ANTI-SOCIAL MEDIA

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

I got myself a tribe
their wordless tongues
don't have to wangle
only nimble fingers
flying over a keyboard

My foolscap is a monitor
for monitoring fools
determined to give the Big Lie
just one more try
as tribal warfare
spills across the screen

A manhole cover 
on my head 
to brace
for the incoming
a hail of toads
wet-stained and sweating rain
as life is cheap as dirt
in cyber land
but the truth
now that'll cost ya

LAST LESSONS OF THE AFTERNOON

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Didn't send anything 
to your journal this time
didn't send anything to
your contest 
(after winning it last year)
give someone else a chance
I said
but the truth is it's just too much
goddamn trouble 
for little reward

Like a lot of things

Like life
mostly

But you're expecting
a poem 
of course you are
that's why you're here...

So let's not disappoint:

Last lessons of the afternoon
your last drive
I said, this misery must end

The rolling English road
bagpipe music
anthem for doomed youth

Buffalo dusk
full moon
what are years?

Look within
the lost man
not waving 
still drowning

I remember the woman
 at the Washington Zoo
wearing flames and dangling wire 
a kiss in space
a taste
tangerine
Xmas trees
the end of love
going
going
gone

All day it rained 

Fuck you 

SAVED

With Real Toads--d'Verse Poets Pub




There is no way
you can talk to someone
who knows that they are "right"
and you are wrong
that they have cornered the market on truth
and that is the be all and end all of it
no more questions
mystery solved and
case closed
no matter how much reason
common sense
or logic you may use
you might as well
be talking up your dog's butt
for they will shake their heads
and smile
and pretend to listen
but all the while
their little brain is screaming
APOSTATE
and though you might feel that you
could accept them
in your live and let live way
it won't be returned
they won't consort with your kind
until you've drunk the Kool-Aid


narrow minds keep narrow circles


and my answer to the question
of have I been saved is
well, not from you,
so I guess the answer is no
anyhow
don't want any part of your
vindictive deity
cuz I've already met the one
who goes by the handle of  LOVE
(though, as I recall,  his given name is Fred)
and I wonder why it's never occurred
to you
that if one were exposed to such hellacious temperatures
for all eternity
that he would eventually acclimate to it
and it would just be like summertime in Phoenix...
no big deal


but no matter cuz
we need to see that glassy-eyed look
or...well...
Y'ALL CAN JEST GO TO HELL--
.hack...snort...giggle...

Footnote: 
To finish this poem I must click on
"save"
I have done that and now it says
SAVED


HALLELUJAH !
and I'll be damned--


uh...I mean...
guess I won't be now


bye

MOMENT OF CONCEPTION (saluting National Poetry Month)

Trapped in an unrelenting

avalanche of words,

conjuring the vision

that has made him blind,

the poet speaks volumes

without moving his lips.

An act of procreation

without touching,

but somehow you've been

touched just the same--

Aware, as you muse through

your morning walk,

and later,

rappel down the mountain of

papers on your desk,

that the words have seeped

into your being...

the seminal fluid

implanting its seed of truth.