The Rip Post                                                                                              


The word is heard.
We are running down the street
jabbering lies, claiming we are gods,
or at least that we have a close
personal relationship with the
saviors of the 13 parallel universes.

We wore neckties and solicited
donations for the liberation of
equilibrium and we balanced
ourselves atop teetering stilts,
all the while spinning plates.

The remedies are worse than the illness
of late the dawn crackles with shrillness
new morning and motes of food stuck
between the keys, jackals yelping amid
the reeds, tyrants chuckling prophetic screeds.

Heard on the streets, mileage per gallonage,
excess baggage ragtag razzmatazzage,
feaster or famine easter egg carnage,
gift for words or vapid blarneyage.
Act your age, crack your skull, wage slaves,
digging graves, open air buzzard's stage,
sticks in my gizzard, sticks in my craw,
baby, let's get hitched and live in Utah.

Ego is the ultimate illusionist, does not exist,
remarks were made about failure to resist
the temptations of vanity, news and other insanities,
walking down the boulevard chanting profanities

Sunday church place is space for that,
worshipping dead gods, inventing salutes for
sojourners from beyond the cosmoses,
such a dainty feast, snacks for microbes,
trapped again in the orb web woven by
the mistress illusionist dubbed Life,
assist if you can, resist if you can't.
Fine tune your thinking and emotional retinue
and you might dial up, breathe in the truth.
                       ---Jack Oakes

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