Scalar Message In A Bottle

What if we could take our
video games
off with our gender?

What does that mean?

What if we could
take our gender off?
Going into
the markets of
market capitalism
that
needs labels and names
for everything
partitioned, divided, sold, and
discarded cheaply
underneath
the solar star sun.

What if the sun
demanded itself destruction
for all underneath it
that has underwhelmed
it?

What are these movings
of waves
and energy?

What is this
end to
the binary peoples
and
their binary civilizations?

Why did they
form their civilizations to be binary
when the sun
and all underneath it
are gradients,
scalar principles,
infinite stepping?

Transistors made here
can perform
stepping sequences,
but the people here cannot,
they cannot do this
mentally, nor emotionally.

So they will
die
and they will
destroy their planet.

The Poverty O Everyone

We stopped at the edge of town,
saw ourselves weeping,
eating our meal for the day
underneath dusty summer air
and the paint chips of oak tree shadows.
The ranch lifestyle we live
with value meals and escapism.
It’s all so much bigger out here
when we take to the road with car,
fellow conscripts of celebrities and story,
along this caravan of want and wanting.
I have participated,
traded the Native American-gold-U.S. dollar.

By the end of your french fries,
your hands covered in grease,
to the town, a sink, a bed,
before you rise and work the grocery aisles.
We’ll return to the burned fields of wheat,
sharing small talk and crooked jaw talk
about the government.

You ask me if I’ve seen,
I ask you if you’ve seen…
Something that’s passed us by
we watch on TV.

Into The Town

If I go down into the town,
where the Wal-Mart and Taco Bell await,
let me buy
what others have bought.
I want to have what others have.
Let me follow.
Be a follower.
Be an American.
A Republican or Democrat.
Be a man, always look like one.
Drive a truck.
But if they talk,
if they come to talk to me,
I am me, I have my shotgun,
get out of my way, leave me be.
I am tough.
But, what are they up to?
The collection of cells, organs,
and the latest trends from the internet.
Fight for your life,
fight for your family.
Leave me alone.

Something My Father Taught Me

Something my father taught me

was always have enough water

in your house

so that if your water supply got cut off

you would have enough water

to keep you hydrated long enough

to make a trek on foot

to your nearest town

and get to a convenience store

and take by force, if necessary,

however much water you needed,

using a tactical shotgun for persuasion.

Credo Nathan Mumbled

Onst poverty I can’ts buy
the best of the cheap bread;
with American Express®,
the premium brands,
for women
their panty hose,
silk blouses for breasts,
steak dinners times ten.

Where do I go to apply
for luxuries and convenience,
and I may not qualify?
Will a government agency help me
live thee up to standards?

The liberty to possess
and use
American Express®
is attained by honor;

this is not a threat.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from Antipoémus (poetry book)

Faux Paella

There’s something called a faux paella.
I make it when nobody’s looking.
I take my girlfriend down to the beach.
Yeah yeah yeah.
The faux paella . . . fuh fuh fuh,
faux paella!

It sits on a window seal in a dish.
The cops on the street look up at it.
The encyclopedia doesn’t dare speak of it.
The faux paella.

Now after it’s been cooked the process is finished.
You fake what’s been done in a pan – in a pot.
The priest is restrained and also well beaten.
O holy lake of fire.
The Holy Spirit jumps up out of it.
Toss it in an oven in between breathing.
Some people spill it on the beach.
Faux paella.
Yeah yeah yeah.
Faux paella!

The police are here to arrest all of you.
Faux paella!
Oh yes, faux paella!

I gnash my teeth and bash out windows.
Oh my Lord,
not again, not in my friend’s car,
the bombs are loud, the smoke is blue.
The faux paella!

News of a new war.
The faux paella!
The economy’s not doing good.
That’s the faux paella!
Arm the national police force
with the faux paella.

The faux paella . . . fuh fuh fuh,
faux paella!

Economics And Repugnancies

Get me out of this
Outback Steakhouse.

It is not in the outback.
Nor is it a steakhouse.

If Jenny from 3rd period English
is there,
it will be too much
to watch the plasticine moment
of people purchasing
something that doesn’t exist.

If I sit there and watch the plates
come in,
I will watch them,
watch them bring nothingness.

Jenny’s supple breasts evoke
trances
just like women and children
as items on TV,
or like fathers
with chiseled chins and parted hair
riding shiny new lawnmowers.

Economies are made to make
shit like this.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin