Burma Shave Bequests

by Glenn Buttkus


“All media exist to invest our lives with
artificial perceptions & arbitrary values.”
–Marshall McLuhan

Robert Frost don’t know a thing about me
or my roads
–but certainly he did understand
your spirit & your heart, as poets must,
as they wander too often lost, taking
notes during the chaos, joys, wars,
tragedies & celebrations.

A man recently while walking a beach on
Vancouver Island, found a 106 year old bottle
with a paper message inside, and he refused
to open it
–knowing that when today’s air
touches 1906 paper, something tragic could
occur, as words might fade, & the writer
could lose the spider’s thread tether to this world.

Miss New York was overheard saying that the present
Miss America was “fat as fuck
–allowing some of the
vitriol & ugliness to mushroom up through the mystery
of almost-perfect bodies packaging imperfect minds,
exposing both the best & worst of our dreams,

simultaneously as New CMA star Casey Musgraves revealed
that she was still resentful (smile) about losing the Miss
Tater-Tot
beauty pageant when she was ten years old

reinforcing the rancor one feels about the arbitrary course
of success, watching a performer under 30 tasting of
Luck while it is still fresh & steaming, fearing
that it may go cold before she can wholly consume it,
or it consumes her.

What if God were one of us, just a slob like one of us?
question many in lesson, still ignorant about the facts,
not realizing that He/She/it has always been present
within our personal viscera, invisible but extant,
smaller than a nano-virus yet bigger than a cosmos,
while transcending & disdaining those who strive
to transform it to rules of order within the countless
factions of religious realm.

How you murdered your family means nothing to me
as your mouth moves across my body
–because
inevitably eros trumps empathy, orgasm drowns
rationale, breasts are better than burdens,
and certainly your silken legs wrapped around
my butt like a tender vise, momentarily blinds
me to politics, godheads, jihadists, insults,
massacres, migraines, & dust mites,

because the temporal reality of intense coitus,
while we are functioning together as one entity,
passionately reconnects us to genesis,
and provides a beautiful blindness
to every sort of shit storm.

There’s a crow flying, black & ragged, tree to tree,
& now he is diving down to pick up something shiny

perhaps a new element covered in extraterrestrial symbols,
perhaps a piece of chrome off a Corvette,
perhaps an inner gum wrapper wadded into a ball,
perhaps that message from the bottle
as it oxidizes, slaying the message,
banishing the messenger.

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