Mike's Dailys

Rush Limbaugh poem, Mark Sanford poem, swine flu poem, anti-war poetry and art link.Includes novel "The Zero Factor" and periodic, poetic nonsense.

Monday, July 06, 2009

You Lead The League

You lead the league in ribbies, baby!
You are the damned best bally bopper
in the dug’s out, baby!
High five?
(Chewchewchewchewchew)
Crack of the cracked bat
cracks me up, Bubby baby!
Foulfoull, fling the flippin’ bally, baby,
‘round the base or bases, baby!
Gogogogogogo!
Whip it, wipe it, sniff it....
Throwthrowthrow,
runrunrun;
keep your bunions on the benches, boys,
and chewchewchew.
Touch the proper pillows, ‘round and ‘round.
Rack the K’s up and hope for hits.
These are the worm killers, the cans of corn,
and crap in the gap!
Eat your dogs and rally fries,
chewchewchew.
Hey!
We saw you spittin’ sumpin’ on groomed dirt!
You are side-armed and dangerous, baby,
(chewchewedchaw).
Buddy,
run on homey, now,
runrunrun.
Wind dance on the overgame,
jump, high five,
go home.

Saturday, July 04, 2009

Thank You Mark Sanford!

Thank You, Mark

(I am aware that Mark and friend may simply be in love,
it’s the level of hypocrisy that throws down my verbal glove!)
This is one of the stranger things that we have seen,
Mark swapping fluids with a mysterious Argentine.
He wasn’t hiking naked on the Appalachian trail,
he was down in Buenos Aires, chasing Latin tail.
It may be morally outrageous, for his family, very sad;
the fact remains for all to see, the right is very bad!
But it provides us with a chance to grin
at the folks who seem to struggle so with morality and sin.
It seems a bit bizarre, all the lies that we’ve been given,
but luckily he claims religion and is sure he’ll be forgiven.
He says his odd “I’m sorry”s, says it was HIS buck
that he used to run away for some rest and a quiet fuck.

Mike O’Connell
6/24/09

Thank you, Sarah. Now, go away.

More proof the GOP has become populated by idiots.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Say Hello To My Little Friends!!

Say Hello To My Little Friends

Neutrinos are the gnomes of the universe.
We can only see them out the corner of our instruments
and we can never catch them....never will.
You see, they don’t exist in any sort of
when or then, and are barely here right now.
They are, I think, parts and pieces of something
disassembled,
something prematurely destroyed,
seeking always to put itself back together into....
something totally weird and off the cosmic wall.
They bang around motorless,
borrowing energy from things that don’t exist yet,
and they smell.
They smell like dead ozone, like space gone bad,
like rotting photons kept in a jar
until the light is......gone.
You know that fart smell in a room
when no one’s there?
Neutrinos.
Hold out your hand.
There’s a trillion of them.
The little fuckers give me nightmares.
I know they’ll eat my brain if given a chance.
I considered putting a layer of aluminum foil
inside my hat but its too late.
I’ve already spent too much time
in neutrino storms, in particle fogs,
and there’s no way to repair the damage already done.
They’re in my eyes, too.
They’ve built little forts in there
and send up flares when I try too focus,
when I try to write about the "wrong things".
I was never paranoid before, before.....
you know, the neutrinos came.
Now, I’m a mess.
Don’t really know what to do.
I considered living in a steel room
or never getting out of my car
but then I found out
they just zip right through all that.
That’s the other thing.
I know they’re tearing tiny holes in me,
leaving skid marks in my heart and brain,
going for little river rides
in my synopsis and veins.
I know now that I am merely a puppet,
manipulated by neutrino civilizations
who make me wave my arms about
and say silly things.
I follow what the physicists say.
I smile when they talk about
great neutrino mysteries
and how the little fuckers are so
interesting, fascinating.....
Please!
They’re playing us for fools!
Oh... then there’s anti-neutrinos,
zipping around in anti-time,
turning backwards into forwards,
turning maybes into nothing much.
we’re doomed....
"Say hello to my little friends....."

Sunday, June 21, 2009

What a Rush! (Follow the Bouncing Behemoth)

I tried dabbling in Limbaughtic pill-osophy,
but I must have something missing.
Maybe a dark side or a large bone
missing from inside my head
that should have been illogically replaced
by silly goo and drums of codeine.
I could never remember the talking points
as they were aborted by truth and laughter.
I kept getting bogged down by facts,
empathy, and compassion.
Besides, I like people.
Near as I can make out,
one can’t just dabble in babble,
you have to live the lies
until your body and head get really fat.
I could never bring myself to
bounce and rant in front of large crowds
possessing but a single brain
while bashing non-male, non-white, people.
I could never bring myself to
chatter about stuff that doesn’t really matter.
I have come to a conclusion,
a pillosophical revelation, as it were.
The far, far right,
is a Limbaughtic blight,
and we don’t need OBL
because we have RFL.
He rules the grand ole' RNC
with a finger raised
at you and me.
He’s kind of funny,
in a laughing at death sort of way.
Sponsor this, silly rabid!

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Use and publication of swine flu poems

Please fell free to use and distribute these swine flu poems. All I ask is that you give me credit for authorship and maybe drop me a note or comment describing its use. Thanks,
Mike O'Connell 4/20/09

Monday, May 04, 2009

H1N1 new flu

New Swine Flu poem

Those that pick the nose,
will be the first to goes.
Those that mucus swallow,
will be soon to follow.

The man who kissed a pig,
however,
will not get it,
never!

So, kiss the piggy!
Do it quick!
Kiss the piggy
and you won't get sick!

Mike O'Connell
5/2/09

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Fixer

I am not a fixer of things.
I am not kin to the machine,
the board, the roof, or wall.
In point of fact,
I can't fix anything,
anything at all.

Things before me broken
tend to stay that way,
and tools are wary in my hands
until they're put away.

I don't believe the broken things
fear me or dislike me.
I'm pretty sure they just wish
I'd go and let them be.

She Says

She says I shouldn't forget
but I don't remember why.
She says I used to love her...
can't remember, though I try.

She says I loved our children
and they tell me this is so.
She says I should remember,
tell her why I had to go.

I cannot see the past of her,
no history there resides,
but in the future we'll remember
why I left and why she cried.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Talk Of War

When I listen to this talk of war,
I see that creates its own gravity,
orbiting with impunity
around our collective insanity.
It is pushing, pulling events
into odd, warped patterns,
sending fleets out on
manufactured missions.
I am ascending to near reason
in order to land
somewhere
between war and now,
where seeds of peace have been sewn,
where no one dies a silly death.
Someone you might know
died on a battlefield today.
It was supposed to be
someone else,
one of those
other guys.

You know, the dead all get together,
dance at rude reunions, dancing dead dances,
some with parts removed.
It's front page stuff
because the dead ooze news
and the media dreams of multiple fronts,
and some folks think that
guns are fun.

I think what we want is stillness;
no nearby thuds or thumps,
no screech of shells incoming from arc-lit skies.

I think what we really want is
NO MORE WAR

Swine Flu

These will be known as the days when
swine flew,
when we became our own
masked avengers,
trying thwart a sneaky pandemic
by refusing to go to soccer games.

These will be remembered as the days
when WHO knew,
and tried to ward off panic
with all the words panic is made of.

These will be remembered as the days
when we spewed doom poetry,
wrote hastily conceived wills,
and cowered from imaginary images of
pandemonium and rampant reapers.

These will be the days when swine flew,
when WHO knew,
and we tried to ward off panic
with a little laugh or two.

These days will be remembered......

Mike O'Connell
4/27/09

Monday, April 27, 2009

Brand new poems

Every Generation

Every generation gets at least one war.
It's just one of those things.
A gruesome milepost,
showing just how far they've come,
weapon-wise, and a
puncuation mark
at the end of their hopes and dreams.

The sons and daughters
of every generation
get their own
flag draped coffins,
their own mass graves,
to prove they have participated
in their designated war(s).

Every generation gets at least one war
to acquire for themselves
assorted ideas and other things;
freedom or selected gods,
gold or oil,
land or water,
and other engines of sacrifice
to the certainty of
still more war.

Every generation gets at least one war;
builds armies,
breeds soldiers,
never knowing where their souls may go,
or if they were issued souls at all.

Truth be told,
none of us can tell
where one war ends and the next begins....

Every generation gets at least one war,
even though war logic is fractal,
difficult to measure with only
esoteric quantities of
death and destruction
to calculate the degree of commitment
to their particular war.

Every generation gets at least one war...
Its just one of those things.


Mike O'Connell
5/1/09
#2
Dear, Dear Death

I flirted with dear Death one time,
but She wouldn't have me,
don't know why.
Perhaps I was not worthy,
not commited enough
to love Her and to die.
....and so, on I go,
though I know where She lives still.
Up the hill on Cemetary Road,
lined with headstones,
chiseled by Her will.

Death lives up the road from here,
but I never stop to see Her.
(She keeps nasty beasts, I'm told,
with sharpened fangs and bristling fur!)

She'll break down and come my way,
visit me someday,
take me up and bury me,
then go on Her way.

Mike O'Connell 4/09

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

At The Pit

Weightless relics in army blanket shrouds,
piled before the pit, appear too stick-like, too numerous,
to be have once been human.
The mind is wrenched,forced to see things less horrid;
The crows are healthy, the flies fat and fast.
Emotions must be numbed to prevent overwhelming despair.
The youngest, the oldest,the ones who died exhausted
from the struggle to bring them all here,
are piled the highest at the edge of the pit.
They will be the first to be desecratedby jackals and Caterpillar blades.
Just at dawn, before sounds amplify,
before the stench breaks free of its fragile,dewy net,
the corpse heap seems to waver.
It heaves from the pressures released
as bloated bodies collapse and give into the weight of friends,
ripples as the heat of the rotting rises up to meet the sun.
Then, the mothers come.
The empty mothers with opaque eyes,
memory muffled wails, halting, half recited prayers
whose words are the lyrics for an orchestra of waking flies.
The mothers will not hear them,
or see the worms in their children’s eyes
or be fooled by the prayer’s most holy disguise
or stay to see the dead sealed off from the sky.
The mothers have removed themselves,
have resigned themselves.
Only their strength of heart has borne them this far.
Now, they wait.
They must be the last layer on the sad grave.
Their bones must be the headstones,
the guardians of the martyrs beneath…
the last to fall from the light of hope.


Mike O'Connell
2009

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

Me

Thursday, January 29, 2009

The End Of War

The End Of War


Meet me at the end of the sky
where rifle parts fail,
where limbs flee, reprieved.
Where we plant thumbs,
crosses grow,
watered by tears.

Here,
we dance in smoking craters
to the thump of guns,
waving our shredded arms about,
begging that old age might find us.

….and a voice from oblivion cries out:
“You owe me!” and
“I would like to have one year
returned to me
for all the friends I’ve lost,
and thereby, live forever.”

Plato said:
“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

These searchlights will show you where the dead have gone.
Their shadows will show you where their youth has gone.
Their youth will show you where the truth has gone.

by
Mike O'Connell
1/28/09

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Other views of MOL...

Please visit www.omniglot.com/gallery for other views of "Meaning Of Life". As for requests to purchase the piece...it is not for sale...thanks
Mike

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Sunday, September 30, 2007

Meaning of Life


































Here are some pictures of my latest painting. You can see others at http://cjoconn22.com/paintings