Deicide
With an envenomed tooth I write this
as in biting spitefulness of the hydra fang
with which the conceit of all gods die
as their devotees carry their crude idols,
(carved in likeness unto themselves),
stumbling gleefully toward the temples
whereupon to perform
their own grandstanding
apotheosis.
Know that you blaspheme
the sacred earth
from whose heart comes this
marble
into whose purity you deface
with the vain mask you wear
during your sermons of selfhood—
know that your vanity
corrodes beneath its own rigors
the fragilities of feature
carved in such godly visages,
thus fracturing that which is written
with a vainglorious chisel.
But take comfort, crumbling stone,
in knowing your vengeance, in turn,
against this fang
that melts all that you hold sacred,
for it shall succumb to its own venom
in due time, surrendering itself sweetly
to the acid of its own
nihilism.
Fall Scene
Fireflies flickering
in the wheatfield, the
stalk filaments below them
bronzed by
shadow and moonlight.
Anxiety
Anxiety like a single shrill
screech from a violin savaged
by a sadist’s razor-edged bow.
Poseur
Pity-party poetry
proffered from a power-point podium,
as dead in delivery
as a mummy in its sarcophagus
waiting for its gender reveal.
A lot of glass heart merchants
in the ponzi scheme of this
new century
always accruing interest
as people vacation on beaches
of shattered crystal shards,
cutting themselves
not to feel something, but to
post something to faux-feel
for fleeting instagram click-chicks
with shallow selfie-styled emotions.
Catullus never condescended
in the first-world forums of
Ancient Rome
to wail for attention,
nor sank so low to overcompensate a
lack of emotion
with a flailing pantomime of feelings.
And as much as Walt Whitman was a
self-obsessed narcissist
tone-deaf to his out-of-tune
Song of I,
he never but felt his own words,
however poorly expressed with
maudlin mediocrity
and shameless shades of adolescence.
I only spit spite to precipitate
rain
over the
hash-tagged mass graves
into which so many have
deliberately swooned to fall
with such self-satisfied melodrama,
gleefully delirious with their own
bandwagon sorrows.
Grow flowers over them, I say,
or, better yet, let thorns
grow like barbed wire
in trench warfare
and let the earth swallow them up
unto silence.
The sound and the fury
signifies nothing
and then a thousand other
wails rally to answer it
until the world echoes with
woeful dirges
and falling bodies.
So many wails and falling bodies,
all overlapping upon one another—
it is not unlike a
silence,
no one taking prominence
and everyone lost in the tangle of
each other’s self-interest.
Tangleroot And Tressknot 