Sonnets are like chocolate cockroaches. Here are three. I’ve been posting stuff directly into these blog entries because I’m finding a lot of venues are going belly-up and taking stuff with them. That said, I’ll post links too when they’re still alive as you really should motor around these sites and see what great stuff they often have up there, beyond of course the magnum opi of yours truly.
Soundzine mixed poetry with actual audio readings and why not? The bytes don’t care what’s on their back. So you can hear me read too while supplies last.
This first one got me some banter with Physicist Tony Rothman which really was worth the price of admission. Fortunately he has a sense of humor.
The Be-All, End-All Butt
“It’s not a big step from the [Anthropic Principle] to the Argument from Design . . . . When confronted with the order and beauty of the universe…it’s very tempting to take the leap of faith from science into religion.” –Physicist Tony Rothman
Some derrieres can back a wayward man
into epiphany. One photon less
and he might cast about in la-la land
morass in hand. But then some sights profess
a naked lunch, a glutey max, some minx
who slinks just right in tight designer jeans
by Goldilocks. Tautology? One thinks
by thinking, beauty comes by what it means
anthropically. There are no accidents
–not least a booty curved enough it bends
the seam of space. No purpose is derived
ass-backwards, on the sly. Free will’s contrived
as mass-qua-ass assumes no other guise
than what the telos deigns to moon our eyes.
Love in Its Many Sly Positions
Somewhere east of Eden carnal pleasure
has sold the West on sexoteric trade.
Positions memorized, there’s still no measure
of ascent. A grunt’s the sound of getting laid
down– not lifted up. It should be harder
(not that between your legs), rather the Act
–some Himalayan regimen. Base ardor
has little time for Kama Sutran tract.
The rut to sweet nirvana? Same old muck
sans missionary tedium. A whore
for want of clever trick can’t raise the fuck
to Dharma bum pretensions. There’s a store
that advertises take-home tantric sex.
The yogi there takes credit, cash or checks.
The Butterfly Defect
Who killed my goddamned butterfly? Who squashed
my metamorphosis into a not-
quite-there-but-thank-you-for-your-flight? I’ve washed
my wings of striving. I excel at squat
not from some fatal flaw. (The fault’s not mine.)
I stand in for a pupal substitute.
My fate was switched at birth. I intertwine
with some bright soul. And man, that moth’s a beaut.
I see him in the things I ought to do.
I see him in your eyes, I rendezvous
with him through you. So tell him this from me:
I let us down. I let us down, all three.
As for that ‘gardener’ who spoiled his wings?
Some monarchs spoil their own damn day as kings.
There are more sonnets where those came from here…click the cover for Amazon.