"reconstructed" poems
Sit and watch
a version of a version
of self
constructed broken down
reconstructed
unstable
but I cannot change the color of my eyes
i can only shape the folds of my mind
i long to be my own god
to raise me from the cradle
to erase the lines
to write a new fable
as my story is told
so it will be
i will rewrite history
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
I am somebody
Shot in the Head...
Found the bullets.
Coroner Said.
A child of God struck dead.
Gang related disputing Fools.
Aiming cowardly bullets right at you.
I guess praying prayers just won't do.
There is no safe in these hard knocks realities' Truths.
Our Sista child!
Our mother child!
All the while the bodies pile.
Her body now adds to that 'the shootings aren't as bad as last year' body count.
Can't even stand anywhere in your city NOW?
Something has to truly give.
There's a plague of rigid legalities, relaxed moralities, and political realities stealing the 'safe' from our dying breed.
The Black man withering away in siphoning inequalities.
Doubling unemployment stretches outward like a statistical wild fire....
Our present fact.
There is a genocidal component to these criminal acts.
Copyrighted (C)
Published in the 2018 Edition of the Reconstructed Literary and Visual Journal at Governors State University.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
Looking back, memories distort.
Replace damaged nodes with something similar
Perhaps reconstructed
From previous set-up before
X and Y parameters Report
Step One:
Check patient notes to self
Re-calculate from de-constructed
Inject imagination
Respect self-defence mechanism
or immediate virus node termination
(a response attack organism)
Re-calibrate instruments awareness
Strip upgrade
Love version 4.1
Reboot only in emergency
Refer to install options
Error:
Temporal Lobe Anomaly
Virus detected
Internal nodes infected
Import Rejection version 3.2
and couple with
Lets Be Friends upgrade 1
(Advanced program)
Monitor assimilation
Danger!
Overheated components -
Re-inject Memory Node
Objective Hindsight applet.
Refer to Step One
It is now safe to shut down
Should you wish to.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
for her
no special expertise claimed,
if anything, les contraries,
my non-expertise,
but nothing forbids
my heart from trying
red crossing,
rebuilding just this young one
build from the corners in,
like one starts a jigsaw puzzle,
the human, moving parts,
thus harder,
but eminently doable
the corners are straight edged, linear,
easier to spot, easier to start,
but for you to find them within,
go outside, and window winnow in
you will know them as your
truest words
pick the picture
of you,
you know
you must pick,
the puzzle picture
of you
that favorite one
when completed,
will, though cracked,
as jigsaw puzzles
by nature wont,
as all humans
are wont,
will be the one
that brings smiles
first, foremost
she asks:
*"Where are these edges that define me,
help me to construct and the where to begin?"*
after sixty years more on this planet,
have been torn apart,
reconstructed, deconstructed,
more then ten finger and ten toe times
this I know,
there is but one beauty
in this crueled worn
every day weary-world,
it is you,
you words that betray
Beautiful You
oh so well
you see I have your picture,
you see I have your words,
deconstructed, reconstructed,
I love your picture,
I love your words,
start with me, start at the corners,
show me the pieces,
tho the world see the ex
terior,
I see the in
terior,
the shiny new
true sides, so beautiful,
wake knowing that
not just me dearest Chalsey,
I have found your chalice,
and your grail,
and I say,
this is just one man,
this can be where you start,
this then be your mirror,
let us from the corners in,
from the eyes that penetrate,
accept that this is not debatable,
this is my poem where I do not lie,
this is my piece of you,
from inside of me
my straight edge piece was
born in your beautiful words,
and I say,
can you, see a voice,
can you, touch a voice,
no one can
but I can
your voice is transcendent,
it is the cover photo of a glossy mag,
this is the photo, the puzzle I see,
and heart each and every word
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
We sat,
******* the shreds
Of chicken
From our teeth,
In a cloud of smoke
From tempers flared
That burned to the quick.
The record spun,
The needle stuck
In the endless
Circle groove
At the disc's
Center, but
Neither of us
Moved.
We didn't change
The record,
We didn't
Shut the
Player off.
We sat,
And watched our
Fingers and toes
Evaporate.
We looked on
As the
Room dissolved,
We made no pleas,
Or any noise at all
As our world
Was erased.
In the eggshell light
Of our rebirth
The seasons passed,
With no attention
Paid, like
Sudanese children,
Left to collect sunlight
In the pores of their flesh,
Are ignored
By their God.
The air was a sea
Of vibrations,
Writhing and alive
In the periphery
Of our perceptions.
Do you remember
How it felt to
Be reconstructed?
Cell by cell
We came together,
Our blood vessels
And lymphatic tunnels
Wove through
Tendrils of bone
And wisps of
***** tissue,
Our nerves snaked
Their way through
The jungle of our
New-found existence,
A supercomputer
Materialized within
Each of us,
And they began
Discovering themselves
And each other.
We had arrived prematurely,
And our flames
Were snuffed out
In the claustrophobic
Incubators.
Here we now sit,
White noise
Filling the void,
Waiting for
Something we'll
Never see
Come to be,
But can't avoid.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
I wait alone
wrapped in paper
shivering amidst cold
the door pressed hard
against my chest
this time a year ago
I met a similar fate
the verdict returned
cancer
a word my mind
has deconstructed
reconstructed
discarded
as my past
tears erupt behind
my eyes
how can I afford
to fight again
at what cost
and during
a pandemic
the door **** twists
as she emerges
eyes averted
my throat scored
in pain
"It's benign,
come back
6 months from now"
unable to move
I peer through haze
minutes tease silence
then with
trembling fingers
I dial his number
Aiden answers
"Mom, you okay?"
nodding tearfully
with newfound certainty
I finally whisper, "Yes!"
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 6:00 AM UTC
This is the desk I sit at
and this is the desk where I love you too much
and this is the typewriter that sits before me
where yesterday only your body sat before me
with its shoulders gathered in like a Greek chorus,
with its tongue like a king making up rules as he goes,
with its tongue quite openly like a cat lapping milk,
with its tongue -- both of us coiled in its slippery life.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your tongue,
your tongue that came from your lips,
two openers, half animals, half birds
caught in the doorway of your heart.
That was the day I followed the king's rules,
passing by your red veins and your blue veins,
my hands down the backbone, down quick like a firepole,
hands between legs where you display your inner knowledge,
where diamond mines are buried and come forth to bury,
come forth more sudden than some reconstructed city.
It is complete within seconds, that monument.
The blood runs underground yet brings forth a tower.
A multitude should gather for such an edifice.
For a miracle one stands in line and throws confetti.
Surely The Press is here looking for headlines.
Surely someone should carry a banner on the sidewalk.
If a bridge is constructed doesn't the mayor cut a ribbon?
If a phenomenon arrives shouldn't the Magi come bearing gifts?
Yesterday was the day I bore gifts for your gift
and came from the valley to meet you on the pavement.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your face,
your face after love, close to the pillow, a lullaby.
Half asleep beside me letting the old fashioned rocker stop,
our breath became one, became a child-breath together,
while my fingers drew little o's on your shut eyes,
while my fingers drew little smiles on your mouth,
while I drew I LOVE YOU on your chest and its drummer
and whispered, "Wake up!" and you mumbled in your sleep,
"Sh. We're driving to Cape Cod. We're heading for the Bourne
Bridge. We're circling the Bourne Circle." Bourne!
Then I knew you in your dream and prayed of our time
that I would be pierced and you would take root in me
and that I might bring forth your born, might bear
the you or the ghost of you in my little household.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed
but this is the typewriter that sits before me
and love is where yesterday is at.
3.3k
Happy thoughts shape shifting into illusions of monsters.
Metamorphosis.
A caterpillar to a butterfly.
That's the final phase of that lonely caterpillar.
War of the mind.
I'm morphing into a hideous demon.
The face melting into a pile of mush.
Broken limbs, torn flesh,
skin oozing to the floor.
That is what WE want...
A man made metamorphosis.
Now the limbs can be reconstructed into the proper shape.
Molding, bandaging, painting.
Perfect eyebrows,
luscious lips,
rosy cheeks,
smile plastered on.
It all looks real.
No raised eyebrows even with all the head turning,.
Neck breaking.
The unimaginable has been deemed the reality.
We are not what we eat.
If we were we would be perfect.
Eating the perfect politicians in their perfectly pressed suits.
Eating the American Dream.
The marriage. The happy home with 2.5 kids ad a golden retriever named Annie.
We are broken now.
All of these falsities have morphed into something terrible.
Reality.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
she wanted my soul
so I cut off a finger,
noting that this little pinky offering,
came from the same hand,
who, who went to the market
to buy her a love poem
all her own, because,
it was from the self same hand
that wrote:
*who, can cut a soul into pieces,
no one!
so one will still ask you,
who!
who will love you
in whole poems,
that are both past and future tensed
composite composted,
from words overly overused,
but still foolishly feeling brand new
when referencing you,
so you can believe with new fool-thinking,
this is your sole composition*
she wanted my heart,
applauded her determination,
gave her one eye to see me instead better,
so the visions she essays, to write,
like when I sit down to write
of women I’ve loved but!
they do not come from my heart pieces,
but from inside insight from of parts
that are blind to everything
but raucous untamable invisible desire
she asked me for all the world’s wisdom,
while standing on one legging,
I simply said, here I am,
telling you I’ll love you the way you requested,
if only to be loved in return
so with one eye and one leg,
you will observe, two is not more
than the sum of the parts of one love,
as I count to ten on my nine fingers
fingers that wrote of love not enough,
no matter how many he gave up
she wanted my brainiac left hemisphere,
said, sure,
the left side of me is where the baby poems
are created, and then angel-released when ready,
when needed, now that I
see you’re needy for pieces,
but still mistaken that pieces can be reconstructed into
a whole with spit and spirit
and an overarching imagination -
no!
the whole comes from only a holy place extracted
from the hole-in-one that is my entirety
give me then your utter essence,
the place of you
I, only I know exists, must exist,
but cannot touch to see
where you keep it hidden
from all the women who love you,
better than you even love yourself
if you want that, then collect it,
for it exists and lives on
in every woman that asked for nothing,
but was rewarded with more
than a thousand poems,
stored in stars, for her,
to be creamed and cleansed,
when she plucked them
from the night in the galaxy where exist
love poems, only
to she-one shone-shine
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC
Redundancy.
I read my words
and I’m sickened,
that you had this
effect on me. I read
them and I’m fatigued
by the redundancy.
I have nothing to say
that hasn’t been said
in the same way
only reconstructed
to better play the illusion
of new ideas and
some sort of change.
There is always the basis
the substance of being
the substance being
my overactive feelings
and constant repression
of what makes me alive—
this feeds the depression
and I cry when I think
and I’m dead when I don’t
I’m lying when I speak
and lying when I don’t
I’m fighting every day
my feelings when I
have them, and finding
every day, I have more than
I can fathom, and I can’t
always put into words
how or why I feel things
so I tend to repeat
what comes naturally
and when I reread
I am exhausted by
my own redundancy.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
I am glass
my heart is a chandelier
beautiful but if shattered it may become deadly
it'll hurt all that come across its path until all my remains are on the floor
begging to be reconstructed.
I'm full of broken promises and painful memories that I wished would be erased and completely deleted
my prayers would fill bottles of wine and I could drink those spirits instead..........I am a piece of shattered glass
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
We celebrate Juneteenth as if the war was not still being fought
Across news stations and echoes of Jefferson's dreams
The last slaves freed, but this country was never
Reconstructed, just patched up just replaced
Chains with debt, a Theseus ship of spoils pulled
From the wreckage of **** And I sit the echoes
of police sirens slung like clubs across the backs of the
Boys that sat in my classroom and wondered
Why every white person they met always had
To yell so much. As if there was nothing at all
to be exchanged besides recreating Hegel’s dialectic.
As if the only way to win was in blood. And perhaps
That is what Juneteenth really teaches us, that blood
Shed long enough will lead to ghosts, whispered
Warnings we ignore. As if a million bodies buried across
The South was not enough of a reminder that we needed
To **** to have the enslaved seen as people. We celebrate the
Day we no longer had to bury bayonets in bodies
To treat humans as humans. And they still can't see it.
Don’t realize that if you take away the last plate of food,
That if you turn off the power, that if the dollar can't fill the tank
What comes from desperation is a blood-born tsunami
full of the ghosts of dead racists and stolen children,
full of collateral damage and crackheads hooked on crystal
Sold to them by the CIA.
This country cannot swallow the blood needed to clear its cup.
But at least we gonna barbeque and vote, and Dream, and read.
At least we gonna explain to the children that this was the day
The last slaves were freed when there are still hungry mouths to feed.
At least we gonna sit with Baldwin, or Miles, or Kendrick, and unhinge
Our throats like snakes swallowing what the storms sing from suffering.
At least we can carry that truth. If only for a day. If only to free the last
Mind slaves still believing that the war is over, the dead silent,
The constitution holy, the senate fair, the president controls gas prices,
The bullet not already loaded, the school doors not already locked,
The rich earned it, the news aint propaganda, the children martyrs
The blood in our bodies not singing requiems to the pain of our ancestors,
At least we gonna pretend that this country actually free.
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 5:48 AM UTC
Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Let me start by saying that there's no need for the exchange of pleasantries, no introductions are necessary, I'm just here to verbally deliver a quick update memo on the progress being made daily. I know you're all busy people so I'll try to be brief and get though this quickly yet thoroughly. There will also be no time for questions at the end. Let's begin...
I've reconstructed the way I think and see, scrapped the old me
The lies the devil sold me, told me I was a nobody and I bought into it completely
It forcibly held me down, face to the ground and from that angle everything is ugly
Tears slowly crawled down my cheeks to their final resting point, silently they turn the dirt muddy
But see, I went from a tragedy to a medical anomaly as I reversed the lobotomy
With the regrowth of the proper anatomy I ultimately but unnaturally went from an mental amputee to winning endurance marathons easily
It's amazing how quickly road blocks turn to speed bumps, almost instantly
They may slow me down but getting over them is no longer a problem for me
Eventually they will transform entirely into simple mile markers that I pass by on the daily
This path, this new journey will get me to the place I was suppose to be originally
Finally, after thirty years I'm looking forward to seeing some new scenery, being a part of this life changing movie
And with me I've got my two favorite people, Logan and Apphia respectively
They bring out the best in me, their love and belief in me drives me
They make me wanna be the best me I can be and opened my eyes to my true destiny
See, I thought life would be the death of me but truth be told it's a blessing bestowed to me
The rebirth metaphorically into this new family has restored my faith in humanity
I'm not used to this smile I feel on me, this is crazy, this must be what it feels like to be happy
©2018
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 12:47 AM UTC
-A lament by the preteen Queen of Mesopotamia.
Late September,
During summer,
My great kingdom was obliterated by raiders.
My poor people,
Young and feeble,
Were all mercilessly butchered by those strangers.
Every temple,
Made of beryl,
Was then looted and set on fire by their archers!
And as for me,
A preteen Queen,
Slavery is now my role for their vile leaders!
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 9:53 PM UTC
Mading relieves Manute from guard duty.
They share a meagre meal of millet porridge before
Manute returns to the refugee nation of southern Sudan.
The noon sun is a harsh sentence for a parched tongue but
they talk not of coffee or juice-laden fruit and
rice and lentils are mountain memories their stomachs can ill afford.
Instead they curse the clear skies that rain only strafing jets and
pray for their dry-breasted wives on pilgrimage to the aid station
carrying children swollen with the promise of death.
They snarl rumours about al-Bashir’s lapdogs
in Khartoum growing fat on food intended for them.
Jason waits, informed by cell phone of Laurie's imminent arrival.
He orders a wheat beer, its earth tone inviting on a silver tray and
its musky sweetness washing away a morning of phone business.
The noon sun is a warm blessing through the picture window but
they talk not of haloed hills or the light-laden river and
recession and retrenchment are market memories their ulcers can ill afford.
Instead they debate '63 cabernet versus '74 chablis and
moan about their reconstructed wives driving halfway across town
carrying children swollen with the promise of private schooling.
They snarl rumours about Key's cabinet
in Wellington while wolfing crayfish and Steak Diane.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
trembling, she buttoned up each catch to hide the melody burned into her skin
my ramona
set free too long ago
a song sent to be heard only in twilight
your face has new lines — none of which sing
these are straighter, without rhythm
you have been reconstructed into a sketch
a new art claims your body
a new artist claims your body
why do you let your canvas have such a possessive audience?
beauty leaks from your ballads
you are not a pen stroke
my ramona
a.m.
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 3:08 AM UTC
There is nothing we can do at all
to indemnify our weary souls and hearts
against the first love of a reconstructed us.
That one speck in trillions becomes the universe
and we can ignore the burning warning
in our scared skin and strained corneas.
Shelters built for bruised bodies
refuge for split, shattered souls
tires in its use like veins sick of medicine.
Still we are falling again and again
into ragging red and yellow fury
into endless gaping oblivion.
Until deepest depths no longer crush
and sky haven heights no longer suffocate
we shall risk the ravages of hope.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 3:04 AM UTC
A membrane of black ice
obscured
by a fog-bank
porcelain gaze,
he loves her with
Gein's focus—
gluing glamour on the ghastly.
Her urges
are a cleft lip-
reconstructed, not
repaired.
They make a lovely couple.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
And now there's a gap where the last eight hours should hang
sitting in a hospital bed looking at my boss across the way
arms crossed, thumbing his mustache like cleaning a brush
He says, "Forgive us, but we had your mouth reconstructed"
"As well as your wounds healed. We didn't think you'd mind."
I say, "I don't mind. I don't like liquid diets, anyway."
Why does it
hurt
so
much?
No work for
me
for
now.
He tells me I'm dying and that I'm strung out too far!
Tells me I'm putting too much in to what turns to scar.
Take some time off he says and give myself a chance.
Forgotten for so long to grin and ask myself to dance.
So I say, so say
you, and I'll try
but I'm fine.
And now there's a plan unfolding without my direct discretion
I can feel strings somewhere above as they're pulled softly
I sleep on the train after dressing up doll-like at home
Makeup and suicide tools wrapped around my curves in laughing walls
A women in red locks is taunting me from inside her ward, so familiar
"I should never have let you go," I say as I'm approaching
"I could have found you out," I say but she laughs once more
And sets herself on fire
Nothing but ash before me just out of reach
The dust swirling
Motes of adolescence tickling my fingertips
Why does it
hurt
so
much?
Waking I can't
place
her
face.
Arrive at The Roxy. Beneath her neon sign I absorb
cold rain in a way that makes my spine quake.
And inside the lobby, through my boots, I feel the floor
erupting from the music just through the doors.
Why do I come here?
Knowing there's nothing.
I'm nothing.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
-A Psalm Of Johnson
Some people worship lifeless gods with multiple arms made of wood and stone,
But I worship the true Triune God who rules all from his glorious throne!
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 11:50 AM UTC
You teach me with a heart of gold.
A gentle persuasion.
That indeed I am able.
Salvaged what I thought was lost.
Friendship is a gift of truth.
No vile tongue, nor be uncouth.
You teach me well.
Grasshopper.
With much respect for you I bow.
Sweet one, I'm not sweetness.
I'm just a holy cow.
Never will I be with you.
Never will I see you.
From a pile of rubble.
My being reconstructed.
For that my friend.
I thank you very much.
(C) LIVVI
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
I’m in a blizzard of hate
Reconstructed and postponed to a more convenient date
I feel the LORDS light forever shining
Less stuffy and claustrophobic, supremely comforting
Paradise valleys of fresh fruit eaten at the vine
I keep waiting for that signal or divine sign
Follow me to the meadows and prairies
Seeking shelter and food, relinquishing all I can carry
To the final end, I fear is near
I'm out of breath and trembling in fear.
The horsemen have triumphed in this final hour
Down crashes humanity while standing tall is the Babylon tower.
Though a bit frightened, to be sure
I feel at peace and truly saved, finally surrendering to God's eternal cure.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
soft-bodied succulents
dutifully separating the perennials
organization crisis, preservative induced
chemically altered worldview
shaped largely by food reconstructed
and the public’s inability to unite against imperialism –
daily newscasts give rise to propaganda
water-cooler hype fest
breaking information
leading with bleeding
enveloping the country in irrational fear
unsafe, even with children
constant threat from every direction
insanity has become the home
of Ward and June Cleaver –
glowing exhaust pipe
as all roads lead back
beginnings resemble endings
all things circular
revolving Revolutionary revolted
remembers regurgitating rancid raspberries
aluminum spray from the sky
coated pesticide residue from below
only the hate left is organic
and pure –
immeasurable, time slides away
plastic incorporated into new organisms
freshly evolved bacteria eat the remains
of humanity and its greatness
traceless epoch forever eroded
undiscovered pockets of micro cilium
dine on the fat reserves
stored in the soil
like oil –
returning gods survey creation version Earth
emotionless and stationary
the process is repeated
as it has been for billions of years
single manipulation
recoding the genetic structure
life begins this journey
one more time –
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch
We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy “boo-boo!,” only two.
We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.
We just don’t want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion.
O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries . . .
Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, “It’s me I see. Just me.”
He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures,
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
But hack him down and still he’ll always rise,
lifting his smile to the sun or the star-filled skies.
Published by Lucid Rhythms, The Eclectic Muse and Victorian Violet Press, then nominated by the latter for the Pushcart Prize
Keywords/Tags: Angels, baseball, ****** reconstruction, surgery, operation, God, scars, tears, courage, mirror, smile, date, dating, dog, attack, dogs, happy ending
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 3:24 AM UTC