November Oscar

This theme,
the altar ego of November Zero,
has come back,
reared its Hydra-like self once more,
because begging the question
and
moving the goalposts
are the charges being leveled
at radio evangelists who innately
know that the deep God hunger
within lie outside the bounds of
logic and mathematics and
whatever mental trickery
naysayers come up with
and the
amateur logicians like
November Zero
are wondering
why he can't rationalize
the residual pain away,
why he can't have his spouse
get past the seven-score hump,
why the minor miracle for
one couple is a
major one for another
but it only becomes a
becomes a tragedy anyway
because it's like the bitching
on the car ride to
and from
the medicine line,
it's the number in the equation
that has to be added or subtracted
to make room for the variables,
the variances that life throws at
humankind at any given moment,
because
change
and
bullshit
are forever constant
just
like
taxes,
debt
and
death,
but periods,
a woman's monthly visitor,
may not be periodic,
may not be constant
but the risk of
premature loss is,
and
it happened enough
and
that's why two blues lines
don't mean anything to him
and
that's why he can't stand
the abortion debate,
or
baby showers,
or
hopeful well-wishes from
inept d****e movers that
happen to be related
collaterally, until the
ring goes on the finger
anyway.

And so
November Zero
has reared its ugly head
again because visions of
exit wounds coated in
blood,
brain matter
and
spinal fluid
now dance on the
periphery of his
pineal gland
and
they are ready
to invade because
the toxicity of self
has taken over his shell
rather wholly,
rather fully,
rather completely
and
that part will
rear itself
when he
drives home
some autumnal
Friday night
along
North Dakota
Highway One,
because he only
ever looks out
for number one
and
he'll stop at the
lonely,
single
parent site
that's the color
of cowardice
and
complete
an act of
cowardice
that only the
other non-fathers
will understand,
and
before he pulls
the triggers
to create
the exit wound
coated in
blood,
brain matter
and
spinal fluid,
he reminisces
about finding the
ten children that are
shells of their former selves
and he notes the jealousy
within himself
and
he says that at least
this father had ten children
once upon a time,
back when
they mattered
but now they
stand testament
to the death urge
that drive him
and
humankind at large
today,
yesterday
and
tomorrow
and
since
the toxicity of self
is so strong within,
the death urge
leads to collective suicide,
the November Zero scenario
on a mass extinction scale,
but that won't matter since
ninety-nine point something
percent of all speciation
winds up on the eternal
chopping block anyway
so the urge to be the
Promethean acolyte
runs counter to the death urge,
rather futilely,
rather laughably,
rather sadly,
rather strangely
it is said by the
ones that know better.

And so he stands as November Zero
at November Zero because he is
November Oscar,
zero,
nada,
none
and
so he is now
as he was earlier
as the rest of humankind is later.

Reviews

[Teri B]

I hear all sorts of dark things fighting for pride of place in this piece...but the one constant is the hopelessness. Despair is a b***h! Surrender is a b***h!

Life...THERE'S a thought!

[NightShade]

This has got some SERIOUS Oomph! Staggering in it's intensity and loaded with dark insights that ring especially true... Change IS the only constant in the Universe but yeah... The bullshit quotient seems to always be part of the whole. F*****g outstanding!!!

[Brad]

again, ken, you've an immense intellect which you craft your artistry around

[Coyote Poetry]

You can write a poem with so many things to discuss. I like this poem. Open the doors to questions and tell a story at the same time. I had a father who had five wives and 11 kids. Took care of none of them. Thank you for your poetry. A strong ending to a excellent poem.
Coyote