....From The Tree Of......................The Ranting Critic
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_______________________________________________________ Orgasmo Some cannot stop gouting love. No matter how they really feel, the love rolls off their tongues without much thought. Is it because they hope to get back what they give? And so needy to be enveloped, defined and saved by love- they make a mantra of it? Someone ought to tell them there's an orchestra, tuning up for overtures of a billion voices clamoring for cloying hearts who sing out in their fear and desperation, Jesus loves me yes I know for the bible tells me so, but by Jesus they mean a pair of well-stuffed pants or biggest hair that ever hid a preacher in his pulpit on a Sunday: bring the bisquits and the blanket. Let me tell you about love. Religion and poetry are the PG side of rut. Southern Baptists Catholics, Lutherans, poets always knew it: what can be shriven, can be done and then forgiven, it's the confessing that's the hot part in both poetry and church. It brings on waves of oozing, thrilling, - and if you think about it- chilling waves, tsumanic waves, and even little platonic waves of 'love'. It's the squirming in the darkness does it, everybody feeling at the walls for light. Eventually everybody's saved not from the flesh, but by it; it's the Christian way and the way of every group of writers ever was. The Meeting A woman walked down a road and several paces back, a man towed close behind pelting her with stones. She never gave notice which disturbed the man. He'd never seen her face just girlish glimpses in a flattering light. Part of a cheekbone lifted in what he thought must be a smile, a bit of eyelash- long, they looked - a curve of lip, but then the light was always changing. He started out tossing pebbles, then some stones thrown harder- heard them hit but she, unfazed by it adjusted her gray, veiled scarf and draping robe and kept herself to shadows. Surely she knows I'm here, he thought. Surely she knows I long to have her look at me- he hurled a brick and right where streetlamp fanned out to a yellow funnel, she spun about. He saw the most hideous leer, most vicious mouth and flinted eyes he'd ever seen- I am a mirror, she told him. Nothing here but what is already out there. There are two points of origin to everything that is: Stomach and Groin- and maybe a salivary gland to lend the music and the art but follow the umbilicus back, you're back to stomach and groin. She dropped her robe and he saw stabbings, beatings, fat men buggering little boys who grew into fat men hoarding food and kicking old ladies eating babies they thought could make them young again and all of it set to sawing violins, in notes that made the ears hurt. Where were you when you seemed to be picking flowers not so long ago, he asked. Hidden, she said. But not so very far; mankind's myopic when they're sleeping. What of when awake? he pleaded. Seldom. Sometimes. Some, she said and turned to stone, right there in front of him. I thought you were the thing I'd lost, he sobbed and imagined he heard her say, so very faintly -I am. But I'm also the thing that you forget you are, everyone does and that is why you build your churches. Homo Rejectus Wake in a lake of panic pounded dark. I'd lost my humanity, finally done it like a schoolgirl at the prom will lose the other. Men are not my brothers. Writhing, stinking planet of wormy meat secreting stench from every part, the heart is an organ. The soul's an idea we sell ourselves to get us through the filth so we don't lose our minds along the way back to the dirt. I too, flirt with other things to keep my brain in my head, my foot in front of foot but dunghill born of a dunghill hung in space is what the race is, and if there was a god he'd be a fool to send one of his own to a dumpster where we rub against one another to make more. But what is most absurd is that the turds with faces tell themselves there's something divine in another's reeking. I've stopped seeking it out this night, this bed, these inches of air that I displace are what are close to me and I reject you, ultimate meaning. It is an accident of physics we are here at all. Sartre was right: Ugh. Ugh nausea. Feeling Like Nicholson Soothers, cooers, doers of the peaceable thing, we will not be soothed. We want to kill a goat and strip it, sinew from bone and beat your bleated platitudes. Take your velvety hands off of our ire- we like it sharp, not dulled by mince and lisp, by dampeners of hot whim. We want to break glass stomp hearts split a spleen to scream right in your faces: this is not a soft year-- Grant me that. Secretaryat Silly filly at the gate. I heard her whinny. A skinnier one than the snorts and stompings mares like me are used to-- "I talk and talk. A perfectly coiffed bit of toffee. And careful with the way my handbags match my shoes." Donna prays to Mother Mary "Mother, May I have a man who's tall and handsome, holds the door and sweeps me like a ballroom floor is swept by Cinderella rags after godmother gave them her pizzazz? I have, haven't I been good as gold? I watch my weight. No child has stretched these stomach muscles. Fifty two, and look how hounds still sniff around this carefully turned out little girl; I wouldn't threaten. Look- I cook, I flutter. Utter anything in my head, but with high maintenance- proper perfumes, sit ups, flattery- I know in heels that I can start your battery but good. I know you mister. I'm sharp at what I do." Honest Je sus.....never met her. Never heard her open her mouth, but hearing her description over coffee, after dinner over and over, gave her life and this is what she really said while rambling on, confiding about boyfriends in pursuit. She was inviting evaluation-- don't say she's "like a sister"- don't you lie like that. Antigone507 What a handle. How impressive. Says 'This is a serious writer'- someone who obviously knows her stuff; wouldn't do fluff or teenaged angst to save her soul. A real original- aboriginal at being wholly the native writer. Knows the 'elements of style'- probably a student or a teacher of the Classics with a chassis, one would imagine, like a draped Greek. Will opine at the drop of a participle, the fixer for what is lacking- will show you how to hone- ..............yet I cannot help but wonder what the other five hundred and ....six .......Antigones think about this clone? Duct Tape And Plastic Sheeting Since we'll all be meeting with our Maker soon, it seems imperative we make ready the way of the lord with miles and miles of silver duct tape. Not lead Him by luminaria the way His baby Self is guided to our Christmas hearthy-homes, but by sticking ourselves to this side- gagging, breaking out in boils staring out through taped up windows at a blurry plague-vague world so we'll hardly know the Savior from the ass He's ridden in on. Hot Damn Can't write a poem all anger. Can't. A rant is what it is, but rant's legitimate language. Strong pronged arrows of movement forward, forward, powered by steam and screaming its fool head off. It's never haiku- -how do you do those lifeless, soundless things positioned on the page like dismembered hands--white and finely tapered. Whereas a rant's red meat. Still bleeding needing nothing but the blood in its own torn throat. I feel affection for them. Naked as they are, standing all alone and loud; how themselves they are: brimstone hitting lake a-twitch and smoking like a gun gone off in a convent dull with prayer. Jennicam (c) It's like 1984, it's like Big Brother, only we're way way past that now- but in this age of watching, it is strangest entertainment to watch people sleeping, eating, stroking cats and dogs and dicks, the 2 minute update of each human scratch and zit- we used to have places for this stuff, this private moment to moment living -called it 'now' and it was ours alone. But not today, today it is the only thing I think of as pornography- the stripped down watch me watch me is the digitalized unfolding of a race that's finally given it all away important things like ............dignity. Hole Card~ or, Christ She's At It Again If you want to go to confession, see a priest, don't share your whining on the net. I really don't care if you were raped by brother, father, Uncle Charlie and his Boy Scout troop, you really need to keep that poop off of the page. It's gettin old girl, never new (who hasn't been diddled, silly twat) but what I've noticed, is that every time your writing gets outshone by someone 'finah', you bring it out like your best china, poor pathetic boo hoo, who?- (oh, god... fill in the blank)- it's a move as effective as when Red Foxx clutched his chest: it gets attention.) [Note: This is a favorite theme for online female poets: typical horseshit morons think is shocking.] Now's as good a time as any to say: I'M SICK TO DEATH OF THE 'INCEST POEM'. Give it a rest, and especially for those who haven't experienced it, don't pretend for the sake of drama; it's a tired, sad old story we hear too much of-- and frankly, playing it for effect is downright obscene. On To Page 2 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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