Is This The End

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Is This The End?

“The killer awoke before dawn. He put his

boots on.”--Jim Morrison

I swear GOD is

   a politician; his explication and

         rebuttal to our accusation that he

               could not possibly love us as much as

         he claims--otherwise why do we 

   have to face death with every

breath--why in hell do unspeakably

tragic things happen regularly to

good people--you know, like concentration camps,

                                              bullies & batterers,

                                              genocide.

                                               patricide,

                                               dire hopeless poverty,

                                               serial killers,

                                               plagues,

and way too many assholes in charge of everything

--is that hey, man was given

free will & a road map from

the Get, and simply all those

who choose to disregard        morality,

                                               honesty,

                                               decency,

                                               equity,

                                               equality,

                         & the rule of divine law

                are just choosing to exercise

            their God-given right

        to be themselves in

the humane heart of an

extant Celestial Democracy;

dig it. 

The kicker, the egress from all this negative stress

is that a titanic ton of us choose to believe that yes,

all things wear out, so there will be an end to our

husk, but our essence joyfully shifts, skipping and

singing rap hosannas to our next adventure as 

easily as one travels through a revolving door. 

So, as this poem ends,

actually, the poetics only pause;

this pregnant portion of my poetic

continuum will be finished for now;

I tell myself that these words will find

closure, that my depleted creativity

will have to be recharged before the

next prompt, the next Muse’s call

for my response--that as a poet, my

words will live on, unstoppable, 

regardless of what may happen to me

--that is until Morrison’s naked Indian

spirit guide shows up in my dreams;

feathers tied to his phallus, wearing

blood red warpaint, and he walks right

up to me & says:

“Dude, don’t be stupid;

we both are aware that right

now--this is the end.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub