Good Enough??

I don't have to be good anymore.

Good is Pollyana bending
over for the White Rabbit,
who kept looking at his watch
all the time, never really understanding
the concept of hairless white expanse anyway.

Good is Clara's bow lips, painted
on smile for the male members;
it's easy to perform in the dark
when that tinny piano plays. You
just move your mouth and the
director puts his own words into it.

If there are (dust) bunnies on the floor
it's because I set them free, sweeping
the area to find Fudd, deciding it's time
to jump the gun and go Elmer hunting.

No one will be saved

Because I don't care a bit about good anymore.

Hell, I'm having a hard enough time with adequate.



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Two Sisters

Alice and Godzilla birthed twins,
then the lizard swallowed, taking
Alice and everything she ever was;
for females always DO become Daddy's girls.

Chips off the old block of brimstone, they grew
up crooked sturdy, bodies that beguiled, voices
like harpies, keeping well quiet until the tender
trap was sprung, bread and butter forever stolen
from those whose brains were where they shouldn't be.

Yellow brick roads set aflame, the Scarecrow
wore asbestos, the Tin Man searched for his
stolen heart; the lion too cowed to say anything.

If ever Dorothy stepped over the rainbow, she would
have found just ashes and rain, the sisters having long
ago ravaged the City and stolen the ending's gold.

From nowhere came insanity's embodiment, minds
filled with poisons they turned on each other, houses
shuddering in their wake, splintering from mindless rage;
the survivors stumbled out, and tried to explain

One came from the West, the other the East.



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Tree

Little twig that I was, so new,
so green; my roots not even
dug deep yet, just letting toes
sink into cool fresh Earth.

Spring lay high upon the hillside,
waiting for me to sprout, shoots
bearing flowers bearing fruit; the
Summer sun was safe and warm.

What rains that came were brief and soft,
dewdrops against willowy skin, making
bright prisms against verdant leaves.

There were times of Fall, when change came
quickly, turning colors with the touch of chill;
dire tidings foretold the bitter edge of Winter.
~
I stand naked now beneath the snowy blanket,
memories sharp and clear now keep me company;
the knowledge of aged wood burns hot until the
days of smoke and ash, scattered for the worms.



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Rose's Comet Comes Every 40 Seconds

I keep my self worth in an account
vault on the Planet Pluto, devalued
when the space dreck lost its Triple A
rating; owing to the fact that it was
no longer designated a planet.

DAMN the Recession!

Time to cash my chips in, brother,
scoot along the Milky Way to Vegas,
Baby! Put the wad on 00, and
see what the hell comes up this time.

Oh, crap!

My capacitator's on the fritz, my bonds
cashed in for Swiss Euro's, nobody knows the
trouble I've been; it took months to find my
worth is really measured in the flux from
conflicting alternates, and ain't that a Big Bang

In my travels Across the Universes.



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If You See Jesus On the Side of the Road....

I met Jesus on the side of the highway

Sporting a bit of road rash,
having been unceremoniously
dumped from a moving car;
people get nervous when you
claim you're the son of God.

Wearing a loincloth didn't help,
nor did his insistance on bringing
his cross along. They said the
extra weight slowed the car down.

I walked beside him for a little while,
then found he really cramped my style
with the colorful rooster he had on his
shoulder; Cadillacs laughing as they splashed
on by, three before the bird crowed thrice.

And I asked him what he was doing
here; he told me that Buddha had
another engagement and he was just
taking his place. (Gods do that for one
another from time to time, I guess).

Though I knew then that I was supposed to kill him, I decided
to tell him to take his cross, his cock and get the Hell out of here.

I figured Jesus had enough problems....


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Grave matters

The holes get a tiny bit bigger every day.
I hide the dirt piles everywhere; in china
teacups, metal sauce pans, stuffed in
pockets where it seeps out from the frayed
fabric, making trails down the streets I walk each day.

Washing never takes away the stain, black
underneath the nails, red clay tinting my hand
a dark umber, teasing me with hints of what
will surely be my future, my final resting place.

Where I go, the devil finds me, following
the tracks I leave, waiting, stern and patient,
for the time I lay my body down, the hole
well dug, deep dug, and now, at last, complete.

Until then, I dig a little every day,
but I use a very small spoon.



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The Last Excorcism

My body plays a curious tune, bumps
and thumps from the inside, as if
something sinister is thrashing beneath
the tender skin. Imprisoned with cries
and moans, it forces hands to clench,
head to twist around malleable neck,
not stopping at the usual ninety degree
angles of complacent, saner people.

Whispering through my head, suggestions
of foul deeds and wanton depravity, turning
sly eye winks at passersby; my finger crooks
uncontrollably, and I must do her bidding.

She will not be expelled from my writhing self,
having been placed by a partnership surviving
eons, yet always giving the notion of mutual hate
and disgust; merely a bright show for those of
us who prefer rough fantasy to the terrible truth.

And so the puppet dances a jerky hurdy gurdy,
sparks flashing, arms flying, singing in tongues
for the amusement of Immortals. My still cognizant
parts gaze at the scene of the awful crime

the Red and White gods clapping their hands in glee.


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