Omega Vision's poems

An Elegy to an I-Pod:

Terminal block of silicon and steel,
you are forgiven.
The music is gone,
your circuits fizzled
by a creeping tide of dishwasher water
and suds.
Cold tech support!
You sang for six years;
six years in planes, buses, cars,
and walks with the white-tailed dog
through mist flows that sunlight fingers
bursting through clouds flicked up
from the rain-slicked asphalt.
Listening to you, I saw white sand
as another aspect of hot snow,
and silence as solitude.
You brought Schubert to me, and showed me gloved fingers
pounding a manico in a place I’ve never been,
but seen in dreams too loud and wide
for ears and eyes.
The rice coffin could only
stretch the inevitable;
it’s time to pull the plug. What’s the use
if you don’t sync or charge? Also,
my printer needs the space.
I’ll buy a replacement, teach it your songs—our songs.
But we both know the factory-stamped,
silver-white doppelganger won’t have your scars.

I march up a hill that G.I. boots once
tread. No explosions or gunfire now, just
a baguette stuffed with steak dive-bombing my gut.
The sun that saw William the Conqueror
off now glares down at my brothers and I.
I wish I could say it smiles, but smiles never
make me sweat through my underwear. Butterflies
flutter around tallgrass shoots, and glow like
yellow coins flipped into the sunlight’s waiting hand.
Where were the butterflies when the bunkers
shuddered from the anger of twelve-inch guns?
Perhaps they flew above the striped Mustang wings
and circled in the blue—waiting, waiting
on the grass to sprout through cracks in graffitied
cement. A cool breeze blows through. The ocean water
beyond the town allows a sailboat passage,
and is relaxed because it knows it shall
survive the furrows of one more fiberglass
keel. Flowers ring the bunker. Heat stumbles
through my soles. The depression casts a shade
over the Norman sun. But it has no hold,
and loses its way in wind-licked tallgrass stalks.
I don’t know what my brothers are thinking
as they climb over the bunker and look out
at the shirts and hats milling through the town
made from matchboxes. But my hunger is gone.
Sometimes I fear I shall awake content.

Crows and God

A crow lands on my porch,
looks at me,
and tilts its head.
I could feed it orange slices or corn,
but it will be lucky if I throw coffee grounds.
I lean on the porch railing and stare up
at patches of gray sky poking
through gaps in black magnolia leaves,
and ask whoever’s listening:
are you getting older too?

Atheists also pray
when the heart
pounds at its cage, and when fingers seek
thicker furrows of sweat-soaked linens
to grasp at.
Atheists also pray
when many windows close around them
and a draft still creeps through the empty house
searching for toes to nibble
and cracks
to hide in.
Atheists also pray
when tongues of blooming sun
lick the tops of pines swaying to the andante
vibrations of legion cicadas;
pray because they want to thank someone—
anyone.

Aššur

Stain on the sand, dust in the air;
God is Great.

Camcorders, Cellphones, Twitter, Skype.

Red on the sand, powder in the air;
God is Great.

Statements, Resolutions, Speeches, Mandates.

Blood on the sand, cordite in the air;
Allāhu Akhbar.

White flags, red flags, green flags, black flags.

Words on the walls, words in the wires, words in satellites;
to whom should we listen?

Red white and blue or red white and blue?

Blood in the sand, cordite for air;
Aššur is burning—roll the dice.

Once there was a green-eyed Vestani girl,
Whirling and twirling in the fertile hills of Quardzigander.
The richest prince in all of endless Junia
Sent a hundred courtiers with chests of silver to buy her,
But his longing would only be deepened,
For the whirling girl cared not a whit for wealth or power.

So the prince conscripted from far corners
A horde of poets to spin from the aether divine verses
To delight and amaze the stoniest of hearts,
And compel the meanest of men to empty their purses,
But the Vestani girl was deaf and illiterate,
And all the poetry could but make the prince feel worse.

If you want to ask me out, just do it, man.

I like your last one, it's the only one I read.

Originally posted by Mindset
If you want to ask me out, just do it, man.

I like your last one, it's the only one I read.

Thank you.

Crows and God was just published in the FSReview, along with another poem, Time Flows to Source.

I didn't actually write this one, but I uncovered it while researching the history of Santa Rosa County, Florida. It's an epitaph on a grave somewhere around Santa Rosa:

Where the longleaf pines are whispering
to him who loved them so.
Where the faint murmurs now dwindling
echo o'er tide and shore.

Song of Disappointment
11/19/13
I’ve just driven half an hour
down Biscayne Boulevard
and now I hear this:
“Twenty-five,” she says.
“Twenty-five?” I reply.
She sees that I’m not willing.
“Alright, I can do you for twenty.”
Just what is that accent she’s spitting
at me with? And is that a mole
on her cheek?
“I can do exit?” I ask.
“You can do exit,” she says,
and then points the way.
We were negotiating parking;
hope you weren’t confused.

So I didn’t get to see
Sherman Alexie.
Oh well. It’s not as if I paid for the ticket—
a fifteen dollar value free.
I’m not paying twenty-five or even twenty
to walk through the rain to see a writer
whose work I’ve barely read.
Maybe if it were Toni Morrison,
and also preferably not so wet.

Again, oh well.
There’s a long drive home,
I burn a red light,
nearly get fish-tailed
once or twice,
and end up idled in the shadow
of the Chase Bank monolith
while the almost to-term moon
lays herself down under
gray taffeta.

I get home
and write this poem
in a style I detest,
but still I must know—
Mr. Alexie, was it a good show
and are you thinking of a Smoke Signals 2?
If so, you can have the twenty.

Wow this is impressive stuff man! Hope u write more, bro.

Is my boy Omega still alive?

Lovely, lovely prose. Excellent work.

Lovely