Chopsticks for Eating Peyote
Ah! Chopsticks: sign of civilization.
Peyote, psychelicious not.
The scupulously vile-tasting cactus,
Mushy and light green,
Queen of the desert, holding the treasure,
Of incandescent reality,
Of astral projection on earth,
Of extra-sensory projection
That really, like, freaks me out.
Out-of-touch with what is,
One is free to roam the 2
Dimensions of the tracing hand,
The tiger burning bright,
The lunar madness of a single step into the dark.
The crossroads lead nowhere
But to the heart of matter,
An hallucinated suspension bridge,
All-enduring,
Reassembling the brain,
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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Miss the Mountains
I pine for eternal snows -
hanging higher when draped in white;
Whe I went there and my breath blew
hard and visible, I derided city life:
the belching buses, the encapsulated airplanes;
Where are these people going anyway?
What vacuum is sucking their heads dry?
Where is is wrttten that they cannot enjoy
a simple dawn, and foresee what can be done with life?
In lieu of mesmerizing clocks, adjusted
by governments; damned be Ben Franklin,
who it is said jokingly inventede 'saving' time...
Lousy joke that, as it kills the lovelorn hills
Grasping twilight that comes too late
in the polluted summer dew.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Alone
He put the gum in his right
lower pocket, where it belonged;
The Certs in this heat melted, staining his right
upper pocket, a crying shame.
The green stone went in his left
upper pocket along with the key to nothing;
the robin's egg nestled in his left
lower pocket but never hatched.
He crisscrossed the flats between
the two rocky spires and, every day,
wished he had a compass
or to find anything that could control
his life's motion.
But he never found that thing,
except for thre head-bones of a cow,
and he could not contrive a place
for them, so he buried them and mourned:
Later on he died alone.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Red-Hook Talisman
'Either you are on our side,
Or you are our enemy.'
Fire can fall from the sky,
And death shall be plentiful.
There are machines.
There are machines with magic eyes;
They curl and coil
And whip up a striking angle,
A desperate death to you all;
Summery death before the Fall.
This joker thought the Marines
Should not defend the right for our kids
To puncture themselves,
With studs and metal clips (or whatever they do) ,
You would rather they wear fatigues? I asked.
What's wrong with that, the fool questioned.
He is military might,
Blind of sight,
Parading as a poet;
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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Licking the Toad I
'Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.'
Tennessee Williams
That first wanderer who ate the peyote cactus
That reeks in the mouth like a filthy sock
Spread the news among the tribes who had discovered the
Mushrooms that made them see through reality-
And in South America there are jungles rife
With altering vines, corroborant herbs;
Many many many
Teaching that the gods live only through us, not above,
Because we can create worlds upon worlds in our reeling minds
While reading the thoughts and fears of others.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Michele, the Next President of the US
A growing network of total insanity
Pervades the South and the North.
I would take some quotes of Bachmann,
Put them forth,
But they could and should sicken
The strongest of men;
So grab a pen,
Look them up,
You won't need notes,
Even if you don't throw up!
She is ahead in a few states;
Misguided idiots they have to be:
She doesn't know the fig from the tree.
There are the rednecks who,
Like her,
Advocate a return to slavery,
Advocate unemployment so they can get their worthless asses elected,
And feed off the misery of the masses.
They cannot be allowed to succeed,
Even if we had to banish her to Crete.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Cochise Stronghold
All things add up to zero.
It matters not if you reside high above the lawless boulders,
Or how happily your days are spent
For now,
Soon they must come:
Officers, Indians, fangs and fungus,
That which tears between the bones.
Little does it mean if you sit cross-legged and naked,
Or use an iron drying pan,
A day spent happily in play
Will at given times turn to venom, and stay.
Then autumn breezes will flow
Right through the thin skin,
A blue breeze, a breeze that says farewell.
The null set is then:
And it is not unpleasant
For a life well-lived;
But a terror-torrent for those who only take
And do not give.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Jack-In-The-Box
Hi, I'm God. It's dark, lonely and quiet in here, now,
On this dusty shelf.
No more children to come and twist me to life;
I used to thrive at that,
Popping out and making them laugh!
Now, nothing.
But yesterday, something-
A mouse came by and straddled my handle:
If only it he had pulled down...
I could have given it a terrible fright.
But now the silent night;
And my red and white striped shirt keeps me not a bit warm.
I long for the sun to flow on the shelf;
I wish I could play with myself,
But I am without hands;
Only the hope to be seen by a passing boy,
Who will be curious,
Who will think I'm only a toy.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Kiss
What began in stone-marble perfection,
Eyelids a-touch,
Mouths wide open,
Clambered for much,
Remembrance unspoken,
His hand on her knee,
Excellent panoply,
Frozen in time and memory;
For they felt an inordinate thrill
Lasting an Age,
Carved with living hands.
On the rickety scaffold that bent,
And when it finally went,
The lovers remained
Broadcasting no shame.
Look at the various angles,
And their lips remain entangled
In a light and airy eroticism,
Beyond any critic's criticism.
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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Bronze Sea Statue
We resided in the Colossus of Rhodes.
Like for an eternity,
Smelling the iron rust;
Worrying on a daily basis
If the apes of the SunGod would come and
Run us through.
We made plans as we made love
In the sweltering
Labyrinth of the gigantic body.
Finally one day the ground shook,
And even Ptolemy could not affect our future:
Those dread men of the sword spied
Our nakedness on the shore,
And although their life would now be brief,
They attacked us with vigor and vengeance,
Because they thought we were the fallen ones,
Which we were.
Slain contemporaries of the wonder of the world,
Who had no words to speak
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poem by Stan Petrovich
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