One Hundred Bad Drawings: Pages 2-5

THE DEFINITION OF ELECTRICITY

One of the newer gods,
Yet distressingly similar to the rest:
It flickers and gutters during turmoil
And none can identify its source.
It returns when it returns.
We speak of Power and Light
As if everyone can afford it.

And yet, in the cold darkness
You find yourself acutely aware
Of what is Important.
You do not jump at shadows, like children;
It is surprisingly easy to move around.
The voice of your actual self
Speaks very close.

I WAS A POET AND I DIDN'T EVEN REALIZE IT

Someone decided to give the crab back its legs
And tear down the net on the tennis court
Because life was messy
And also mainly because rhyme has power:
A pattern of soundalike grunts
That suggest
truth.

small t truth, small r rhyme.
We don't capitalize dead gods.

So the wind rises
And so does the river
And you climb up onto the roof
And cling to nothing
And wait for no-one
And you feel a little more sane
But a lot less safe.

And very few people understand what the fuck you're screaming about
Even as they go under.

RECENT STUDIES SHOW

The Word IF,
when held up to the light,
studied under a microscope,
rubbed away with nervous hands,
dissected by academics,
bathed in righteous tears,
thrown against a wall in frustration,
smashed into your lover's face,
or ripped apart with bare hands
like a child looking for a prize,
will always adapt to its surroundings
and reveal the word
NO.

When plugged into any equation,
it will always reduce itself
to one divided by one times one.
Rendering it meaningless.

In a bar, or a prison,
it is a bad joke
that can get you killed.

But The Word IF
has proven to have some uses in
driving a nail,
turning a screw,
mixing mortar,
propping open a door,
rewiring a habit,
scraping old paint off of an insult,
balancing a desire,
or acting as a fulcrum
to move just about
anything.

ODE TO BRANGELINA
from a NOLA native

O! golden coupling,
god and goddess of modern screen,
envy of untold millions,
how strange is it to spy you bi-cycling at dawn,
with your children of many lands,
barely pausing to gently admonish a lone paparazzo,
and cast my mind back
to a night I visited that selfsame spot,
and, hurrying my carriage curbward,
did lean out above this now-holy ground
and vomit from drink.