Poetry

Heart Emoticons in the Moonglades and other poems

by Sharon Mesmer

Heart Emoticons in the Moonglades

 

Poon pregret is the signature position of the nigh-immortal

half elf/half octopus Bitch Queen of Hell.

 

All druids are welcomed into the sacred lands

of the coprophageous level 44 night-noodling mongoloids.

 

Level 44 blood elf mages are sewed down the anus,

ready to burst, and give the impression of pregnancy.

 

Mark the moonglade on the water, stretching like a silvern pathway

to distant molting genocides of dolomite cognomen.

 

Almost everyone in WW2 were elves, including the Whole Foods types

and my savage and instinctive hot mom friend.

 

Snogging is a way for elves to clear their mind of emotion – a form of goo igloo

self-expression that frees their indecent lemons of tensions.

 

The horned mooncow dies …  and the hopes and emotions of dwarf ladyboys

become the new mooncow patriotism.

 

You’re a mooncow if your parts don’t fit together and you call yourself a man

where others are elf-men, dwarf-men, or gremlin-men.

 

What gorgeous high elves you have, Moon Geek!   Sporting their own condoms

and encoding your geckoloader.

 

Don’t dank my mantrum, Prince: no buck born of a doe can ever dream of

defeating Sister Mooncow!

 

This is a right-brained world, where things are always what they seem:

there are no decent mooncow moobs.

 

 

 

I Am No Longer Missing Out On Visions of Spontaneous Presence

— in collaboration with George Carpenter, my student

 

This guy writes these sprawling poems about life and expansion and how we are all

in this and how he feels like we feel now.

 

He demonstrates that this is the National Identity of America, and this Identity is

demonstrated quite well in Superman.

 

Superman does what Superman wants to do and there is always something noble

and grand in the quest of the All-American boy that does what he wants  for the

good of the people.

 

I believe this is very American, even though he’s not calling the place “America.”

 

This in and of itself is American because right here he is going against the grain of

what everyone else calls the place and is using the name which he believes the place

should be called, which is not the name everyone else is calling it.  He is going

against the grain, but at the same time he’s “going with the flow.”

 

“Going with the flow,” and “Going against the grain” are both parts of what it means

to be American.  The National Identity of America was born with the idea that we do

whatever we want without some other country telling us what to do.  At the same time

however we burned people at the stake and enslaved a whole race.  However,

I would not call us hypocrites because part of what it means to be American is to

work at it and figure it out and make amends with the yin and the yang.

 

Part of what it means to be American is to be a go-getter and get it done.  In the few

moments that Americans allow their souls a few moments of reflection you can

probably find us on a beach trying to figure out what is really going on around here.

This in some ways is why Americans are very electric.  We are electric, and because

we function at a very high level that usually means a lot of coffee. We are also

adventurous people and we are always willing to walk on a beach to find the

inspiration needed to continue to keep the ball rolling.

 

Currently the theme song of America is, “Yes we can.”  I believe part of that idea is

seen right here with a bunch of leaves and sand coming together to be part of a

whole beach. It is very American to believe in beaches, and in God, and more

specifically in the God that we believe in.  I know what I am about to say is very

opinionated but I would also say that there is something American about going to

the beach and figuring things out.  I believe beaches are one of the few places in

America where the sand gets into everything and the sun is bright and the ocean

refuses to be ignored so we have to look at what is going on and take a breath and

acknowledge the unseen.  Mainly because are a lost people.  Now while this sounds

like a negative statement it really isn’t. Being lost is a beautiful state of being.

Because there is something very American about admitting that we are working on

it and that while these aren’t maybe the best answers we have so far we are going to

go far to protect them and we are definitely trying new things.  We don’t round up

gay people and kill them in camps.  Unless you live in the Midwest.

 

Television is where most Americans find their identity.  Specifically the Emmy

winning shows that center around a man in the middle of a cut-throat challenge

having regrets and having to make hard decisions and how no one can really see

who he is because of how many masks he wears.  In other countries I am sure that

there are searches for who people are.  The search or rather the journey is one of

the founding bricks of what it means to be an American.  Just for the first of us to

get here we had to leave our homes and everything behind to get on boats to come

here.  If you want to go real far back apparently a bunch of our very distant

ancestors had to get here by crossing a strait of ice hundreds of miles long.

I really hope they had special boots.

 

In America the path usually asks everything from you and in return you get freedom.

Freedom and the power to bring light to the dark parts of the world and our own

consciousness eventually.

 

I think that part of the American Identity is that God helps those that help

themselves and while in some dark ways that means that God doesn’t really help

those that don’t help themselves I think that the American Man (or woman) feels

closest to God when he is out there in the world sharing himself with what is going

on around him.  Growing up, I remember these stories about how we would shout

our glories to God in the highest and all that jazz and there is something very nice

and wholesome and American about sharing a nice walk on the beach with God,

shouting glories.

 

I believe it is very American to keep on going when we have absolutely no idea what

we are talking about but we go on anyway because the only way out is through.

 

A stroll just about anywhere here in NYC is a reminder and usually not a gentle one

that we haven’t solved this game for everyone yet and we must not get too involved

in progress to forget those that cracked in the high sun of their lives.  Part of our

National Identity is found in the forgotten pieces of ourselves that get dispersed

through everyone’s juices flowing.

 

The core of this message is, “Fuck you God I am still here and no matter what shit

you throw at me and no matter how many of these great mysteries of life I am going

to have to solve I am not going to quit this game that I don’t remember putting

myself into.  No matter how laid out I become from all of this I know you are up

there and in some way we are in this together so make sure you don’t forget about

us down here walking the beaches and lightly lamenting on how underneath it all

we have yet to have a steady grasp on what the hell is really going on.”  I believe it is

very American to be pissed.  We have road rage and we love fights as entertainment

and sources of potential income.

 

Anger at God apparently got us into this predicament in the first place.  Hopefully

though we will learn to chill out a bit more and hopefully not by taking too many

chill pills but actually dealing with it.

 

Maybe it’s all about a guy on a beach trying to piece together who he is and what

part the beach plays in it.

 

 

Why Am I Suddenly Responsible for John Cougar Mellencamp’s Castration Complex?

 

So, you want to be a rock star but don’t have the talent, money or skills?

Just take a look at how Bono’s pre-programmed Al Gore blood Passover

unravels the “castrated Jonas Brothers” allusions of Mussolini eating chalupas.

Then you’ll understand what it means to be under the influence of Aerosol Jesus,

dilating like a mo-fo satyr upon a farm of cysts.  Back in 1980, Ronald Reagan

painted Jimmy Carter in a garden and deprived him of androgens, opening a huge

soft spot in the previously impenetrable defenses of Scandinavia.  It is this spot —

wan and constipated as the Moody Blues, melodic and dripping with emotions —

that inspired the massive fish murder of Congressman Sonny Bono, followed by

a comical theft of 118 minutes of dismembered Taylor Swift.  Even Alfred Hitchcock

could never have imagined that.  And even when you reach the near-insanity of

Bono perched on an angel by a hearing aid store in Dublin, you’re still nowhere near

John Cougar Mellencamp, poisoned, castrated, shot and drowned all in one night

by a priest when he was 13.  Talk about 24/7 dwarf-dark undertones!

 

 

 

Why Is It That Plunder Always Explores Me Like Some Kind German?

 

Why is it that plunder always explores me like some kind German?

I’d love to know who is going out wearing these shreds of entropy.

 

Why is it that plunder always explores me like some wind turbine?

I’d love to know why the One is the power of the sacred within all energy.

 

Why is it that plunder always exploits my wine-colored turban?

I’d love to know why stillness has been ignored by the recording industry.

 

Why is it that plunder always exploits my finding a blind surgeon?

I’d love to know why I arrived on this planet a barefoot “pickaninny.”

 

Why is that plunder always exposes my fine southern region?

I’d love to know how having channeled gifts has reduced my life expectancy.

 

Why is that plunder always exposes me with king-like discrimination?

I’d love to know the strategy for achieving 20,000 hours of true humility.

 

Why is it that plunder always extemporizes with kindness and perfection?

I’d love to know before I descend the tar-thick shadow-side of celebrity insanity.

 

 

I Heart That You Wrecked My Community Musical . . .

 

. . . after I introduced you to my pen name.

You can love people, you can pour your f*cking heart out to them,

or you can listen to a Nikki Sixx album

with an open mind and heart.

 

Oh. My. God. Why. So. Sad?

I work on staff at Park Community Church in Chicago, and

I. Don’t. Matter. To. Jesus.

That’s. Why. So. Sad.

 

What about Hate Crimes?

Um, what about A White Guy’s Guide on How to Deal with

the Black Community for Dummies: Chapter 12?

 

How’m I doin’ now?

Milkin lots of cow.

Just like Nikki Sixx.

 

 *****************************************************************************

 

Sharon Mesmer’s most recent poetry collections are Annoying Diabetic Bitch (Combo Books, 2008) and The Virgin Formica (Hanging Loose, 2008). Fiction collections include Ma Vie à Yonago(Hachette, 2005) and In Ordinary Time (Hanging Loose, 2005). She has a selection of poems in the forthcoming Postmodern American Poetry — a Norton Anthology.

 

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photo by Dan Griffin

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