Three Poems by Randall Karlen Rogers

The Hair Starts Growing Upwards on the Neck (and therefore it should be shaved)

The beard grooming specialist
said if you don't have a well
trimmed beard it means you
just don't care.
Exactly, I said.



Death, The Final Frontier

I tired to remember
to forget.

Do the things we can
not think about.   Exist?
Only in infinity
and imaginations
and melatonin driven
dreams
outside the Universe,
probably.
Though it is said
by some, for eternity
to be real, any
combination or singularity
of thought is possible
and may have a possibility
of being reality,
if it can be thought.
And, if endless infinity
does hold sway,
since as it has
already
been said,
"The [present] Universe
is far stranger than
we can imagine" (Issac Asimov).
Unless, of course,
we consider eons
into the future,
when our Sun eventually
blows up/burns out/stops shining
and we have not transferred
to artificial intelligence
indestructible, non-aging,
self-rejuvenating some
type of organic or not
"machines,"
rather like
we are now,
but healing
much longer lasting
than we currently are, or
in a final analysis,
of course, if we are
mute-silent, and
very much
stone cold Dead.
Though even when expired
we
live as much-motion
atoms, nuclei, quarks.
It then appears,
if life, as well
as Death, we are
so gloriously
and persistently,
indestructible.
Recycling all the time.



The Morals of Nature

"[Words] cannot cover the dimensions of what is in truth."

                                       -- Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The morals of nature,
are in question.
Unethical
in the extreme.
Unless
killing plants, I suppose,
by herbivores and
omnivores, is not
a violation of
"thou shall not kill."

Randall Karlen Rogers is fifty-three and resides in Rapid City, South Dakota.  Last published in "The Camel Saloon" and "Dead Snakes."