20-More Verse


The Bull

 

The bull in the china shop

Stopped and made a purchase

and then forgot what he bought

Or to pick it up, now the china cup

Is broken from his reckless behavior.

Now he’s on the psychologist couch

Trying to make sense, find a personality savior

Something or someone to blame

For to take this on himself would bring too much shame

Imagine a bull red faced;

Now how can he confront his own kind; he would only enrage them




 It had gone way too far, it became an anthem

Repeated in the head with syncopated rhythm

Drew the knife across the throat of my problems

 

The skeletons danced and laughed at the songs they sung

The daisies that smiled in spite being trod into the dung

They should all be put in the closet and hung

 

It wanted so much more but turns out it was done

It all was too much and turned out to be no fun

So here we stand holding them at bay with a gun

 

It’s got the best of me and brings out the worst in me

And sometimes it is all I can do to fight it

And each time I do I know that another day will come

And launch a new bout, then every night it

Haunts me

It wants me, to do things to myself my sane mind would never do

 

I thought if I left it alone

It would starve of loneliness but it thrives

On inattention

So when left to gnaw on the bone

It rears its ugly head and even survives

Send intervention

Quick before I blink an eye and it’s too late and one of us dies

 

Robin Williams was a great talent but depression is a monster of disproportionate means.




It is not about faith it is only about fear

Hiding behind the black book

With scathing looks

And putrid judgments’

When they have no idea where

In the world my mind went

If you went to a doctor

And he did to you what they did

You’d be lucky to be alive

 

The streets are paved in the gold you paid

The crystal clear buildings and muddied from within

Since the perception is a deception

A shrewdly drawn conclusion

A wildly contrived illusion

When they know not the intent of your heart

They do not have a clue to what beats inside of you

 

 Rhetoric from the pulpit

And other forms of nonsense

 

Endless nights and endless days

Is he so insecure that he requires endless praise?

 

The details are the work of devils

Prolong torment and agony is declared for

“Hope is the worst of evils”

And faith is based upon the hope we cared for

And hope is based upon the faith we dared for

  

“Hope is the worst of evils, for it prolongs the torment of man”

Friedrich Nietzsche

"Beware of false knowledge; it is more dangerous than ignorance."

 George Bernard Shaw




I was about 5 years old

When I woke in the middle of night

I hollered for my Momma

She got me a drink and asked me, “What do you think?”

Thank you Momma

Then she asked me, “Is there anything else you want?”

I said, “All I want is your love.”

She said, “You've got it.”

 

10/01/2014 Marty Stuart interview on NPR when asked what some of the last words Johnny Cash said to you.  He stated that Johnny Cash asked him, “Is there anything in this room you want?” and Marty said, “Just your love.”  Johnny said, “You’ve got it.”


A hole in the…

 

He sweat and he worked and he toiled

Until he made

…a hole in the…

A hole in the wood

The boss yelled that is no good

So he began again to working and fretting

Until he had

…a hole in the…

A hole in the stone

The boss screamed you got it wrong

This time you work all night

Until you finally get it right

So he dug and dug and he shoveled

And drilled deeper and deeper

Until he had

…a hole in the…

A hole in the ground

He then laughed with glee

Saying out loud I’m finally free

The boss said I don’t like the way that sounds

 

The boss fussed and fumed and stormed about

Wanting more work but the worker was out

He yelled, he screamed, he shouted, he punched

…a hole in the…

A hole in the wall

 


The worker traversed the tunnel to the other side

Finding the life he really wanted

He felt exhilarated and vaunted

Now he won’t have to hear the boss deride

 

The cadence of the song Red Right Hand by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds inspired this poem.


                             So Hard, Too Hard

                        There once was a young phallus

                        that decided to go to Dallas.

                        Though his friends were jealous

                        they really bore him no malice.

                        He went to the Pleasure Palace

                        just to taste life's chalice.

                        He met Debbie, some others and Alice

                        spent a lot of cash, wound up bare ass.

                        Then to his dismay, alack and alas,

                        he developed a rash and a callous.


                                 Coming to Terms


                        Tonight instead of hoping desperately

                        and playing solitaire;

                        me dreaming of you and you dreaming of me

                        Why should we dream separately

                        when we could make each others dream happen

                        the loneliness we can crush

                        we've got all night, no reason to rush

                        our spirits can smile and not be dampened


                        I'm coming to you, you're coming to me

                        Wrung out, spent and limp

                        You open up and sing out,

                        I stiffen and listen

                        I'm coming to you, you're coming to me


                        When the tree starts to fall

                        You take things in hand and do it all

                        and hold me up

                        drink from the cup

                        I can't leave

                        I can't deceive

                        I gotta gasp

                        from your grasp

                        I going to have to exhale

                        let my wind fill your sail

  

                           Big Richard's Legacy (Ithyphallos)

                        It is only a symbol,

                        a monument to our stupidity

                        The huge concrete dildo

                        a testament to our lucidity

                        Shiny, grey, hard and metallic

                        based on society's reflection

                        it casts a shadow long and phallic,

                        an engineers' asinine erection

                        Every woman's nightmare,

                        the wet dream of any man

                        the eyesore outstanding there,

                        in the park, the steely Dan

                        On the ground next to it

                        with a message sublime

                        in red letters it exclaims, "DO IT!";

                        surely this is not benign


                               Sex Doctor

                        I wasn't feeling well

                        I really felt like hell.

                        Some kind of attack

                        left me flat on my back.

                        Now I'm in the waiting room,

                        waiting and starting to fume.

                        While I was getting impatient

                        the Doctor began to get in patient.

                        You can not hurry the Doctor

                        he's busy trying to rock her.

                        He's prickly as a cactus

                        but he's licensed to practice.

                        Now that he's beginning to get her

                        I'm sure they both feel much better.

                        Was it the posted banner

                        or his bedside manner?

                        Was it grim or whimsical

                        when he gave the physical?

                        So did he kill or spread the germ;

                        were there any new lessons learned?

                        Did you feel like his very special guest

                        or a little let down when he said, "Next."?

 

God must be off somewhere

Preaching or giving a sermon

While we are left alone there

On earth to deal with the demon

 

Hope He is having a good time

While we suffer and bleed

Enjoying the hymns sung sublime

Where is He in our greatest need?

 

We have given up on God

Where is the great redeemer?

He’s fallen asleep at the wheel

Drifting along, the lost dreamer

He doesn’t give a damn how we feel

The forgiving cup shall not be passed to God


  

The Sanctity of I

The Sanctity of Individual

 

Everything will work out and everyone wants to be civil

You will work for the team; your own self will not be thought of

There’s the concept that good always triumphs over evil

Is as diseased as the skeletons in the closet which have rotted

 

There’s a schism between what we dream and the notions of people

Placing their trust in an uncaring and absent Deity

Thinking that the godless cannot win over those gathered under the steeple

The might of the world does not have any piety

  

(With acknowledgements to genius of Rush and Ayn Rand)

 

Sticking Sticks

Building a frame

Framing a place

Placing an emotion

Emoting it on your face

 

Facing your dreams

Dreaming out loud

Loudly, shriek screams

Screaming at the crowd

Crowding out the thoughts

Thinking above the cloud

Clouding the future

Featuring the present

Presenting the past

Past your eyes



She lays down on a fine wire

Cutting through the clouds tinged with the pinkish hue of the world on fire

She cuts with a razor sharp knife though the cloths

Disrobing the layers in broad sweeping swaths

The man lays on the bed and watches through hazy eyes

Seeing through the layered deception and the innocuous lies

 

They see each other for what they really are

And have no problem with hanging that hat on that star

The room full of the lustful heat

From which neither is willing to retreat

 

Painting the walls with the blood pumping through their veins

The splashes and drips cover the floor in spite of the vane

Effort at a symbolism

He convulses as

Time shakes with an embolism

She blooms and showers

Him with all her flowers

And the garden fills the room 


Stood in the swirling mist and fog

In front of the cathedral

In awe mystified by this edifice to a god

That was so ethereal

 

The mists swirl around me

These thoughts confound me

I cannot fathom the depths of those that place faith in the invisible

There is a fog of confusion

In our conversation

You state it like it is obvious, we cannot come to terms we are indivisible

 

Why spend the money on a building used one day out of seven

When there are hungry and homeless with greater need

More than the need to congregate to see spires pointing to heaven

Is this really about worship or aggrandizing or greed?

 

Your arraignment of Sunday best, if sold

Would keep someone else out of the cold

Your donations that keep hierarchy in power

Could do so much good for those in need so dire

 

So come worship here where I am and stand here with me

A natural organic experience

Of Mother Nature and scenery

In deserts, forests, plains and fields


From the beginning

From that moment

Until the end

It is an endless chase for those moments

That continually elude us

It is a timeless race for those moments

That finally delude us

Into believing things we would not ordinarily believe

 

We are so desperate that fire, water, wind and stone become our gods

Those statues are looked up to and believed to have once been supernatural

Those words in a book outweigh all the common sense we have inside us

Everything we have is sorted into black and white painting a cross hatch mural

 

We believe the ancient legends and stories seemingly without verification

We believe in these things taking for granted that they existed and are factual

Are there questions that should be asked, or at least discussed for clarification?

Or is there a progression from microorganism that is logical and natural?


I am further away than I’ve ever been from the main stream

Kicking back in uncharted waters

Exploring and questioning, taking nothing for granted

There are no givens or absolutes

Everything is up for grabs and the inquisition has begun

What is life?  Has it a meaning?  Seriously, where did we come from?

How can a microorganism which has evolved

Really create a society and heal and solve

 

Favoritism is rampant, do microbes have feelings?

Why are we the way we are?

Are we really capable of thinking about others let alone loving?

 

Rivers run deep with treacherous questions

And faith killing rapids

 

We get sucked under and have the breath of consciousness knocked out of us

And what is left of us is only the fleshy thing, the mortal shell

Others want you to believe in the consuming fire and gates celestial

But maybe there is absolutely nothing; that is real hell

When the grave receives us, is there a soul in that hole as well?

 

Hard Questions

 

Which language is best?

They all are used for communication

How do you grade them?

How do you measure the relation?

Of one to another in effectiveness

 

So if there was a way to break it down and measure which was best then should we force everyone to communicate in that language?

 

Which religion is best?

They are all used for worshiping someone or something

How do you grade them?

How do you measure the relation?

Of one to another in effectiveness

 

So if there was a way to break it down and measure which was best then should we force everyone to worship in that religion?

 

Which gender is best?

Each body is used for being a person with emotions and sensations

How do you grade them?

How do you measure the relation?

Of one to another in effectiveness

 

So if there was a way to break it down and measure which was best then should we force everyone to be one gender?

 

Which sexual orientation is best?

Each is used for enjoyment and pleasure

How do you grade them?

How do you measure the relation?

Of one to another in effectiveness

 

So if there was a way to break it down and measure which was best then should we force everyone to be one orientation?

    

Lie yourself into a corner

Then you recover

By lying even more

When will you face the truth?

Can you see the proof?

When will your knees seek the floor?

 

Is it a sign of weakness?

For us to believe in something that does not exist

Or a longing for a intervention

Do our minds and bodies play imaginary tricks?

Is it a figment of invention?

 

Some need to believe

Some cannot conceive

Some kick against the pricks

Disgustedly get their kicks

By playing some kind of game

 

We throw around words like we own them

They are a tool to use

Descriptors abound

But how many words can describe the sound

Or the feelings of your heart, your mind, your soul

Use all you want

Still there is a void

We play silly power and mind games

Because we are bored or annoyed

One holds something over another

You mess with your sister

You hold it over and over your brother

 

In the end you decide to do something

In the end it changes absolutely nothing

Call it fate, karma or destiny

You are on this thrill ride until it ends

It just is and it does not make any sense


 The Cross


There it was on top of someone's house, a weathered cross that had been there who knows how many years or even decades.  What did it mean?  What does it mean to them?  What would it mean to someone else?  Think about it, if your savior died upon a cross how does it further the knowledge of mankind or your cause to continually see that murder weapon?  Those who think of Abraham Lincoln do not continually display the gun that snuffed out his life, they celebrate his life through display of his works, his speeches, his knowledge, his humor and his wisdom.  So does that displayed cross on the house proselytize and announce to the world about this mystical person who died upon it?  How do they react with this knowledge?  I have seen plenty of crosses in my lifetime, on people's rosaries, in cathedrals and both inside and outside of churches and never once seen someone exclaim and suddenly yell, "Oh My God!  Now I realize.", and fall prostrate upon their knees.  Must not work very well and why not?  I mean for a group that claims it has at its pinnacle the all powerful, shouldn't it work constantly?

Why did not Jesus himself write down his words and his meanings rather than let others write them for him and thus introduce possible nuances or even errors in his message?  Did he proofread the passages before they were accepted as canon?  Transcription is hard work and even in the best of circumstances memories can be fuzzy or interpretations can be full of inaccuracies.

















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