Poems by A.j. Binash

Be The Peculiar Child

Be the peculiar child.
The child spoken about
In hushed tones,
As a parent bowed their corpse lips
To their child’s pink ears,
“I don’t want you to play with them,
Understand? They’re weird.”

The child who built
The Tower of Babel
With Lincoln Logs.

The child who stared
At the sun
Until blindness gleamed
Like neon,
Darkness prevailed
As a consequence
Of potential.

Imagine Reagan serving dinner
To Jane Adams
At the Hull House. Or Margaret Thatcher
Reviewing S&M photographs
Of Bettie Page
As they preach God
On a ledge. Imagine Ezra Pound
Teaching insanity to J.K. Rowling.
Or Obama riding the interstate
With Eisenhower. Imagine Miley Cyrus
Party in the USA
To Beethoven’s deaf approval.

Imagine an abattoir of individuals
Stitching their limbs together
To construct a Frankenstein cliché.

The ultimate beginning
Of original thought.

Is a choice waiting for an opportunity.

Feral Pigs and The Kardashian Family

I like to pause television shows
Using a bent index-
Pushing those parallel lines
Straight to Heaven’s gate.

Inside that frame
Dramatic expressions
Play pretend,
A swiveling profile-
Eyebrows folded towards the snout.
A bass line drops
A collapsing electronic omission,
Tears made of glycerin shine
Like capped teeth.

Even journalists are trusted enough
To announce,
“Heroin ruins lives!”
They understand the ratings tremble
Like a lifeline
When the cold are CEOs
And not the poverty stricken-dead.

But a compromise of values must be met
When entertainment
Develops a consciousness online.
A consciousness as real as the fingerprints
Spilling their souls like blood
Onto the alphabet.

But the story will be compromised
When fragmented. Those dramatic expressions
Convey humor
That starts with cackling
And concludes in side-splitting-
A deep enough wound
That I give up
My guts,
My spine,
My golden soul shimmering at the base line of my neck.

Telecasters are able to manipulate synapses inside the brain,
Using imagery modeled after perfection,
To construct a sensational euphoria.
So I wonder…
Why does the Garden of Eden
Appear beautiful on screen
And plain in reality?

If I were Eve I wouldn’t have just bit the apple
I would’ve consumed the fruit
Down to its core.

A.j. Binash is a post-post-post-modernist writer from La Crosse, WI. He hates writing 3rd person bios because, “a short description of life is an enigma, but only if time isn’t linear.” He enjoys writing poetry, reading books by Sartre, and recognizing the importance of every choice made inside every moment. Selah vie, etc, etc, etc…
His current material can be found at www.romanticclowning.com

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