I KNOW MOST OF YOU CONDITIONALLY SUPPORT MY POETRY. (What I mean is the gossip or noise on me at that point in time will regulate your actions). I only know how to rebel against the liberal establishment that has taken away my most fundamental human rights.
1976, Asilomar comes to mind
Here when a moratorium was entered
By scientists to curb the inflammation
Of rogue scientists, making GM organisms.
Banished is just the way of the rebel.
And the rebel is found in those too comfortable
In their own shoes, and give scant respect
To the ways of the world. These lifeforms are so inimitable
Their genes are almost extraterrestrial
So alienated from the sheer boredom
Of queues of cattle lines.
And in that metamorphosis
Of purr to bark, meek to brave, you will only find a beautiful
Strain of an outlived dream, and an epitaph
That needs no flowers at the toe
Of the tombstone.
Messenger RNA to protein
Is a translation by a biological apparatus
Called the ribosome. We call this mechanism
A dogma central to molecular biology.
We translate a sentence into meaning
Or a theory into functional practices.
We translate a book from first print
To translation, we draw metaphors
From living things and inanimate objects,
We glorify realities, fantasize the fairy tale.
We translate percussion to sound
Plucked string to strings of melodies
Stentorian voices to recordings
And laughter to a contagion.
We translate sunlight to a reservoir of vitamin D
Which in turn fortifies our teeth
And gives steel to our bones. We see
The first cherry blossom, the lonely tulip
When spring wakes from her slumber.
We translate pick-up lines into one night stands
Mozzarella cheese into toppings on pizzas,
Fine wheat flour into Battenberg cake,
Orange peel to bitter marmalade.
We countdown calendars, turning today
Into yesterday’s memory.
Our flesh translates 206 bones, 33 vertebra
And enumerable muscles and tendons into
Love machines. We pump from a maddening heart
Sending cascades down dilated arteries
And life blood to our combustion centers.
And we carry the pathology
Of our cataract eyes to our bedrooms
To translate a volume of Braille in embossed flesh,
Into longhand; to archive.
My wife and I are about to celebrate our
Second wedding anniversary.
We have planned a dinner at our favorite
Italian restaurant in town where I know,
She will order the lamb lasagna,
And I the carbonara, seemingly set in our
Ways of what we like.
Still what I and she loves, is that strange feeling,
An accompaniment that is compulsive
And stores inside a palpitating chamber,
Fireworks that burns long and steady.
Every time, that feeling is fired, you see a skyline
That absolves you from the harsh realities
And transforms you to a greater good
Unproven by math. We are only leaches
Thinning blood and shooting each other a vitality
That never seems to run short.
And the two of us, we are all about,
The deft placement of a four-letter word
On the many sized tongues of our body