27-10-2009, 08:51 PM
Evolutionary Predicament
Monkeys press distorted faces against
stained glass windows.
Itchy vibrations climb from wood-grain linoleum
and squirt like lizards' tongues across
the sharkskin thighs of the twentieth century.
Empty bottles of Anacin.The drugstores are closed.
Pull the blinds! Louder music!
Choke the screaming night with 100 watts!
Capitalize the T in technology until it turns
into a cross then nail your existence to it
like a faded ticket to the latest crucifixion.
Call it predestination. Divine will.
Watch the hero piss in the dusty crossroads,
village idiots fight to float their boats
around the shrinking islands of logic.
History laughs hysterically at catatonic revolution.
Suicidal technocrats ecstatic with apocalystic daydreams
are anxious to pull nuclear strings
let the loaded dice roll down the parabolic edge.
Saviors wait for high noon in the Hollywood hills
reading Sanskrit translations of Playboy.
A child of progress rolls in the womb
dreams of bouncing from a plastic cage
crawling apelike into a melancholy thicket.
Mad poets throw stones at the moon.
Nobody sees the ones that hit
through the veil of falling objects.
J.T. Gillett
Subterranean Rumors
Homunculus Press-1982
Monkeys press distorted faces against
stained glass windows.
Itchy vibrations climb from wood-grain linoleum
and squirt like lizards' tongues across
the sharkskin thighs of the twentieth century.
Empty bottles of Anacin.The drugstores are closed.
Pull the blinds! Louder music!
Choke the screaming night with 100 watts!
Capitalize the T in technology until it turns
into a cross then nail your existence to it
like a faded ticket to the latest crucifixion.
Call it predestination. Divine will.
Watch the hero piss in the dusty crossroads,
village idiots fight to float their boats
around the shrinking islands of logic.
History laughs hysterically at catatonic revolution.
Suicidal technocrats ecstatic with apocalystic daydreams
are anxious to pull nuclear strings
let the loaded dice roll down the parabolic edge.
Saviors wait for high noon in the Hollywood hills
reading Sanskrit translations of Playboy.
A child of progress rolls in the womb
dreams of bouncing from a plastic cage
crawling apelike into a melancholy thicket.
Mad poets throw stones at the moon.
Nobody sees the ones that hit
through the veil of falling objects.
J.T. Gillett
Subterranean Rumors
Homunculus Press-1982
"You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.â€
Buckminster Fuller
Buckminster Fuller