[Newspoetry] ClosureConvergence: What every Stability wants, any Stability gets.

[Donald L Emerick]

Doubts Persist about Election Results
http://www.truthout.org/docs_04/121104V.shtml


****
Stranglers Paradoxtored Elections:
'Ynconsystemcyes', sil vous plait?

We want to know who won the election.
the moment after the polls are closed.
Why shouldn't an election end quickly,
like sudden death in some overtime play?
Once someone scores, the tie is broken,
someone has won, we can all go home,
happy that the contest had an ending.

Every ending is a happy ending, as well.
It's unAmerican to believe in tragedy,
so romanced by mindless comedy are we,
that we'd rather emote than ever think.
Detective shows like CSI or Perry Mason
are just romantic farces in batter drag --
Kentucky-fried comedy, central to a gag.

Oh, the enrolled actors of a play think,
in both kinds of play, to show us being,
as it may alternatively be based to be:
cat-astronomic calculations are intensed,
heavy weights lifted up onto the scales,
a comedy is a tragedy gone wryly wrong:
bad things never happen to no-good guys.

And, the good guys laugh at misfortune,
laugh as fates' fickle folly defaults,
bankrupts and falls as a residue duty,
any deficit of thinking makes us laugh:
MacBeth is so funny when he plans death,
and his Lady so silly, wiping her hands,
of a blood none could see to even drink.

Where's your vetted sense of values, now?
You cut your teeth on morality's plays,
you split your lips, or split your legs,
cuff your ear, tap your brow or brim,
pull your bow, tug your forelocks, too:
showing by humility a servile humanity,
laughing, we exit, blackfaces all glowing.

******

MY FAILED POEM OF A MUD:
Beating About The Bush

Every Epoch Epiludicrous,
after it has been slung,
is something to be sung.

Call me a stinging wasp,
mascareading mud-daubber --
for Mud, I make an adobe be
a home for me, not a bee hind,
wildly drunk on a honeyed mead,
sucking nectars in a Divan Comedy.

People who live in glass out-houses
should throw none of their smelly shit,
although that is butt-redundant: smells;
a shit that is thrown splatters too well,
feces translucent restain yellow opaques,
see our film at eleven on such out-takes,
as prime time is sacred for your looks.

People who live in glass-ceilinged houses
shouldn't look up but to what is overhead,
nor sing any high notes to bring it down.
Oblivious people who live in class houses
hide nowhere else their unclassifiedness:
nondescript ghettoes in mansional tenses,
national treasures are buried in tragedy.

What, then, is unburied, in an untragedy,
is a comedy in unnational untreasure, not.
Everything we negated is either at least
a something else or it is a nothing else,
but else, for sure, it is, an easier-else,
a turning-possibility for re-turning over,
not a new leaf, but a new life, undefined.

Newton saw the Apple fall from A to Z,
left invented derivatives of his fall.
In the Apple's fall, we all must fall,
said Cotton Mather's Reader, not Adam,
what it should have said as a Science,
and not mystiques proper to Pomettiques:
anon do poems ever bite this wormy Apple.