Poisoned Oasis

So polluted, this oasis
in this vast desert, and so parched—
poisoned with the unseen traces
of what slakes us during our march;
traces of poison created
for convenience of our thirst
thinking ourselves wise, and sated,
to drink from bottles that are cursed,
using death-essence that has staled
from creatures of other ages
to fuel the comforts which hailed
progress in its doubtful stages
till our death march comes to an end
and we sink deep into the wastes
to conclude, soon, this thirsty trend
to fuel other species’ tastes.

More Rhymes

Lucubrations

If science is still a candle

in the dark

then we must get a firm handle

on Truth’s spark

and grow it into a campfire

for the woods,

to reveal our world and retire

our dark hoods.

But politics are sunglasses

worn at night,

dimming the Truth as it passes

near the light

and veiling our eyes with shadows—

do not shade

your sight with how a mad-fad goes

(they all fade).

Beyond the tribal lenses

we all wear

we could gain better senses

for what’s there

if we could only hold the light

close and fast

we would nevermore fear that night

of Man’s past.

Rotgut

The rust-banded barrels

and rust-colored spiders,

rust-bespeckled heralds

with cocooned miters.

Rotgut whiskey, bellied

with gut-rotting venom,

insect innards jellied

and melting within them.

A Dead Horse

It is a dead pack-horse

for your grievances, your grudges,

beaten without remorse,

yet still it lays, never budges

beneath that scornful weight

encumbering its frayed saddle

as you spite its sad state,

not sparing yourself the paddle.

A Difference Of Character

Some wear their petty little griefs

as if they are acclaimed war scars,

listing long their aggrieved beliefs

as if Purple Hearts, or Gold Stars,

while others, with true wounds to bear,

hide them beneath thick, modest sleeves,

afraid others will glimpse and stare

at what never fades; never leaves.

Religions

All the world’s religions are

desperate pleading done in the dark,

wishes on a shooting star,

imagination on a lark,

hopeful firing of nerve cells

in the daydream-drunk animal brain,

a bunch of foolish fairy tales

to try to keep us all calm and sane.

Yet, how we bleed our neighbor

to write in blood the laws of faith,

the fountain pen a saber

to encode the make-believe wraith.

Deicidal Laughter

It is not that great a wonder

that so many preachers should fear

sheep not fearing their god ’s thunder,

so they whip at them, year to year,

to bleed their sense of good humor

out of them with barbed briar tongues,

to cut it out, like a tumor,

and remove laughter from the lungs.

For nothing kills gods so easy

as laughter in an idol ’s face,

whether full-throated or wheezy,

razing all gods from time and space.

Do not look to philosophy

or science to achieve the kill;

to earn you your hunter ’s trophy

humor is god ’s Achilles heel.

Ad Hominem Omnium

They attack your tact
to attack the truth.
They stab you in the back
to undercut the proof.
They tar and feather
to demean the science.
They rally together
in stubborn defiance.
Tribal to the core
as their voices heighten,
crowding your front door
as the nooses tighten.
Clannish, deaf, beastly, blind,
they burn all labs and books,
lobotomize the mind
with sneering, snaring hooks.
Alexandria burned
and humanity lost
much of what it had learned,
because such is the cost—
an attack on the Truth
is an attack on us all,
and on themselves, forsooth:
part and parcel the Fall.

Love-Craft

I glimpsed my Love’s other face,
a visage out of Time and Space
while exploring her outer voids
with a craft through the asteroids,
and seeing those gulfs I went mad,
or else, in the afterglow I was sad,
yet she soon smiled again at me
with the human face I wished to see—
it is hard to love what is so unfeeling,
but what choice have I, her glamour peeling?
I must gaze upon her prettier side,
never where her dark truths hide
or I will fall prey to the vertiginous whirl
of her truths, my inhuman girl
and hag, as well, and witch beyond—
mother from which we have all spawned.
There are predators beloved in her heart
that would gladly tear me apart,
and every bug, too, and microbe, amoeba,
for she is fickle as the Queen of Sheba,
but mostly her bosom is empty, cold,
the gulfs of space without form or mold,
her chest expanding with a Big Bang Breath
until Entropy brings about her death,
yet for all such Space, no safe spaces
for creeds, religions, or any races.
She is just as likely to destroy the earth
as let us live for eons in peace and mirth;
she has her tantrums, yet they are indifferent
as if her fury is never really felt or meant
as she throws her random meteor showers
or vomits lava when her stomach sours
or swallows planetary systems whole
in the pregnancy hunger of a black hole.
Whore and horror, mother and wife—
with her, there is Death, without her, no Life.
And so I must work on learning to love
what is beautiful and terrible, below and above.

The Red Queen

Running in place just to stay ahead
along with countless creatures in this race—
even when winning you will be dead
for there is no trophy for second place.

What can she say? She gives all the fucks
in this game of love and lust and need
abreast the lions, bulls, and bucks;
not all win or lose when they breed.

The race! The race! What a frantic pace
to keep astride the world as it spins—
to stumble is to thereby erase
the progress of countless winning non-wins.

No trophies, she demands, nor ribbons
for those who keep up at the starting line;
whether dolphins, ants, deer or gibbons,
we jockey for place— do not fall behind.