Three Ages For Women

A middle aged woman
driving underneath a
midsummer’s thunderstorm
in a Kia hatchback.

She used to be attractive,
but now she doesn’t see
women who look like her
in the magazines these days.

She’s a teacher.

Had her hand chopped off
in a combine
working in cornfields in Kansas
as a teenager.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Spell

Who’s been noticing
the urine stains in my underwear?
Who requested
the memories that I lost?
Who’s been etching a rock
upon is claimed “there is asylum”?

. . . the Apostles?

Who cuts the grass
when the current lawn boy moves away
(not from this place, but from himself)?
Will the next lawn boy stay,
and find meditation
in his chores of repetition?

. . . all of us . . . do we?

Who fed me sodium all my life?
In amounts extreme;
an addiction to such spice
my liver must I trust.

The timbers of my blood have fallen.
Do you have the courage of imagination
to raise them?
Do you know the conifer-king of
ionized ever-greens?

. . . only one;
the answer or the question,
the human or the animal.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

As Brother

I’ve gone beyond the walls,
beyond the walls of Athens

to smoke my cigarette

with the Arabs, the Africans, and Persians.

Though I go not here to
turn on Athens,
to show no one the entrance into her,

but to be with these ones as other,
to smoke with them
as brother,
in the hours of the citrus sun,
the yellow, the gold, the white, and red,

for those of us who have arms and legs.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin

The Sun Prince’s Wife

You left me laying on the bed
with the dildo.

Darkness had fallen
and all the lights were off.

I woke up naked
and alone.

My mouth was dry.

The quiet desert sat outside the
hotel room.

A lone sparrow chirped in the
distance.

Krixba Star

Fruit in the night
by my solitary self
is freedom
the nationed ones cannot know

the nationed ones look to windows
to know
counting through filters
what one is to be told

revive the baptisms of the satellites

the nationless does know
the fruit in the night
and
what love can spell

how love knows to hold bones
or tell them
the truth of
what home is

Gilgamesh Anno Domini

I kill God today,
“Odd”, it said my father,
“You live, but not in the House of Vacations.”
The jungle we can bend
with the credit cards we’ve rented
to make it to L.A.,
the journey to the Capitol
of the Good-life’s consciousness.
To see God bathe
as He who has His form and penis.
The Murderers by His pool!
By His devoted architecture!

“Odd”, it said my mother,
you live but not in my house,
for you, my son, have killed God today.

The People Ad Infinitum

Suddenly there was a gas.
People ran out into the street to
celebrate the banks.
“The banks are here!
They are not leaving!
They have our money!”

They cheered loudly and started
collecting money.
They placed the money in a big pile
and had Big Mike bring his flatbed
truck over
to haul the money away to the bank.
The money has intrinsic value that
gives inflation meaning.
A lot of people had Kool-Aid stains
around their mouths.
They were yelling, giving each other
high fives.
Big Mike honked his horn as he drove away.
Who took the money?
Suddenly there was a flash and a loud noise.
Everyone collected themselves and their items.
They went inside their houses
and pulled down their shades and turned
on their TVs.
The Super Bowl was on.
Lots of really cool television
commercials shined that night.
A lot of people had Kool-Aid stains
around their mouths.
Everyone has to pay taxes.
You can’t cheat death, not with that
level of personal worth.
And Jesus, Leroy, isn’t someone always
watching you?

A Place Of Resistance

I went to seek out a place of resistance,
but naught did the grasses lay,
for the buffalo roamed and roamed
under stars for the ages
where the sky sheltered their freedom.

Then drove the human in cars and
diesels by road
over a summer eve’s gale of storm.

Stopping and staring, pointing and
glaring, the grasses and flowers and
trees were no more,
replaced by warehouses, chain stores,
and matters of volume,

from the age of the gods a new era
was born.

We sit in our homes.
Our forebears vanquished.
No questions for
the origin of words and intentions.

The stars no longer wave with the hay.
The humans are no longer made of the
stars.

Our Romanticism

The moons in trident,
werewolves in lingerie,
the New World is coming,
the New World is coming.

The big metal machines,
the plastic little molds,
they’re pumping them out,
the big metal machines,
the plastic little molds.

I asked you to come to a log cabin,
the place in a green Oregon forest,
but this was a vacation in retrospect,
a vacation for Two Thousand Ten.

There under three moons
General Electric® hid forever.
A United States Military hiding-cavern,
pine needles on the forest floor.

You taking them out,
you smashing their heads,
Mossacio’s screaming descendants,
Adam and Eve,
smashing their heads.

On the stones in a pine forest,
the River Clackamas down below.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
from:
antipoémus thumbnail image Antipoémus (poetry book)