Tag Archives: Economics

“The Body’s Built for Stretch Marks

alzheimers

“The Body’s Built for Stretch Marks

The body’s built for stretch marks, peculiars, indictments drawn from lines
Reserved for bruises, random ancient scars received at childhood,
Subtle abuses leading to arrests, differences in the artificer’s sketches, would-be
Blind catastrophe to a child bound for trial. Etchings, wounds, fine
Byzantine rites of passage penetrate the masses gathered in their schools
Of fantasies as testacies: for the ignoble, pastimes; the chosen, noble death
Certain. Pride of station, booty, brazen badges pinned to what is left
Of that old shirt or those old pants, and in the end, the glass is raised to fools,
And myriad mirrors of Alma Maters. “Yes,” she said, “Lose that baby fat,
She said, but she was lying as she sliced another quarter pound of butter
For the stir fry as dairies churn to pave the way for satisfaction and utter
Joy at dinnertime for the calf, an unction for the stomach, a hardening heart,
Vanitas sanitarium omnia vanitas, and then some for the cat.
All is vanity if clutching at the straws of life,luck and liberty to boot
To generate bravado in hopes that render all his finite questions moot.
Catwalks above his life’s pavilions, sidewalks in a decent neighbourhood,
And nursing homes dot the landscape while all declare,
“You know, the Devil made me do it!”
Who denies the processes of thought, the fine idyllic conduits
From “Why not me?” to “All I am is what I should
Be,” whispered while whistling down alleys and paper routes. The avenues
Conjure images and constructs preserved en bas relief in two dimensions,
Melting icecaps in an ocean of invention and intervention at the mention
Of a third. “To whom and what for?” He wonders at the dews,
Fresh-formed deadlines, spinal taps and tallies, and reams of “Things to Do”
And all before the door is closed and locked, keys deposited at the main wicket.
Who’s survived to say that winter’s haze might raise the need to buy a ticket
To some gilded paradise conspicuous on the fridge, or a cruise for two
Along the coasts or toward the navel of the nation
As he remains at home inured of all such thought and aggravation?
So wide the miles to peace and once again some pompous reconciliation
As the Parthenon limps through yet another year
and cancer strikes the very spirit of the Holy Temple Mount.
In the malls of Washington and London the body count
No longer matters to the kids at dinner while the recapitulation
Of the days’ decapitation give reviews on CNN no rapt attention.
Nolo contendere” say they, the salt of sorrow’s “single spies”
That marshal once again in “battalions”, with no word nor photo from the skies
Above the glass-lined pulpits of the ‘ulamas of cable news scansion
of only slightly less innocuous city gutters, the catacombs of dubious mention
All along the Tigris, the Congo, above Solomon’s mines on the African Horn.
They know their losses simmer silently in the chambers of the heart;
They know their worth in sovereignties and ulcerating boils apart
From what is said of foes on Fox or activists on board the unborn
Born again processions that occupy the parks. Landmines litter, braying gospels
of long’s and short’s, the meretricious glitter scribbled hastily
on chits strewn throughout the bar codes in the canyons of every market floor
Just as surely as autumn leaves attest what may be God’s penultimate bounty,
Blatant warnings in blood atop the sash of every second church door.

“The Manifesto”

medium

“The Manifesto”

The manifesto ministers to millions, and who is it stands
To gain—national pride and glory—whom the peoples’ folly,
Whom the witness in the valley of coincidence, the volley
Of inventions by the score, the copper’s light wires’ strands
That span the globe uniting minions yet dividing worlds beyond
The surfaces of forest meadows, lakes, and oceans,
Highest cliffs and even now bellows  from the Holy Mountain? Notions
In the cascade from the peaks to every sinkhole are the bonds,
Investments, hedge funds, the ponzis mounted to deflect the future’s
Sure surprise: “Please,” he says, “no more soup!” Too alkaline the innuendo,
Too acidic the gain, too little left to sustain the crescendo
Between what’s desired and what cannot be contained by cultures
Festering in the streets and buried bayous of the brokerage: virtual powers.
Take umbrage, my friend,  in the security of the syllogism while fear and profit
induce the latest Book of Hours.

“Between the Particles”

“Between the Particles”

Between the particles, seeds, whole galaxies
With beings monstrous in physique by grace
To be or not to be of any consequence; a place
Of high dramatic action, energies, prolixities
And all that is the chaos and confusion here
Among us there between the millions, there
Where no present eye beholds the plan; fair
Throughout minions of the wide arena sated, dear
To those whose measures are diminutive
But in such numbers as we cannot command,
Or catalogue; and even here may be the death of man
In servitude to what is life to them, disease to us, illustrative
Of powers to the nano only recently imagined:
We seek where there is nothing; we see mountains in grains of sand.

“Garlands”

“Garlands”

Garlands for the banner told defy the headlines;
Bold and garish is the wording of a string
Of odd events plaited to the public’s taste; they sing
A song of six of this and sevens in the press. Deadlines
Met, the galleys in, the thing is put to bed;
And on the morrow, there before the eyes
Of all the world the circumstance disguised, the size,
The age, the details, all that is the stuff of legend.
But in the main–‘the writ now fosillised–
No further reason to take note of what just took place.
Reporters gone, the guests at rest, and where in fact
There is no dust, the characters retrace their tracks
To that sweet moment when the nomial in the clause is quietly replaced;
The truth? They merely stop to stare
at something more in keeping
With the latest word than justifies the sabbatical
that glorifies what they’re seeking.

“The Streets of Montréal”

montreal-street-homes-snow

“The Streets of Montréal”

The streets of Montréal are empty now.
The neighbouring labouring winter lingers as the bus stops sigh.
Procrastination signs in odd displays of petulance at what must come south
From colder, darker Hudson nights as ice rusts earlier every year in forests; as if reminding us of reasons for early thaw. North from sales
In Southern giveaways the multi-fronts wave greetings from so many hills away;
Flight lanes set by geese suggest a conscious prodigeous delay
As newscasts and conspiracy reports have some little to say of chemtrails
As heckling sunspots’ hour to hour display for weather wearied eyes
Not at all concerned with what’s for dinner but everything to gain as teams
Of salvage crews prey along New England’s ocean shores. Reams
Of information on the cable news hours’ finely honed cyclones surface lies
And cries of what’s in Gaia’s oven and what on earth is all that’s going down
As BP Oil’s politicians in shameless self-promotion make their
usual strident claims that bolster bookies and talk show hosts placing bets
on just exactly when, not if the Mississippi rises next
and what, not whom coastline levies drown.

sun-corona-mass-ejection

“Reticent”

Hoover

President Herbert Hoover [1874-1964]

“Reticent”

Reticent; yes, with you still gone and fading posters piled,
I snag a moment’s thread while you tire of lightning rods—
What? Gentle greens, you say? Acidic teardrops cool your face, pods
Of bloated croaking frogs still lowing legless in their noxious streams on miles
Of floating bleachers scrutinise Inaugural prizes
sought by cheerless choral crows
Who flirt with impunity together; tireless efforts, distractions from
All pious convocation, their shamans–mystic petrels–entertain the sum
Of ancient lines of seers, their nests left unprotected still and breathing shallow
There against the charcoal sky in absolute denial of the obscene call
To let the bulls stand tall–who remembers who we were before descent?
And you wonder why I ask, “Who pays the rent?”
You see nothing between, you and me and Humpty Dumpty on the wall.
“Life is life and Obama smiles,”you say, and nothing in between refines
The thin red line behind that smile and Hoover’s curse in 1929.

President Barack Hussein Obama II [1961 – ]

“I Am Nothing”

nothing

“I Am Nothing”

I am nothing if not noted in a book
Of reckoning, some slight record of me here and there
Upraised, even sought by souls whose care
And wizened regard I long ago forsook
To seek my own blank pages, to underwrite
A leaf or two, distributing diamonds in my hand
To places I had never been. To seed lands,
Harvest images, draw scented waters of praise sealed tight
In time within a vial or significance, a  light
Container sufficient to carry on nightly walks
Through streets which run throughout my history, chalk
Lines on sidewalks and in the sands drawn as vague rites
In hegira with fellow travellers through dim-lit dusks,
Hejaz of endless dawns to come, some bull in ever-present musth.

“Simplify the Matter”

Clothes

“Simplify the Matter”

Simplify the matter, choose the either, consult the ether, pick one,
Be, and it will be! An avizandum is no match for public exhibition
And yet the journey never really satisfies an abyss of timely erudition
Further than a fortnight nor the rule of planets beyond their single sun.
And if the moon’s the object in the search,
Winter’s clouds will override the story—
If they speak at all in apostrophes of midnight glory—
While the appetite’s for fear, what then must follow the zenith? Dirty shirts
And all the king’s fine laundry’s better left
Unwashed if the pawn rejects the lint of ragged pockets as socks
Are so easily separated, so inevitably lost forever. High tech stocks
And clever use of futures are stuff of much the same in strategies in what’s bereft
Of patience or detachment and verisimilitude when the trend in toys is moot in leisure time exacerbates no small wonder in shrinking;
Ships and stocks are never stronger than the thought of either sinking.

“It’s Pathetic”

dollar1

“It’s Pathetic”

It’s pathetic in the classic sense, egregious waste
To spend a world on what he thinks he is. He tastes,
But finds no flavour, sees the page, but in his haste
He reads and cannot spell. The crooked line is chaste
Enough to him and more or less he owns the knack to be
Perceived as top dog at the corner street arcade
Before divisions in the stable force his hand. He raids
His lifetime’s fortune fortified and buttressed by animosities
To what existed well before all witnesses to the crime had stepped aside.
His way’s engraved on every schoolyard jungle gym and sandbox slide.
It does not fall to him to raise objection, cop a plea, to cease or to resist
A new-mint shiny dime or shoot the moon’s deposits in the skies.
Addiction’s child plays the labyrinth of paradox, dilemma, and enigma’s lists
Of what’s been overlooked and what misfortune’s kissed–
“O WORLD, I cannot hold thee close enough!”* And so he must.
He’ll play that card until the bar is closed, until his dollar’s been reduced to rust.

* …from “God’s World” by Edna St. Vincent Millay

“What’s Come”

Wall Street1

“What’s Come”

What’s come in mornings comes close to closing arguments;
Some last gasp within the nation, curtains falling in classrooms,
And business hours’ closings in no more than yields of mushrooms.
Gather and surmise. They’ll keep their old appointments
While remodelling corners in the life they’ve led and jettison
Decisions for one more season. Comes the afternoon, the summer’s
Yield to autumn months and they’ll be nothing left of slumber,
Running forays to the pawn shop to hedge their summers’ reticence
To part with memories and souvenirs supporting others in the kingdom,
Nameless, ever-present in the shadows just outside the door. The ransom
Paid, they’ll free themselves of all those years and spend the ransacked
Pensions of working man in one last tax. There’s more and then some
To consider in the settling of accounts, and they’ll be off to see the Wizard
While the world back home in Kansas is blanketed in months of one long blizzard.

…painting by Katelyn Alain…