Alabaster
Slut
BG wants more poetry, so I figured I'd post one off the cuff. Hope you enjoy. Take care everyone.
________________________________
I got up early this morning,
Woke up to cardinals arguing
In the woods outside my window.
I considered, half-asleep,
(and somewhat crick-necked)
That I've always been ambiguous about birds.
I don't dislike them. The world needs them.
I enjoy the oddities of their biology...
Hollow-boned supposed-dinosaurs-that-once-were,
Or other such precoffee thoughts.
One must stagger from bed to kitchen counter
Should one hope to realize one's dreams
Of caffeine-enabled productivity and accomplishment.
One's career clings by its fingertips
To a mug adorned with some random
Calvin and Hobbes cartoon.
One awakens, blank-staring at one's car
Through the window above the sink.
A new day is born. So to speak.
It rained like holy hell last night.
There's a stooped rose in the garden now,
Nodding groundward as if ashamed.
I'll clip it later, hang it in the shed to dry
And save the petals for a medicine man I know.
I can't find the present much these days.
My weeks are wasted, buried under intestate law,
-no pun intended-
Hours pass staring at obfuscated forms -
Real Property defined as thus-and-such, of course,
Excepting those this-and-thats hereby specified
As Personal Assets less-than-or-equal-to the what's-it
Stated earlier per paragraph something-or-other
Found in subsection iii of article who-gives-a-fuck.
Wait, sorry...that's last year's pamphlet.
You can find all relevant changes online.
You see,
The bureaucracy is expanding
To meet the needs
Of the ever-expanding bureaucracy.
(and the insurance companies...)
Gmail is a zen creature.
A nun with a paper-route.
Apple builds a whirly-gig with a screen,
Verizon sends the whirly-gig the interwebs,
Chrome makes the interwebs work,
Contracts filter in from the ethers,
Hewlett-Packard makes them real,
Bic makes them official,
FedEx takes them away,
Honda gets us there,
Taylor, Shure, and Mackie make the noise,
Wachovia holds the money
Until Kroger gives us food.
Gmail is digital alchemy; Gmail is Moses(.com)
Almost everybody believes that
There's another world, somewhere.
Preachers talk, call it Glory.
I had a Physics professor in college -
He didn't believe in God,
But he wrote a paper about alternate universes
Sailing along a sine wave in 4D.
Thus, on the 6th day God created man,
Then he rested.
Meanwhile, man watches Star Trek and Fringe,
Points at the screen in wonder
As El Salvadorian pilgrims kneel
Before a Virgin Mary
Made of chipped stucco and mildew.
Faith is a funny thing.
You can question it at times;
Father Frank said we're supposed to.
But Faith is a lot like birds, for me.
I am not lacking in it. The world needs it.
But I've got 26 voicemails and laundry in.
I don't concern myself with another life.
I have this one for now,
Sometimes it fucking sucks but, honestly -
All apologies, Father Frank and Captain Kirk - but
When the dying's done,
Your life is right where you left it:
You are last year's pamphlet
In the hands of the bereaved.
You are your career in the Inbox
Waiting to be made real, substantial, valid.
And you are a rose out in the garden,
Nodding gently in the rain.
And somehow we forget,
Then wonder where we stand
In that ignorant patch of human biology,
Staggering to the kitchen counter
Somewhere between life
And its survival.
________________________________
I got up early this morning,
Woke up to cardinals arguing
In the woods outside my window.
I considered, half-asleep,
(and somewhat crick-necked)
That I've always been ambiguous about birds.
I don't dislike them. The world needs them.
I enjoy the oddities of their biology...
Hollow-boned supposed-dinosaurs-that-once-were,
Or other such precoffee thoughts.
One must stagger from bed to kitchen counter
Should one hope to realize one's dreams
Of caffeine-enabled productivity and accomplishment.
One's career clings by its fingertips
To a mug adorned with some random
Calvin and Hobbes cartoon.
One awakens, blank-staring at one's car
Through the window above the sink.
A new day is born. So to speak.
It rained like holy hell last night.
There's a stooped rose in the garden now,
Nodding groundward as if ashamed.
I'll clip it later, hang it in the shed to dry
And save the petals for a medicine man I know.
I can't find the present much these days.
My weeks are wasted, buried under intestate law,
-no pun intended-
Hours pass staring at obfuscated forms -
Real Property defined as thus-and-such, of course,
Excepting those this-and-thats hereby specified
As Personal Assets less-than-or-equal-to the what's-it
Stated earlier per paragraph something-or-other
Found in subsection iii of article who-gives-a-fuck.
Wait, sorry...that's last year's pamphlet.
You can find all relevant changes online.
You see,
The bureaucracy is expanding
To meet the needs
Of the ever-expanding bureaucracy.
(and the insurance companies...)
Gmail is a zen creature.
A nun with a paper-route.
Apple builds a whirly-gig with a screen,
Verizon sends the whirly-gig the interwebs,
Chrome makes the interwebs work,
Contracts filter in from the ethers,
Hewlett-Packard makes them real,
Bic makes them official,
FedEx takes them away,
Honda gets us there,
Taylor, Shure, and Mackie make the noise,
Wachovia holds the money
Until Kroger gives us food.
Gmail is digital alchemy; Gmail is Moses(.com)
Almost everybody believes that
There's another world, somewhere.
Preachers talk, call it Glory.
I had a Physics professor in college -
He didn't believe in God,
But he wrote a paper about alternate universes
Sailing along a sine wave in 4D.
Thus, on the 6th day God created man,
Then he rested.
Meanwhile, man watches Star Trek and Fringe,
Points at the screen in wonder
As El Salvadorian pilgrims kneel
Before a Virgin Mary
Made of chipped stucco and mildew.
Faith is a funny thing.
You can question it at times;
Father Frank said we're supposed to.
But Faith is a lot like birds, for me.
I am not lacking in it. The world needs it.
But I've got 26 voicemails and laundry in.
I don't concern myself with another life.
I have this one for now,
Sometimes it fucking sucks but, honestly -
All apologies, Father Frank and Captain Kirk - but
When the dying's done,
Your life is right where you left it:
You are last year's pamphlet
In the hands of the bereaved.
You are your career in the Inbox
Waiting to be made real, substantial, valid.
And you are a rose out in the garden,
Nodding gently in the rain.
And somehow we forget,
Then wonder where we stand
In that ignorant patch of human biology,
Staggering to the kitchen counter
Somewhere between life
And its survival.