graphic by Oberc

This Little Yellow Schoolbus
While waiting for the schoolbus
the kid and I discuss
the limpings of Marxian theory
the transitional superiority of Capitalism
environmental apocalypse
technology as dark horse savior
the star wars force concept as metaphor
for selfishness versus altruistic giving nature
as the true nature
of the struggle between good and evil
and mercifully the bus comes
before my tired middle-aged brain
uses up its repertoire
or the caffeine boost ebbs.


I watch the yellow blur
fade into a snow cloud
and am thankful that
I still can hide
the truth that chaos
fills every snowflake
between our and the schoolbus door
and that all he will have to fight it
will be delusion
and the love of kind people
until age buggers his future
so he can laughingly
let his parts fall.


And I smile.







Omens in the Toybox
I read the story:
three boys
hog-tied
and bludgeoned
to death
ten feet from their bicycles.


Genitals cut from
their bodies in a park
where they played.


I thought
of their eyes
pools of terror
and then blank
like a toad's
when held belly up.


I can not fathom
the worms of madness
that eat a man's soul
and leave him pus
for dreams.


I want to look in the mad man's eyes
to see the extent of our dissolution.


I want to kiss the boy's foreheads
and tell them it was just a nightmare.


I want to cleave my rib cage and offer my heart
to the rabid, hungry Gods who tease us with love.


Crows falling dead from the sky
and everyone is afraid to look up.







My Generation
My generation
we had that winged breath
those star drippings
the taste of promise
of harmony eternal


It lasted a moment
then we sold it
to ease our separate fears.


Now the air is brown
the breathing becomes hard
and we are just another generation
of hungry bugs with brains.


Meanwhile
the planet
shrinks.



© 1998, Dean Creighton