My Head is Full (of 80’s Sitcom Theme Songs)

The assignment is to write a poem,

About what it’s like inside my dome,

And how rivers of thoughts do flow,

Where they start and where they go.

.

It’s like a TV full of static,

In some dark and lonely attic.

With voices booming through the air;

“The end is nigh!” “I do not care!”

.

I long to see a UFO,

And hope and hope that it will slow,

Down long enough for me to board,

Cosmic knowledge, the reward.

.

It would be nice to leave the Earth,

Nasty planet of my birth.

Which could still be a paradise,

If people would just be nice.

.

Enchanted garden, Nature’s embrace,

Around a united human race.

Blessed land of milk and honey,

Instead they choose war and money.

.

I wonder where it all went wrong,

As I’m tortured by a song,

That got stuck inside my head,

Give us now our daily bread.

.

It’s not a song, but rather a psalm,

Reaching out a shaking palm,

To accept the holy host.

I do not wish to see the ghost.

.

Life might be better in the woods,

Free of all the “coulds” and “shoulds.”

Suggestions that are offered up,

I tune them out and fill my cup.

.

Rainwater can slake a thirst,

Even when bad turns to the worst.

Doctors diagnosing me.

A noose is hanging from a tree.

.

Everyone’s a child bride,

Wed, at birth, to worldwide

Webs of social interaction,

Groomed by nearly every faction.

.

The TV shows are filled with meaning,

Children wail, widows keening.

Maybe this is all a game,

Where everybody knows your n-a-a-ame.

.

A Bible verse, a magic tome,

Off to seek the mushroom gnome.

Where within the ego death,

One might feel divine breath.

.

Whirling in a house of leaves,

Child’s silent, widow grieves,

Searching always for a solution,

Or some inner resolution.

.

Wrapped now in the hoar’s embrace,

I long to touch her icy face.

From first rime we all know it’s

A romantic death in store for poets.

.

Diphenhydramine is for the soul,

Deep into the spider hole,

Watch parades of shadow people,

See their church, behold the steeple.

.

Doctor’s needle in my arm,

Nothing’s worked, tenth time’s the charm.

Flooding me with special k,

Tomorrow will be a new day.

.

It’s clearly just a simulation,

Entertaining some future nation,

They even tried to let us know,

By putting in The Truman Show.

.

Frantic, manic, cue the panic,

Learn to be your own mechanic.

Change the oil, replace the gasket,

From the comfort of your casket.

.

Racing through the wormhole tunnel,

Like blood/wine does through a funnel,

To the galactic singularity,

When I’m there, there is no me.

.

How to make them understand?

The answer’s right there in their hand.

A monkey’s paw grasps a rock,

And starts the ticking of a clock.

.

Flake and sharpen, tools take shape,

Crafted by that long dead ape.

What if we could be like them?

What if we could start again?

.

Learning of The Facts of Life,

Schoolgirl crushes, fire, strife.

You take the good, you take the bad,

You take it all and there you have

.

The programming is all in place,

To find peace in innerspace.

Seek divinity within,

Weigh a feather against your sin.

.

Find or forge a subtle knife,

You are now your own midwife,

This will be a messy birth,

Little Caesar arrives on Earth.

.

Archons plotting, New World Order,

Caesar’s face now on the quarter.

The king’s in check, but who to blame?

Every time, we lose the game.

.

Infinite iterations,

People staying at their stations.

Try to keep Chaos at bay.

I let it in, it wants to play.

.

The white noise sounds like pounding rain,

TV static in my brain.

Everything in constant motion,

Try to find the calm, blue ocean.

.

Believe it or not, I’m walkin’ on air

Or strapped to the electric chair.

It’s all a matter of perspective.

Keep in mind The Prime Directive.

.

Try to capture in a verse

A swirling, fractal universe,

The assignment is to write a poem,

About what it’s like inside my dome,