Ignorance Amiss

I ask periodically: if the collective knowledge of humanity were on our tables–fresh, sweet fruit in bowls–if the knives were sharp, forks clean, blue-lit bay windows reflected in the plates; if we bought all that, fought for that, posted photos, ranted and raved; if we dreamt it, had it, did it, yet locked our doors and never shared or even peeled a single grape; if it were all ours–indelible and inedible as gold–ours but only composed in bowls, would we be better off than broken dark-age serfs, than emberless Neanderthals, than the dust of the dead in their graves–would this be an age of enlightenment, or just an age’s ignorance decomposed to myth?




Oct. 2014



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Evening Prayers

Have you heard a stone
skip across a frozen pond
at night?
Ringing blue beyond the fires
it caroms off everything,
absorbed by nothing.
Pewless in a dark church,
pleading for a choir,
it licks lambent vibrato
from ear to ear with
nothing soft to settle on.
It could warm a pang
but lasts without us,
as if the moon holds still
while prayers wander
into the woods.




Feb. 2014



God Computes

Dear Mr. Sisk:

Regarding your exclamatory remark after learning your two-year-old laptop was not upgradable to Windows 8.1. 
I empathize with your frustration.  Though I invented the cloud, I’ll be damned if I can control it.  (I like saying, “I’ll be damned.”  It gives me funny hiccups.)  But consider this.  I remember turning my back for just a moment (a long time ago from your point of view, which is limited by design) so I could have a strategic planning meeting with my event coordinator, Moses.  From my point of view (which, naturally, is all points), I was only distracted for a moment.  But apparently it was long enough for some trash-talking ape-heads to erect a fake cow to throw prayers at.  That really pissed me off—those prayers were for me.  In fact, I thought hard about this being a really good excuse to use up all that rain left over from the last time I got mad.  Cool heads prevailed in the end (all mine).  I think Moses took it harder than I did.  I know what my editors wrote, but that guy had a really short fuse.  And he never did reassemble those last three commandments–told me ten fit the math better (as if I needed a math lesson).  Nonetheless, Mr Sisk, every time I hear, “Holy cow!” I get pretty riled up.  Just say, “Holy shit!”  I can take that.  Hell, I invented the stuff!

Thank Me,

GOD

PS:
Yes, backwards my name spells ‘dog’.  But I invented those too.  So I win either way.  If that confuses you, it’s your own damned fault.  One thing I didn’t invent was English.  (When I say that something is your own damned fault, carefully consider the source.)
And yes, I write a lot of asides.  But that’s kind of silly to point out to an omnipresent being, isn’t it?  (Don’t spend too much time on that one.)
Also, get a Mac.



My Hat Your Hat Ass Hat

About Facebook. At this point I don’t think I care much about right or wrong.  Not sure that’s ever been my point to begin with, or ever should have been.  Maybe I’ll just stick to watching.  What else is there to do here?  And anyway, if we do treat each other like crap it’s only because we can.  If someone objects, well fuck them.  It’s a school yard, ass-hat.
We hang out here for ourselves, for personal reasons.  Don’t be fooled.  Just because this is social media, that doesn’t mean there’s a social contract.  We pretend there is, we leverage that (the spider always calling to the fly), but we’re just being ourselves: just fresh and natural, real.  We leap from virtue to virtue – snatch them up and wear them like holy t-shirts, one at a time.  Catch us if you can.  If you don’t understand that, you’re just wrong, just stupid, a loser.  You don’t see the webs?  You didn’t read our rules set in six-point Wingdings font?  It isn’t like marriage.  Hell, even marriage isn’t like marriage.
Idiot.
Wait!  Where are you going?  We don’t hate you; we love you.  Be our friend.  Learn to be sung to.  Come back!
Moron.

Rub lemon oil on shit and voila: everyone walks away. Then there’s no shit!

Gavin W Sisk
Jan. 2014

Waking Dead

After battle:
unstraped helmets
drop to feet,
fingers run through hair,
quiet cries in bloody fog.

Survivor’s luck is argued
on the heads of pins—
to surrender fate so uneasily;
to kiss Spring love goodbye,
and then survive.

Yet be a bit more dead each night,
in duty to each bolt they’ve locked,
recalling every round they’ve sent
to flip the fate their foes concoct.

Mornings:
sweep the fields.
Parse and box each bloody part;
note each noble sacrifice
in reports of useful lessons learned.

Evenings:
recoiling from their trigger dreams,
fall many unboxed dead
to sleep,
yet, still alive.



G W Sisk
Nov, 2013