VARIETY

Choices overwhelming me,
buried in variety,
the arms of my discretion pinned
as the freight train of snow
pinned the skiier Pompei-wise.
Will, so lauded, over rated
in the manageably filtered
kindergarten called America,
when straws of disrespectful reality
pierce the surgical steel
doors of our perception.
Cramming the options
into the stove-pipe girdle
of manageability, caring
not one byte for the offal
sluicing away into disregard.
Natural is as entropy goes,
the nicely arrayed toys
scattered by naughty boys
flung joyfully into chaos,
their destiny in play
until the weary Mommy
slumps at the new-made work
and chastizes the bra(h)ts
with tearful swats
groaning under the burden of neatness
in her magazine-dictated style,
thinking of Sylvia’s tresses
arrayed on the sad oven grill,
another beleagered woman
sacrificed amidst the rotten egg
smells of a man’s world,
her naturalness held out
like a supplicant’s fearful offering,
bleating, bearded and soon to be clipped of horns
at the Adam’s apple,
a cute, cuddly sop
to her neighbors’ perceived taste.
Her once-proud and feisty
Amazonian self-regard
and faith in future
fumigated like a lousy refugee
by “the easy way.”
Perversions said to be natural too,
since blackness is nothing
without light.
The holy need the sinners
and losers make the winners.
BUT how did the order
that entropy breaks
come to exist
in the first place?
A moebius luge-run for all time?
Variety destined to break down
into homogeneity?
Conscience can fade
and be rationalized.
It’s seen in the eyes
of women paraded
in the streets of Vichy,
the shaven heads
of the mothers…
NO!  WHORES of the Bosch,
whose sweet looking babies
are spawns of the Devils
whose Teutonic and arrogant
disregard for our
sorrow and pity
must not be forgotten.
Not seen as innocents but
as symbols of that which,
though once tolerated,
(“You can’t fight City Hall.”)
by millions of French,
who miraculously swelled
the post-war legions
of Resistance, evaporated
into righteousness
when the “modi anglais” liberated
the fleur de lis, flower of lily-
livered, any way the wind blows,
supercilious, frog-principals.
Through time the sun shines
on all of our weaknesses,
meanness and guilt.
Womankind bound to take
stitches in quilts
to cover the acts of men
who do their bidding
Lysistrata-wise,
slaves to the wound
ever-festering in the
wet dreams of their jerkiness,
such a threat when self-removed,
and all the pretty ones are gay.
(Makes me wanna scream!)
Not enough that the supply
is whittled at by war
and the infirmity of stress
in A-Type compulsion,
hunting and gathering
all the choicest …
Watching leaves blown in the street
like a herd of Wildebeests
or Mustangs turning beneath
the rotors of a modern cowboy’s mount;
first flowing to the left,
then to the right,
as of one mind.
Fused in fear and congealed
by the knowledge
that separation is mortality.
As lasting and as concrete
as important in their selfness
as the crinkly leaves swooshed
down the gutter
by the winds gusting
before the front,
bringing the hard rain
that turns them
into the sodden paste
collecting against the curb.
Homogeneity realized out of many;
Elm, Maple and Oak
indistinguishable.
Leaching into the fissures
to nourish another generation
with their stew.

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