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the rise of the fall

Some of my column intros actually make sense.  And then there are those that go skipping off in their own misdirections through fields of shruggeries and flowered flumpheries, amid the bognacious trills of stalkish stumpenings, and none of us can begin to beguine the forethoughts of the afterworded math we didn't do, or subtract it all up to glean the nonscientifical methods behind the madness of pie.  And never NEVER ask their hat sizes!  You simply have to sit back and let it go, let it be, set it free, try not to set it on fire, because there is no stopping the loopy linear loco Zeitgeist Express once it has left the station.  It says so between the illusive wavy dancing dotted lines and the tortuous tortoise penguin undertoes of the present tide of rip-snorting tantamounts.  Just go with the flow, I advise.  If you can't read the blatantly balderdashed bold-print invisible-inked writing on the wall, you're out of luck.  For that is the way the bewildebeest wanders.  And the mockingbird whippoorwills.  And that is enough of that.  Really.  I'm sitting on the box that all of that thinking just popped out of, attempting to contain it for the sake of humanity or sanity, perhaps Pete too.  Let us shuffle off to purpler pastures and pretend this ever happened once upon a teatime.

You get the gist.  The jest.  The driftbucket of the buffaloonery of a tub of three blind chicken-mice or men of the cheesecloth sailing out to sea with a side-order of curds and whey to go with their evil Antipasto.  Or something.  (I seriously wonder about you if you are still reading this, by the way.  Seriously.  More than I may have wondered the last time.  If there was a last time.  Well, there's a first time for everything so I assume there would be a last time.)

All right, now I have gone too far!  There is no such thing as a chicken-mouse!  But if there were a chicken-mouse, would it squuck or would it cleak?

Perhaps we should ask the emu.  I cannot tell you how many times I have asked an emu for an opinion and received a mute response.  It said nothing quite clearly, I heard it.  Which is actually rather unheard of and therefore should not be spoken of again.  So keep it to yourself.  Under your hat if you have one.  If you don't, I suggest you get one.  But not from me.  I am very attached to my hats.  I use staples or Elmer's Glue.  Sometimes thread.  Though that can get tangled up in the sticky web of the thoughts I weave, which are generally a bit moot.  Have I told you this before?  I can't be sure.  I have recurrent déjà vu.

Oh, and not to mention the monkeyshined chickadees swinging by their tail-feathers on a star from the moonbeams of songbirds who forgot the lyrics and can't whistle a tune.  Keep that quiet too.

Or we could just rewind.  Yes, a do-over.  A restart.  Let us stop the muckrakish mudslinging hashmarks of mentalicity, if you don't mind.  If you do mind, then nevermind.  We'll ignore I said that.  Or did you?  Somebody said something!  Whatever and whoever it was, I think it is best to take a double step back and think twice.  Second thoughts can be so enlightening.  They can also be redundant.  They might even make you think again.  Okay, I guess they usually do.  But that's beside the point.  Oh no, did someone mention "point"?  Why must there always be a point???

It is my staunch belief that there can be no point, no point at all!  Who's with me?

Wow, it got very quiet all of a sudden.  Now nobody has anything to say?  Don't you find this awfully convenient when somebodies were saying somethings a minute ago?

Okay, I can take a hint.  Points are well and good, sure.  At the least they can be sharpened like a pencil.  Or an arrow.  Yes, arrows are good because they point.  So there it is!  Are you satisfied?  Was that pointy enough for you?

(Just had to roll my eyes at myself.)

Fine, I am going to write some poetry.  And the less said about what wasn't or was or might have been said here or there, the better.  I think that about says it all.  But I'm sure I will find something else to say in my verse.  This is only the introduction, you see.  Which implies there will be more.  But what if there wasn't?  What if I wrote silent poems?  Would your mind fill in the blanks?  Would the absence of verse make a statement by lacking a statement?  Would it create a poetic paradox?  Well, that might be interesting . . .  But if there is one thing I know, it is that I cannot be silent as a poet or a proser.  My versening and verballing brims and bursts and bubbles and froths and hiccups with resonance.  Like chewing gum.  You cannot get rid of it once it is in your hair.  So mark my words, you should probably run.


(Many people these days have little tolerance or time for nonsense, it seems.  I find that absurdities, like a good story or book, can elevate normality to the sublime.  I appreciate your taking this moment to share some with me.)

 

Okay then.  Here there be poems.  And they might, I say might, even make sense!

 

 

    the rise of the fall

 

The Fall has risen in splendid hue

An august specter cascading dew

Ascending to foggen chill-nipped air

From a gravish brume, a festive fair

Abundant with jackal lanterns agloat

Inspiring the tickle of fear in your throat

Comes the night clicking wicked fingernails

Its putrid breath reeking bats and snails

A figure in tattered robes of black

Long frosted hair like ribbons slack

Eyes raptly glitter and coruscate

Dizzied by hunger to levitate

Occultly enact great dismal deeds

Fulfillment of secret covetous needs

As the midnight carnival unfolds its props

A background assortment of grimness drops

A sharp and crimson tongue may flick

Its adumbral toothy mouth to lick

With furtive nature and obscure desire

From the orange embers of a raging pyre

Till cinders crumble, waste to naught

A dreadful languish distinctly wrought

There sneak the shadows, daggers hid

The chortles of manic stallions rid

Vast kindled spirits of bravery

Born of trepidations, unsavory

They rear and tumult in wrathful moves

Red-orbed bloodmoons and thunder hooves

To gallop from dusk to the dawning mourn

The gaunt complexion of a soul forlorn

Cloaked with the gray of autumnal gloom

When the fall of the risen sun spells doom.

 

 

    fallen

 

Was that fairy flicker in the blue-black sky a shooting star?

An angel tumbling out of grace, a U.F.O. or just a plane?

The tailspin crash of hope; a dying man's last wish?

A spirit just released from the cocoon of a body slain?

 

Are we all not bound to this passing flesh and bone,

The fleeting products of blood and brain and sinew?

All capable of immense regret, tremendous emotion,

As much as to wither and wilt and then start anew?

 

Each day of the calendar we rise to live reborn

With the chance to make amends and find in it our place —

To learn and hone, produce, survive, and touch the world

Ere we fall asleep exhausted as if by death's embrace.

 

Are not we fallen possessed of the same intrinsic needs

To be forgiven, remembered, respected, and held most dear?

Do we not tumble down in a wink to and from our dreams,

Then abandon the womb of sleep to live and love with fear?

 

If we might capture and save that twinkle in the night's eye

To reach out, connect, protect the values we aspire

Ignite the flame in which hearts fall with fresh sparks

Imagine what depth of love could grow from the eternal fire.

 

 

    underfoot

 

Upon this earth stand things

That we believe are real

Their presence is a part

Of our world and all we feel

But below the surface what lies

Or lurks submerged too far?

A hinterzone of febrile terrors

May abide in the bizarre

Crawling, creeping, the kinds of things

That dig and root

Hulkish, pale, unsightly

Atrocities underfoot

In abysmal gloom and dankness

Where we know not what

This netherland belongs to them

As they prowl and scut

Until comes the day

When the underlings arise

Peeping, tunneling, popping up

And then "Surprise!"

As the oceans swell and flood

Their subdomains

These lowlifes must pour out

For higher plains

Half-blind at first and grumpy

Will they surge

Wreaking vengeance for the changes

In a heinous purge

Like a locust plague

Their starving ranks shall swarm

Droning shrill and raucous

Will the critters form

A ghastly howling hellish

Legion of lost beasts

Squinting at us like

A bunch of walking feasts

Such nasty alarm to behold

Their scurrilous attack

Devoured by grotesqueries

Straight from the murky black

Dragging hairless ratlike tails

Ugly rodent chompers scraping

Puffy, pallid, out of sorts

And drooling maws right gaping

They'll evolve with every step

Of their predatory dance

Like a chorus-line of marching mutants

While they hungrily advance

You'll know when they arrive

I'm sure it will be a mess

They won't wipe muddy feet invading —

Try to manage your distress.

 

 

    without a net

 

Often I will find myself out on a limb

With no clue how it came to be

If I dreamed myself there or climbed in my sleep

If I was swept up in hugging a tree

 

I might also be prone to narrow ledge-walking

Or hanging from a cliff without notes

Such practices can be a trifle haphazardous

And are best left to mountain goats

 

I may hurtle downhill at the top of my lungs

Or veer on a tangent when riding a bike

I have tumbled off bluffs while sticking to facts

And have pulled my own leg in the course of a psyche

 

I may leap from a falls and forget to barrel

Or skydive without a single chute

I'll prance across tightropes without a net

Wear the shoe on the other foot with a boot

 

I rhyme without reason and tinker with words

Making them up as I go along

I can be daring, undaunted, and take great risks

Yet overly fretful or extremely unstrong

 

I have done some dumb things that were very unwise

Like stepping on all of the sidewalk cracks

Jaywalking, backtalking, headstands upon gravel

And crossing the line on the wild side of the tracks

 

I will spit in the eye of a storm any day

Throw my caution to a tornado and laugh at my fear

I love thunder and lightning, wind and rain

But I will run if the butterfly nets draw near.

 

 

    a murder of crows

 

I was murdered by a flock of crows

And where I decay nobody knows

They fled the scene with dripping beaks

My tomb a gully between two peaks

In a cloud they stormed with bad intent

Their dispositions sorely bent

Can't reason with an angry mob

It'll wring you dry of your last sob

The stuff of feathers their only trace

Black fluff adhering on a waxen face

As if to commemorate or anoint

Eyes staring uncaring toward a distant point

The motive obscure, without a reason

No meaning or virtue, for no cause or season

Yet here I sprawl from circumstance

Torn up and clawed, I stood no chance

I was simply there, the wrong place and time

Heed well the caws if they boast their crime

One day my bones may be discovered

The grisly deed of the crows uncovered

Though the evidence will have blown away

My remains would have little left to say

I begged for mercy, got down and kneeled

I know "whodunit" but my lips are sealed.

Authors: 
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Lori R. Lopez

Rafael Lopez

Noel Lopez