Sink Hole Appears in Lawn of Wisc. Dells Library

liberry Poet says:

Poem==A sink hole appeared in the lawn
(The posting page here splits lines where no splits are meant to be, fyi)

A sink hole appeared in the lawn

of the local li-berry: garden of forbidden fruits,
and the crackers-of-nuts, and mind-shutters
flung like cow dung into the great tornado’s wind,
where the Wizard of Oz meets Suleyman in quiet
battle for the souls of all men, and where children
watch, and listen, and play the same old games
their great-great grandpappies played so joyfully.
Right here, smack dab in the middl’a Wisconsin,
home of Socialists and lakes, and blue skies,
a gaping yawn in a green lawn, and
the neighbors’ insurance policies don’t cover
earth movements, the broker said.
Now they’re adding soil to the sinking ground
as if some stop gap crap could stand
in the way of our natural decline.
But $15,000 bucks the town hadn’t budgeted for
got stuck like a Band-Aid over the wound,
in hopes the whole damn building wouldn’t
plummet into gehenna’s fires, dark and mysterious,
or down, down, down get sucked into the black pit
that cracked open when Moses smashed
the Law on all the sinners’ heads,
and the priests went house to house, and door
to door in search of the wicked destined for death.
Judgment and death, death and judgement:
maybe the ground is going to swallow all
those people who keep their noses planted
in all the wrong, ungodly books? Perhaps
Jesus, or some huge warrior angel is gonna
unleash his giant wings and zap the whole useless town
for allowing such trash to line its shelves,
such litter in the minds of the young and deceived
who can’t understand the difference between
a tit or a breast or a boob or a chest that is hairy,
but Darwin said we should have progressed by now,
or did he really? All his fans are too busy saying
what he said — a holler’n and a-whoop’n up a good storm
so loud it would’a scared the animals on Noah’s ark,
kinda like God’s great thunder in the deep and the dark
when the waves of the ocean crash against the little rocks
we stupid, hopeful creatures toss between the path
of the mighty sea and God’s wrath – so folks don’t read
for themselves what the dead man wrote, his words
like old fossils that jump out atcha and scream “BOO,�
like Ridley in that book where the niggers get framed,
and the good folks ain’t all white. It scares some people,
the Truth. Not enough to scare the hell out’vem, but
enough to get’m to stop what their doing, at least until
folks stop look’n at em and they can slink off into the dark
and practice any damned deed they want. The preacher says
“The Devil comes on the pages of a book,� and he’s right.
But so does God and Light and reams of thought that pour
out like water from a spicket that won’t shup its bubbalin up,
not even if the dang fire department comes by and douses it
with FIRE, or pokes an old, bony finger into the hole,
as though the Danes could ever hold back the sea.
Instead of hiding in the bathroom, desperate and sweaty,
now the gays lie down in between the covers and give blow jobs
to each other right there in the presence of ladies and gentlemen
who go home and do the things the kids see in the pictures
of body books they swipe off the shelves and stuff
in their pants, like little naughty Federal officials
who steal secrets and tell lies, and get away with it.
If Samson came back to Wisconsin maybe he’d be read’n
about Delilah, or that little pagan hooker he poked around in
with that big Jewish club’a his– big, smiling, uncircumcised heart
staring down at the filthy dog whose kin were about to lose
their minds, their skulls crushed by the jawbone of an ass.
If Shakespeare visited it would be tragic to see
how the critics would treat him – too old, they’d say,
at least the dumb ones would, and the rest of em, the wise,
would go hide their heads in the sand and give up writing,
and just begin to listen more. Listen to the breeze
that blows, to the short, unique, sounds of birds,
or the farts of elephants that go thumping through the forest
in search of a water hole, but the hunter catches up to them
and blasts’em with a gun so powerful it could blow the head
of JFK, or anyone else, clean off, just like Dirty Harry,
who sticks it to the evil in the name of the common man,
the god’s be damned. The sound of a thought
is the heaviest element here on earth, the lightest
feather in the cap of the Injin, whose innate wisdom
reaches back into the graves of the sacred dead
who passed their stories, child to child, until the whole
history made sense. The brown-skins had a natural place,
stretched out under the stars and over the plains, drifting
and moving and blowing like weeds across the desert,
where the cactus and lizards fought with the jackals
for water, and shade, and food. Maybe the sacred books
foretold this day, when the sink-hole begins, and maybe
the dog-eared books of the skeptics reign, or maybe
the know-nuth’n kings of the run-on sentence think
their feeble, lengthy strands of letters strung out like DNA
make any sense at all of all of this….
This place where black holes
vie with the forces of Light and Beauty, and Goodness
and Death, even Death itself, where the shelves sag with
with all the shattered, printed shards of great, great
Mankind’s every breath and disobedient step.
Isaac Asimov tells God how to write His Book, and Lenin
plots to take over the front desk, and slit the director’s
lousy throat, for a revolution isn’t a dinner – no, that was Mao,
the magician, the librarian, the great, happy burner of books
who said such things. But the anarchists, and Moslems,
and psychos, and winos, and poets, and even the stolid engineers,
along with the steady makers-of-bats, the scholars of rats,
the squishers of tits and the maulers of tats, and those
who don’t know where it’s at, the Rolling Stones and
and Fat-Cat Corporate toadies tell the chink to “shove it,
and sweep yourself into the dustbin of has-been despots�
who once thought that thoughts could be controlled
so well, that with enough practice the clean, immortal
essence of Man, that mythical Man that Marx dreamed
of making when innocent spectre, with her violent midwife,
revo-revo-revolution, gave us the offspring of stillborn babies
whose blood was wrapped like umbilical cords that choked
Mothers to slow, painful, gurgling deaths as they round,
and round and around they went, with hands on necks.
It was in the Twilight Zone, and all the books, every one
that had ever been written, in every language, written
or spoken, or signed, or forgotten, was dumped on the steps,
and the anti-hero was lost in and endless sea of regret,
as knowledge, and words on paper built up, and a tidal
wave destroyed his mind, and flattened his soul, though
some books say because you cannot prove the soul
it does not, therefore, even exist. Such is the mangle
that memory makes.
“Let’s make ourselves in the image we make�
in the mirror, the cloud, the vapor, mirage…..Freud
just might have a field day with that sink hole. Some
sex organ didn’t play quite right, and now the smooth
surface of the green green grass shows her true dark colors,
and we can divine the inner beast, her brown fangs
waiting to strike at the first, stupid, ignorant dork
who sticks his head inside her cavern to look. But looking
is what folks find inside these endless walls of stone
and brick that mortar together our lives. We are Masons,
building towers, drawing up plans, keeping our secrets
until they cannot not remain unveiled, and the Muses
great us as though each day were new, as though beginning
was a daily occurrence, here in the land of America,
where the sink hole appeared in the lawn.