Hack Hauku

I could be a jap

poet and get away with

five seven five lines.

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Buy Product

There'd be no B.O.

    --no bad breath

    --no athletes foot.

We'd never know

    --our teeth get yellow

    --our eyes turn red.

Our hair could gray

    our feet could smell,

        and pimples might be the rage.

None of this stuff would matter to us, 
heck, given wigs, 
we'd revive the Renascence.

But soapbox plugs have sprinkled us

with bigger, better, new and improved

since way before Days of Our Lives.

  

DISCLAIMER: BUY PRODUCTT is intended for simple entertainment and in no way endorses neglect of personal or physical physical hygiene.  It is a simple poem based mostly on sarcasm, with minor political, but non partisan, political undertones.  The author in no way experts intelligent consumers to carry on in the manner suggested in this text.  No lab animals were used in the writing of this poem. 

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Agnotics Prey

God, I don't know if We are hear or not.
You're last sincere gift, Christ, is a sell out
a ticket to heaven I haven't earned.
I need a lifetime, or more, to be sure.
Somehow, I sense We've been here before,
because Nirvana seemed so real on drugs.

Thanks to the folks who pray for me, it helps,
but I can't take their miracles on faith.
The only miracle is that I am here,
a cast off in evolution and time.
Like it or not, We share these feelings,
Besides, hell is a concept no one deserves.


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Circuit Breaker

A snap-crackle-pop of shorted circuits

arc and fuse to sputter along some relay,

sending vague electrical impulses

to the hydraulics.  Which raise my arm.

With confidence I tell the teacher

that I forgot what I was going to say.



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10-28-84

IRON

(I)

As long ago as forever can be

the heavens sought order in chaos.

All properties were assimilating

as billions of bodies and galaxies.

I was dispersed here in the third orbit

of this primordial sun. No life,

only cosmic forces and mysterious

properties: gravity, light, and matter:

a delicate balance for infinity.

I was an element of the newborn earth.

(II)

Time doesn't matter to matter.

Not much does to inorganic mass.

Time passes along as strings of events,

bringing subtle changes- like miracles!

I've watched it unfold- I witnessed

creation! It seems only yesterday

the first cell slipped from rain, to land, to sea.

Then another, forming complex structures.

Enter man, his mind, and passion for fire.

(III)

The finest work in ages, this man-

God fearing, fragile, exposed, but clever-

evolving into the great thinking beast-

able to learn, to reason, to conceive

abstract ideas- and from them create tools.

I've watched and waited through ages of stone

and bronze, hoping that he would detect me-

unearth me from groundless consistency.

Unleash his resourcefulness and cast me

into useful implements- but tools of war?!

(epilogue)

Man didn't matter to matter. It's hardly

worth the time for inorganic mass

to concern itself with things uncontrolled.

Time passes along in strings of events-

subtle changes, beginnings and ends.

The future will be as the past has been.

Was it worth it for God to create this

miracle to expose his sense of irony?

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Camflauge

8-30-84

They're out there waiting
     wearing khaki and black.
They're out there waiting
     planning ruthless attacks.

Are they armed?  You bet!
     With guns, bombs, and money.
Am I alarmed?  Not yet:
     I'm drinking beer with my honey.

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Declaration In Dependence

6-24-84

My fantastic flight
need not props
of right or left wings
foiling my air.

No manifest will
design, define, or deny
my destiny.

No self chained majority
will ever rule me
or judge my morals.

No elected representative
will elect
to represent me.

No class structure will contain me.

No status system will
symbolize my well being.

No general will order me to slaughter
for corporate interests abroad,
when the enemy are the homeless,
the starving, and the poor...
my brothers and sisters.

No dictator will enforce
his decrees and subjugate
my will to submission.

No smokescreen politician can
enter my backroom to deny me
hopes, wants, dreams, or drugs.

Bo morally bankrupt institution
will develop interest 
on my account. 

No religion can condone, condemn,
or redeem me: nor savior
martyr for my sins.

Nor does anyone deserve
my martyrdom.

There is love in my heart.
There is hope in my soul.
But my mind secretly concedes 
to anarchy.

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