This blog is 100% in favor of cannabis legalization.
Unfortunately it cannot be assumed that the american state this blogger resides in will be a falling domino in any foreseeable future. On the one hand the trend is (or in light of recent revelations I should say Was) encouraging since one can hope it will be only a matter of time until a humble poor blogging poet will no longer be relegated to keeping at arms length the knowledge that a mere few hundred miles away there are people settling down to spark up a fatty or plucking a morsel of fruit from a plant they freely grew in their home; unencumbered with a concern that whispers in the back of their head.
On the other hand, it is anything but encouraging – or even if a miracle happens and they decide to once and for all leave it to the states…. I’m still fucked, because the mommies and daddies who run this state would speak as a certain sir Sessions except without a southern accent. I’ve not indulged in close to ages. I’m in my mid-fucking-fifties. It isn’t a constant compulsion but an occasional hankering. I see all the fantastic technological advancements brought by the internet – being able to learn stuff, practice poetics, post them; self-publish books on Amazon, maybe make a couple bucks; try to learn design/digital painting…. all kinds of wonderful options.
But if the wife asks if I want anything from town…. she could bring back booze, cigarettes, a carload of junkfood – oh but we can’t allow a grown man to roll a joint that will last close to a week. No no no. Can’t have that. Tsk-tsk. Smells too much like hedonistic flirtations. We can’t have that. No-no-no-no. Reefer Madness teaches us this stuff is b-a-a-a-d. Fossilized assholes.
now the daddy spider did not speak
to the sticky funnel walls alone
as his mate whose hairy legs played
one of many an orchestral
instrument in keeping his romantic
on affection, well, she
was within earshot, thus near,
stirring supper at the kitchen stove,
supper the usual mix of blood and guts
once within in sundry bugs,
these being frozen beetles on sale.
But back to the foul-mouthed daddy spider
whose words were spewed due to literature
– not that his reading material
exactly qualified for inclusion
among a canon for high-brow spiders,
as all his eyes would squint as a unit
if dictionaries and thesauruses
would shave or mow away alternatives
or abundant options such a bookish
arachnid would appreciate,
and leave him with having to use
the word Literature for what he read.
“Oh give unto this world so humbly webbed
our daily or nightly fodder measure.
So I know this is what I bitch about,
some snide words dripping from an editor
who never had to wonder where the next
meal of bugs would come from – who never dreamed
or resorted to prayer just in case;
and every spider on the planet
must gasp and crawl in obedient awe
over what an upper crust dweeb decrees.”
“I swear this is the week
I will compose that highly
tardy letter of complaint.
Maybe my delay has an origin
in the hope or desire
to keep it short and sweet –
translate that to bittersweet
since this is not the time to pussyfoot.
So what if
the whole editorial office
erupts in laughter
and passes my words to staffers
til the entire building becomes
a gigantic guffaw.”
So proceeded syllables
the daddy spider verbalized
and he did it with a bit
of a bitchy tone in his flow.
Neither did it carry the rhythmic
qualities as the prior lines hint.
He also did what he did
– said what he said
while sitting in something of a sprawl
at the table in the kitchen
of the lived-in family funnel
from which he and his mate had sent
millions of dust-speck aliens
forth to mingle with a populace
of humans blithely oblivious
they were selected for infiltration
virtually eons ago.
assigned willing underlings with brains
geared towards technical arts
and so many legs working together
were able to draw up some impressive
plans in the form of blueprints
and many an eye in that day turned red.
Maybe a poet thrives in alien mayhem,
depending on the definition of Poet.
And who knows that definitive definitions
are not symptomatic of chronic disconnect
which itself should not be too problematic
though it bears little resemblance to the novel
or the general notion of surprise
– though optimistic angles laud amnesia
for this very reason – like I did not recall
penning those first two lines. I had fallen, you see,
a tad glum, wondering where did my writer go,
thinking it could lend credence to the parallel
universe proposal; rather oft it happens:
flail for the feel that feels like it fades like dusk light,
accept that I’d rather learn to draw anyway;
squint at a string of words: no way did I write those
meanwhile in a laboratory
slightly smoky and fizzy
as laboratories are
expected to be, enveloped deep
within an experimental project
a scientific sort peeled his eyeballs
from the test tube that had held him rapt.
Someone or something is thinking of me,
the scientific sort said wordlessly.
Fine time for a gossipy flurry
to leak through the slivers in this atmosphere
of which the fellow at the atmosphere outlet
swore was an impenetrable
and most impervious model;
but the atmosphere outlet fellow knows
nothing more of the nature of my work,
than that I am a scientific sort.
Heavens but I do hear sea creature snickers.
“Well I would not say I am all that cold,”
mused a sea creature lounging with a rum.
“Scientists thinking our realm is frigid
does not surprise me a bit and if
I share this with the eels down at the den
of what we are frankly happy
to know as one of iniquity,
well you’d wonder why they don’t twist
into an oblivion by their howls
of disbelieving laughter. Now this rum
goes back a few centuries. My grandpa
mapped the main strategy for that ship.
Sunk the sailing human beasts; we got gold.”
The sea creature paused and leveled a gaze,
“swear you’ll never tell a zoologist.”