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Burnt Offerings At The Improvised Temple Mount [Today's News Poem, November 6, 2010]

Burnt Offerings At The Improvised Temple Mount [Today's News Poem, November 6, 2010]

Inscribe a message for yourself
And beggar neighbor as thyself.
Uncertainty's a chalice filled
With paper—burn it. Offer ash,
Your faith, to equilibrium.
For fire is never far from fashion,
And streets can stage revival shows.
While glass can hold a liquid, shards
Are likelier with cans ablaze:
It's broken, still, it holds a shape
Of use upon this temple mound.

"Ben S. Bernanke, the Federal Reserve chairman, continued on Saturday to rebut critics who feared the central bank’s latest bid to stimulate the economy could trigger dangerous inflation down the line and antagonize other countries by weakening the dollar."
—SEWELL CHAN, The New York Times, Published: November 6, 2010
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/07/business/economy/07fed.htm

"Looking out her front window in a usually quiet residential neighborhood in this city, Deanna Goldstein's knees began to shake. More than 100 protesters were hemmed in by police in riot gear. A trash can was blazing on the street. "I came home early from downtown to get away from the craziness, but the craziness came to me," she said."
—Associated Press, 2 hours ago, as of 1:10pm PST, 11/6/2010
http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5he91v4QhLUNNA1JbUoqR-QaTdsDw?docId=5771d280dc464bee8dc899d6344a40d9



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The Fantastic Mechanical Museum of Coin Operated Flesh [Bonus Poem From Archives]

The Fantastic Mechanical Museum of Coin Operated Flesh

I) Should the Predictions of Anti-Feces Futurists Come True
As goes feces, so too goes our species.
Pygmalion science, in defiance
Of evolution, makes the poop solution:
Decrease the torso; remove the guts. Ease
From reliance on old toilet contrivance:
We'll all shun that old anal pollution.

II) The Museum and the Moral Hazard of Cybernetics
Obsolete body parts made into art:
Electro-stim intestines take a swim
With electric eels: aquarium surreal.
See the spine in a cart! The anus that farts!
The prim with their hymns call it Satan's new whim—
A weak appeal, to new men, made of steel.
--
First appeared in Toylit #2, 2001

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Brain In A Vat In A Bed With You [#twitterfoundpoem, November 6, 2010]

Brain In A Vat In A Bed With You [#twitterfoundpoem, November 6, 2010]
Tweets+Edits=#twitterfoundpoem

I was in bed with you.
noticed your body,
me with my brains in a jar.
while the scent of your skin
seemed to be so sweet and unforgettable,
like some foreign flower.
im keeping my brains in a jar for you,
and You're welcome for everything you have done for you.
I want to throw up over the ramparts of bed,
and Just die and rot alone!
I've noticed my aging and noticed your face/body,
topless, it was just not the world brains referred me.
my brains in a jar with the scent of your skin
beside me, in bed. in dream, you emerged
from the ramparts of bed.
I too emerged from a bed to my childhood
bed Where I read and you emerged
in my bed like some foreign flower
before I SUBMERGE in to death
in my death bed of dream
Where I drown in a vat of my brains and dream
and rot alone!

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