THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE EULOGIZED

Scott-Heron had it right about TV
even back then before networks tuned in
as generals in the military-
industrial complex, primed to ruin
any creative thought now, any chance
at liberal education, any
hope for freedom to truly shout and dance
against authority. Yet, uncanny
as it may seem, the revolution will
not be eulogized—not though they censor
the Internet, not by a prescribed pill.
The soul’s weapon outpowers nukes. Sensors
inside us will show them. Theocratized?
No. Atomized? No. Nor roboticized.
The revolution will not be eulogized.

Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2011

BETRAYAL

It’s not like the old days when I’d take folks
on, milking heartbreak, drama of battles.
We’re all about the same, really. Revoke
our souls’ respect through selfish death rattles
of relationships. I’ve come to treat deceit
in this disturbed land like junked coffee grounds.
Toss that heartless energy in thick sheets
or garbage bags, lay them outside around
the alley. Let others fertilize their
flower beds with that crap if they want.
Bright sunlight’s becoming, it seems, a rare
commodity. I’ll walk away from haunts
of darkness. Pain may still storm me, and grief.
Tragedy. I just try to keep it brief.

Roger Armbrust
May 26, 2011

FUROR POETICUS

for Michelle Renee

Within this blinding
sandstorm I kneel, raise my hands
and see glowing dawn.

CONSCIENCE

This sleeping tramp beside me wakes and smiles.
Scratches his beard; asks Is the coffee hot?
I hand him a steaming cup; say My style’s
my life’s work. He sips, stares; states I think not.
I turn my back. Gaze out at my portrait.
Praise it. Mention I’ll cheat on my lover.
He munches a cinnamon roll. Dunks it.
Suggests Then you may never recover.
I straighten my bright tie in the mirror.
Toss out I’m going to lie to my friends.
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve: Oh I fear
such gestures surely will signal the end.
He stands by me. Speaks to our reflection:
Let’s step back to prayer and meditation.


Roger Armbrust
May 25, 2011

PSYCHOTIC

I whisper, signal and shout what I want
to mean. Trees outside these cobwebbed cages
tumble and explode. Ghosts of neighbors haunt
our den of lost toys. Scratching floor rages
fleas from rolling around dogs. Why do you
stare at me that way? I crave bathing my
body in molasses. Shaving my blue
hair with a blowtorch. So I scorch the sky,
so what? I’ll love you always, you know that
I’ll love you always. Always. When the end
comes, I’ll lie beside you. We two in a vat
of cat dung, singing side by side. We’ll bend
like worn thin scouring pads, scraping in play.
Last day. Why do you stare at me that way?

Roger Armbrust
May 24, 2011

THE SCANT OF FRAILTY

Having divorced faith, he lost all it seems.
It didn’t matter how he ruled as king.
Killing former friends only bore bad dreams.
Frolicking with whores made his penis sting.
While switching wives finally brought a son,
the kid didn’t last long due to the day’s
politics. Hard to hold on when dad’s gone
and your crown’s pounded down to gouge, let’s say,
your jewels. But who could force frailty on
our bastard virgin, no sly man a match
for her focused mind, wit, and precision?
She forged iron to gold on her long watch,
outfoxing murder plots, praising drama
at The Globe, and sinking an armada.

Roger Armbrust
May 18, 2011

HOW LONELY THE BREEZE

How lonely the breeze this single moment.
How lovely the light touching greenest oaks
rising over angled rooftops, foment
of sparrows whirling through branches, their cloaks
brandishing through setting sun like gold blades
of bold, mythical fairies preparing
to attack black night, its unfolding shade
our clinging omen. I should be sharing
this with you, I whisper. All this should be
our time. How fragrant sweet honeysuckle
now swelling our air. How distant lovely
medley of lone mockingbird. My knuckles
press against the door, not wanting to step
inside to those rooms where once our hearts leapt.

Roger
May 16, 2011

THE WAR OF 1812

Byron, finding himself famous in March
as London’s public devours Childe Harold
in three days, suddenly discovers arch
of Caroline’s back in his gut, heralds
spring with their affair. By May he curtails
her, so to speak, retreating from deeper
broadsides. She, with battle cry (more a wail)
turns desperate stalker (more a creeper),
invading his rooms disguised as a page.
You can imagine the potshots they took
in Parliament, how the mags must have raged,
the gasps when “Remember Thee!” made the book.
With no remorse, he penned a new lyric.
For her, of course, the conflict proved Pyrrhic.

Roger Armbrust
May 15, 2011

AFTER ALL

This loving intelligent energy
within and among me. This loving
intelligent energy within and
among our world. This loving intelligent
energy within and among our grand
universe. This loving intelligent
energy flaring beyond. This loving
intelligent energy propels every
cell, every sense of my being’s
center to experience all. This loving
intelligent energy instills me
with desire to cherish our fire with all
within and among the great all
fulfilling us now and after all.

Roger
May 9, 2011

ON SEEING EXISTENTIAL STAR WARS

Come now, gentles, can’t we wax positive?
Jean-Paul, must you script their story touting
despair? If Kenobi chooses to live
not, can’t you smooth the plot? Please stop shouting
of failure, existence without reason,
humans churning life’s abstract to evil
cement. What leads you to cause such treason
within our myth? Why not just sip a pill
like most Americans? Why not fantasize
Darth turning from dark to light? Skywalker
converting to peacenik, learning to prize
serenity? Make Solo a stalker
of Leia until they love, hump and play
in some lusty orbit far, far away.

Roger
May 6, 2011