Two Poems

Norman J. Olson

 

Walking Along Highway 61 and Thinking about Attending a
Reading by an Internet Expert

Crocodiles slink through the elephant grass
as the screen blinks with vacant idiocy.

logon, logoff, logon, logoff

The internet is like one of those outfits that
calls in the evening after work and tries to
sell me credit cards and aluminum siding. Why
would anyone voluntarily subject him/herself
to that?

logon, logoff, logon, logoff

Shoplifters lift shops in this capitalist swamp
and I saw on the news that the alligator man
is being moved to minimum
security. Walking along Highway 61, I am logged
on to the wind and the noise of the cars that
speed by (I guess there are not many walkers
anymore). A biting wind rasps my cheeks and dirty
snow crunches underfoot. Half the people alive
on the planet today, I read recently, have
never used a telephone, much less the fucking
                       internet.

logon, logoff, logon, logoff

I heard that some techno-guy who spun
software and thin air
into gold is giving a reading at Runimator
Bookstore. His empty
book supposedly shows that the internet has actually
changed the way
human beings think--at least, fat, rich, and white skinned
human beings who live in Chevrolets and Subarus in the
outer
ring suburbs of rich
and rotting
      Midwestern towns
                  and drive past me on Highway 61 in the winter.

 

 

Unsafe Sex in the Suburbs

There is no expiation. There is no
interdiction. There are only crows
roosting in the crabapple tree. The
apocalypse turns out to be a
cellular problem and the soul
is nothing but a bowl
of chemical soup.

Somebody give Bernini a Martini . . .

Neatly trimmed lawns curse
the sod that pounds
grass up into the naked air.
Grass grows best in rotting flesh but
fertilizer will do.
The raucous birds cry and that is the only
benediction
the atomic number of carbon
has to give.
God is pushing a lawnmower across the
pellucid sky. Sixteen year old girls have saddled
up the apocalyptic horses and are riding
among the pastel houses. They cannot see that the
gene pool has become an oblong swimming
pool filled with acid rain, dead
cats and chlorine.

My hands are shaking even as I type this . . .

Cathedrals of bones are floating above the
holy Ganges which is
desperately polluted. Words fall from my fingers
like shit from the asshole of the damned
but still,
I carry an elephant of awareness on my back.
Capitalist birds are gobbling sunlight
like they
own a thermonuclear furnace and happy
crows are roosting in the
twisted blades of the crabapple
               tree.

 

 

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Contents copyright © 2001 by Norman J. Olson.

Format copyright © 2001 by Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087, Volume 3, Number 2, Spring, 2000.