Evolution, March 24, 2o15

This I threw together rather fast . . . first thing this morning . . . Ted Cruz just announced yesterday he's running for the POTUS in 2o16. I listened to him talk to his captive audience, hundreds of good, Christian college kids. What he said about America, about the America he wants to create was . . . well, just plain scary! I found this dinosaur pic as I cruised the internet. Hmmm, it inspired me.

Evolution

 

I prefer plastic Dinosaurs

over those made of flesh
and cold blood  . . .
Plastic ones don't bite
and they melt away
if left too long
in the morning sun . . .

 

The real Dinosaurs,

the vicious ones
are far too dangerous
to live with us
in our civilized world . . .

 

And yet,

there they are
walking about,
running for office,
gobbling up
all the tiny
little dinosaurs
that we've become.

 

Evolution sucks

Woodie o3-24-15

The Dead, March 19, 2o15

Another poem that got lost in time, rediscovered a few days ago, rewritten and . . . well, posted here. It is a rather bleak poem  . . . stylistically, a lot like Welcome to the Freak Show but looking to give it a bit more of its own flavor. Let me know what you think.

The Dead

 

Dead. We are the dead.

Mere shadows lingering between

the narrow slit of closed eye.
Our words mumbling mournful things,
a whispered prayer, a whimpering
so lonely the darkness weeps for us.

 

Dead, we are the dead.

Vacant minds burnt, sacrificed

slithering toward the open pit.
A crowish smile pecking at our wounds,
The mourners gathering like moss
on the north-side of the abyss.

 

A multitude of sores bloom in yellow plumes,

the raving lunatics are knocking on the door.
Neatly tied up bound by promises
and that old liar hope, we wiggle on the hook
believing ourselves ruthless sharks
never knowing that we’re nothing but  bait.

 

Yes, we’re surely dead.

Apostles to the bone, the mortal breath
adrift on streams of unconsciousness;
we drown in chaotic harmony
with all those other souls grasping
at malignant straws . . . they do not float.

 

We are the dead . . . sucking in a world

that spews us out upon the dank Persian carpet
where mother lies a bleeding,
her empty eyes receding from her life
in short agonizing gasps
her broken fists grasping at the thinning air.

 

Dead, we are the dead

from the day we were born.
Woodie 1o-3o-14 (rewrites o3-17-15)

Welcome to the Freak Show, March 2o15

This is one of those poems that I'll probably never be satisfied with. I've been rewriting it, taking stuff out, putting other stuff in for at least  five years. Every time I think I'm finished, a month or more will go by and I'll look at it and think, this needs something more. This time however, I'm just not that sure. I may never be done with it. So, here's the Latest version:

 

 

 

Welcome To . . . the Freak Show

 

Shuffling footsteps down the hall

come one, come all the end is near.

 

Where breathing labors like a vacuum cleaner

running out of suction! All those horrible years spent
a munchin' kitty fur, and globs of wadded dental floss.
All our years we grieve, we grieve like withered leaves
in bleak December. All those mourning cobwebs piling up,
all that dust and cigarette butts fornicating on the rug.

 

"Heya, Heya!" cries the Barker from the sideshow tent,

"See the amazing frog boy pickled in a jar!"
And there he is! Piss-yellow skin and eyes
a gangrenous green, yes, there he is!

 

How our blue-stain fingers mock him,

our skeptic sneers, cruel jeers torment
that lifeless body as our hopes await
his resurrection in the soiled shroud
the blessed Bearded Lady left behind
for we mere specks to wonder on.

 

So, better kiss me quickly, dearie, while my tarnished lips

remember how your warm, wet tongue once brought to life —

 

But she'll have none of that. She’s far too busy now

her hands a burying the dead, her tapered fingers
screaming lily white, and red fire tears
carve crimson rivers ‘cross her angel face.

 

Our graveyard spirit spits too much these days

and drinks too much  these moments in.
We dance too close to sparrows. And our sin?
A desperate need for simple truths,
a simple ways that might encourage us,
the multitude of us still dying . . . lying  . . .  
naked in the winter’s snow.

 

We shall sleep, no more. No more may we sing

for better or for butter or for weather kinder
than the mother who dropped us at the nunnery steps
beside the curdled cream the milkman left.

 

But willows weep and hang their weary boughs

and mutter blasphemous oaths  as the horsemen
trample passed our wailing ghosts.
Too demanding we have been. So cruelly circumcised
from nature's tattered teat no longer can we recognize
the bourbon scented breath of poor departed father
as he staggers from that smoky barroom in the sky.

 

And that is where we’ll meet our makers!

Brutal, careless gods who ram themselves
deep inside our youthful throats
then lick their sores like wounded dogs
and disappear into the fog.
They never loved us, no, not at all.
Woodie, 2oo8 (rewrites o6-27-12, 1o-22-13, o3-15-15)

 

My Eyes, March 2o15

Hey, guess what? A new poem! Well, yes, the first draft happened in late 2o14, but I had forgotten all about it. I discovered it the other day when I looked over all the poems I had written in December. Surprised to find it, and to be honest, I had know idea that I had written it. It may need some more work, but it seems to work well enough . . . for now.

My Eyes

 

My eyes are leaving me without a word,

no remorse, no goodbye.
they’ve packed their bags the night before
as I slipped beneath an awkward dream
which I won’t remember when I wake.

 

You’d think that after all these years

and all those tears we’ve shed,  
might they not leave a note? No.
There’s nothing left but memories, clumps
of bewildered dust, a lonely cobweb in the corner.

 

In the mirror, two black holes.

My eyes lived there once, they saw, they thrived.
Running down my bloated face blood flows
in gentle slivers, burning red;
my cheeks don’t seem to mind.

 

And the moon, she’s dead. That line of trees

along Trout Avenue, the ones that blocked
my view of that abandoned lot across the way
they’ve disappeared. What’s left to see?
The shadows drifting on the lawn won’t tell me.
Woodie o3-12-15

Rain Day March o9, 2o15

An inspiring day today I Norman Town. protesters in the street over some racist remarks made by some Frat boys. Well, really it was a bunch fraternity and sorority students on a bus chanting this:

“You can hang him from a tree,
but he can never sign with me.
There will never be a n***** in SAE.”

Somebody on the bus video taped it and placed in on YouTube. All hell broke loose on Facebook last night and the anger and outrage carried over into the morning. The coolest thing though was the huge student protest that took place. No yelling or screaming just a silent march around the north oval.

Rain Day

 

Early morning rain against the window

not thick but steady all day long.
The crowd never spoke.

The only sound shoes

slopping through

the muddy pot holes

that a few hard

winter days had caused.

 

But silence speaks in ways
words can never convey.
Eyes straight head
underneath rain hats and coats

and umbrellas that wish

they could go home

shaken-out and placed in

a warm corner of the room.

 

It’s such a dirty day filled in

with granite thoughts.

The hangman’s noose swings

drunkenly in the courtyard
where the protesters gather.

 

The sparrows are there too

along the tree line.

No chirping today only wondering  

why won’t the world shout its sorrow,

its anger to the sky?

Woodie o3-o9-2o15

 

 

 

 

 

Dumb-a** February 2o, 2o15

This was written I think for MLK Day. It may seem a bit strange kind of poem to commemorate MLK. . . but the experience that inspired this poem was . . . well, a life changing event for me. We all have them, don't we? That moment where something happens that kind of changes your direction as a human being, or at the least, forces you to think about things that you never considered before. And those moments that have the ability to "wake us up" are usually small, tiny. No one notices that they even happen . . . except for the one who's experiencing it.

Dumb-ass

 

It was hot, extremely hot. Vietnam fuckin’ hot.

Stepped off the airplane with about forty-eight
other unlucky motherfuckers at this airport . . .
There were squads of grunts, short timers,
on the blistering tarmac. Worn-out jungle utes,
un-bloused boots, raggedy-ass covers
on their not so stateside-regulation haircuts,
all of ‘em diddy-bopping towards that sweet,
jet airliner we just dog piled out of.
Them heading home, us headed in.

 

Fuckin’ Marine green cattle car!

Clouds of road dust even hotter
than the air outside swirling
through the metal slits
gagging us newbies . . .

 

“What the hell’s going on here?

Dead center of a war zone
and no fuckin’ weapons?
What the hell’s going on?”

 

Staging area, somewhere in Da Nang.

I step off the transport . . . first thing
I see, two black brother Marines
sprawled out in the red dirt next
to a 12X listening intently
to the broadcast crackling
out of a banged up portable radio:

 

* “I'm only going to talk to you just for a minute or so this evening, because
I have some -- some very sad news for all of you -- Could you lower those signs,
please? -- I have some very sad news for all of you, and, I think, sad news
for all of our fellow citizens, and people who love peace all over the world;
and that is that Martin Luther King was shot and was killed tonight
in Memphis, Tennessee. . .”

 

I’m looking for the convoy that’s gonna take me up North

to someplace called Camp Carroll. Camp the fuckin’ Carroll.
Dumb-ass name for a Marine Base!
Almost as dumb-ass as flying into Vietnam
on a commercial jet . . .

 

The head stewardess freaking out over the intercom,

 

“Please depart the plane

in a speedy and orderly fashion.”

 

Sure, we can do that!

Got no fuckin’ weapons,
got no fuckin’ flak  jacket,
got no fuckin’ helmet,
but we can fuckin’ do that!

 

What a dumb-ass stewardess.

What a dumb-ass war.
Woodie o1-19-15
                   * -Robert F. Kennedy, April 4, 1968

Mule February 19, 2o15

Been a bit of a while since I've posted poetry on this site. It seems like I start every post with that statement. This poem was written a few years back. David and I went to this OU reunion party. Lots of people I haven't seen in some time. A few people I didn't know at all. This poem came out of a provocative conversation (or maybe I should call it a diatribe) started by some drunk lawyer. It may be a bit . . . unsettling.

Mule

It's tempting, lying is.

The juiced-up lawyer, head leaning back,
far end of the comfortable bar couch.
Easy for him, life is. The guilty are guilty,
the accused always . . . guilty.
The few who feign innocence . . . definitely guilty.
He recites this philosophy like a well-rehearsed
closing statement. Important points punctuated
by sips of domestic beer and a sturdy shot of Jack.
It's easy for him. He knows it all, seen it all, all of it
as clear as the bottom of a well-drained glass.
The Army cop sitting next to him preaches ‘bout the
hooker with six kids muling  three hundred
hits of ecstasy in her (whispered), “vajayjay.”
I spend the time it takes for him to say the word
again, “vajayjay,” to investigate the mystery
of my untied shoe. “Vajayjay.” The third time
forces my eyes to roll upwards toward the ceiling fan
that whirls out of control right above my head.
The others in our small group agree with the MP,
“What a shame, what a shame, those poor, poor children.”
And I’ve heard it all, seen it all before too. The quiet,
sincere tones of the speaker, the appropriately shocked looks
on the faces of the older women listening intently.
The geezers, me and David, share a quick glance
transmitting to each other our telepathic consensus:
“What’a load of bullshit, this is.”
Woodie 1o-o1-13 (rewrites o2-o5-15)