A Cautionary Sonnet: I was biologically programmed to take advantage pretty girls, but its not my fault

that when I see her there--the place she goes when everyone is sleeping,
that she wishes for more than five dollars in her pocket,
tears slide down cheeks like grain for the reaping.
It’s like she begs for a picture to fill her locket.

I lend her mine. Follow the road that meets
the road that leads to my house.
“I love you,” she greets
me. No response-- I pull her blouse

down and lick her tears--the fall harvest.
She rains clothes on my floor--water for fields
of grain--Still, I’m the farthest
from a farmer or a picture for her locket-- but I heal

a ruined crop that left her poor, by taking her-- dirt cheap.
It’s how I tend to the fields, choosing to build her up when others asleep.

I’d rather leave a question

In final declaration, I’m leaving
but who finally declares a leaving
or leaves a final declaration

I’d rather leave a question

or better yet an inflection
a slight raising of the voice
a crescendo of noise
a last-word invoice
to a bill quite unpaid
which the collectors pre-made

for me

and after necessary check be writ
I’ll make my split
gone from the on-and-on
the great knowledge that made me yawn

knowledge you kept in a safe
dumbed down and made not to chafe
to be absorbed under a pretext of importance

significant, I think not
my hours spent in brain-rot
bowed down at your alter of wisdom

thought divorced from skill-will
poured down from atop of a hill
“and such and such” by your quill
as hazardous as a landfill
to my mind-time

---------------------------------------------------------------

Author / Eric Cornell

I watched the sun setting

I watched the sun setting in averted vision
and saw the buildings
it was silhouetting
and I saw the moon in nighttime city-haze
and with its pail lack-light
the buildings raze

and they were no more
save for their window-lights

and in the blurred eyes of dry sight
my vision comes aright
cause in blurred vision
you’re forced to look in
a sort of still-lake reflection

through the boiling evening clouds
and the swirling storms, I bowed.
and I wish spring brought green
to more than just the earth

but my thought trees be burnt up by forest fires
caused by lightning strikes
and then the broken dykes
let loose floods to new (knew) heights

but hey, I’m alright

though now I bare this blight
from the storm’s lack-light
a kind of gray-skyburn.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Author / Eric Cornell

I broke the last poem apart and it turned into this

Just a 3 Hour Tour

How are you old friend?
This is your first
time underwater I see,
heed my advice now. Don’t trust your folly,
make friends with the fish, I tell you!
Why so frigid, old chum?
What has turned
you into this specter,
this lonely wraith. Who is this
moribund frame that floats
before me today. Its okay.... its okay....
weep my friend weep.

Don’t fret in the wake of your tribulations.
Trust in me for I have
turned the werewolf’s
blind eye he will not harm your
herd any longer. No longer
will you worry about such
trivial things. I have taken
all of that from you.

Its okay.... its okay comrade,
struggle, your slaving will
soon be over. So frail,
you look faded. It pains me
to watch you fail. Let me help,
let me deliver you
from this anguish.

Are you ready to let go? Here, here don’t
be ashamed it is only normal. Okay,
listen carefully now, try hard,
grasp one last breath, let the water
fill your lungs. Hush now old pal
it will all be over soon....

There, there don’t cry
my good man, don’t cry, just go on and give up.
Go on now, give in, go on, go now my friend,
it will be over soon.... trust in me

Look now is this not better,
you have finally shed
your skin. Do you not feel
this power. Oh, look! Did
you lose your stomach
on the way? Shhh, shhh my friend
its okay no need to worry
everything will be better soon.

How are you my friend?
My specter.
My wraith.
Is it good to be back?
Am I so ghastly now?

Drunks and Delusions

It stains our lips
like a glass of red wine. Sticky,
sweet, pour it out. Look hard
at the empty
bottles, the full glasses.

We all drink, the taste
thaws frozen, foreign,
fucked feelings. Intoxication we lose
focus and fantasy's free.

She sucks
dick, loose lips lose,
our memories fade. Under water
for the first time.

Make friends with the fish,
living foolish, frightened,
frigid in this delusion. Grey,
wet, and muddy. I struggle
grasp one last breath, water fills my lungs.

Look hard, bottles now broken,
glasses empty. We shed
our skin and lose
our stomach. Gushing
grey and wet. I find you muddy

Fucked.
Sad.
Silly.

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collage poem

working class title

First and foremost, let me president the podium… Thank you.
You’ll have to pardon my patois. I am not the walrus but the raconteur; trust that I do not recant. Consumer closer child, I am not spewing nil, but rather data. Good, now listen to this fable and don’t donkey about any longer.

God alone is the mogul of fate.
You are his prerogative.
What?! You don’t believe me? Well, just contact the celestial being, telescope heaven. I’m sure he’s home. Oh, or just lazarus to heaven, but you will have to die first.
Oh you’ve simply got to go, and it’s swell. Will you take the quick or the scenic route? Eh, it’s irrelevant anyway.

When you do get to the golden gates have a cigarette with Saint Peter and ask about his trip to Rome. Stanley Cooper is probably there too. If you see Mary, browbeat her a bit for me, she was the consumer cartel’s surrogate. Forage in the prostitute but don’t burn the virgin. Oh, and don’t forget to Hobnob with the highbrows, but don’t try on their form of persuasion. Forgo their pandering, and you will win the sortie; by the way, up there you will have to lose that party if you want to hang out.

--Sorry, I have to let my dog out, come here Conglomerate. Go capitalist outside!
Where was I? Oh Yes.--

Can you schlep this present to Jesus, it is my soul.
Parrot this to him:
Jesus I’m sorry I delved your daughter, I thought your motto was turn her…thy cheek. I hope we can look back on this and laugh when I am old. Best of luck old man.

Ok, well I’ll let you get on your way…
Safe travels my freud, you’re a real mensch for doing this.
In fact you’re my hierophant. You’ll have to write and tell me what you thought of heaven. Oh and by the way, your American flag graced the ground, but you don’t have to burn it.

____________________________________________________________________

Author /Jordan Ateshzar
email/ jateshzar@mail.unomaha.edu