untitled (Sept. 7, 2011)
thick trees engulf the hidden spell;
soft streams collide on risen ground;
so much, so fast, so far we go —
then leave the remnants of the trampled dust.
–Zumwalt (2011)
Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category
Strangely struggling in Shangri-La
Strangely struggling in Shangri-La
Shaken and stirred beneath the slime
I culpably allow darkening tentacles to disperse my many parts:
the little wisps of attention,
sinister and poisonous,
bend misty claws.
This night keeps extending,
strikingly silent under the depths,
invoking quaking hands above the clouds.
Such despair! The future is vanishing
straddling the light —
the next race waiting
to which such dreams
withering victims
aspire.
-Zumwalt (2016)
formaldehydration
formaldehydration
flickering, fluttering inauspicious celestial butterfly
recklessly spatters dribbling drips of darkened burgundy
over overtaken over-conscientious Cal Poly Pomona Green.
diamanté dimensions collide with an autumn-autumn whisper
merging the flap-flap-flap fanlight florescence with a soft gentle tap
shamefully simmering shimmy-round-sizzling shake-down capabilities.
it seems that this high-speed, high-tech, high-result diet
has made me high-strung;
it streams images in passing of over-charged electrons and fairy-tale fancies
faster than the past registers future impressions of near-miss impacts.
I know that time is slow.
It starts off when I do
but finishes long after I am done.
I know truth is slippery.
It hides in the shadows of possibilities
and then comes out for a quick encore before the opening curtain.
imagination weds speed-dating
timed-release capsules
to produce a solid business case
for planetary intimidation
but
when references are required
habitually-blinking, surreptitiously-slinking imagination sneaks away
like
an overwhelmed waiter serving final meals
to a condemned food-critiquing population
devouring
the last bounty of resources one deja-vu moment
before
the impending
never-ever-ever-ending
bright-light-headlight-headache supernova drought.
-zumwalt 2011
The Grand Panjandram
The Grand Panjandram
In dark draped light, they set the stage with positively pessimistic preposterous pronouncements:
open-ended, close-minded —
an onslaught of oozing, slimy, backbiting, backstabbing, bamboozling, bath-bubble babble.
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers but where the heck is the peck that Peter Piper picked?
Blame the government! Blame the moderators! Blame the other politicians!
Blame the prosperous! Blame the lazy, liberal-influenced, moral-obliterating, freeloading nameless discontents! Blame blame, but oh, so blamelessly….
Our media plays politics, shamelessly positioned cross-legged on the tracks of the central station throwing rocks at the podiums of the office seekers and office sitters who madly craft the nightly news peering over the simmering cauldron as they add tortoise ears and bat eyes to their brew.
They know nothing is knowable; the perception of reality is reality: reality is only what is perceived.
I had a little nut-tree, nothing it would bear, but nuts are scattered everywhere along with rampant fear. Predictably, my mind wanders until there is no more silliness to hear while my unsuspecting stomach growls as the choruses of the shameless masses cheer.
I know reality.
It is that thinner-than-thread string that connects one thought to another and one moment to the next.
I know consequences. These are things that happen in direct proportion to lack of diligence.
The end follows the beginning; but also sets up every new beginning. Each possibility is the result of each result.
I will set aside my expectations — of what reality should be — to go along with the ride. It will ultimately lead to the next ride and at some point there will be a chance to get off, walk away and look back at the vast, almost infinite, devastation.
— Zumwalt (2016)
Cousteau and Darwin Move to Suburbia
Cousteau and Darwin Move to Suburbia
Like pilot fish
Affixed, transfixed
Upon the gluttonous chin
Of the maneater,
We give thanks and
Humbly suck the detritus
From Fate’s
Serrated mandibles.
The irony of Sophocles
Is just the symbiosis
Of little fish
And unevolved vertebrates
Scrubbing their gills
With polluted waters,
Lacking the initiative
To crawl up the bank, and breathe.
— Zumwalt (1981)
