Friday, August 24, 2012

Every Month is a Poem

The Olympic Games in London are coming to an end…
Michael Phelps, collected his 19th Medal; Hope Solo didn’t do so
       well for the U.S. Soccer Team.
Phelps, a man of will and skill that is amazing…with:
Ability, courage, devotion—
At one point of his life, invoking destruction on his body and soul,
       now seemingly, somehow, he’s rescued.

Here today in Lima, Peru, it is near noon my wife will soon bring
       me lunch—rice, chicken, pork, I thank God I can eat so well!
Last night we had a slight rain; a black sleek dog, was laying by
       our door this morning, someone poisoned him,
His owner disowned him, and a few folks are afraid he may bite
       their children, a few have tried—

Mitt Romney’s running for president, against Obama, both losers, Romney, may lose Virginia I hear— how in heaven’s name do we    
       pick these pea brains?
Gore Vidal died a few weeks ago, a homosexual writer, and another
       one for Sheol, I never did like his writings much anyhow.
Meteorologists say the U.S.A., is in a drought, with hurricanes and
       tornadoes all about—yet we’re making gasoline out of corn.

This morning I have somewhat been amusing myself: two blackish-
       brown sparrows, that normally come around came around  and Are here right now, eating, constantly eating: they eat from dawn to
       sundown: from a saucer my wife leaves out in the Garden, half Filled with seeds—you’d think their stomachs would explode.

Well, each month is a novelty, to say the least, but always bleak, a
       poem with too many stories, such as: more trouble at Wounded Knee, and  the Oglala are in an uproar again, not like back in 1975,
       which I remember, confronting the FBI, nor like in 1876, with
There great defeat by the Yankee…just more complaining, saying: The Great White Father is unfair, in this case, the Great Black
       Father, none-the-less, they want the Black Hills back I bet, it’s All too unremarkable. Thus, they hold the flag upside-down, as if in

The pests, the black sparrows left and came back again, with two
       gray doves, they don’t know when enough is enough.

Syria is at war with itself—Iran wants to help, you know how that
       goes: one thief to a thief, one bully against a bully.
Somalia is coming out of one, twenty-one year old self inflicted
       war; where 250,000-thousand people live in egg-shaped pods of Brushwood tied with strings; and the enslavers live in woodened
      roof houses and solid framed homes.

Painful is the human condition today, this month and seemingly
       every month.
Barbaric is the human soul, so it seems, this month, and every
Well, that is the August poem for 2012.

#3391 (8-15-2012)