Robert L. Martin

Mother Nature of two faces,
seas with glassy roofs and easy gaits,
seas with melodic whispers
and rhythmic rolling,

then seas of the swirling labyrinth,
victims of the Gods of the wind,
the Tempest showing its seven ugly heads,
sons of Neptune with contorted faces
dictating the motion of the waters,
taking over ownership of the seas
with wayward currents, establishing new laws,
the cadence of nature in a frenzy,
the easiness of motion disturbed,
harmony of the waters running amuck,
moderation of the elements undone
for the pathway of the fisherman to sail upon,
but the journey must be done.

The quota must be filled.
The crabs must be caught
come hell or high water.

The war with the devil’s breath,
the disruption of the devil’s flow
in defiance against the new command,
and the will to keep on fighting
is ingrained in the spirit of the true crabber.
His livelihood depends upon his perseverance.
The task ahead is his mountain to climb
and the Tempest is his enemy to subdue.

Outside boy living in his chosen realm,
swirling with the madness in his head,
listening to the commanding voices thru the mist
and the music of the demon playing
The Aberration of the Gods of Baal,

skies of distorted angels flying in the dark,
swooping down to gather up the nightly seas
and putting them in their pockets
and playing with them with their hairy fingers,

outside boy building up the rage against the
emissaries of the kindhearted God
that live inside the realm
of the American dream,

gloating in his superiority
as he sits in his self-appointed seat
far above his foes that he
cannot and will not see,
marching in proud submission
to the devil’s drums
in step with his wickedness and desires,

little boy with ripened stature
and pliant convictions
emerging from the devil’s mold,
living in his fabricated home,
comes out to play in obedience
to the devil’s command
as he wreaks havoc upon the masses
and security of the children
and the American dream
of Utopia in the world.

“Little outside boy, stay away from us.”

Sugar Bliss, taste of heaven,
heaven embodied,
magnetic pleasure,
taste buds enchanted,
love ballad in the air,
sensual fingers soothing,
reaching through the skin
and feathering the nerves,
bringing heaven into being,

aromatic pleasure,
gardens inundated with roses,
jasmine in bloom,
reaching into the enchanted senses,
calming seas, crimson sunsets
that penetrate through the eyes,
travel down the spine
and encircle the heart
with rose-scented wreaths,

sweetness in the air,
sugar in the wind,
gardens in bloom, taste bud bliss,
heaven on earth,
sweet, sweet pleasure m-m-
m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m.

Missile gala, night sky glitter,
spectral magic, restless clouds,
floating nervous feet,
carnival grounds in the
sorcerer’s night,
blackened ferris wheels,
angry cannons affixed,
sparkling missiles firing,
jagged lines of fire strewing,
beauty of the nighttime sky,
aerial galleries boasting
of strength, artistry, power,

carnival of the Thunder Gods,
demonic pleasure, angelic horror,
domination of the sacred sky,
ruthless beauty on display,
nature and the guts of nature,
the inside looking out,
of power wandering from its cave,
setting its sights on the land below,
laughing at the tranquil seas,
firing its beautiful missiles at will,
lighting up the sky,

oh beauty of the mystic night,
gala of visual delight,
of power unleashed,
of nature impassioned,
of passion embodied,
and beauty running in the wild.

Way down under the sea
where Davy Jones’s locker lies
or one fathom down from
the roof of the water’s house
where the crab boats sail
on the edge of Neptune’s domain,
where the waves have no rhythm
like a song without a pulse,
the waters churn and the devil romps.

The Bering sea becomes the Devil’s Sea,
the devil’s harbor outside of Dutch Harbor,
the assemblage of the crab, the land of plenty,
waters stirred up by the pockets in the depths
and the flapping tail of the sea beast.
No longer is the rhythm
of the crests and troughs,
the poetic undulations of predictability,
but a madness of hodgepodge,
of rogue waves teeming and running wild
in the playground of the devil’s lot
like the churning of the witch’s brew,
attacking from starboard and port side,
an assault upon the fleet
with their acts of demolition
powered by the pockets in the depths,
the peaks and valleys of the down under
where hell has its glory,
then rises up to the surface
and attacks the fishing fleet
as the fishermen flirt with death,
men with nerves of steel and iron hearts
who die for the sake of the crab,
placing themselves in the bowels of danger.

On the table at the five-star restaurant
where the crab is decorated with parsley,
where the people gather to dine,
nothing is thought about the fishermen
who risked their lives to catch their dinner.
Nothing is said through their thankless hearts
as they throw away the food that is left
after stuffing themselves full of crab.

For the men of the fleet who lived through
the Neptune Madness, job well done.

My hat, my own,
My possession, my slave,
My rain repellentthinger,
My object, my dummy,
My lumpa’ felt, felted lump,
Closet dweller, room taker upper,
Piece of junk, no named nothin’,
Lower than the lowest,
Dunce in the closet,
Closeted junk, nitwit, nincompoop,
Waiting for me to come alive,
To be worn by me,
To gain prominence,
To take over, gain control,
To become the wearerer,
The one who wears me,
Me the wearee,
Me the nitwit in the closet,
To doff me and
Smile at the ladies,
That no-good piece of crap
That became my slaver daddy,
That *%#%* son of a *&$#&%.

Ancient killers and contemporary killers
Pterodactyls and jetfighter planes
Knuckles and grenades
Battle-axes and missiles
Spears and assault rifles
Fire and gun powder
Strength of body and strength of mind

Satanic strongholds and biblical triumphs
Evil conundrums and puzzle solvers
Killers of hope and killers of hope killers
Air of depression and air of exhilaration
Virus running free and fences being built
Aerial beasts and aerial thinkers
Bestial cannonballs and holy exorcists
Toxic air and its decontamination
Corona germs and laboratory militias
Pestilent rats becoming rats of heroism
Germs supplying ammo to fight germs
Futility fighting and genius retaliating
Killers in the air shot down by a vaccine

Era of depression runs into a new era.
The good and bad are only temporary.
Time is a fast-moving train
running through the past and present
with no time to let depression take root.
Hope is the track into the next town and
Vaccine is the town of destiny and
jubilation is the new spirit of the town.

“Hmm,” thought I.
“I pressed the button
on the phone called the
(balabala) button.
It says that it might cause a fire.
Yikes! My house might burn down.
The way to deactivate it is to
press the (hoseblows) button, then
wait for it to start flashing.
Then if it doesn’t, press the
(powpow) button if you start
smelling smoke. If the smoke
intensifies, press the
(yukyuk) button. If you see fire
coming out of the phone,
press the (flamebam) button that
automatically calls the
fire department, but don’t worry
because it might just be a warning.
If it is, press the (toratora) button
and hope that it is a warning.
If not, you can activate the
(spashsplash) button to turn on the
sprinklers to avoid calling
the fire department. If the
sprinklers don’t work, press
the (barabara) button, and if
it doesn’t flash, press the
(panic) button. If that doesn’t
work, get the hell outta there;
fast, pronto, speedily, swiftly,
like a gazelle or a bat outta hell
or a hippopotamus on drugs;
mucho rapidamente.
Goodbye and good luck.”

From the soft cushiony life
of pleasant thoughts and dreams,
of life laying out on a silver platter,
of riches settling in the palate
with its sweet breath
permeating the quiet air around,
unprepared for the danger lurking,
hearing its horns blasting,
feeling it digging into the skin,
it’s tentacles grabbing a hold and
taking us up to the graveyard
on top of the hill,
the home of all dreamers,
where all hopes are dashed
and “In Memory of the Fearful”
engraved on the tombstones,
is a place reserved for the
prey of the climbing crisis.

But climbers beware
for the leveling off of the climb
as the weary plague loses its grip
from its laborious ascension,
it’s feet swelling and muscles aching,
it’s evil still in its eyes,
but its influence lessened
as it nears the top
and gone away at the summit.

Alas, ’tis the sighting of the
other side of the hill,
the glorious meadows down below,
the smiling daffodils
and dancing streams,
the ride down a rejuvenation
of all hope, a new spirit in the soul,
a forever jubilation in the heart,
and the end of the course of the crisis.
Hallelujah!!!

Exotic delights touching skin
like soft roses blowing kisses.
the brushing of love’s tender wings,
the tingling of their romantic touch,
the feeling of heaven on earth,
creamy liquids in their soothing,
their lovely touching and probing,
rolling down the breathing hills,
seeping down into the crevasses,
cooling off the fiery nerves,
rescuing the screaming desiccation,
the abandoned moisture that once was,
the comfort of a rose-like feel,
the soothing breath of the rain
like a rainforest in the desert,
the tears in the soil,
the flowers in the sun,
the embellishment of the naked earth,
the glistening of the reborn skin,
the fruited limbs that shine in the sun,
the glowing that reaches into the groin,
the racing of the heated blood,
the flaunting of the undulating hills,
the secrets of the forbidden valleys,
the words that get lost in the viewing,
the sensual lines that parallel the rivers,
the oils that drip down the banks,
the softness that calls for a touch,
the nervous fingers with lusted eyes,
the thunder that runs with passion,
the taboo that lost its voice,
the sensual rites of the exotic oils,
of beauty that emerges in the sunlight
and shines into the heated loins
and the craving to keep that feeling.