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.

Psyduck Rules

For my nephew’s birthday I drew and painted a picture of MY favorite Pokemon, Psyduck, defeating the god of the Pokemon (or so I gather) Arcteron (?)  My nephew is always arguing with me that Psyduck is “terrible”, to which I say, “Terrifying, you mean, since we are all just a projection of Psyduck’s godlike psychic powers.” That is not to say Psyduck is not an imbecilic god, but that if he were to become aware of his crucial role in the perpetuation of this reality we would all cease to be in an implosion of Solipsist dissolution. Fact.

The Beast Remains The Same

It is a curious circus trick
to force a lion to leap through rings,
not done by books or reason or logic,
but with a whip that snaps and stings.
A natural predator is thus tamed
only through the promise of violence,
not education or being shamed,
but by Nature’s basic commonsense.
Try to read to the lion a book
about the innate worth of a human being—
try to raise him from a cub to look
at a woman as an equal, seeing
enough to emote and to understand,
to empathize with potential prey…
He will not listen, and will eat the hand
that flips the page, despite your dismay.
You are but meat he has his eye on
and he only understands brute force;
and, no, this is not just about a lion,
but all creatures without remorse.
If you think you can tame the breed
through intergenerational reform
you are in denial and you really need
to look at history, and its norm.
The lion has always ruled the lamb,
despite whatever Jesus might have said,
and if not a lion, the strongest ram
ruled with a bellicose, horn-crowned head.
Tyrants, pharaohs, psychos, thieves,
kings and queens and bishops and popes—
they rolled up the bloody cuffs of their sleeves
and rarely washed their hands clean with soaps.
Look: the beast reigns if not whipped each day
nor is this a Beauty-and-Beast case,
and sometimes not even a whip can keep at bay
the beast salivating close to your face.
Nor is the lion-tamer always spared—
he is often the first that is mauled;
too complacent as fangs are bared,
lamenting his career as he is clawed.
And the lion-tamer has in his own heart
a fierce lion roaring in equal measure
so he may fulfill his grandstanding part
and rein-in other lions for your pleasure.
The point remains: no book has ever
halted the fangs of a slobbering beast,
nor education or beliefs, however clever,
so do not trust Life’s circus— not in the least.

Upright Or Twisted

This vast field beneath the glorious Sun
is brimming with honey-sweet light
that glitters with soft fingertips on the tall, golden grass
that billows its head in a loving wind
like a Mass come to pray.
Few trees are scattered about this field’s face,
but these few trees are strong of branch, straight of trunk
and spread wide with canopies proudly dressed in summer leaves.
These few trees are courteous to one another
and do not war with distant neighbors;
not only because they cannot touch each other,
but because they do not have to.

There is a dark hollow beyond the field
which moans deep between a rolling hillock
and the swelling rise of an umbral knob.
The trees within its mouth are gnarled of branch,
twisted of trunk,
crowded for space,
and reach crookedly around each other with covetous intent
to steal the weak slivers of light offered by the negligent Sun.
They war with serpentine branches not because they want to kill,
but because they are naturally inclined to try to survive,
for not every tree is sprouted in golden fields,
nor is it to blame for where its seeds are planted.

Triggered

So many people seem to think
that the realities of everyday life
should simply
scatter
like a
flock of birds
when they pass through them,
but the realities of this world
are not skittish feathers taking flight
at your slightest plaintive breath—
they are hailstorms of
bullets
and you are always in the
crossfire.
You can bleed out with
whining
or
you can harden your
mettle
and temper your heart to be
bulletproof.

A Smattering Of Offensively Honest Stereotypes

China:
Tiger mom whipping her
mass-manufactured children
as they drown in
polluted waters.

USA:
Trust-fund fratboy
partying himself
brain-dead
into a blackout of
bankruptcy.

Britain:
Prestigious butler
apologizing for being a regrettable
snob
while looking down
his nose at you.

Japan:
Dojo master
serving green tea
with a crippled fist.

France:
Five-star chef fixing food
without gloves,
deriding
barbaric finger-food
as he picks his nose.

Russia:
KGB agent camouflaged
in
Punk-Rock protester clothing,
shouting scripted lines
and lobbing
molotovs
for the State News cameras.

Mexico:
Coyote smuggler shoving
migrant families
into the
pews
of the Roman Catholic Church.

Germany:
A Nazi commander conquering
Non-Aryan people
by invite-invading refugees
into his own
overcorrecting country.

Sweden:
Overqualified
viking
leading IKEA raids
into
world-wide living rooms.

Australia:
Dead man walking
with a blithe attitude
toward countless open graves
dotting the outback hellscape.

South Africa:
Biracial man who
wreathes his own neck
with
a burning tire.

Canada:
Metrosexual lumberjack
caught in a love/hate triangle with
his loudmouthed next-door neighbor
and his
snooty French cousin.

Thailand:
Small lady-boy
sassing
the overbearing
dragon-lady madame.

Saudi Arabia:
A chic sheik soccer fan
with a handful of
scarlet letter stones
for the halftime show.

Iran:
Imam admonishing young men
to wave the
stars and stripes
to fan the flames faster.

Switzerland:
Banker sitting in complacent
neutrality,
his coffers replete with the
blood money
from wars he had proudly
divested himself from.

Israel And Palestine:
Stepbrothers warring over
space,
their bunk-beds
too close together,
their hearts
too far apart.

Antarctica:
Shoggoth writhing
within the ice caves,
sick of eating
Emperor penguins
and of
human drama.