Selected Poems of Arlen Riley Wilson (wife of Robert Anton Wilson)

ARLEN RILEY WILSON (16 July 1925 - 22 May 1999)

HOLISTIC REMEDY

This is the world that man made.
These are the ills that plagued
The world that man made.
This is the doctor prescribing the pills
That treated the ills that plagued
The world that man made.
These are the plants and labs and mills
That manufactured all the pills the doctor
Gave to treat the ills that plagued
The world that man made.
This is the banker with tellers and tills
That backed the plants and labs and mills
That manufactured all the pills the doctor
Gave to treat the ills that plagued
The world that man made.
This is the general with trumpets and trills
Who made the war that saved the bank that
Backed the plants that manufactured all the pills
The doctor gave to treat the ills that plagued
The world that man made.
Here is the mother all forlorn
Whose one and only child was born
To die in the war the general made to save
The bank that backed the plants that made
The pills the doctor gave to treat the ills
That plagued the world that man made.
This is the angel that blew his horn
To comfort the mother all forlorn
And fired the general and closed the banks
And shut the mills and scattered the pills,
Retired the doctor and cured the ills
And ended the world that man made.

Our Lady of Outer Space

Reach down for the sun, reach down
for the stars, reach deeper for the secret
places of the body of her the stars adorn.
You are lost and found in her embrace.
There is nowhere else for you to fall and
no escaping from her love for she is
black and pulsating source, her
million twinkling nipples nurse
all life, her jeweled ardent
body twines around you
always and there is
no place to go
but home
to her

SAVE YOUR BREATH

Don't budget deficit me you old men with eyeglasses and no lips
who say we can't afford to house the houseless or to heal the sick.
Don't fiscal responsibility me you devourers of the fat of the land
may it clog your devious up-for-election arteries.
Don't balance of trade me you horny-handed peddlars of shoddy shares
in finger-crossed bonanzas based on non-existent enterprise.
Don't national security me you who make deals behind our backs
under cover of law-proof dark.
Don't family-values me you who force apart man woman and child
in the interest of an ever-grosser national product.
Don't state of the union me you unctuous apologists for quotidian horror
may you choke on your aw-shucks-just-plain-old-me charisma.
Don't pay your speech-writers one more cent on my account
or your column writers or The News Tonighters.
Epoxy in my ears before I hear another word.

HAIKU
1999


This is the end

of the tunnel

and guess what

there is

a little

light


[First posted 10 July 2009, reposted 25 August 2017]