Forty Two Poems

No reason, no real rhyme
Just attempts to encapsulate
Little vignettes, bubbles of time.
Gaseous things.

Some quirky, some foul
Some droll, some stupid.
You know, poems about life.

They say right what you know
And I really know a good cosmic fart joke
And the pointlessness of worry

Forty two songs about things falling apart
Cosmic order that, the arrow of time
Ever to that great Entropic goddess
Singing that eternal knell

The music of the spheres
My cosmic ass to your celestial ear
The heavens sing
With forty two explosions of the gut.

Creator of Worlds

You make art.
You summon emotion from a featureless plane.
Your slender hands guide indelible ichor.
through unforgiving curves
Where perspective means everything
And assumptions nothing.

A picture is worth a thousand poems
Regardless of the brevity of the imagery
I can describe a hand with allusions and allegory
But you start with a base of originality
You can sketch a hand that people can see
The same way we all see hands.
You can stipple in textures
Showing the callousness of over worked fingers.

We needed to focus.
We had been divided
but, you showed us the way.
You showed us
what it really means
to be a senator.

You gave us a bad guy.
Showed us the heart of darkness.
Gave us a villain worthy of Hollywood.

After all, we love our action movies.
We like nice clean cut stories.
We needed someone really evil.
To really unite this country.

Lean into it, man.
Start wearing black,
practice your throaty voice
and your death grip.

You already got the backstory
You killed enough kids
Destroyed enough homes
Stood idly by
as the apocalypse kicked up

Redirect tax payer dollars
Fund you final opus.
It needs to stand with the greats.
You got to out pageant Nuremberg
You got to cross swords than Saddam.
You got to unhorse Putin.
We need a fitting backdrop
For a dramatic conclusion.

Make sure your statue
is taller than your ancestors.
Build it big and tall!
Make sure we need all of us
to pull it down into the dirt.

If you plot populations throughout history
Counting back from now to antiquity
You may notice a startling asymmetry
when charting our ironic morbidity

Graphs place you in the top percentile
When nations crumble as eyes turn docile
When we huddled massive must now reconcile
Maybe our ancestors went out in style

Would you rather be born in ages agrarian
Oppressed by noble contrarians
Or struggle with classes proletarian
Who have proved just as totalitarian

Be born in a time in famine and fable
And lucky enough to make it past the cradle
Or be destroyed by technologies most fatal
When

Odds are you were born in that moment
When populations had an exponent
As centigrade rose and coastlines floated
And when everything simply exploded.

It was a numbers game in the conclusion
Be you humanitarian or Malthusian
The rare peasant died young in delusion
But a majority went out in collusion.

So much depends on a used bowflex,
glazed with fresh tears,
besides the two people fucking.