January 2006

REVELATION

 

Revelation is a radiant glimmer spoken of in hush tones:

But there are the off angles to consider. Hell bound musician

Gone to rescue a girlfriend, thinking a backward turn is only

An evolving point of view, not prone to hell-hound attacks.

Let me put your bebop gesture to work … mag 9 quake,

Cat 5 storm, mega tsunami undertow, do you really want to

Go down on nature’s whims, burst her chi ball exercises?

If my mind had toes I‘d be damn well on them already.

 

Freedom Is fragile, worse than beached casinos out of luck.

It starts with banning lap dances and ends with nano-sperm.

How much nature do you want to control? Witch the whorl?

Is there nothing you can’t blame on a hurricane, what about

The whirling dervishes in Washington. Put down that jar of

Gen tagged face-lift cream for a minute and consider this.

What could a president possibly talk about? His lips move,

But does it mean he’s really talking? He hears another voice

 

A microsecond before he delivers on it … what ever comes

Over the wire he delivers, could be anything from cattle cars

To “you better be good for goodness sake.” Who d'y’ call?

Two screw-ups and a cardboard box? Evacuate a city, a life?

What’s death compared to that? Human catastrophe is prime

Time adventure these days,
                                           "c’mon, shove the mike up my nose,"

Sure, lights are poppin on again, but the dashboard’s still dark.

Is anyone driving, is it on auto-pilot? Candy hour’s over and

 

The gutter guy just finished, and here comes the plague of flies.

But its nothing to pray over, who’s afraid of the nanosphere?

Don’t google that phrase, it’ll be on someone’s tombstone.

Which reminds me, please stone my grave, nothing would

flatter me more, of course, after the global nano carpet there

won’t be any loose stones, only a database of pious fraud

where the little bank robber worries about whether the sun

will get stuck and the fruit won’t fall from the trees anymore.

 

But it’s no different than the chorus line of dancers acting out

Flu symptoms, do a macabre bird-flu-two-step with hand jive.

OK, so you stroll into the Space Bot Café and they’re playin

Your favorite pod load “I smell like a ho house on wheels but

Its just the inside of my new Terramax” You want ice in that?

No ice, dude, FEMA ain’t getting another dime from me.

Hey babe, I like your mink trench, that’s pure woman. F. U.

She says, whadiya mean, I’m already F’ed, all I do is buy

 

Scratch tickets and watch the orange alert bulletins fizzle,

God is really angry these days, somebody order him a pizza

Before we all end up in a theocratic fascist thriller on TV.
 

Photo by Eugene Brown

 

Copyright Jimmy Warner, 2006