Fable
A mad scientist made a time machine. He put his hague of a wife into it.
A young, quite beautiful girl
Approached him at a restaurant in a few days:
It was she.
They no longer shared the memory of what they had become:
Battlers, brawlers, beaters,
Drunks and felons.
He also included in the machine some love-letters.
They returned as poised and perfect as Shakesperian sonnets;
And she was so charmed by them
When he showed them to her,
That she blushed and, kissing him passionately, never stopped.
The entire course of their future was then fixed.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Iniquities of Orndinance
I followed down a wash
My boots a little too tight;
Winding up with a deicious peace
And an angry blister.
It was on a bombing range,
Yuam County, Arizona,
Where even as an American citizen
I was tagged, watched and ostrasized.
You know about the mountain lion
With which I locked eyes there;
The she scampered off into the barrens
Double-time.
Later, on the highway looking back,
That mountain exploded,
The lion vaporiized along with my trail:
"Things that matter most must never be at the mercy of things that matter least."
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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Can't Close Ny Eyes
When the floaters float
In the crepuscule of the west
Each a gut quivering,
As toothpicks hold my eyes open
Each is gut madness
Of some day gone by.
And if they pour fear and paranoia
It's a learning experience -
Close your eyes on them,
Ripping out the toothpicks -
But at my skull they grab
And the room fills with them.
The walls visibly close in -
Everything involved in md ken,
y terror -
Like the man descibing (the best example)
Of anxiety in 'The Tell-Tell Heart',
He is my Brother, kin and ken of my own,
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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Mauseleum
Dedicated to Aries,
Vile god of war,
And duplicated by such fools
As the Masons and even some governments,
Who on earth should bother with the dead:
There are no ghosts as all, you see;
And they even if they existed
Would not care about you and me.
But the site of Hellicarnassus
Is ruins,
Like the ruined castles of the Anasazis in Arizona,
Playthings for tourists and photographers,
Not worth a dime
For any other activity,
Maybe music the single exception,
Like Ravel's 'The Tomb of Couperon',
A great affirmation of life over its own dire subject.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Sharing Samadhi
Raising a glass of water,
Holding, hold tightly and watching,
I get an idea:
Can I think non-verbally,
Merge together with an object
I meditate upon?
Starting, there are sounds,
-A distant truck
-A lad's moan somewhere
-The touch of your cat.
Now you are in this as well.
New level.
-Grrrind
-Whrrrr
-Pop!
Pop is a palindrome,
And I'm thinking verbally again.
Was it a failure?
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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Tidbit
The nights were afire
In my salad days-
I found what I was after,
Counting the ways.
The pale green flesh
I consumed made me One
With a glorified Nature;
The Native Americans & I
Fought no more forever.
The Little Big Horn
Is a dried-up gulch
Nowadays.
Let us not divide
Our rights & plights.
Let us not eat at McDonalds.
Let us not
Fall into diabetes' lot,
But sweat our bodies
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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Blue Desert
hillocks molded ancient streams
(we stay on the trail)
at night blue is black
scorpions under the moon are not
i pick up one that curls
and stings me with old words
yelp and holler
the petrified woods ablaze
frozen in the flood of time
down some of those ancient streams
(they are dimly red)
holding clues to new life
and forgotten words
writing was always there
squeezed between flower and rock
and the men who came before us
saw the same hillocks
sharper in their time
touched the same poisons
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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Dzit Bizhi Adini, I
[In the Navajo Language the
title is 'Mountain with no name.']
Part 1
Let us go, you and I,
To the Henry Mountains,
Way up high, tracking bison
At 10,000 feet; purebred bison,
That can hear our bare feet, and scatter.
No one to alarm us,
Since love has been breeding
Like the bison over the continent.
But I have to ask whether I love you:
If you are a calyx I do;
If you are but a shankshaft I don't know; if you are a morel who's to say.
And what if we happen to intertwine,
High on sunlit limestone porches, in those
Nameless Mountains.
Would the bison be
Aware?
poem by Stan Petrovich
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If Lost
the vermillion cliffs rise
at an impossible angle
at an implacable distance
home to the hierarchy
of golden eagle and turkey vulture alike
from the top there are no new
trails down - being the pariah plateau
where only the selfinflicted go
& tangle through the brush
of the edgy forest
and nonindigenous manzanita
reminding them they don't belong there
either
if you find yourself lost in trees
do nothing halfheartedly
if paths are to find
they are the age of mankind
they may lead to lower ground
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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Whan The Final Sun Comes
When the last srteaks of the glorious
Red-bloated sun envelop the earth,
All is forgotten:
The bluebell patterns on simple skirts,
The porcelan china baked in the fround;
Sexual normakcy, deviant sexuality,
Walk-off grand slams,
Monsters beheading monsters'.
Contrarily the best of charity
Ever conceived, man unto man,
Woman unto woman; we to animals:
All lives forever.
Is there nothing to follow?
Debates among the sage still rage.
I prefer a compendium of All,
Of All likes and dislakes,
A new ball
Stuck in a distant galaxy'
As yet unnamed.
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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