Cary Briel

Atheist says, “Bah!”
The program that programs itself
They say–
They scream–
Reverberating the programmatic dream;

And round and round we go–
In a circular row;
But perhaps
I have it!
Perhaps it’s turtles all the way down?

Or, perhaps, I’ll just repeat “natural selection,”
And “heritable traits;”
In an environment
The weaker dissipates–
In the program that programs itself;

How many lines of code
Written in languages unknown
Give science
A desperation for new ideas?
Or perhaps the turtles know who wrote the code?

It’s just a look
Or quick glance
That will cause a man to explain
What, but a moment ago
Seemed logical–
Practical;
Attempts to escape are futile–
Even deadly;
Behold
The judging eyes of a woman.

Believe or don’t believe
As you see fit
Beliefs or faiths; To wit,
Those that
Point your soul–
As if they could;
Stand at the pit
Arm in arm
With fellow goats
And pray for wool;
As fire leaps
And bounds so close
To touch your feet–
Spy the doubled-goats
Beneath.

I love you,
The simplest of lines;
Much like others that move me not;
It, I suspect
I will remember
More than others at my end;
Have I told you
Lately?
I love you.

Frayed band-aid
Thank you for being brand name;
It’s two showers later
And you’re still there;
Soaked with your telltale blood smear
You tell–
You betray to all passers by
Of my slip;
Better you’d lie.

“It’s all yours!”
She says as she passes
My office;
As I chip away
This big block of stone won’t go away;
Does she not realize
The mountains I face–
With nothing more than a keyboard
And mandate?
But the shower is dripping
Dripping away–
My shower
According to a more forceful mandate.

I used to scream
To my Mom;
Then she’d call home my Dad
From Crowleys,
When she couldn’t wake me
No matter how much she’d shake me;
Night terrors they’d call it;

A skinny demon
Who found me–
Rather abruptly–
In the phone book of hell
Under Briel,
Had no name of his own
Or none that he’d tell;

But he would describe me
As skinny
And lean
And liked;
Why these attributes appealed
To a demon with no name
Is beyond me.

My stomach is empty
And since I cannot
Create or write a lot
Lest I feel–
I present you with this unimportant fact;
If I could eat clicks and dedication–
Instead of eggs
And bacon–
Or if I could cook–
Oh, now the females look
Their former haunts forsaken;
O Tobey Maguire
Stand in fright!
We’re slipping back to black and white.

I’m freezing
My wife says it’s beautiful;
Lies!
Snow plows build banks to new highs;
As if adults still make snow angels!
I’d rather pull a nose hair
Or grind glass into my eyes;
Fingernails on the blackboard–
Bret Michaels–
Asylum ward;
Anything but snow;
Spring is the season
Of the logical,
Any other supposition is criminal.

He was and is still
A god to me;
Optics, lenses–
Boxed in his closet;
Each packaged in paper
Each having a scribbled spec
I didn’t understand;
But, O my heart wanted to be him;
It still does;
What wouldn’t I give to go back
To days when he talked to me of his father
Orion Sr.
To be frozen in those moments forever?
I had no idea what they would mean to me;
How many dreams of his
Did I have the privilege of living with him?
How many crazy ideas
Did I, too, excitedly indulge?
O Lord, let me be crazy again
If only to sit in his presence just once more!
Let me see his eyes behold mine again!
Everything I am or will ever be
Answers to a hope that was behind his kind eyes;
If I succeed
It will be him that succeeds and not I;
If I love
It’s him loving;
Every breath I take
It is he who draws in and not I;
He was and is my world
I see myself only in his eyes;
My heart screams his name in horror because he’s gone!
Father, father, tell me again of the four rivers:
Pison,
Gihon,
Hiddekel,
Euphrates;
Let me forget all that I know
To sit in your presence and be taught by you;
Let me forsake all that is me
To be your son again.