When Saturn Stole the Twilight From the Sun
(or was it once the only one?)
Gloria Matrix
went down to the market
to pick up a slug-bug
where big brother had parked it.
there in the window
was a reflection of you
whether yew [of trees], or a ewe [of sheep]
whatever you do
at the fork in the road
that moment of truth
will be your abode.
"intrinsically extraneous!"
mumbled the jester
the court was in session
but the judge was in Leicester
molesting Hester in sequester
the rackets were strung
in the infrastructure;
Hessians weaseled their way
into central planning sessions
and agendas fashioned;
little by land and
less, nautically -
our recourse was stranded
by pirate principality -
"enough of the stuff!"
implored a voice in the crowd
and slowly was lifted
the silence of shroud
some spoke in anger
and some in remorse
from Juneau to Bangor
and St. Augustine
to the streets of Laredo
and Coeur d'Alene.
the cat was out of the
proverbial bag,
the beans were spilled
in countless guerilla-video scenes;
the Barn Door of America
wide open in drag
the dirty laundry
on display at wally-world,
it's dog-the-wag!
did I edit the copy
or copy the edit?
and are any of the
copies legit?
fat cats in high hats
swinging brickbats
trashing preambles
hiding begats
waxing chaotic
waning sense
stealing dollars
gifting cents
pay tribute to
some obscure piddling Moloch
biding their deliberate
winding of clock
from elm street to
fifth street
and avenue C
there's a pair of eyes
for every tee vee
and the flickering claptrap
is rattling the curtains
and making mockery
of what once was certain.
the watchers ensconced
in overstuffed perches
stuffing themselves
on lies and besmirches
of every unimaginable type
some call it living;
I call it tripe!
here; put on this
sonic rejector,
this visual reflector
and we'll venture
into that projector
down that wire
into the atmospheric fire
over hills through clouds
to the towers and crowds
of networks of gadgets
and people-machines
where pompous icons
ride in black limousines
and Surreality rules
from magazines of drivel
propelled from insidious
unscrupulous marketing fools -
all tools... but NAY;
plowshares beaten to swords
with daggers for words
infecting the minds of
all who heard -
individuals becoming the herd...
in libraries and homes
there are shelves of book
and often is mentioned
the road not took
the word not spoke
the reluctance of look
and upon those same
ledges of forgotten dreams
are grander ideas
in reams upon reams,
some not meant for
you or me, sadly...
and nearby, the pictures
of love and hope
in bright eyes and bright faces
already in stages
of addiction to various
manifestations of dope
rope-a-dope, pope grope,
inferior mope,
Skinnerian cope, just say
nope under your Proyac haze
in Snarvil or Quaaxil
or a morphine-based glaze
or is your withdrawal attack
sated by cookie and cracker-crack?
with their infused
chemical immorality
more sinister than anthrax!
America the Beautiful
will always be
land of the brave
and home of the free
long after the free
and the brave
have gone to their
eventual grave
and the street signs
are all replaced
with computer chips
in fake landscape designs
cause the last tree died
in twenty-twenty-nine
but the "soma" is good
and the Soylent Green
is "divinely obscene"
and it is widely understood
that clones have replaced
Mr. and Mrs. Good
so we don't have to worry
about courts and torts
any more... we have
leveled the playing floor
and if you're a real good boor,
they might show you the magic door
hiding the Elevator to More,
but if you step out of line
and speak what's on-mind
be prepared for the
proverbial trap door.
there's a whore
on every oar
rowing the hijacked
ship of state.
they say it's never too late
and I wonder if space and time
only exist in this form of slumber
where we encumber ourselves
with trivial mumbo jumbo
by the number -
is this some form of punishment
for some previous incarnation's
transgression, or is it merely
a choice to immerse oneself
in insane contra-positive
rumination?
is this the creator's
idea of a joke?
or are we the only
sphere of intelligent life
struggling to save itself
from its own strife?
who bears responsibility
when tranquility
is shattered in
civil unresponsibility?
when good men are treated
like infested vermin
and jerks are venerated
in mink and ermine?
where the virgin princess parade
is a charade as one by one
eventually all betrayed
set up for the raid
put on display for all to bray
bring on the next hooray
I'm sure the end
is nowhere near
enough for those who wish it to be
and for others, impossible to flee
and so we will go on, in some
misbegotten shape or other
unable to have our druthers,
separated at conception
from our mothers,
becoming one of the others,
serving some ridiculous
functional dysfunction,
spreading unction
until some nearby
passing planetary comet-god
belches fire and rain
and brimstone on our
brownstones, or whatever domicile
in some future century
houses what's left of humanity
after another round of
cataclysmic fists of reality
reboots our world into prehistory
and some cave man digs up the
bones of Indiana Jones
clutching a cell phone with its
battery still charged
and ten years later
his five-year-old son
hits the right button-
more than one, and
suddenly the Jimi Hendrix CD,
lying dormant untold centuries
fills the cave with cosmic
sounds evoking ghosts
of Christmas past
and future liberties.
"C'est la vie!" said the
Cheshire cat as he
sharpened his claws
upon the tree of
liberty, while
underneath his paws
the army ants
rehearse the plausible
deniability clause and
up above the hive of bees
contemplate the
chemtrail breeze,
squeezing the last of honey
from the sac between their knees,
trembling from the
cries and pleas of
starving larvae
trapped in
honeycomb cells.
and alas, the birds
are mostly dead or dying now,
save for the few
habitually bound
to woods and meadows
yet to be found by the
genetic genocide
run amock, tainting
every stream and
brook, breaking
sacred strands
of ancient code
far older than
any road, far wiser
than any smarmy
toad in lab coat
crucifying another
goat upon the
alter of scribbled notes
and totem poles
stolen when the
tribal places and ways
were reduced to coals.
but just as every seedling grows
and every rose invites the nose
to propagate those velvet
petals of delight, something
wonderful will pierce
the darkest night
and we will find a way
to make it right.
Comment: All poetry is meant to be spoken aloud. Sims' poem is as relevant for our times as the epics were to the ancient Greeks. I have made only the fewest changes. Please spread his message. Best
