Author Joseph Heywood
About Joe
Woods Cop Mysteries
Other Novels
Non Fiction
My Blog

Subscribe to the RSS Feed

DNR Terms

Yooper Bits

Trout Recipes

Brook Trout Flies



Takeout Fiction

MSU Lacrosse

Misc Fly Drawings



Faith in the Time of Twatoos
[Thunk-ov-on-the-scary-path, Michigan southeast of home,December 29, 2010]

Reflecting on Send-Times when all,
Digital devices in hand
[Wait-wait, Warble-clicker,
Texters coming in at rates of Mo’ thin
Nine thou, month, some
Surveys insist, which makes
Me sweat with a telecomic mist
I do declare Scarlet of mein
marvel as to how anyone
Ever in the history of history,
[which we’ll later address]
Could have that much to propound
To anyone, even to god.
Finger-pecking across all bands,
Propelling drivel by hand through time
Across unnamed unwired space.
Time to duck this telecommunistic race
[silicomers want us all to have all the same stuff]
That night we just may sit alone,
Electronically unplugged
From beepers and phones,
Undocked on the couch downstairs
To watch Times Square’s ball Pfall
Like a damn mass play-time
For alleged adults too thick
To imagine entertainment
As a solo undertaking
Deep breath.


My apologies to Patton
Who slapped boys upside their heads
Roughing them up in dressing stations
On account he would brook no cowards
[Only lunatics, we grant in retro
Himself not knowing PTSD as real,
unt having apologized grudgingly,
Beloved General Wronghead
was plethorally decorated
And publicly acclaimed
The way Self-Declared Greatest Generation Heroes
Were done, so to speak.
Still, I suppose we must long for heroes
As people always have,
Soupcon with faces and names
Think Shagsper’s bear: Sackerson
Spoken of, never seen on stage,
A name Elizabethans knew
As we do Lady Gaga, Madonna,
[Even out in far Montana]
Oft-baited, never defeated
Capable of magnificent rages,
Great Bear Defiant, Hound-Killer
[Like Sam Grant in his prime,
The Big Blue Spear hone, boned, oiled,
And pointed one way: Sudsud,
Burn em all, burn em all
The long, the short, and the tall]
C’est une saltimbanque grande
Performers for hominidal
Crowds of baying homunculi,
Gawking cultural mouth breathers,
Such as today might well believe
Easter Bunny drives Ford trucks
And mankind is only five thou in
Birthday candle of age-ness,
Here in the Time of Twatoo Art
Argumentum ad populum
Reigning over hard science
Ursus regnum faith trumping
Higher maths and miles of fossil records.
[Were dinosaurs hatched in movie
Studios like moon landings?]
By majorily manority
Opined on cable by clerisy
[we who badmouth Eyerainians for same]
To hail as Emo’s Evo Equal
Which sounds like a texting plan
We can’t afford to decline.
Deep breath.


This fellow called here one day,
Not so long ago,
Announced The Holy Spirit
(female historians insist until the fifth cent)
How HE performed 27 miracles
In November alone, fueled solely by local prayer,
But no names or facts available,
[No police report equiv on God’s beat, except
where we want to extract revenge on those
who dare disagree on the unverifiable]
In this local case,
The minkyster having said
faith and privacy must prevail
over factual public knowledge,
Language of a sort I seem to remember
From our Cold War days,
When blackblackblack meant black,
And whitewhitewhite meant Lone Ranger,
All of us in lock step all lip-synching
(even the media) total faith
That sitting under our first grade desks
Would keep us free
Of fallout from Soviet radioactivity.
Granted, not Sam this time,
But verification was then partner to faith
Paramount where nuke bombs
Were at issue crost PointeeTalky-Tables
Where Uncle Sammers and Russky-buskers
Fatcatsat Nogoatsheighting
Not like now, when faith alone
Is supposed to carry water
[Bucketless if your faith be strong]
Ten was one helluva year as bad years go.

Home   |   About   |   Blog   |   Tour   |   Links   |   Contact   |   Events   |   Forum

Copyright 2008 Joseph Heywood. Design by C Marschke.