The Lost Religion of Men by CEE

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The Lost Religion of Men

poems by
CEE


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Y2K, didn’t, to our knowledge, destroy the world. But for the demise of the VHS format, neither did the 21st Century shepherd in a New Age, on cue. Media, the merchants and power brokers told us so, but if one paid attention, 2000 was 1999 misspelled.

Likewise, the blitz of a “changed”, “renewed”, “happenin’” America of Peter Max, was never born free, New Year’s morn, 1970. Midwifed, but never birthed. Commercial television screaming even its colors, merely said so. LOUD. REPEATED. B.F. Skinner, for a divided nation. Media, power, persuasion, ‘said’. And, Cold War Americans eased down a road chosen for, not by We The People.

CEE, enigmatic street poet, in The Lost Religion of Men (All Bob is Clemente), gives us exposition of rude, personal experience: an 8-year old, falling asleep in the land of alpha and home of the nuclear family, awakened bagpipe, into “change” as a Jedi mind trick. “Things Are Different.” The strength testers and arms of might, have gone. No protest. No debate. It’s already happened, Joe Pyne. You fell asleep, and these former things passed away.

The Lost Religion of Men, sports dreamy and dividing ca. 1969 period pieces, shot through perspectives on a vintage Golden Arm arcade machine. Unwilling to view culture shaped as anything but conceded mores, CEE gives us The Ways and Manner of Old as a forced hand, mighty men outside the Self Help section, brutal dispassion. Soviet terror, as daily accepted. Joe Frazier as one-man buzzsaw, nodded at with pride. Vengeful woman as machine-girl released. At turns, angry fists beat as enemy a world of no choice as child-sensitive imagery speaks four-color, of Valhalla denied. In The Lost Religion of Men, Guardsmen sight students along the barrel as Unitas fades back, slomo, to trumpets unheard. From his hermitage, the poet tells us for the millionth time, to think for ourselves. To reject human mechanization, even as suggested. That “individual”, the known, pioneer ideal, is up to each. No other.

Mickey Mantle as legend, doesn’t roll up like a poster. Hardhat culture doesn’t wither before hair and daisies, because someone clapped hands. Fonts frivolous and social marketing games, are tools. Behaviorism has power, only if human persons permit.

“It’s over; now, we’re Here.”

No, we aren’t. We’re as Establishment as we wanna be.




“Alpha”
(Gamma-alpha-mu-alpha sigma-alpha-sigma)

And, I blow the tight-jawed SOB
Into the street, dead
No, I’m a crazy asshole
Default: COP
And, I brain the humanimal
With a semi-pro bat, keep swinging
No, I’m a psycho
COP
I kick his ass in the parking lot
Of a gangland watering hole
But don’t stop at first blood, bowed head
No mumble-sorry, crummy Eastwood
No, I’m a dangerous thing
COP (at least one, lazy, raising questions)
There isn’t any Defeating The Myth
Of evo-psych lie creature
You can’t rend him from his bestseller
“I read to be a man, I larn it from a booook”
You just have to be silent
Allow fake WBA belt to grace
Fake champ’s whatheis
Figuring, hoping
He’s one of ‘em who goes to a supermax
Rape-rape, rape-itty raperape,
Because he killed his Her, anyway
Or he’s one looking wise and hormone
Her, too, and proud
About all the erections that are really
Dishwashing




Give Me Mantle, Standing One-legged

The Metropolitans
That’s their actual name
20th Century expansionism
Trying to be Abner Doubleday
Nodding, Father Time, at kids’ kids’ kids’ kids
The N.Y. Metropolitans
Very Mudville, that name
“Casey” ‘tache, dark wooden hanger
Gilded Age slang and flat cap
Strong, the way Choynski was strong
Charlie Mitchell and John L., Peter Jackson
Patina’d hard, still frightening through Taft
Respected as strolling greatness, Depression
Deathbed, must wheezes, Korean Conflict
And, it is The Space Age
And clowns have eyes rolling Vegas
Until a miracle no one saw coming,
Like the pipeline of farm system
Giving out, dark miracle, on the Yankees
And tradition, legacy, antiquity
Became just that, and The Pyramids
Rented lesser and aging, harmed might
Stand field, Round Table after Punic Wars
Lancelot’s eye is not dimmed
He sees it
He gets it
New World, fun for horns blaring
As in, OH! New World! Open the wrapper!
Antiquity, though, knows
New worlds are Technicolor whitewash
You can call ‘em Amazin’
You can call ‘em Ray
If Mickey Mantle was immortal
There’d be no argument




CEE (American poet) (b. 29 October, 1961 Peoria, IL; d. 2 November, 2000 Time Travel Institute, Little Rock, AR) [citation needed]

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--bio as provided by the author to Leaf Garden Press,
5/25/2016, the 33rd Anniversary of Return of the Jedi.

3 comments:

LMNOP said...

Gee! What a verbose guy!

HIJK said...

The splash would sound great, read aloud, with the opening theme to "The Green Berets", behind it!

Y and Z said...

Amazing! What power! Testosterone builds strong bones and metaphor!