They Delivered The Wrong Package

Two hours ago

I got a parcel and a note

which read, "You're welcome."

in letters a five-year-old

might've wrote.

Nonetheless,

I brought it inside

curious as to what

the light box was hiding.

A pair of scissors and 

a bit of grit later,

the cardboard opened to 

reveal a longer letter.

It read:

"The meaning of life doesn't exist,

in some sort of universal personification.

It isn't born with you at birth,

It isn't bound till death do you part.

Meanings of life bubble up

like an inconstant spring,

in small bursts of insight,

situational and temporary.

Meanings of life bloom

like new flowers in the

pretty month of June,

flowing and searching

and following sunbeams.

That particular meaning of life,

that path you followed so piously,

will wither

as it is short-term, dying

and spreading its seeds on

soft wind,

till your ass finds itself lost,

and those seeds sow again."

I sighed and closed the cardboard flaps.

This wasn't the life manual I ordered,

I'd have to send it back.

Naming a Hypothetical Son

Caden, as in a cadence, a rhythm which flows
And mimics God's tongue, a soft song,
Delicate and all-entrancing, Caden.
Eerily, the sound rings in my ears.  Familiar, close, a
Necessity - I listen, amazed, and breathe the beautiful spell again.

The Financial Panic of Now

I panicked today.

Not the kind of panic
where your heart trips,
stops, skips back into place.

Not the kind of panic
where you wonder how you'll
get through the task set before you
that grips you, seems to
strip you of your dignity
and forces to the forefront
that childhood fear of speaking to strangers
that you tucked so neatly
behind your lungs.

I panicked today.

I looked at my car note
and it looked at me and it spoke.

It said: this is all there is for you.
That house you hoped for? Loan.
That car? That higher education? Loans.
Debt for credit, financial prestige,
none of which are worth much of anything
at your age, in this economy?
Nope, not a chance.

Those 2.5 kinds you wanted are expensive.
They need cribs, clothing, companionship.
They'll say they need a dog, a cat, or a hamster.
They need good schooling
and daycare costs money, too.
They need, they need, they need --

Its paper-thin, mechanical voice echoed away.

I looked at the car note,
a makeshift crystal ball,
and I panicked.

In retrospect, this psychological
self-destruction had been expected.
Years of watching one-sided pundits
spew half-thought out predictions
of the fall of the nation
through my up and coming generation
(not once taking into account
the effects of that Great Recession
on my peers' and my collective depression.

Jasmine Dream

I pressed the stick of jasmine
gently to the flame
watched the smoke rise up
and waft against the window pane.

And I inhaled, slow and deep,
let the foreign heat fill my lungs -
And I inhaled, slow and deep,
lent my eyes to faraway dreams.

Soft, golden fields of overgrown grass
and a white cotton dress caught the sun's rays,
and warmed the hidden cherrywood-colored skin.
     I danced slowly toward your gaze

and I inhaled, slow and deep,
I let your touch ensnare me -
and I inhaled, slow and deep,
let you become my faraway dream.

Sliver of the Sky

An untouched sliver of the sky
hung still over the open door of the Honda,
pressing cold bursts of air through
a cracked window.

I watched this jagged bit of heaven,
cut and styled by the sharp points of pine,
throw tiny dark shadows down
across the traffic before he and I -

Amazed,
I watched the little ashen bodies turn pearl,
ghostly, white,
and fall into clumps along the sides of the road.

Less Realistic End Times

A rift in the ocean floor
yawned and opened itself,
thin and red hot,
to the cool embrace of salty sea.

Sharp and focused like a cat's eye,
the light of the rift tore
through murky blue and caught in its glance,
 the quiet stirring of the beast.



Cthulu?!?! WAHHHHHH!!!!!!
     Sorry everyone, getting caught up in Christmas shopping and such makes for not much time to write poems.  I promise you the next one will be much better :)  Merry Christmas, and a happy new year!  Weekly poems will continue January 6th.

Demons of the Westboro Cult

http://www.examiner.com/article/westboro-baptist-church-to-protest-newtown-when-obama-visits-on-sunday

*This poem was written to commit to memory the abject stupidity and blatant apathy shown by the cult known as the Westboro Baptist Church towards the victims of the shooter, Adam Lanza, in the Connecticut Elementary school shooting.  Westboro Baptist Church... I mean honestly.

A resounding "What the fuck?!"
 Passed through my mind
upon realizing this
was attributed to divine

intervention.  God's will
sacrificed little lambs
to undeserved eternity.

God, their god, their demons, 
their lunacy, spewing forth acid
and hurt and sorrow
in the name of judgement,
crooked justice. 

The self-deceived sons of bitches
and their bitches,
blind to the purpose of the cracked mirror 
they hold to the world.

To be expected.  Cults come and go,
but their insanity and trail of filth
mar history forever.