[Note for the 1 or 2 of you who actually read: I'm in the process of revising the novel that I have posted bits over the past few months. Although I've decided to stop posting bits of the novel, though, I haven't forgotten you -- my one or two true followers who are either up late at night and drunk or wasting time at work.(Either of these, by the way, I consider a good and noble use of time.) These poems, written altogether, are my part of concretewolf.com's 2009 August Poetry Postcard List. I've always been a poet, first and foremost, and it's a good way to keep writing whilst I revise said previously mentioned tome. But, as usual, I'm late. Money, lack of postage, etc, has put me a full 13 days behind in the August Poetry Postcard Challenge. I will be sending these 10 to unuspecting folks in today's mail; but I wanted to share them with you, my one or two loyal readers, as well. Though chances are I could just give you copies when I see you at the bar. With Warmest Regards, Mick]
Postcard Poems (Aug 09) –Batch 1
Chance of rain
and the world
is washed away –
in mock end time trials.
We are told by the only one
who sees, and we dismiss him –
the bastard’s just one more
old stinking drunk.
Spare a dime for your destiny,
or a quarter for the secret
of quantum space; all knowledge
is summed up
in the vague ramblings
of a dirty old man
who lives under the bus stop
and assaults little girls
like the troll
in one of Hans Christian Andersen’s
badly written nightmares.
(We have lost the language
to describe crucial events.)
In the desert, when it rains,
people stand aghast, staring
at the sky, and drown.
On television they call it the Rapture.
God comes with a gurgling noise
and then disappears.
Brown shirts in the streets
skinheads on the news.
At least we’re honest now
about who we are
beneath all our polite smiles
and coquettish gazes.
The library is an air-conditioned hell.
The print is quickly fading from the books
no one reads; the magazines are all
ghastly pictorials of dead pedophiles
and other mummified media creations.
Small children play tag
in the reference section,
using dictionaries and outdated encyclopedias
as traps for more literate playmates,
who will trip over the tomes
and break their necks.
Old men saddle up in bars
drink dirt out of cracked mugs
and reminisce about a time
when the taps weren’t dry
and the bar maids were young
and worthy of masturbatory fantasy.
Bereft of the bloody religion of our forefathers,
we have dug up previously interred bones,
painted them with the make up left behind
by ex-wives, old girlfriends, and dead mothers,
then salute ourselves
for our very American ingenuity.
Outside, pacing on the sidewalk,
one more wandering prophet
begs for pennies
and blesses those who ignore him.
Three blocks up, near the pawn shop,
tired old hookers ply their pussies
and drink rot gut memories
from broken condoms
and old Styrofoam cups.
A tidbit of interesting news:
the symphony rolled through town,
set up, and tried to play. In grand appreciation,
the gathering crowd attacked,
gang raped the flutists and players of reed instruments,
repeatedly sodomized the director,
and lopped off the percussionists' hands
with rusty pitchforks. (The brass players
were bludgeoned to death.) Then they were all run
out of town naked, into the desert
where they are sure to die of exposure.
The Sheriff was later quoted,
calling it a textbook example
of quality mob justice.
Sort memos to strangers
what the afterlife consists of.
Rawhide hands whose calluses
are filled with dust
drop tired quill pens and sigh
as the ages of the Earth
contract and prepare
a repetitive rendition.