“There’s the Simple Intelligence”
There’s the simple intelligence of the thing, the weight
Of common sense told in an instant blessed and in good time. Hearts
And minds, judgments weighted solely on the flattery of the arts
And sciences and beyond mere annual Disney harvests
de temps en temps of maudlin myth in escrow. A state
Of mind, a cosmic frieze born of worlds allied
Within the sanctity of sanity seeks the safer corner
Of anonymity and the warmth of former
Aphorisms mouthed, perhaps, but never really qualified
Till now. They will say, “Come hither, pull the trigger,
Garner nothing less than what is guessed
And leave the rest!” and, yes, they see it at its best
Because its freshly minted, postage paid
For anyone who’s never been there or knows no history;
To the wise, simplicity; to the ignorant, one more misery.
“They Will Not Stop”
They will not stop, you know, until they cannot bleed.
Medical reports and residuals lead along with grocery lists at pharmacies,
An incessant rush to check the listings, read it; Pharisees
Of all descriptions grease their glistening needs, their silences as Oprah leads
The willing and the lambs to where they’ll find a finer grass,
Their pastures filled with bargains and abundance in the aisles. Omission smiles
On senators and preachers alike while the candidates cross the miles
Between the nearest hometown threat—one’s neighbour’s ass—
And gasoline that surely tops the current troy ounce of gold.
They’ll turn the page (they must of course) and trash
The smokers. Pump the gas and all that cash
Gets laid on ever-righteous Exxon barrels from oil rigs grown bold
In seas with calibrated bets and calibrated ease and no one is about to change.
If the goal is self-destruction, that, too, can be easily arranged.
They cannot listen nor can they speak but add to texts and stare
In disbelief and aptly vapid joy or base relief.
It keeps them glued to screens for clues in sound-bites of vicarious sleep
Gaining gravitas as they crowd the streets in hot pursuit of here and there.
Within their palm-grown cast of “Friends” and plenteous roe of virtual Network
Sites, seeds of virtual gardens, the literary fantasies of high-speed basic needs
Are gathering rams whose force has not abated. Nor have others failed to cede
What must come, eleventh in hours, aphorisms distilled to slogans. It begets
A certain sobriety while in the flush of wine they watch the tube,
The latest and exclusive live reports of signs of life in presaged strife,
Of storms on every coast, perhaps a virus in the circuit as the people vote—
Specifically on Wall Street and the Treasury, the spin of market’s quotes—
Before the rage of Ponzis and daily revelations of electoral strife
Amongst the self-anointed Mayans of the day recorded as a long pursuit,
Another longest march to what it means to scream and yet be mute.
Posted in Aphorisms, Electoral strife, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Market quotations, Markets, Mayans, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Self-destruction, Slogans, Sonnet, Sonnets, Wall street
Tagged Double Sonnet, Ecology, Economics, Economy, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Sonnets