I can’t imagine
how painful it is to
be God.
Trying your hardest
to make a beautiful painting,
only to have the characters
you created complain and
mock the world around
them.
Why does God let bad things
happen to good people?
Pretty sure you’d walk
away from the canvas too
if it spat back and criticized
you.
But perhaps,
in his silence,
he waits,
hoping we’ll learn to
appreciate the
masterpiece.
And after he
suspects we’ve endured
enough punishment, he’ll return
to add an additional layer
of paint.
We call these added colors
miracles, and they renew our
dwindling faith.
they don’t walk like the rest of us—
there’s a rhythm, yes, but it’s off-beat,
like jazz played in a padded cell.
it starts early—when the dog barked too loud
and nobody hugged them after.
the world lit its fuse,
and turned the other way.
they grow quiet in the corners of rooms,
watching how the meat falls off the bone,
how people talk and never mean it.
they learn that silence
can be louder than a scream,
that control is a scalpel—
and god never showed up,
to stop one.
trophies?
souvenirs from where the soul cracked.
a button, a tooth, a braid of hair—
proof that something existed
and bowed before them.
the rest of us save postcards.
they save reminders
that they were finally seen.
that someone, for one goddamned second,
was real.
People don't ever think for themselves
There's this book I read on cultural evolution
That says group think is an adaptation
If someone says snake
And you take the time to look for yourself
You're dead
Natural selection favors the man who runs
My son has flashbacks
Seven years old, crying out of nowhere
Because someone made him think of the sheep:
A phallic toy, half ram head and half sheep
Fondled by my oldest one night on Skype
Before I knew what it was
He played it off, cuz he's not supposed to cry
Cuz it's worse when he does
Said he loved the sheep
Wanted it
Made me look up sheep toys on Amazon for his birthday
His father is the goddamned shepherd
I say, "Look!" and he screams, "Snake!"
Drives all the wondering sheep
Right back to the pen
And they line up to sodomize my child
Her room’s door has a goddamned latch,
Wherefore people don’t her sight catch
Seldom would open to a knock,
On that her heart ‘real igneous rock…
Of those she’d turned down I, First Batch
While I had good shirt, not a patch
My role to speak, hers to speech block;
Her choicest move: a glance at clock;
One starts with her, one won’t sleep snatch
Like one watching a World Cup Match…
But know I when her age doubles
Pride with cursed vanity wobbles.
Burger and fries
At a roadside stand
Constant buzzing of the flies
Under an angry yellow sun
The mustard dripped down from the hamburger
Onto her brand new dress
She stared down at it
When she looked up,
There was a tear in her eye
The single glistening salt tear
Of her frustration, her anger
Harold, she said
He didn't hear her, continued to eat
Harold, she said again louder,
Choking back a plaintive sob,
I didn't think it would be like this
He looked up, uncomprehending
Like what, he mumbled
Like this, she cried, our honeymoon,
At a goddamned hamburger stand
He blinked and swallowed
I want a divorce, she screamed
This is a nightmare
His mind plodded through grease
He found an answer
But we haven't had sex yet, he said
Oh, she said quietly
She thought about that for a second
And then started eating her burger again
Steady rustling of stacked-high newspapers,
On the vendors stand US skyscrapers;
A long face further parting with brightness:
The type that treated not things with lightness
It’s a man heading for a child’s mistake;
From last medical check-up much at stake!
Started it had with a rumored broadcast,
Which listening through made Chapman downcast.
Now, he’s at Lukman’s vendor stand for more
Of a hitting news that few minds could store:
“All banks shan’t be working for two weeks,
Their once-cheerful customers goddamned freaks!”
Yes, some bank manager did cook alive,
For home they’d sought to cashless point drive.
Chapman looked like he would die in a week,
Who had seemed throughout January sleek!
One can’t break the deserved curses.
While one knows their exact causes,
You manage them like HIV,
Sometimes watching Pleasing TV,
Good French or Spanish Wine to quaff
And yourself observe as you laugh,
While its Anti-Retroviral
For the meaningful survival
Is goddamned determined hard work:
Then, five hours for a dollar,
Now, ‘fifty’ for the same color;
Hence, God had to just stop Balaam,
Willing to send him to bedlam…
Israel‘s God-Supported Trespass
Would have in Courts shattered like Glass!
Please" A Big No!"to contract
That would Shaolin kicks attract,
From a modest aim detract;
Flow of air slow down in tract.
"No"to cheques you never checked;
Much like grains hens never pecked,
Post-dated cheques quick dreams wrecked
And issuer's good name staked...
And -yes- endorsements: thumbprint
For eyes with mistrustful glint
Staring at money in mint:
From head to toe Captain Flint!
From these counsels points extract:
Every goddamned message tracked,
The giver his brains racked,
You not doing so move slacked...
A business Man talks listen:
Minds light and they glisten.
Money is both Something and Nothing:
Something when it’s A Rescuer
And it’s goddamned far away
Nothing when its can’t do A Thing
While in one’s hands not fewer
But it’s clear you’ll be blown away!
Money is both Something and Nothing:
Something when filled is your sewer
And it alone offering a ray,
Nothing when its sound is Poor Ring,
No longer fetching The Newer
And you may it burn on ash tray.
In the morn, Money boy’s Big Thing
And before darkness Plain Nothing;
Away could fly with Parting Wings
And leave you with Angry Hand Swings.
Please, continue with your exercise
To sensibly check your goddamned size
And profitably win A Painless Prize:
For The Sport Body Ounce must not rise;
For contests a loss The Bone dries
And no blunders in the end seem wise…
Please, continue to watch overweight
That could make Coveted Prizes wait
And Expected Honors arrive late
And you leave in melancholic state…
In Boxing make you A Punching Bag,
Fellow The Rival to along drag;
Blows keep landing on, until you sag
And the floor wipe with: A Piteous Rag!
Please, Exercises, not Slimming Pills
Yes, Exercises with Honest Thrills!
What I had luckily caught
One exorbitantly bought,
Long after I had it brought:
A salmon by a crowd sought
And for it bitterly fought...
Many bidders voicing their thought
Nearly making it a sport,
Save the one who had been taught
To huge sums pay on a spot
So as to remain on top,
As things become goddamned hot
To Plain Delay not a lot
And fast leave before he’s shot
A mind has irretrievably cracked,
After its owner was purposely attacked,
The fact as clear as Midday Sun
His attacker was his own son!
A doubly chilly killing discovery
That defies one to hint at possible recovery
The Attack: Son’s intended disrespect
By way of insistence to publicly inspect
And strictly every goddamned aspect
Of Daddy’s avowed honest prospect:
Daddy’s sincerity of purpose making a trifle
And he sure that his son did secret laughter stifle,
Though with a face officially contorted
Sometimes with mockery distorted …
A son impressing his having acquired
All that it clearly required
To a father’s feeling pointedly ruffle
And forewarn his dropping in the next shuffle.
Her first name is Precious:
A saleswoman not anxious
To flee from shop not spacious
For another with items more luscious!
That’s, perhaps, why she is Precious:
Twenty years but ever gracious,
Even when praises had got fictitious
And flashed smiles goddamned facetious...
A youth but hasn’t been vicious
Over her feeding, poorly nutritious
Some influence names have on their bearer
Simply find one and try getting nearer.
The electrician’s pliers
Shields him from live wires
And a final baptism with Satan’s fires.
A mechanic’s spanner
Is his goddamned banner
Dropping him his daily manna.
At the carpenters shop is his treasured hammer
Which begins the entire drama,
Into existence hitting woodwork of Glamour
The judge’s wig
Adds to his being big,
Justice sometimes seeming an election to rig
A poor man’s poor health becomes his curse
And when his wife isn’t a nurse
Continually translates into a dryer of purse.
A boat crafted of rickety wood dragging a clumsy bottom
A briny sea inhales the morning sun
Hemingway is in my boat
Rubbing my weary eyes,
Is that you, I query
Call me Papa, he proffers
With my papers clinched in leathery hands
Did you read my book; I ask?
Not bad, he replies, too many words
Too many, I ponder
Icebergs, pointing crooked fingers to the empty north
Good books are like icebergs
Cold, I expect
No, you foolish fool, Papa spits
Dried and cracked lips sneering
My hope sinks
Shifting like the wind, he smiles
There are no wars in your book
Wars? My story is about a blind fisherman
You didn’t read it, Papa
Too many useless words, and no wars
A good story is of war
And women, whores with ruby lips that pucker like a fish
And thighs stronger than Hercules’ conquest
And rum, lots of rum
And fewer words
Wars, whores, and rum
Can you write that, foolish fool?
With fewer words?
And no goddamned fisherman
I was in a rickety boat made of wood tossed by briny seas
Hemingway is drinking rum and singing about wars
And whores with ruby lips
A big fish comes
The big fish swallows Papa
Fewer words
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