Jubilee: a call for the cancellation of every debt worldwide (2015 couplets)

A jubilee for every debt worldwide
gives fictive numbers nowhere else to hide
& would not kill skilled hands nor bulldoze plants
nor blow up railroad ties nor *rip your pants.
A sort of magic lantern show just stops
& the collective jawbone drops.
I think our jubilee a worthy goal,
especially of countries in the hole.
Geometric, twilit curves of debt
are like unto a broken hammer. Fret
not & just throw a hammer such as that away.
We then continue going on our way.
Let’s reset, replace the broken hammer
though it raise a tumult & a clamor. 
Burst, lance, rip apart the pimple
that will someday pop itself. It’s simple. 

* Health Warning: The bit about "ripping your pants" is more than a bit optimistic.

Walpurgisnacht: (2015 "a law of conservation of" in human history)

It seems Walpurgisnacht
can neither be created nor destroyed;
for scarcely had the Knights returned from Palestine
when Inquisition and then Witch Trials 

started torturing confessions     
“Yea, I flew my broom to Sabbath Night!
The Lord of Darkness was an he goat!”
(emphasis on ex!clam!a!tion)
out of writhing innocents

& then burning them alive,
(which they would never do to pigs or chickens,
which is known as “overcooking”).
They were practicing a form of human sacrifice 
known as “burnt offering”.

It smelled like sweet & sour pork 
before it smelled like charcoal...
It was Hell on Earth!
The mob was chittering like imps.

Then, when the courts began to get suspicious,
colonies took up the slack.
They drained off chaff & wheat alike abroad
to leer self-righteously at Temples of the Sun.

Descendants of Witchfinder Generals
are still paranoid about those 
toxoplasma gondii-infected people,
but they give them toxic psychotropics
in their homes these days
instead of burning them alive in public.
        
The Crusades is now the War on Terror,
and the fractious Trinitarians are now climatologists.

  

White Sun (2009 poem)

Forking quietude, transversely bridging

Branches on the human category

Tree, aligns with veering vantage points of

Indices of synonyms & difference 

Between levels of the mind; that is, of

Thought this winding wind & whirling abode.

O white sun, bright white, fog-cloaked sun!

Light light far dissipating, perilous -- 

Through fogs of warfare, past Where Dragons Be --

Escapes mere wounded hours, fueling us

So briefly... Joy as deafening & still

As battle slumbers in axial points.

It is the number of men (2012 poem)

Intensifying resource exploitation tries

to save a currency before it dies

of faith, faith in the markets, faith in loan sharks

and their longhorn debtors, faith in shadowed sparks,

Faith! Faith! another era will not arise.

But I myself stare skeptically at all men

and their geometrically-abundant din

on Earth of boom and bust and wonder... how much

longer... How much longer can men do it, clutch

Rare Earths in primate talons, cold to the touch.

Metal Lightning (2015 quatrains)

Much like a yeast made out of light,
it moved as if it had a mind.
It pulsed across their line of sight
and made me wonder: of what kind?

And are there metal lightnings there
blue composites of living fire
arrayed in troupes across the air?
I visualize a sort of wire,

a sort of vacuum tube of air,
with a short circuit for a death
They stopped their BBQ to stare,
unconsciously to hold their breath.

Perhaps in troupes among the skies,
ball lightning sleeps, dreams, wakes, & glides
has children, lives as well as fries.
Perhaps a bigger mystery hides

among the clouds than discoid ships
whose grayish sailors with big heads 
sail vacuum on cow rustling trips
& kidnap people from their beds. 

Shaking Couplets (2015 couplets)

One sees so many categories in this light,
subcategories lighting dawn with height
of heath. One sees so many different lights
between one's mind’s eye & the sights.
It brightens up the very room I’m in
myself & shaking fumble for my pen.
Dictation is columnar fire & cloud.
The eidolon is at its best. The crowd
goes savage like a distant crash of waves,
a sort of scenery as at the raves.

Suspension of the givens (2014 poem)

There is no situation but can be
transfigured from within, herein
suspension of the givens
mid, among dilating weeks.
I’m involuting something sounder than a sign
at 1AM like blasting off
somewhere in time and space,
and whole wherever that is.
Yes, there is no turning back,
and wind is like a sculpture of the moon.

Midsummers Break (2014 poem)

There is a blue ring round the Moon,
& then a thicker bright cream ring,
and I am running round myself
for blue & bright cream rings
and tunneling through rich, dense air.

Endorphins, mobilize! Soul, strike like lightning!
For, I'm free!!

*Terms & Conditions apply.
One's freedom lasts a fortnight.
Invalid in the following non-WorldGov territories:
North Korea, Russia, China, Venezuela, Cuba & Iran.