Blithe Humans

"I offer nothing but blood, sweat, and tears,"
The man said, this time meaning mainly sweat.
"I haven't had these polyps looked at yet,
But I've developed many useless fears."
He vomited up mucus, then switched gears:
"I think the pus remains a little wet,
Although it's hardening now, almost set
Into hard fungal scales that smell like beers."

This is a song of love, a bright landscape
Of fields, tall grasses, clouds, and swaying trees,
With hares and Herefords, so all one sees
From one end to the other is the rape
Of nature and some deity's cruel jape:
Hyenas, monotremes, blithe humans, fleas.

Alexanders

The telephone — invented the same year
That Alexander Pope swam fourteen miles
Across the English Channel, until fear
Made him desist (a fear of crocodiles) —
Was first supposed to serve only the poor,
Because the rich are never deaf to them,
But Alexander Graham Bell was dour
Among the rich, and overcome by phlegm.
All Alexanders, stretched and strained by fate,
Faced destiny with brainpans full of rocks:
I knew young Alexander, dubbed the Great,
And he was always stupid as an ox.
I give you facts, you know, nothing but facts,
The truth flowing like mighty cataracts.

Going Too Far

When I at last admitted my mistake
The ghouls came running like the wind, the wind
Blew into corners where the dust was pinned,
And dust itself cried, “Now, for pity’s sake,
Abandon all pretense and stand, awake
And firm in your admission! You have sinned!
Get underneath the bed with us!” I grinned:
“Going too far,” I said, with a head shake.

It’s been my own experience with rage:
Going too far, making too much of truth,
Replenishing my badly squandered youth
By also squandering my sour old age,
Insisting that the world is not a stage,
And crying that my mother was uncouth.

Disaster Response

When my computer crashed and lost its files
There was some backup, but not everything
Could be restored, and I was left to sing
Dark, musty melodies in ancient styles.
The air was thick, the blood was on the tiles.
We sat upon the ground then, with the king,
And told sad stories. I kept wondering
Why erstwhile friends were rolling in the aisles.

My brother mocked me, and the rest of them
Were openly dismissive of my plight.
Could I trust no one to eschew delight
At my disaster? They tugged at my hem
And said I ought to demonstrate more phlegm.
So I spat mercilessly. That felt right.