Sonnettics

They all were gods, though none of them were wise
At times their feet would bleed on frozen trails
Religion never taught them to despise
The hollow sound of prophets’ empty tales
The works they sowed in faith all yielded crops
The fruit was often sweet, attracting flies
A movement is a thing that never stops
Salvation is a man who never dies
I watch them all, unsure of how I feel
I watch them live and die in ecstasy
I watch them curse the ground on which they kneel
And bless themselves with dusty sanctity
And as the vision of the saints drifts past
I find a way to let it go at last

For Yahoo, Google, et al.

The only mode we’re given is a hole
Which leads into a stomach, not a brain
Though nobody believes there is a soul
At least not anyone who’s not insane
But lunatics can press the buttons too
By poking with their little monkey hands
And everything submitted brings to view
Results like magic answering demands
And here I sit, a monkey like the rest
A lunatic compelled to do this deed
What vomitus will come from my request
To find the information that I need
And so, in spite of everything I wrote
I stick my finger down your narrow throat

Tom Petty took a jagged piece of glass
And cut Bob Dylan’s scrawny little throat
Mick Jagger thought the whole scene was a gas
And Paul McCartney filled a pen and wrote
With Dylan’s blood, a happy little tune
He planned to sing to every soul on earth
About how Dylan’s death had come too soon
And everyone should watch for his rebirth
Bob Dylan bleeds like every other man
Bob Dylan’s blood is running through this song
Mick Jagger was Bob Dylan’s biggest fan
And what Tom Petty did to Bob was wrong
And little Emma cowers down in fright
Because her uncle touches her at night

No longer some dry web, the world is wet—
As deep at least as when it was just wide.
A sea of words is sloshed across the net,
The voices of an ever-rising tide.
To learn to read is now to learn to swim
The currents deep or in a shallow pool
Of thoughtful exposition, or the whim
Of some inebriated, pissing fool.
Now like some modern mariners we feel
Becalmed by all the words these blogs have cried—
Directionless, with no one at the wheel,
Around our necks their albatross is tied.
The curse, again is not that boards will shrink,
But water, water no one wants to drink.

I saw the Bard, I met him as a ghost
He said he read my sonnets quite a bit
He even told me which he liked the most
And which he thought were monumental shit
I told him that a few of his were crap
And that a few had helped to get me laid
He said the iamb was a subtle trap
Developed just to trip the willing maid
And then he said he’d make a deal with me
He said to count the sonnets he’d composed
And if I wrote one sonnet more than he
Our names in fame would then become transposed
And so until I write one sonnet more
Than Bill, the sonnet is my favorite whore

Can I sneak past those subtle, sullen eyes
She wears while waiting just inside her door?
She is, and yet she isn’t quite, a whore.
She is, and yet she isn’t quite, my prize.
But if I wait for darkness she’ll despise
My cowardice, though I’ll despise it more,
Because I’ve got to capture her before
Her passion’s heat becomes a cool demise.
And so I steal behind her house and wait
Until my heart stops pounding so damn fast.
Although she’s bound to smell me, not to hear
My pulse, my breath—She’s standing there like bait!
With reckless haste I rush inside at last,
Surprised that I am suddenly so near.

The dead are dead and we are still alive,
Although the time will come when we will join
Our bullet-ridden brothers. Who’ll revive
This cult of blood? Who’ll flip the fateful coin?
On which side will it land, face up or down?
Is this capriciousness or simple luck
That starts or stops a farce of such renown?
They call the toss, but do they give a fuck?
The arc of flesh that blossoms from the blast,
And traces red across a hot blue sky,
Will fall too short and fall too god-damned fast
To punctuate the promise of the lie.
And Private Jones will quickly bleed to death
For nothing but a wisp of wasted breath.

I want to gather grapes among the thorns—
A fool, I know; I know I am a fool.
And yet, as surely as a mother mourns
Her children’s deaths, though death is but a tool,
I want to gather figs in tangled vines.
I think I hear the workers start to sing;
I think I hear them singing sacred lines
From something that I wrote. I want to bring
The grapes, the figs, the children, and the song—
A foolish gift to leave before the tomb.
I want to claim my right to do what’s wrong,
But find my world’s contracted to this room,
This room where all I do is read and write;
I’ve locked myself inside, now comes the night.

I passed the turn and ventured further on
Because my legs denied the older pace.
The spring in which I ran I thought was gone,
Although that didn’t seem to be the case.
The spring had come again as springs will do;
But still the memory of snow was there.
It chased my run, but I was chasing too,
The memories of future springtime air:
The taste of mist that rises from the road;
The smell of newborn leaves within the wood;
The verve that fills my lungs as I explode,
And know that springs to come will be as good.
And faster than the thought I stretched my run
Into another mile toward the sun.

This sonnet is available in my book, “26.2 Sonnets for Runners.”

The house was cold; I didn’t have much time.
I always picked the chair within the draft.
It punctuated reverie like rhyme.
I cried and cried and cried until I laughed.
The snow had drifted heavy on the west,
And flickered in the wind beneath the lamp.
I felt that I had failed some crucial test.
Although my clothes un-froze, they still felt damp.
The distant voice of love cried distant words,
And touched my broken soul without effect.
It might have been that I was reassured,
Or simply marked the absence of neglect.
And still today the house is bitter cold;
No longer middle-aged, I’m now quite old.