MJ-PP12

Was Michael Jackson killed?

Why does this matter?

Did Michael Jackson live?

Who’s seen the farthest star?

An astrophysicist, a human.

Who’s moved that rock
on
a tomb
so far away from here?

Does Michael Jackson live?

His hands turn the stone, the tool.

Who is writing time?

Priscilla Presley shapes what
she often wants.

She reshapes the Universe,

her glorious beacon,

the projector of dark into light.

Her glorious beacon-lit brow.

 

Poetry from tewkMehrtin.com

Sleep With Books

I sleep with books.

Electricity plagues the

howlers dreams

wanting of what is shown

and things

the moment becomes

a want of one thing

then the next

the next status

celebrity

big opportunity

gotta be a thought leader

drilling into the brain

who has noticed me.

But I shut my fucking

mouth

put away those electric screens

breathe in through the nose

heart beating calm

in a house with lots of wood

and at night

I sleep with books.

Night Run Syntax

I went to the night
and I wanted to run
further and further
into the star fields above.
Into the past.
Past my own people
and their adoration of
gender and tyrants,
drunk on power,
desperate without it.

For
the people here are slaves
to desperation.

Insignificant in space,
yet precious in form.

How
can we live content
as dust?

How
can we live
and then take
our form again,
in some manner,
some way?

Further and further
into the star fields above,

I lust.
I pray.
I send signals their way.

Poetry from tewkMehrtin.com

Solaris Hymn 40

This mortal earth
aside
the millionaire denies it,
the egotist claims her
and in missing the light,
shadows,
and calculus
of Solaris,
the revelation of suffering
avoids them.

So they only pass,
leaving unloved children
to repeat their wrath
and continue
the cycles of mortals.

O hold up you high
Piraeus’ glass at midday
and know
the wealth of nothingness.

Socrates is there
with wild hair
on the bed made by slaves
still dreaming.

Sappho is dead, just dead.
Her corpse wrapped in
loins.

Poetry from tewkMehrtin.com

Economics And Repugnancies

Get me out of this
Outback Steakhouse.

It is not in the outback.
Nor is it a steakhouse.

If Jenny from 3rd period English
is there,
it will be too much
to watch the plasticine moment
of people purchasing
something that doesn’t exist.

If I set there and watch the plates
come in,
I will watch them,
watch them bring nothingness.

Jenny’s supple breasts evoke
their trances
just like women and children
as items on TV,
or like the fathers
with chiseled chins and parted hair
riding shiny new lawnmowers.

Economies are made to make
shit like this.

Poetry from tewkMehrtin.com

Change And The Cosmos

We are old souls.

We don’t have children.

The Earth is changing.

God bless,
it will wipe us all away.

We’ve had many children before.

They will live elsewhere.

Somewhere else
in the Stars.


Poetry from tewkMehrtin

Morality And Mortality

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

Portions of me
were an orange from Valencia.

Portions of me
spoke to my classmates
in an auditorium in college.

Portions of me
walked through the Agora
at midday
with pieces of billion year old
dust all around.

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

You turn your eyes away from
these words.

You’re wrong too.

The evening sky burns pink and
orange.

: : Poetry from tewkMehrtin

All-In-One

We call it an all-in-one.

It brings the world to me;

to ME.

It alters my view.

The world is now.

The world is now me.

It helps me see this.

This is what I see.


– poetry from tewkMehrtin.com

Without Time Machines

I will love you with your
genital herpes.
I promise I am valiant
and cannot find
the likes of such a woman
during any of the decades
before disease,

cannot find the man that makes
the machine
that makes disease,

but I understand the CIA
is hiring the best,
my dear lady, J. Edgar Hoover.

Poetry from tewkMehrtin.com

Not Agenda

I see the inhumane shapes
of women in shop windows.

I know that God exists.

I have to know that God exists

. . . as I see the inhumane shapes
of women in the shop windows.

Things cannot be made,
such as the shapes of women
in the shop windows.

These are of infinity,
burned perfectly in neurons,
and they are not agenda.

– poetry from tewkMehrtin.com