Tuesday, August 2, 2016

POEM: The Bowling Instinct

Photo by Douglas Muth. Licensed under the Creative Commons
Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.


The Bowling Instinct

In the bag she carries a bowling ball of a
Head—it was mine, I think,
Or thought (when I could still think).
Now I know it is filled with pictures
That pander to the baser instincts—
The Martha Stewart nesting instinct,
Blue-batik-cloth-covering-the-table instinct,
Abundant-brass-candlesticks-
Handmade-by-sweating-innocents-of-our-globally
Acquisitive-taint instinct, like an
Automated teller’s cash slot, the
Mouth of the head prattles forth
Fresh crisp cash for a whisper in the ear instinct.
Eres monja sin rascar.
Como se puede pasar?
None treads so deep but the Buddha,
And the Carmelites fall asleep at her prayer requests,
But the superficial protestants,
Smile-coated rage at her bland affect faced with
Their monotheistic monomania which forges their most secret doubts,
They will lock her in a cell in the catacombs beneath the Pantheon

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