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aHa

rushing inference, imminent insight
suddenly its clear, a gut feeling
swooning, reeling,
cross-connected hemi-sphere
syncopated, reverberated, totally aware

open bi-ways, ahh blue-sky days, making up my mind
synapses shiver, axons quiver, dendrites deliver
'lectrik-neurons fire suddenly in time

aha! aha! oh gawd I see, I ran around 'n cried
a fool I've been, all along its there, right in front of me

with a grin 'n a nod 'n twinkly-looking 'round
raised my arms 'n slapped my thighs
'n made a ruckus sound --

donned my hat 'n set it skewed
upon my big bright head
set off to town in an uplifted mood
while whistling a sweet sound
forgot what I had found

<disambiguate>

there's a hole in my head
where the wounds of reason seep
all words are dead inside my head
whats left is dark 'n deep

<ambiguity>

I'll always live
and always die
on the event horizon
of my minds eye
where the flash
of neuronal fires
flower into
sudden infinity --[/align]

Dad Never Read Novels

He was more of a Newsweek,
Huntley-Brinkley-Cronkite man,
but before he died when ill he read
steamy big gamehunter type novels,
on the scent of rhino and cougar.

Dad would rage about the plots
just like he'd rage at the news and
the folk who "climb on the taxpayer's
back." I found a couple of saucy
paperbacks hidden in his closet,
checked the well-thumbed bits.

He read my would-be novel,
offered persnickety edits,
always missed the big picture,
complained that I was being mildly
porno (tho' it was more pun-
ography). He had begun life as

an English socialist, grousing
about Harold Macmillan and
people who "never had it so good."
Argued about America's need for
socialized medicine. But latterly

he'd developed a passion for
talk radio. I feel certain
he'd long forgotten Labour.
I have the notion that today
he'd love Rush Limbaugh.

Christopher T. George

Because I'm a pig


To make Him forget
if for only a moment
the smell of cooking flesh
I dance about
the penultimate moment
in maddening spins—learned
by shaking shit from cloven hooves.
Oh yes
I am practiced

in pirouettes.
I’ve the wit to postpone the holocaust.
But for what purpose?
you’ll ask
with the rest of my ilk
incredulous on the truck
and the truck always comes
empty in the spring.

Warm in my shrinking
corner of unsoiled straw
I grow fatter still
on my disgrace.
The thaw will find me
too corn-fed-tremendous
to dance
a ravenous pet.

But I’ve a carnivore’s conceit
and one should never forget
the hog’s taste for meat;
yet He-with-a-slanted-grin
passes closer every day
like a conditional friend
whistling
and impudently alone.