Friday, February 13, 2009

When He Lost His Rant And Had To Sit Quietly In His Chair

There is no revenge for humans.
There is but one retribution
and is not ours to savor;
it's saved for some future, dank
back alley, closing universe
where God will weep as He
disassembles a most gorgeous
archangel of light;
that one who gripped the Holy saber
by the blade,
sliced his palms along it and
grinned as his blood trailed across
this virgin planet,
stained our dust before it breathed.
Since then,
our festering thirst for selfyness and
each man's not-so-sacred limp and drawl
amuses this fallen ventriloquist
who lives to blow words in our mouths,
jerk our limbs about,
toss us in the trunk;
a thief without a place to fence his goods.
Ignoring script of destiny, he
stuffs his orphanages with clucking souls,
nervous waifs and cocky shrouds who
hide their question marks inside vest pockets;
he pushes nations down time's shuffleboard,
scores endlessly imagined points
in a nonexistent game,
as if he would ever know a victory.
So, we can forget our anger for
we have not been harmed except
to each one's self by each one's hand
and only honest victims garner
quarter for their culprit's wide display
upon the coliseum's floor
where tigers of the evidence
dine on justice;
a holy place
where we
are not invited.

Copyright (c) 2009 Gary Brown
Death Is A Salesman

Death, Frankensteinic beastbaby
cold-hatched in Satan's basement to
become Hell's posterchild,
makes its living camouflaged as some gentle angel.
In fact, death's gracious processing
of people from this life
obscures the brutal violence of its silent swallow.
Were not for its pretentious glow and
air of pompous righteousness,
it would be seen slithering,
enslaved by solemn obligation.
One afternoon, I observed the stillness,
sacred calm as God whispered one away,
leaving death to hold a worthless carcass as
Satan screamed a muted curse, threw a tantrum,
tried to spit on everyone gathered in the room.
Captivated by the show, flashing slight of evil's hand,
some fell for his melodrama, but I spied
his flip-flopped dirty feet beneath the curtain's hem,
his panicked, flailing, wild manipulation of the levers,
sweaty nervous gestures as he pulled out all the stops
to make diversions, build distractions,
strained to please the nervous crowd.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown
Bad Boy Glamour

Back in the day when brainblood ran black,
drained past thoughtfully lodged bullet frags,
escaped the scalp, soaked deep into earth's carpet
while some fella simply walked away,
believing his justice just and unafraid to say so,
even then... angels named names.
There were no good old days of bad,
no such thing as honor among anyone,
for Eve had the monopoly on greed
and Adam, her crooked mouthpiece;
all the rest are bumbling children,
would-be front men for these
gangsters of corruption.
The glamour-gloss of evil is but the shiny slick,
hardened scum of flavored sin;
is not real, yet, from distances reflects God's sun
as Coronado's City of Gold;
beckons the tourists.

Copyright (c) 2006 Gary Brown

Did Jesus smile to himself
as he washed the feet of Judas?
Did Judas?
Cozying up next to Jesus during dinner,
did Judas hope to win His glance, some extra credit
or perhaps even make Him laugh?
As Jesus began to understand
the envy, the anger, the future of his friend,
did He invest a little more in Judas stock?
Back at the table, two arms reach
with roughened fingers gripping bread
and bound for the same dipping bowl, knuckles bump;
Jesus counts the jury's votes
but not to be upstaged, Judas steals the exit scene.
In a few hours each was found
with advertisements hung upon them:
One said, "Jesus, King of Jews",
the other read, "Will work for glory".

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown
Hired Hand

Judas may have been the trigger man,
but no less than we
who pay him in installments.
God watched that one-man marching band
perform in the rain as
impatient paparazzi hid out in Potter's Field,
and St. Bernard watched from his perch,
contemplating rescue.
Later, on a cheaply inscribed wooden slab,
the Iscariot family honored his requested epitaph:
I cannot play tennis,
I am not an artist,
but I can do something...
I can love.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown
And Good Dies Young

The defective notion of perhaps
not having done enough right things,
cankerously ate at Nelson's conscience.
Meanwhile, from within some lofty office,
Satan watched and snickered at such
misappropriated sense of guilt
which had infested this man's thoughts,
soiled his vestments, wrinkled his spirit.
And for this reason, the Evil One
loves some who place their faith in God;
he relishes their unguarded vulnerability,
that misguided mission some embrace
to right a crooked world,
presume their personal medicine
and bandaged truth heals earthly sores.
Satan adores such innocent and arrogant
thirst for fairness and the way they make their justice.
For those who tend to miss the cue
that God Himself, alone retains
the judgment and the verdict,
will tend to feed their well meant zeal,
dole out fetid gestures
and dispense the rule of law in gray, myopic passion to
remedy each and every wrong, which may or not exist.
So, armed with what is thought to be
some righteous truth in hand,
Satan dangles that before them,
prone as he is to taunt and tease
these animated judgeless juries,
lost ambassadors of good.
And thus he puts them out of mind
as slowly they become no threat,
quite consumed by all their valiant causes;
anesthetized, made useless by distraction.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown
Diary of a Vaudeville Prima Donna

When Satan played vaudeville, straight man to Jesus,
he never got good reviews;
no one would pay him more than scale;
he had trouble with the union.
Of course, he blamed it on the writers

who really got his goat;
he said they gave their best one-liners
to the Son of God.
Being the fledgling Luciferian,

the writing was on the wall,
so he snuck in and converted it
to anti-Christ graffiti.
He looked for loopholes, scammed for cash,

and couldn't keep an agent,
was awful at auditions and
practiced plagiarism.
The sorriest of gamblers, he lost on Lazarus;

thought Peter was a shameful waste
of criminal potential;
bet the farm on Judas who, folded, took a dive.
This bitter hack with deluded dreams,

still thinks he'll make it big;
surrounds himself with fools and thugs
yet, trembles in the dark.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown
Entertaining the Underverse

There is a universe beneath the ground one lives above
which speaks a language seldom heard yet often, seen.
Worldunder listens,
watches up the soles of shuffling feet,
tracks their lives then plots the deeds
to fell these giddy giants.
Following orders to engage them,
these gremlins delight in interfering
with these self-directed, earth-stuck pharaohs;
bending paths, they become the hoax in their machines.
Up there, in that surface air of beings,
people squeeze to fit into their lives,
be found suitable and hold their breaths,
praying for invincibility.
Meanwhile, back inside the subterranean
nightclub lounge of love,
grim reapers smoke, go out for breaks
and chew the latest news of those
whose names are daily posted;
whom up above, unsuspecting,
live in line awaiting their appointment with the Big Dog.
Yet, within this Underverse these buzzkill lizards,
coldly earn their checks;
oblivious to the futility of their child's play schemes
of horror, death and pain,
they've gotten over having spilt
their beakerful of eternity;
resort now to dropping dimes on innocents
(as if we were),
hoping for a coup.
Yes, there is indeed a universe
beneath the ground one lives above...
and in it works the one who pleasures
to kill us all, as if we were
lemmings on parade.

Copyright (c) 2006 Gary Brown

He didn't look like Satan.
Casually dressed, seated opposite,

across the booth in the diner,
he flashed the Rorschach-like cards before me,
passing time with my innocent responses;
the reality of it all simply eluded me.
God's nudge,
more like a stinging finger-thump upon a frozen ear,
jolted me awake, mid-sentence.
At once, inexplicably, he,
folding his hand, released the images;
falling akimbo across the table,
some bounced to the floor
and abruptly
the chit-chat ended.

Copyright (c) 2005 Gary Brown
The Interview

Today I spoke with The End of the World.
An imposing sort of fellow;
he was shorter than expected, had a tendency to twitch a tad
every time the conversation turned to what comes after.
We sat at a corner table near the window.
The waitress brought us coffee,
but every time he reached for his, he started talking,
set it down and never even touched a drop;
it may have been a clever rouse, this java-use persona.

It was an occasion more noteworthy than significant.
I thought I asked more questions, but in retrospect, suspect
I answered more than he.
The exchanges:
amiable, casual, then quick, short and patently blunt,
created a river of words, smoothly flowing, sudden rapids,
then languishing pools of thoughts and phrases.
And so the time flew relatively quickly by;
as if it mattered to The End of the World.
One item I found fairly odd, as much as disconcerting,
was what appeared to simply be
a subtle lack of knowledge for someone so appointed.
Impostor-riddled doubts crossed, re-crossed my mind
then chased themselves back into their hidden crevices.

Afterwards, I sat a spell reflecting on the minutes passed;
searching for the merits of this surreal visitation.
Tree-sap slow, time oozed by as I mulled over,

recalled and probed my stubborn memory,
fighting to regurgitate a few more crumbs to chew.
That visit's purpose, aim or goal still eluded me
despite several cupfuls of warm encouragement.
And what of that most peculiar of peculiarities?
Surprising at the time but now considerably intriguing,
was when he stopped mid-sentence,
straightened up, slid back his chair,
rose up from that table and walked slowly out the door.

Now, without clear recollection or even autograph,
I was left to contemplate cold coffee, scrawls and afterthoughts
frantically writ to recapture it as a fading treasure map.
I strained vainly to decipher words, ambiguity;
as some dream dreamt then written down
in brain-fog deep at night.
So, I just sat and thought and stared, remaining lost a while.
Then, when I rose up to leave, the waitress, nearby
stood as a polite reminder...
when everything's been said and done,
I'm left to pay the bill.

Copyright (c) 2004 Gary Brown
Elvis Iscariot

Whoda thunk?
The audit would reveal that sniveling headcase:
wacking out, muttering during dinner,
laughing inappropriately during poignant parables,
pickpocketing the Messiah and
fashioning himself some rock star mafioso.
Yes, this barney fife of Isreal,
who made book, played the lottery, finally won,
then blew it all,
on hemp.

Copyright (c) 2005 Gary Brown
A Tale of Misappropriation

Satan hopes.
Having employed his own free will
to weave a neophytic evil into vision,
yet, short on faith he coerced hope to work for him;
another discount pawning of God's secret stuff.
Holy expectations, this residue of sacred peace
which only God could fabricate
and trade for our true resignations,
this special booty: hope,
Satan hijacks,
holds as hostage for his sanity.
Later, after his transfer to Gehenna's basement,
discovered in this rebel's locker was the diary;
a rambling chronicle of rants and curiosities,
reflective thoughts and strategies
which culminated with a simple revelation:
"It is not the outcome we had hoped for.".

Copyright (c) 2008 Gary Brown

This evening,
as God rinsed the earth with sweat,
baptized man and beast, plant and rock,
Satan failed to notice;
unable to get wet.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown
Poor Man's Job

For more than half a century
little terrorists ingeniously grew legs to plots and
wings to their execution;
their sabotage:
a simple camouflage of hopes and dreams,
had effectively consumed the only
life this man was allocated.

He never considered he could be worth the trouble;

for Satan to petition God
for tormentious squatter's right;
laughed at the thought that he should be so flattered
yet, it must be so, for little else offers explanation.

And it was not so much his having wrongly entertained

on and on, Lucifer's little soldiers;
no need, having already spent himself
pursuing a poisoned vision.
And such it was when very young,
his treasure map was drawn one night with Devil's pen
while this Job slept,
his God watched,
and Jesus wept.

Copyright (c) 2005 Gary Brown
The Perfecting of Evil

Consider evil, that unholy necessity
born to expose the genius of forgiveness;
supernatural toxin born
to trigger sacred antidote.

Its delinquent offspring flourish:
Hatred, commands an audience with our nature;
Pain, illuminates the peace which it has broken;
Sorrow, distracts, supplants the joy it has mis-shapened;
Death, glows as Satan's chalk line drawn around our shadow.

Consider evil, this grizzly comforter we wear as skin
to protect us from the chill of Truth;
yet, illuminates our lonely silhouettes
when clearly spied against the Light.

Copyright (c) 2006 Gary Brown
The Death Clown Chronicle

Hard to say how much pre-earth and mid-Kingdom was
Lucifer's election,
his self-appointment as the Death Clown;
novice that he was.
Unaware his hidden play
(this jump to trump his master's hand)
was not the ambush he had planned
when he and his celestial lackeys
flung themselves headlong into
the heaven of their choosing.
This rookie thug used his free will
as license to slice up his angelic throat;
with recruited sidekicks schemed to pirate Paradise,
violate the body Grace,
pummel-throttle life from every uninscripted person
and all future souls shaped by the hand of God.
The ending of this story reads,
"His plans went south."
and that is all; but I suspect
the sealed details reveal a should-know truth:
After the trainwrecks and debris
have shoved us in the bin,
it's one thing to discover evil eating on our ear
and it's a very something else
to pretend it's love.

Copyright (c) 2008 Gary Brown
What's Best For Me

Lucifer's flavored poison makes me dance,
takes me to the festival,
buys me shiny things and
I love it;
as long as it
does not annoy,
does not crash my parties,
does not make me think of... anything.
As long as it behaves itself,
flavored poison can
play in my band,
steal my things and take my time,
live in my extra room,
drive my car,
have my job and paycheck,
take my health, my friends, my fun,
take it all,
take my life;
it's OK,
it's OK,
It's OK by me.

Copyright (c) 2008 Gary Brown
Death of a Salesman

Does Satan cast his bestest pearls
before the holy swine?
No; the infuriating respect he has
for God's omniscient grip,
ability to save His saints and
thwart the theft of "paid for" souls
casts fear into him and his lackey legionaires.
And those curses which he seethes throughout
his purgatorial strolls,
resound as echoed choruses,
remind him of the panicked cries
of those on whom he preys and
tortures to their desperate end.
Hung in the esophagus of Holiness,
this gagging phlegm of evil ego
pretends to revel as his clock winds down;
throws his sweaty weight around,
bullies all the fledgling arsonistic interns,
and tortures all his human mice
while casting nervous glances back,
to check the hallowed ticking.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown
When Mary Fed Judas

When Mary fed Judas the evening meal,
cooked bread for that deputy,
spy, who would engineer
deed and death of her first son...

When Mary fed Judas, carried the water,
conversed with him, her son's close friend,
a two-faced snot who'd pawn for cheap
that one she bore from God's own heart...

When Mary fed Judas and counted him
one in heart and soul
with those who left their lives behind,
perhaps to die for love of Him, her child from God...

When Mary fed Judas with the same hands
which held the face of Whom she loved with all her life,
did she think, suspect they harbored, nurtured
him who laid and plotted late, to sell her son for spite?

Copyright (c) 2005 Gary Brown

Unaware at first, the screams she heard were her own,
the tornado's horrific, wailing vacuum
jerked the air from Linda's lungs,
inhaled the sounds erupting from her mouth,
replaced them with a petrifying, gasping terror.
Such sudden, shocking force of nature
stalks and pounces, in timeless seconds
sucks years and lives up into nothing.
Yet, with no less ruthless savagery,
handsome Lucifer quietly,
coldly chisels daily on the unseen cracks
within the hearts of every living soul;
and though hidden, this stealthy creep of supernature
and his relentless ravaging
puts to shame the devastation
of so-called, natural disasters.

Copyright (c) 2008 Gary Brown
The Devil's Haystack

From his neighborhood's porches,
sidewalks, street curbed corners,
mommies and daddies swallow paper bags of venom,
while children watch, learning life.
The language of anger,
words of war with one's self,
hopeless murmurings, cursed profanities
flow as prayers at breakfast.
Mistreated, malnourished family pets
serve as surrogate angels to
these giggling, wide-eyed,
attentive ambassadors of our future.
Deafening car speakers blare propaganda of despair,
disillusionment, pathogen of idiocy
to babes' and siblings' tender ears
and once-pure brains,
stunting hope.
Among what passes for existence,
this Diogenes searches with his swinging lantern,
studying faces, scanning hearts,
perhaps to spy an honest dream.

Copyright (c) 2006 Gary Brown
Ceremony of the Hopegrinder

No one serves subpoenas to the Hopegrinder.


Nelson had centered his origami armadillo
gently on the noonday cooking asphalt
of a vacant, rural highway;
it was that time of year.
Celebratory sacrifices had found their poetic way
into his practice of vigilance;
his fondness for prophetically exposing
painful truth amidst deceit;
he found it all, subversively inspirational.
Somewhere between reaching for the sugar

and his watching its crystalline flow
into that aromatic cupful of steamy black reflections...
it enters;
takes the stool next to him at the counter.
It carries that almost distinguished

cigarbox styled lockchest full of wrapped, bundled digits
belonging to so many thumb-less friends.
Aggravatingly, their voices still whisper,
"After all, what harm in its charity?"

Its gentlemanly politeness, so rude.

At one's first encounter, it's difficult to be repulsed

given the false comfort which the Hopegrinder provides;
its striking presence seemingly always just in time.
This dapper thief of just the juice,
disarms those who dare to hope to change the world;
it opts for their destruction by distraction.

Though perhaps alone, he'd lost respect for this wicked wizard.

Having spied that culprit's play,
its jovial courtship ritual,
its compassionate anesthetization,
its graciously maneuvered ushering of lives
along the slaughter trail
where those numbed, time-shared souls
arrive somewhat dismembered, yet sadly, none
noticing any inconvenience.
Not in fear, but silent grinning, he capped his coffee,
slipped two bills across the counter and
without a glance slid effortlessly from his spinning perch,
subtly bumping past the angered shoulder of
the Hopegrinder.

Copyright (c) 2006 Gary Brown