Open Mic Poem

OPEN MIC SHORT STORY POEMS

Face It

Idols and demigods prove to be fallible
Nations
and civilizations
crumble
under the weight of their own
misguided masturbatory interpretations

No quarter is given
lent or received
as progress is filled with lies
born and bred to deceive

There is no substitute
claim or excuse
evidence, to override the truth
It cannot be ninety-nine percent
Yes,
and one percent
No,
truth is without exception
absolute
one-hundred proof

Manipulations we manufacture for ourselves
allow us to rationalize our beliefs
replete with falsehoods, excuses, deceit
that we might understand our fallibility
but we don’t,
we won’t,

We stake our lives on that one percent
designed to give us an out
Disguised, we need not embrace
the truth
and win,
as we lose
face.

Branch Isole © 2007

Electrical Orchestration

Remove from me all matter Lord
all gas and liquid too
Leave only the electric charge
that was me originally,
from You.

Take the soul and spirit aura
of these molecules
which were of and by,
and with You before

Since the beginning
when they were combined
in new form
from the myriad of possibilities
of all your worlds

Reconstitute them once more Lord
in a fashion of your choice
That the new me
might be, more like You

That the new charge
re-formed from your hands
this time,
might serve You
instead of myself.

Branch Isole © 2003

Daisy

Love’s me,
Love’s me not

Love with conditions
is about control.

Branch Isole © 2008

Café Queen

Betwixt tank tops
and sables
she weaves
she winds
around chairs
and tables

Queen
of the meal time jungle
feeding her tribe
serving their needs
from dawn to dusk
midst the praise and the fuss

She sees them come
She sees them go
Here, a piece of pie
There, a cup of joe

On her feet
hour upon hour
no time for a break,
minimum wage
and tips to be made

Serving a mass
to singles,
and singular masses
Cleaning up spills
and assessing,
gastric gases

Reuben for the professor
from the U’s ivory tower
Baked Alaska and milk
for the postman
who’s come in from the shower
and a low carb Cobb salad
for the proprietor of flowers

Slinging hash
Trading cash
Taking out
the kitchen trash

An unsung heroine
of daily commerce
‘Grand Dame’
of the short order matrix
The hard working ladies
of cafés and diners,
The American waitress.

Branch Isole © 2004

Baby

I’ve been missing,
missing my baby
Sometimes her smell
on the pillow
next to me
is enough to start
all those fantasies
The things she does
The things she can
makes me feel
once again
total man

In a world that wants
to keep me down,
down on the ground
to grind and grovel
for a lousy buck
It’s she
who keeps me sound
It’s she
who remains my luck

That which moves me forward
constantly,
is the loving touch
of my baby.

Branch Isole © 2004

Thus Sayeth the Lord

In lieu of each drop of blood we’ve shed
with each drop of ink we’ve added
through the markings we freely desired
The Lord bequeaths
to you and me,
one day each
with the objects of our devoted
pictorial idolatry

For you with the rose
it will be rosy,
except for those thorns
penetrating your soul
For the ones with dragons
or wild animals assorted
it may not be cozy
with the carnivorous cavorting

For inked Christians
their sins atoned,
yet they too will be accountable
before the throne,
where God
will mete out
His justice great
in light of His Word
Leviticus,
Nineteen: twenty-eight.

Branch Isole © 2005