Eric P. Metze » Fauxetry

Trinity

Eric P. Metze — Tue, 26 Nov 2002 11:23:14 +0000

In a time before Ground Zero meant something else,
After our cousins Einstein, Teller, and Oppenheimer,
In an empty desert guarded by squat mountains,
Humanity took its first step into another age
With the detonation of a bomb named Trinity.
We viewed the Opening from miles away,
As creatures with fragile bodies must do.
Even from so far, far away, adrenaline prepares us
For the danger that will never come.
Our bodies could detect our agitated, sweaty state
If our minds weren’t so busy trying to contemplate
The magnitude of the moment.

Energy erupts from its atomic prison,
Bound in place since essentially the Beginning.
A chain reaction of self-destruction
Bursts from the plutonium core;
Illuminating the world as the sun does the earth.
If we were able to witness firsthand
The face of the sun, or of God,
I’m sure it would look quite similar to this?
Heat and light, being one and the same
Travel at the same speed,
Touching everything with white-hot plasma.
Anything and all things susceptible to fire
Begins to burn immediately after detonation.
Before temperature has a chance to elevate,
A uniform sphere of thick, boiling pressure
Expands spectacularly and destroys apathetically.
Silencing desert life for miles in every direction
Then, and for years to come.
The great fire born from the blast consumes all air
Then expels its radioactive breath.
With no atmosphere to maintain pressure,
The sinister cloud of debris slowly turns on itself.
The aftermath migrates toward Ground Zero,
Creating a column that raises a sinister, glowing halo,
Like a demon on its way to Heaven.

No modern army, neither Axis nor Allied
Could withstand such a destructive wind.
And that, I believe, is exactly why it was built
The mistake to end all mistakes.

Sphere

Eric P. Metze — Thu, 21 Nov 2002 02:25:33 +0000

sphere
infinite sides and points
generated within the Euclidian
geometry framework, expressing
natural beauty, finite in design yet
infinite in possibilities, creating truly
unlimited sides and angles and points
complex actions are condensed into
simple equations, as the pie are
squared, bringing all points
together

Dog Spiel

Eric P. Metze — Wed, 20 Nov 2002 00:20:13 +0000

In our schools and public places
The meme of submission minus reason perpetuates;
Replicates like bacteria in our sweet minds.
We live, some learn, and work ourselves to death,
But that was why we were created, wasn’t it?
So much needless and mindless discussion,
Of things that do and change nothing.
Philosophists invent discussions, decorated with tautology,
Like how many angels on the tail of a needle.
Perhaps, they feel it gives credence to their creed;
Founding to their faith, like the Council of Clermont.
I have always wandered the spiritual hallways,
Lit by Dhamma and Trinity, Brahman and Satori,
But they merely took me places I had not been.
The door my hands couldn’t open always intrigued me,
Summoned me, and a few times I even tried to break it down.
Until finally, one day, it quietly swung open,
And I saw myself grinning on the other side.

The Gospel

Eric P. Metze — Thu, 14 Nov 2002 17:12:38 +0000

God, protect me from your people,
With closed minds and blind third eyes.
Misinformation and half-truths
Are barely discernable from the lies.

I’ve felt your presence and your power,
My biology is impossible to deny.
But I do not fear to think these thoughts,
I’d rather know uncomfortable truths than reassuring lies.

I appreciate all you have done for me,
And all the gifts you have bestowed upon us.
So do not be shocked or surprised
If I use them to their full extent.

Please calm the nerves of your other admirers
With their holy armor helmets without a view.
Let them realize that varying opinions
Is part of your gift of graceful freewill.

Assure your children that it is acceptable
To completely ignore your divine providence.
Teach them the lesson they should have known,
Of peace, love, and unconditional tolerance.

Out of Palce

Eric P. Metze — Tue, 12 Nov 2002 19:44:31 +0000

I was not in my right mind, I think.
While on vacation in Constantinople,
I thought I found a nice local café
Where I could snuggle up with a dry martini.
I thought I’d found a cozy place,
But discovered my mistake too late.
I sat down at a round table, with only one chair,
And then my surroundings began opening up to me.
My waiter smiled fiercely and cheerily took my order,
While something in his eyes suddenly filled my head
With thoughts that would make Oliver Stone cringe.
I should have left after discovering the hair in my chowder,
But I shove improper sanitation to the backburner.
When I notice a row of Armani suits, stuffed with grumpy folks.
Their presence only becomes clear when I see that they sit,
Before rows of arcade games with buckets of change.
The air alive with the cha-ching of antique slots and bling-bling of video poker.
At first, I thought it was the silent droning of the neon that turned on me,
But the walls are actually covered with familiar colors;
Hues from my childhood that I had forgotten until just that moment.
That palace looked like Roger Rabbit had a fit with a can of paint,
Then beat all the folks here with the brush that made him.
Building to a mild panic, I glanced in another booth,
Where a young boy blew out dozens of candles
Arranged like post-war headstones
On a cemetery that tastes an awful lot like red velvet.
In a fit of fearful bravery, I moseyed quickly out of there,
But not before leaving the waiter a tip:
â€œGet out of this place.â€