THE THING FROM ANOTHER WORLD

THE THING FROM ANOTHER WORLD,
invaders from the planet Aynrandia,
creepy-looking beings caucusing in Congress,
creatures transmitted to earth via FOX News Channel,
draining the life blood of the lower-bracket earthlings—
Have we become a hapless country of hostages?
Has Stockholm syndrome tentacled us
into believing our only future lies in our past?
THE THING cannot be reasoned with, so why, oh why
does the gentle scientist keep trying?

Who can come and zap

THE THING FROM ANOTHER WORLD?




see "Tempest in a Tea Party" and "Washington Chain Saw Massacre" by Maureen Dowd, NYTimes.com

Good Grass, Bad Grass, Ugly Grass

The cool green fingers tickling barefoot toes—
cut down, the chemicals of their own death
make for aromatherapy for woes
and take me back to Saturdays' sweet breath.

The soil may grow a peoples' common cause
from roots that augur landscapes good or bad.
The grass that grows could nourish or give pause,
and lawns and meadows once with hope turn sad.

When bluegrass fields have turned to angry crab
and lawn keepers are filled with deep chagrin,
they spread some chemicals from green thumb lab
and plan to to plant the grass of good again.




planted in Poets United Thursday Think Tank #59: Grass

Shock department top bananas

Leave it to me: I'm always top banana
in the shock department.^*

Popcorn vomit
masters of shock.

Big tits and cock?
Russ Meyer's wit.

B-flick shocker?
Roger Corman.

Lusty gorgon?
Terence Fisher.

Paul Morrissey,
Warhol's main guy.

Repulsion by
young Polanski.

Hungry zombie?
George Romero's.

Shock-fest heroes /
Para-cine.

to a quote prompt presented by invisible gardens with real toads (July 27, 2011)

^* Breakfast at Tiffany's, Truman Capote

A land of streams

A land of streams —
rivulets branching and merging —
stocked with permalinks:
fish of all kinds —
some hashtagged for easy ID.

In this, the school of fish
belonging to you, ever growing —
these are the ones stocked by you
in the land of streams:
it's everything you've ever e-written.

A fisher comes to a stream
in the land of streams,
catches a fish,
looks at it, throws it back,
and moves on to another.

SETI angst

That mysterious loneliness that propels the petty
craving for "others"—unwordly friends, not foes;
SETI, not yeti.
But how it's produced such prose and shows.

A spaceship comes with a message of salvation.
Ancient beings leave a slab on the moon.
A galactic tweet's found in background radiation.
What will we find in extraterrestrial rune?

Battles? Enough! We've have enough war.
Invaders? We've beat their bad butts for fun.
Now they're dead, and what's that good for?
"To Serve Man" was only a pun.

We look instead for ETs that are smart with good vibes,
"others" we can readily trust—
something we don't have in our own planet's tribes.
We crave the other to save us from us.




placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry #59

When I was young I flew

When I was young I flew
as Superman did on tee-vee,
or Spider-Man with sticky glue.
When I was young I flew.

Then into man I grow
and leave behind my make-believe
superhero alter ego.
Then into man I grow.

As I grow old I'll dream
that I can fly as in my youth
with open eyes again agleam.
As I grow old I'll dream.




to a picture prompt presented by invisible gardens with real toads (July 21, 2011)

Barbarians At Bachmann's Gate

So swirly go the young barbarians,
"Where is your leader, Marcus, Shrink of Gays?"
The gatekeeper is quite contrarian,
"The doc's not here, and here you cannot stay."

What next, barbarians undisciplined?
What next, barbarians tersely enjoined?
What next, barbarians bravely within?
What next, so gaily girded head and loin?

Barbarians attack—but not with sword
or club—the waiting room in glitter spray,
a glitter now in carpet shag and board,
a glitter that cannot be prayed away.

And then with Lady Gaga monster claw,
the young barbarians sprightly withdraw.





Washington Post: Marcus Bachmann clinic invaded by 'gay barbarian horde'
video by @CGoHome
2011/08/25: Bachmann Barbarians Flash Mob

placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry #59

42

42
y.a.
Lunar
Module:
Houston,
Tranquility
:            :
Base here.
:            :
The  Eagle
:            :
has  landed.
:             :
Armstrong:
:             :
That's  one
:             :
small  step
:             :
for   man,
:             :
one   giant
:             :
leap    for
:             :
 MANKIND.




Spaceshipless, leave we
behind that memory,
and a future held back
by political hack.

Rome soirees

They say the Church destroyed the gay-
themed troves of Roman art:
the bawdy scenes of nude soirees
and young men's engorged parts.

These Rome ideals of male beauty,
their muscles hard and sleek,
could fill a fresco to a tee
performing all things Greek.

The Church surmised that such freedom
was too much to forbear,
for when the Rome men shot their cum
'twas like their own Lord's Prayer.




placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry #60

Summer nuts

This summer heats people
like nuts in an oven—
cashew and almond,
peanut and pecan^○.

The nut-fruits are roasting
on pans of concrete,
asphalt, and red brick
convecting the heat.

Then just like when nuts
are sufficiently jouled,
they're set to return
to a room air-cooled.





^○ pronounced pee'·cun
placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry #58

On tweetdeck

The tweets and screeches from the pool
of boisterous boiz and gurls,
they splash on tweetdeck running down,
make way for brand new pearls.

I jump headfirst into the pool
of boisterous gurls and boiz,
and see my splats splashed on the deck
that join the poolside noise.

One nation under goddess

Some bat-shit crazy preachers
flying to his Houston pray soiree
screech of the Statue of Liberty
being a French Masons' goddess,
or of the District of Columbia,
named for a pagan queen of Heaven,
or of gays being Illuminati plants
and Oprah being the Harlot Babylon,
harbinger of the Anti-Christ.

Rick Perry has some bat-shit crazy preachers
flying to his Houston pray soiree,
who fear this is one nation under goddess
and Dan Brown is its prophet.

But you can bet his hair won't be mussed.

Circles, Hangouts, Huddle, Sparks

Circles, Hangouts, Huddle, Sparks:
not a row of gay-bar marques,
but some parts of Google+.
Yet another social fuss?
Blogger, Twitter, Facebook, now ...
I think I will have a cow.

Medieval pub joke

The Scholastics must have have been tempted,
Jesus's admonition not withstanding,
to make a joke or two when they worked
on doctrines of the Holy Trinity (God in three Persons)
in their ecclesiastical study chambers.

The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost walk into a pub.
The pub owner says to the Father, "Sorry,
patrons are not allowed to bring their own
spirits in here."

one might have muttered,
and the others might have chuckled.
And then had him flogged.




Trinity Sunday was June 19, 2011 (but it is John Calvin's birthday).

Transition / July 8 2011

Last shuttle flies.
Betty Ford dies.
NASA withers.
G.O.P. fritters
progress to shreds,
buries Betty's head.

Reading 2.0

The books I read now float within a cloud
which once a score of wooden shelves endowed.
The one I choose comes down to be e-inked,
bypassing bookstores soon to be extinct.

At least the type can now be grown to ease
my aging eyes — and no more wasted trees!
But still I muse the day when books were felt,
and how the binding glue and pages smelt.




placed in Poets United Thursday Think Tank #56: Reading

Cursive

Inspired by the news of the end of teaching cursive handwriting, and replacing it with typing proficiency: Cursive writing in Indiana schools makes way for typing. The poem above was generated using vletter.com using the "Abe Lincoln" handwriting style.

placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry #57

Trial of Casey (Anthony)

The thing the prosecutor needs to know:
Don't be a dick in contrast to your foe.
Jose (Defense) was sweet though bumbly so,
but Jeff (The State), his arrogance did show.

The Jury did not hear the talking heads.
They focused on the law and facts instead.
And then The State's own theory fell like led
when prosecutor Jeff had too much pled.

The bees of Bel Ami

Buzzing around, they're drones with huge positors,
swarming in locales bright and sunny,
primping and probing their lives away,

in scores of videos viewed by thousands of visitors,
—they're making money, not honey—
keeping the scourge of aging at bay.

The Roman Catholic Church hierarchy

In its rigidity,
it kept its hard-on against the gay
in its condom-tipped miter,
while there was fluidity,
amongst its rogue priests and its lay,
within which emerged a fighter
who threatened its solidity.

It would ultimately crumble and go away,
and the future became much brighter.

Poet in his nook

Poet in his nook,
typing poems for your Nook,
hopes you take a look.