Those Who Ruled Us
the small monsters
that sat at our elbow
who we invited to disclose
encouraged them to share
their gibberish contempt
and senseless calculations
have skulked back sneering
into the half lit shadows
scientists can know beasts
past by their leavings
but the stench of cannibals
is all we have left to sift
The Last Hoax
gambling on the power of a hoax
we talk like nothing is wrong
she repeats the same old tale
but the moral of her story escapes me
my thoughts are not germane
my gut is rebelling
there were nights we looked for each other
with flashlights and bull-horns
hounds bayed for our bodies
to be lock together with grand truths
but that search ended long-ago
and she has blanked on my name
emptiness is already growing
between us like moss
trite conversation is our only lifeline
or gravity will have its way
and drop us into another pointless
fireball of contempt
leaving this room is complex
an informality of grace and disregard
the wood door is near
I can almost touch its carved images
it is with great relief I realize
I will never see them again
_
Rod Tipton is a writer and filmmaker as well as the Editor of Commonline. He lives in Seattle, Washington.
