The Wall Street Poems Series
© by Anne Hart
Let Me Take on Wall St.
Let me take on Wall Street in a chastity belt,
Should the writer be viewed on her throne.
Let me gulp my bonds like a patty melt
Should words peak in my throat on the phone.
I love My stocks
Because they keep going down up
Like a salty sea of sanity
To check remiss reality.
And when they go down,
I shalt not drown, or sell or frown,
Or upward gush the race to rush like lemmings to the edge.
Instead, I’ll compound my legions Of Ginnie Maes with cortical maze
Or dip my pen in softly fallen metaphors
To skate cleanly shaven buy waves.
The Business of Bonds
There’s trading room on the Web, even for a bond.
Still it huddles half-afraid, its eyes Wall Street-wide, competing
for less leisure loaned.
Bring on your stockbrokers, unparagoned.
Drive in the economists, impelled and unowned.
Let rational traders plan throngs of the wise
To bulbous investors unafraid to upclimb.
Our Dow-cloistered voices peal macabre guise.
Bonds peaking too early snare on the barbed wire of time.
To sell your stocks online, first animate pregnant ads
Disguised as direct response sales letters.
Under your security’s current fads,
Sound will crush text in its path, a ballet leap across square-jowled betters.
To sell stocks as entertainment, sell mutuality chapters.
Bonds sell environmental histories of property risk.
Midlist brokers need super sequels as time captors.
Showbiz, let it be, and forever, temerity. So runs the disc.
Totems of Light: Oh, I Wish I Were a Trader in Chicago’s Bond Pits
Oh, I wish I were a trader in Chicago’s bond pits
Skateboarding Cats of the Dow by candle might.
Pencil-sharp drum sticks would tattoo comic novels,
When the Fed dangles interest rates like silver earrings.
See Shell’s yellowed rose gap down on each Lochness Monster.
When oil drillers bloom, a plastic world flies to quality CDs.
Quan Yin, who can’t reincarnate ’til we all return,
writes covered call options.
Picture-postcards caricature mind-mates beneath a rollaway moon.
Photos of kids transient as ticket stubs bank time capsules,
Only to be spent later on totems of light for bronzed chimps.
Collected poems evolve to panopticons of memory.
Mis-education stores righteousness in opal rings .
The Internet is Wall Street with Convictions
The Internet is Wall Street with convictions.
Where have we improved?
Push technology came to slough, a midlist
when we need a bestseller, and so we found
Escape as entertainment,
learning as fun, panopticons as all-seeing eyes
that broadcasted social security as personal theater.
Something scrolled wonderfully right.
An ambient hum from the modems
masked all noise to the point
where existence ceased at its exits.
Let Me Pause In A Market So Bearish
Something strolled wonderfully right through the door.
Asking, “Where have we improved?”
Is there creativity on the Stock Exchange floor?
Has peristalsis in a time capsule moved?
Panopticons know all, so panopticon-bound,
Push technology became too rough, a midlist
When we all need a best seller, and so we found The Web unrisked, unmasked, unmissed.
Search Engines’ stock read, “Are We Still Number One?”
While investors traded from their online gazebo.
Dreaming of DVDs skipping crazily on a run,
Webmasters sold their placebo.
Computers streamline senses by masking noise.
At their exits, existence fades.
Ambient hums of Treasury bonds escape as toys.
Joy is social security, entertainment, and shades.
Trading online is neither positive nor dimensionless
Trading online is like dancing on the moon.
Your only enemy is gravity.
No matter what I buy, I’ll play a tech tune.
My friend is speech recognition concavity.
I bought the wireless way to play
When the Web was a spinning bubble.
Changeable interest rates are here to stay.
Mice in the seams of time spells trouble.
How many dollars have I to snare
Before barbing the biz-wire of strength?
With too much time and too little care,
My savings are points of zero length.
I’ve outlived my stash and can’t “fine” the cash to get me past moments without duration.
I’ve paid my homage to the clock
And teethed on a narrow ration.
A bag lady I am, am I? A bag lady in debonair shorts–
Buying stocks with charisma to sell to this Ma while broadcasting sports in food mall courts.
How Far Back in Time Were My Genes in Ice Age Refugia?
The redundancy and flux in my mtDNA
Shows you why I arrived perplexed today.
The slight curl of my cool-toned tresses
Reveals sailing modular ontogeny’s stresses.
Tolerating changes on the fly,
Neutral drift asked molecular drive why
I landed somewhere in the frozen sea of genetic redundancy.
My inner, tangled bank whispered rules
Between consenting molecules.
Why such plieotopy in my many modes?
And such kaleidoscopic codes for roads?
Is God Lonely Without A Spouse And Family?
How does God keep from feeling lonely
If there’s only one stock to hawk?
With none of equal rank nearby only,
To whom does the Creator talk?
Is God universe-bound?
Did humankind plaster a parental skull
To avoid familiar feelings of growing dull?
Is God our elders from whom we seek
Protection from a timely peak?
Who created God as a singleton?
In man’s image yet, with no room to grow,
God still won’t be contained for show.
If life frames love, then Santa’s eyes above
Distract us from worry so we’d heal instead of hurry.
Was God advertised that way?
To lift our mood and mind?
If life is equally diverse as a hermit’s purse,
In whose image does design align?
Your multiverse or mine?
The Programmer and the Code
Something was terribly wrong.
At three A.M. Overhead lights
in the main machine room were off.
But the console blinked a green glow.
There was an ambient hum
from the disk drives
masking all noise to the point
where existence ceases at its exits.
Obsolete tapes jerked crazily to my command.
I moved so slowly
until spheres of light
exploded on its black screen.
I turned the length of my thigh
contracted myself, porpoise-bellied,
afraid of change.
The stress of change leaped into my eyes.
Under my out-flung arm
Soon I would be not as much
as a crushed flower in time’s path.
For the flower at least,
there is regret for its ended beauty,
For me, one genogram’s code,
a random leap across square-jowled stalls.
Have you ever noticed how often women investors are referred to as poultry? Young women are brow-plucking chicks. Married women ruffle feathers. They egg men on at work and cluck kids off to school. Mothers watch their broods.
Child rearing ends with the empty-nest syndrome. Their wives henpeck husbands at home. Runaway wives have flown the coop, while stay-at-home husbands feel ‘fowl’ cooped up.
The object of W.C. Fields’ affection was “My little Chickadee.” Married women feather their nests. She squawks her alimony is birdseed, but her ex calls her a vulture. “Wait ’till that poulet digs her talons in your wallet,” grooms are warned. “She’ll watch you like a hawk.”
She scratches for a raise like a hen dancing on a turntable, going in circles to get visibility and recognition. Long experience makes her the sharp-beaked mother hen that trains younger males for her dream job.
In Arabic, a beautiful woman is a ‘fistoo,’ a piece of chicken thigh. Women are elder biddies, old crows, or Ladybirds. “She’s no spring chicken,” say men about mature women.
A sorority is called the “hen house.” A woman alone is a sitting duck. Either her goose is cooked, or she gets goosed in a crowded elevator. An Amazon parrots the old toy’s network. When her husband uses anger to get power, she walks on eggshells. To be feminine is to be chicken. Is it any coincidence that so many women’s wages are chickenfeed?
Extreme Ultra Violent Meets the E-Beam
To snap the lithography force field,
Extreme ultraviolet rides the e-beam.
Suspending ranks of molecules between electrodes,
She lets quantum particles compute in multi-universes.
She teleports matter, unleashing IBM on quantum mirages.
And Lucent works e-beams on code-name Scalpel.
Intel, AMD, and Motorola, and every other CPU maker,
Joins the parade of purses marching to EUV.
It’s the end of the Silicon Cycle. Long live the smallest package.
Spin-up and Spin-down as the binary 0 and 1.
Quantum particles live in two places at once,
So my job as a retiree is to determine a value.
Wow! I am needed again after old age to decide
Which super-positioned state begets the logic.
What fun it is to be more than a molecular-scaled granny
With an MA in English and a shelf of unpublished novels.
One Book-End Cat of a Pair
A library cat, in double-knit sand,
The blue-eyed Bestet with Siamese slant,
One papyrus-wracked puff with cross-stitched mane,
Yawned Mary-wide ‘neath a fall-away moon.
The day my financial security arched catly,
I saw and painted a clarinet chord as indigo velvet
And tasted a violin note as lemon chiffon meringue.
It sparked a peaceful pride like folklore.
An organ’s chord snared the barbs of change.
Through tides of time purple velvet music pounds against
The blueberry mint silence of the dark.
With frozen gaze, caramelized onions in chocolate
Become the human condition with a touch of fennel.
Mice become cats.
Cats become men.
Men become mice.
And the cycle repeats in a circle.
‘Till atoms no longer stick together.
Run home, optimistic book-end to craft
Your malachite mate from molten mire.
On guard to moods before a stage of hawks
Cats ascend the pyramids of chance.
Not knowing choice’s planned out at the start.
Song Lyrics of the Silk Road Healers
Not since Sarkel set on fire.
Not since Samandar moved to Spire.
Not since Khatun called Khagan, “Cutie.”
Not Since Khazaria went to Kievan booty.
Not since Bulan turned from pagan.
Lit the candles, and became the Khagan.
Not since Svyatoslav went to hire
Pechenegs from his transpire.
Not since yarmaq coins were minted.
Not since isinglass trade was hinted.
Not since Khazars fought oppression.
Not since Atil sank in depression.
Not since Samandar went underwater.
Not since Byzantines married Khagan’s daughter.
Not since Ha-Sangari converted people.
Not since Balanjar became a steeple.
Not since the steppes stepped lively to a tune.
Not since Khazaria, did the sky ride the moon.
You neolithic farmer, you.
How dare the twenty-six percent of you
Pinch my paleolithic peace proportionally,
Reducing my six-foot height with your polished grain,
To five-feet; turning my whippet-wiry O-negative blood
Into your barley-thickened A-positive agglutinated sludge?
How dare you expand from your lion-wracked pedestals
Planting my beech forests with your carbs?
A mitrochondrial cluster adding lustre?
And your speech, so nostratic, it’s demotic.
Adding more haplotypes, what a demic diffusion.
My diet of salmon and berries produces less insulin
Than your pot-belly forming candy infusion.
Genetic drift has caused a rift in my shift.
We’re temporary containers and strand strainers.
So together let’s map our clades in shades of grades.
Can I keep my own menu, please, you eaters of cheese?
The Day My Whole Country Turned INFP*
The day my whole country turned INFP,
the abstract optimists leapt.
The concrete sensors slept.
The sky rode the moon
Like an idealist on a novel.
The day my whole country turned INFP
The heavens crept
With the spark
Of the introverted feeling word,
The lark, the chord,
The Light in the dark,
The photon and the quark.
The day my whole country turned INFP*,
‘Twas a day of creative expression
And a moment of extroverted intuition.
*INFP= Introverted Intuitive Feeling Perceiver on the MBTI (registered),
one of the world’s most popular indicators of personality types.
The Webmaster Says Creativity Is Peristalsis in a Time Capsule.
Creative writing is peristalsis: a progressive wave of contraction
And relaxation by which contents are forced onward.
Writing full time from home is a horizontal expression
Of the vertical desire to move up by reaching across time.
Creativity is peristalsis in a time capsule.
The Webmaster says, all tucked sleepless in his chair,
Counting DVDs skipping crazily to commands.
What if every writer asked, “Are We Still Number One?”
Existence ceases at my computer’s exits.
Push technology came to slough, a midlist,
When this writer needs escape as entertainment.
Panopticons know all, so writers panopticon
Personal broadcasting networks as social security,
and something strolls wonderfully right.
The business of fiction within the fiction of business
There’s room on the Web for the business of fiction.
Still it huddles half-afraid;
Its eyes Mary-wide, competing for less leisure loaned.
Faction seized control of sweeping buzz appeal
To hawk memoirs as entertainment,
And sell mutuality, fiction must play “What’s My Conduit?”
Bring on your scriptwriters, full of face.
Drive in the novelists, impelled by supernal mind.
Let the romance writers arc their throng of shoals
To bulbous avatars not afraid of change.
Our Web cloistered voices in macabre guise.
Stories peaking too early snare on the barbed wire of time.
To sell your fiction online, first animate pregnant ads
Disguised as direct response sales letters.
Under your Web channel’s outflung arm,
Sound will crush the text in its path,
A ballet leap across square-jowled screens of time.
Juggle moments without duration.
Behold the flowering of universal mind.
Showbiz, let it be, and forever, temerity. So runs the Web.