On Ubix, a billion light-years from earth, lives an issue of blob-like creatures of diverse colors. Because the Ubixians have pea-sized gelatinous brains, they believed their gods cursed the yellow blobs. (no one knew how this rumor began). The greens make up the elite stratum, being considered high-born. The inhabitants are yellow or green on their pink planet, with a million shades between. Yet they developed an elaborate practice of favoring or disfavoring each other depending on their greenish or yellowish hue. They told proverbs that directed their offspring to accept their chromatic lot in life. Parents of globby greens would make annual sacrifices to the Ubixian gods, praying that their offspring would grow up solely to slime with other greens. The gods forbid that a yellow should slide in with them. Folklore has it that the chief god of Ubix visited incognito as one of them. It took on a yellow blob form. The greens and many yellows (those who capitulated to the cultural lies) rejected the yellow appearing god-glob. The cloaked god was both amused and saddened by the blind ignorance of the planet’s occupants. After all, it had produced them as both colors. The olive and yellow officers nabbed the god, who looked just a worthless yellow blob, and squished the yellow ooze out of it until it died. But a god blob can’t stay flat, so it reconstituted itself and went back to its celestial home. Now, if any Ubixian realizes they are both yellow and green at their core–(just like the god-blob), they are ready to molt. These uplifted blobs expand into a new continuation where neither yellow, green, nor any other distinction could isolate them. They are on equal foot stems, connected to the god blob, and precursors of Ubixian cultural insight.
Category Archives: Poetry
Ubix
Who’s Who
The character of a name a person's actual wealth their fame and shame tags on the shelf very difficult to tame swelling with acclaim world's referencing frame one is to blame for who you became by your name
The Cut
She was thirty-three with long feathery black and red-dyed hair rail-thin with a long nose my hairstylist used to be called a barber often, you get a five-minute quicky astounded why it now costs twenty bucks tip not included - but she took her time talked about her five kids - clip clip snip her mom isn't exasperated by her anymore - comb clip or her two-month separation from a second husband with issues - clip snip clip her ulcerative colitis she eats and goes often - faster snips (the excessive combing is scraping my scalp to shreds) she passed out at work last week not sleeping and eating tons of ramen noodles - comb comb snip clip snip - sniff Now I'm as old as dirt - probably older than her father but worked up the pluck to offer her my number she refused it politely -- thanked me for the compliment (the noise of my head being vacuumed)
Ghosted
The night onlooker haunts the shadow ship’s decks;
only the picture of your face can quell my suffering.
You are a full moon mirrored in the placid water.
Slimy tentacles are tugging me down from the abyss—tempestuous waves
crest into my sputtering throat.
My eyes scan for the horizon, yearning to see
your lighthouse. Swelling, I can almost spot you.
Plunging, the despair of your absence swallows me whole again.
You are:
My night.
The eclipsing of my wet dreams.
The picture of the yellow flower in your hair &
The anchor chain of our phantom ship.
Hunga Tonga-Hunga Ha’apai -Haiku
one volcano burp all pretense of management becomes a sculpture
Nothing Burgers
“So I walk up on high And I step to the edge To see my world below And I laugh at myself While the tears roll down ‘Cause it’s the world I know Oh, it’s the world I know.” – Collective Soul—The World I Know I chuckle at myself for what I frequently considered my world was merely an artificial nothing. Looking out over the purple-wooded vistas & whooshing kaleidoscopic leafy fractals. I cherish ninja black squirrels, red maples, ravenous lions and razor-taloned eagles. Indeed even eight-eyed furry tarantulas are splendid. The fly wallowing in the lotion complains having arms, legs, massive brain, and stinks to lofty heavens. The villain in the lodge repulses when I “step to the edge.” only to see more golden arches. Yes, people have molded a sorry excuse for their anti-planet world, from which I conclude the human, the “Man,” the establishment, is rotten to the core.
Not About You
You demanded that I not write about you anymore, but how shall I not sing of a category five hurricane rooting up a cottage home? How shall I not return an eagle's voice to a quivering heart torn to shreds? How shall I not yowl like a freak hit with a silver bullet? Can I be quiet when the mallet-driven stake impales the chest or silent before the face of the cat nibbling off wriggling parts of the mouse before the kill? No, I can't write you. Who were you anyway? -- indeed, not the person I imagined -- more like the widow accommodating its mate before becoming scarfed down as her next naked lunch. I fell for your well-crafted act, not for the puppeteer above the porcelain doll, so how do I not write poetry of my downfall into the horny pit of a polished pretender who assumes this yarn is all about them?
It’s Easy, Or It’s Not
Though standing behind the picture books, I saw you that October night with a ghoulish moon, a glimpse of who as the glass doors opened of a voluptuous figure passing through? The snippet of an online photo couldn't say. Like a scratched-off lottery ticket, the wasted unmatching don't pay. Where did my rising hope dock from? Or you, another narcotic chemistry? The awkward moment wafted away when the lips fit a stellar time your eyes outshone the need for deducing setting an old salt sailor at ease to tease.
Is in the House
The Cheering Flame The Focus of the Seated The Music of unrelenting Prayer The Presence is already here That Silent Light That All-Seeing Face That Rapturous Meditation That draws us to You The Hourglass stalls The Sands are standing still In One eternal Moment The Eyes are blazing still And Now you Know And so do I, And never more the same Gazing at the Flame
Crack On 
Watch The Children
Posted by Brian Peter Hodgkinson on January 19, 2022 in commentary, Poetry, Spirituality, World News,
Tags: old split-foot