poetry

The Vampire Squid From Hell

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Hell’s ninth circle,

Cocytus,

was very different from the previous eight-

marked by eternal darkness,

freezing cold,

and pervasive lonesomeness.

Denied contact,

denied comfort,

denied death,

all within are peers,

with Earth’s

worst-of-the-worst,

as even the Devil himself

shares this fate.

In the ocean,

in depths so great,

not even light reaches,

lives Vampyroteuthis Infernalis:

Vampire Squid From Hell.

Black Sheep of the family

Vampyroteuthis’ environment

Demands no siphon,

Demands no camouflage,

Demands no color,

but, nevertheless, they make due,

and use the familiar deception,

to get by.

Bright blue,

pulsing photophores,

at the top of its head,

and tips of its tentacles

bring light,

to its dreary life,

and dissuade the monsters,

lurking in the shadows,

from attack.

It wraps,

its tentacles around its body,

exposing the bristles underneath,

to keep more brave beasts at bay.

But when it’s in real trouble,

it squirts ink,

thick and glary,

alive with dazling bacteria,

and closes the glowing “eyes”

on top of its head,

to foster the misconception,

it has gotten away.

The Vampire Squid,

cares little for your perception,

because what’s in a name?

It uses the hand it’s dealt,

and finds its daily bread,

by any means necessary.

You’d be Surprised

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At the open-air bazaar of ideas hangs

A smog of apocrypha,

So thick,

You could bottle it,

For any one eager and gullible enough,

To buy.

Yet filtering the miasma,

Of misinformation,

For its kernels of truth,

Shows how easy it is,

For certainty to be crowded-out

by lies.

It covers your face,

With thick soot,

The smell lingers

And stains your clothes-

The gasses

will burn your eyes.

But just because the truth is scarce,

Does not mean it’s not worth the trouble,

Of uncovering-

Keep your hazmat suit handy,

And your goggles on.

Prospecting is a hard days work,

For little pay,

But, nevertheless,

You will find it enriching

If you see it through.

Ransomware

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With one careless,

errant click,

the line I cast

with which to phish

has gotten a bite.

I seemed to be his boss “Theresa” —

but with an “e”

at the end.

He completed his normal routine

without another thought,

like a good worker would,

sent me his credentials —

when I felt the time was right,

I reeled him in.

His company put all their eggs in one basket,

so I decided,

to scramble them.

For a small fee,

I will unencrypt,

What they so graciously

gave me,

at my own discretion.

Phishing is not a contact sport,

it is not fraught with danger,

you can lounge in your robe,

and not leave your seat.

Still,

it’s not for the faint of heart.

What webs we weave,

when we practice to deceive,

but at least there’s some money in it.

Planned Obsolescence

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You can put lipstick on a pig,

but at the end of the day,

the shade may just go out of style,

because of controversey

over animal-testing.

I’m telling you this,

on perhaps the most important invention

of our time,

using architecture and infrastructure,

built by brilliant minds

and billions of tax dollars-

that is being sold back to you monthly,

bundled with cable TV and a landline,

that serve as expensive

background noise,

A smartphone accomplishes all of this,

Just don’t let it shatter, bend or explode.

Cars these days,

are safer than ever before,

because fender-benders,

smash their plastic bumpers,

spiderweb-crack their Plexiglas,

and collapse their every crumple zone,

like an empty tissue box,

to be thrown in the trash,

and left out on the curb every Tuesday.

It’s very hard

To practice what you preach,

When screaming,

“Waste not want not,”

While standing at the summit,

Of your own personal

massive garbage heap.

War Games

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Three TU-95s,

Proudly announcing,

Their arrival,

With droning,

Moaning,

Turbines,

Heard for miles.

A flying fossil,

One should not sleep-on,

And is impossible to ignore-

You’ve already heard it,

Long before,

It’s dropped its ordinance.

Four engines- eight props,

Send “The Bear,”

Roaring through the sky,

To survey the territory.

Edging up,

To other’s airspace,

It’s the same old song and dance,

As six cutting-edge stealth-jets,

escort the old Bear,

back from whence it’s came,

Just stopping by to say “hello,”

And keep you on your toes.

Dark was the Night, Cold was the Ground

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Maybe some day,

The whole world will know my name,

Hang on my every word,

Hum, clap, dance and nod to my songs,

But tonight, I just strum on my cigar box.

Maybe some day,

I’ll travel all over Texas,

Or leave this state,

On a cross-country tour,

Cap it all off with a worldwide voyage,

But tonight, for anyone in earshot, I’ll just strum on my cigar box.

Maybe some day,

I’ll be all over the radio,

The stars themselves would dance,

Because I’ve gone platinum,

Hell, I’d settle for gold,

But tonight, for anyone who’ll stick around, I’ll just strum on my cigar box.

Olm

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Life in the undercurrent,

isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

If I could still see,

I’d tell you all about it.

But I’m not complaining, believe me,

I get by.

No one bothers you down here,

unless they’re really asking for it.

Lazily,

though I prefer “efficiently,”

Sliding through nooks and crannies.

I spend my time,

sidewinding,

along dark-as-night,

limestone-lined,

walls to find,

fissures filled with my friends,

hopefully I’ll be the first to find food.

Life here is slow, simple,

beautiful in its brutality,

we’re up to our necks,

in fresh,

cold water,

and little else.

I wish I could tell you more,

or give you some clues,

but you can’t see what I do.

Troubleshooting

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After a few quick scans

I’ve found it in myself

to put together a damage estimation,

And hold in my hands,

Some summons, subpoenas and citations.

*Ahem*

Cracked two teeth on prickly pear pits,

From breakfast,

Scuffed-up my running shoes which didn’t fit,

3 toes stubbed,

Forearms covered in thorns,

From when I tripped into the shrubs.

Bumps on my crown,

From fallen acorns,

During the post workout cool-down.

And bruised shins,

I think I just woke up with.

Would plead no contest,

But won’t bother showing up to my court date.

I am,

Henceforth,

Placing myself on house arrest,

As my own harshest critic,

Judge, jury and executioner.

Verbena

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Soothing clover,

Smoothing over,

Lingering soreness.

Warm tea,

Is all your senses

take in.

You can’t find it in you to panic,

About the day,

Anxieties melt away,

Nothing left to say,

Just watching the morning.

Sometimes meditation 

Is part of your routine–

Sometimes you do it 

as soon as you 

awaken.

Sometimes you do it,

In the middle

Of an intense run.

Sometimes you do it

while you eat

your morning oatmeal.

Just being there

For right now

Is all the relief

you need.

Cult-Classics

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Night falls,

As Ana slides open the screen-door,

And snuck into her house with her friends,

While her parents 

sleep peacefully,

Unaware of tonight’s meeting.

The following entered single file,

Approached the shelf,

gathered around,

And pored over

the needed materials.

Meticulously,

They made their selections,

Offerings that each member agreed to.

Each had their own predilections

Toward eighties ultra violence,

Black comedy,

Or pre-recorded VHS tapes,

Of since-cancelled television,

With commercial breaks,

Intact.

“Cut the lights,”

The time has come

for another sleepless night,

Sitting entranced.

Volume at near-silence,

Doors tightly shut,

Muffling cheers for the anti-hero,

Laughter and schadenfreude,

Shuffling seats,

To avoid

potential tut-tuts

Of disgruntled authority.