“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label policy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label policy. Show all posts
Monday, April 9, 2018
Lie Claim
As far as policies go,
Honesty was the one underwritten in blood.
After all the lies and liars,
both black and white,
I read-in plain ink
that the selfish gene-takes over
all of us.
Altruistic illusions of gene-rosity
have delusions of granduer, like Welcome signs
in kingdom come.
Lies lead to more lies like
mitochondria and kudzu.
Entanglement and estrangement are different versions
of the same (k)not.
As an only child with given chromosomes from unknown
x’s,
I feel more than a tad teal
in a pond full of swans.
They all lie and I recognize these
traits. We learn to float.
With two eyes, ten reasons,
heads or tails,
what was mine is yours,
two cents for a back scratch.
Do animals lie? I asked him just
yesterday. He says they just don’t
tell the whole truth.
I recall the fox, the raccoon and he smiles,
conceding
finally, my point-even
when there is nothing to gain.
There is always an angle he adds.
Nice girls never finish anything.
I wanted to get around to
telling the whole thing;
I smell it all over him, breath and body,
under all the covers
I see the disappointment in my daughters' eyes,
I should have been more-
I see my sons deflective shield,
I should have protected him more-
I see my mothers obsession with self,
always wanting more-
I see a step-and a push-
a trip, and fall.
I gather things, gingerly, trying to lose my place,
because these truths were below me now-
I find myself
dancing around the pyre of pants
like the moth
I am drawn to be.
Those genes look as if they were made for you,
he complimented me.
But honestly, he knows
they were handed down this way,
ripped with holes
and a little too long.
Painting by Edgar Degas [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
And then...
Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign, at first...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...