We’re talking about a freedom
from money and power.
What do you mean?
Blank look.
We’re talking about a freedom
from money and power.
Looks at TV.
I don’t understand you.
I gotta go.
I’ll talk to you next week.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Month: May 2017
Heaven
I think is being able to love.
No, not drugs.
not the love of drugs.
Love. Love!
Love, love, love, love.
Love is not the love of drugs.
For heaven is being able to love
without using drugs
with the pure feel of love
in the sunshine
like kittens.
Like 2 little kittens in the sun.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Riot. Riot. Riots.
They have built a mountain out of
symbols.
A net, a web, a pedagogy of
controls.
Who was this man?
Who are the high-excluded,
the killers of the four Kennedys?
These star controllers
with patents and chipsets,
electrodes and diodes,
combines
colluding the genetic flora genomes,
oh, a far off quota
hidden in iron mountains under
different ultraviolet spectrums.
For we must be altered
so they there,
so they there can live.
Remember the Agora!
Remember the Forum!
But the riot. Riot. Riots
could stop this
if words could meet them
on the other side of the electrical
divide,
beyond the spell of electrical devices,
in their hearts out in the streets.
The riots inside of their hearts.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Before humans I’ve passed,
it’s light from an afternoon
shone
the muscles and fat that have made
the day’s echo
asleep with my silence under trees
in a yard.
In the human way I’ve had eyes,
counted days without a parent,
tongues without a language
and architecture sheltering tribes.
From what point on the calendar
have they come,
they do not know,
but they have trailed home
to cells of containment and electricity.
These are provided . . . these are provided.
And the satellites we don’t count,
we do not see the great migration
and the accords of ownership.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
John’s going to go to
Paris in the Spring.
Do that sort of parisien thing.
The eating of chocolate,
baguettes and cheese,
the wearing of berets, stripes,
and mingling in the streets.
He shipped his chaise lounge
over the seas
so he can kick back and
relax under trees.
John’s going to go to
Paris in the Spring.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
What has to stop
for the satellites to quit doing
what they do?
What knows its own fate
and realizes its own consciousness?
What is beamed by the satellites?
What is lost?
What constructs the Universe’s reverberances?
What reverberates in your heart right now?
Your head being a reverberate point
between the bouncing ions
and the colors that are sequenced.
The Satellite God speaks to you.
It does what it will.
And the jugs of sweet tea are on sale,
the jugs of sweet tea are on sale.
You have a vacation coming up soon.
What has to take place for the vacations
to quit happening?
What has to walk towards What?
In What direction,
towards What place,
What family meeting area,
for What purpose?
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Andre The Giant announced the new realism –
contextualism,
while Academians worked to validate the status quo.
Andre The Giant died on the Twenty-Ninth of January
Nine-teen Ninety Three.
To some he was known as The Gentle Giant.
The liquors we drank in the House of Prin,
for our predecessors some of them French,
we drink and continue ‘til every sunrise
the fiesta of our livers,
united by the way your mouth and children want things,
like gift certificates and save the rain forest.
We observe.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
The door to my room
looks like it goes somewhere,
to a land of opportunity maybe,
to a corridor leading into outer space?
The light of my room
is a day
under which
isolated men lay scattered on islands and beaches.
Their skin and my skin,
it is more different here than the planet the women live on,
the all-exuding sun! the all-exuding sun!
it is more different here than the planet the women live on.
There are 50,000 islands between me and the next man,
languages as vast as the stars
that we mutter to the mercantile winds,
tears that no other civilization will know.
We beat our heads with rocks
as we stand on our islands looking out to sea.
The light of my room is a solitary place I dwell.
Would you call this existing in an atmosphere
of phosphorescent glowing
. . . a body of penis and beard and prison?
It is appearance.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
You bring me bones,
I cannot walk.
You have the hours,
I don’t deserve time.
It is nothing anymore,
there in that cheap
apartment building,
my father has a moustache,
he smeared SpaghettiOs
on the walls.
We live in a giant daycare nursery
built for the entire world.
My flesh is not as good
as the muscles that hold your
back.
On Monday
I’m boarding a space cruiser
for the land of opportunity.
You have the hours,
I don’t deserve time.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
This is called the Massey Loader.
You put parts of chicken in it
and from emulsion and other processes
you get an output of
layers of chicken, cheddar cheese, and
bacon.
It was created by Harold Berwin in
Milton, Ohio
for the Handy Corps Food Corps
Company.
It’s used to make MacDonald’s
and Burger King products.
So, it receives fair praise
for efficiency by
highly distinguished executives.
Executives know a thing or two.
They have a high influence quotient
and buyer’s formula.
The Massey Loader’s also used to make
cat food and dog food.
It helps feed both humans and animals.
It’s humanitarian in its nature.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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