1. Late night after the freight train has rumbled along case-hardened tracks, where the well-lit overhead walkway leads to a light rail terminal, some unseen, unhinged lunatic’s F bombs echo. He is no grifter, not guilty despite his rage, mere victim of the all-inclusive media age in a world where 3000 gods have thus far been worshiped, products of indoctrination. The crisis in belief means no one is immune to trafficking of bogus mottos, myopic blab, incredulous religions, absurd gesticulations, and rhetoric that restrains one’s sovereignty. Shall we grant the clerics of maniacal sects enforcement of standards ruining the planet, deny men simple pleasures Aphrodite gifts when she slips between the sheets in dream? 2. Half past midnight some crickets strike up a cacophony of unintelligible chatter which inspires a racoon to squeeze under the gate and gallop across our building’s parking lot. Tropes are hidden from the eye. Oh so scary our flesh crying out hysterically for release, bizarre visions like sex in the grave typical now that cyber automatons are ubiquitous. Artificial intelligence has programmed us for telepathic communication. Whether we accept or toss it willy-nilly into into a big black hole is a decision distinguishing wise from naive. Sweet charity in the sensible robin’s twitters pierces inky blackness with a fine symphony. No stars visible, but the crescent moon dozes in a sky filled with billions of invisible sprites. 3. A little blinking red light drifts overhead, airplane on its way to a hole in the ozone. Seas are born anew, species come and go as rifle shots reverberate around the hood. Even itty-bitty inferences will elicit violence when charged with hatred, taking very little to set off a nut case who may spread bullets in his wake. King Alfred unified England though the Scots and Irish resisted intrusion into their virgin lands encompassing histories wholly sacred to the tribes. Ideologically speaking, what’s mystical is not an illusion nor possibly accessible to other than finely-tuned senses zeroed in on extermination of tyranny’s brood. 4. Dawn could be centuries off for all anyone cares. Yosemite once more aflame tonight, July bringing the full force of hideous heat to bear down upon its most illustrious host. Ladybugs, roaches, spiders, wingless moths crawl across the hot asphalt at about 2 AM. The still summer air is pregnant with countless hours of suppressed daylight. While specious conspiracies go viral collecting likes by the thousands, flash the gyres of corruption, animus and pain in this nation lacking bona fide identity. No one ever learned better than Romans switched to Christianity by Constantine, you will never fell the genuine barbarian with dull sword and twisted prophecies.
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in such publications as Poetry Quarterly, Literature Today, The Journal, Poetry Salzburg, Modern Literature, South African Literary Journal, and Home Planet News. His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, Mercurial World, and Aurora California.
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