barding four brats midst other strife.

My wheels are aligned, helps keep it on the road;

Yours are born strays, and each a heavier load.

Well, how ‘bout that: now it’s raining. Green you grow.

A brief, wet kiss, Mother, and now the skies blue.

The sun warms this aired embrace beholding you:

Respected, wealthy master at all you do,

Applauded, more resoundingly more past due.

Meanwhile this quiet ovation remember,

Now and then, when ‘cross your face brushes a breeze:

It is my greeting, from heart like sun’s ember,

Which first began keeping time in your dark seas,

Thence to this magic of conscious existence.

This to your honor, then, be some assistance,

And of my love’s well of words real blessings flow.

40

Gentleman

Though certain you’d have nothing to do with me,

Nor would I address you if you were alive,

Because your name bears ‘The Great’ invisibly,

To such measure that none before could arrive

Whose name wore ‘The Great’ but your merit did not,

I must here call you the man I most admire.

Once Michelangelo, who ceiling had fought;

Then Jung, who showed truths in deep waters afire;

Then Derrida, thinking, in the midst of all;

Then Hawking, thinking, penetrating the wall.

Well, all of them, piercing, through the Mystery.

Yet you, George, aren’t but a hard act to follow.

Your virtues are, all considered, nigh divine.

Though you might have bit more than you could swallow

Without the French, the Stars and Stripes would not shine

But for your singular surpassing being.

Yet now your nation’s sabotaged from within.

I’m an alien here, but what I’m seeing

Is corporate greed, political elites,

Fattening themselves, making their servants thin.

What think you, Mr. Washington? Yet more tax?

Psychoses sea to sea, palaces to shacks,

Is all in vain? Are you but lost history?

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