StarPoet Newsletter Vol. X, No. XV

I am conscious,
And I assume you are,
But I don't have the slightest
Idea what that means.

I watch myself
Watch myself watch myself
And presume you must do the same
Or I am exceedingly strange.

I watch the words
As they leave my pen,
My watcher editing those
That actually reach the page,

Even as I go on
To the next line or verse
Or sometimes, a new poem
Demanding to be heard.

I know I am conscious
Even if often I find myself
Scurrying after my quicksilver brain
To determine what it is I've said.

Looking at the ancient faces
That gather for the reunion,
I have no idea why I'm here
Or who these people ever were.

Apparently we went to school together
Ages past in some former life,
A television series in white and black
Not available yet on DVD.

The faces of my eighth grade classmates
Are etched and hardwired in my memory,
These time-worn bodies that stand before me
Are not close to those I seek.

And I am no longer the quiet child
Who sat apart, that one is gone,
Stripped of her cloak and cover,
Until only this poet-woman remains.

When I was young
-- last week or perhaps month ago --
I fell in love quite regularly.

Now that I'm older
-- Thirty days or at least a week --
And I can go hours or even minutes
Without ever thinking of you once,
At least for not more than five or ten seconds
-- certainly not much over twice that --
Out of the last sixty.

Floods, wars, fires, genocides,
All the grave histories that make the nightly news;
Work hard, work well, work long, lose your job,
Just another depressive recession failure on the dole.

Failure is the worst crime,
The only one we do not mention:
America loves success and in her darkest heart,
Believes that the person who has failed

Is the cause of their own disaster.
Our gods reward the successful,
Punish those who lack true grit
Or harbor the grievous sin of mediocrity.

Gird the loins, hoist the bootstraps,
And surely success will inevitably follow;
Capitalism, Socialism, it makes no difference,
Good works and good intentions will always win out.

Fury, ire, rage and insurrection,
Acrimony, aspersion, conniption and displeasure,
Flare-up, resentment, indignation, and irritation,
Madness, passion, rage, hate and vengeance.

Revolution, rebellion, anarchy and bloodshed,
Destruction, disorder, insurgency and reformation,
Revolt, uprising, subversion and turbulence,
Turmoil, struggles, unrest and metamorphosis.

The problem with the media today
Is that they tell us only what we want,
Only what we are willing to pay for,
Only what confirms what we already know.

A perfect system in you're God's Chosen People,
An ideal arrangement for our all-knowing omnipotence,
But less than desirable if humanity is fallible
And our gods seem to possess unconscious blindspots.

A free country, a free people, a free media,
Unconstrained by avarice or religious belief:
Our fathers put forth on this continent a new nation,
It is up to us, the living, to keep it.

In Britannia we were forged
From iron left by Caesar;
In America we earned our liberty
With sword and blood and heart.

Tomorrow we'll fight again for freedom
Against adversaries great and small;
One union shall once more surround us
Until the day we fall.

Love in us ruins is more enjoyable
Than you would think,
Especially the one at eighty-three,
To quote and old Groucho joke.

Yes, we are so old
We remember Groucho Marx,
And both of us watched
Moms Mabley on T. V.

Sex is sex
And no matter what your age,
Getting laid is still
A good thing,

More so
If you are making love
With your wife, lover,
And partner,

Even more so when she can
Make pillow talk about Aristotle,
The latest science and Real Politik
And, afterwards, still make you come.