and who's to say...
maybe some tremor
of what you called you
may wield the sceptre
instead of the pick and shovel
on your next orbit
but what you call you
won't be there
don't hope for that
and should this trouble us?
we're barely here
when we're here
we drive this highway
our eyes fixed
on the faraway horizon
or shooting glances
in the rearview
while the low hanging fruit
of the orchard whizzes by
just outside the window
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 10:54 AM UTC
Don’t hide
behind those drapes, boy...
come on out here,
let us have a look at you.
Does he do any tricks?
Shake his hand, son.
Don’t be shifty eyed
or stare at your shoes,
they’ll think
you’re hiding something.
Speak up!
Be a man!
Stand up for yourself,
shout the other guy down.
Maybe you can be
president someday.
All you do is sit
in your room,
playing with blocks,
reading books...
Why don’t you play
with the other children?
Get out there in the crowd!
What are you doing
roaming in those woods
all by yourself?
What will you do
with all those books you read?
Come on...
we’re going to town,
gonna do some shopping.
I know it’s loud,
but you’ll get used to it.
Gotta be prepared
for car horns,
jackhammers,
gunfire...
What are you doing
over there?
Don’t turn that over.
Leave it be.
And smile for the camera!
Come over here,
into the light.
Don't skulk around
in the shadows
like our guilty conscience.
Aww...it’s all right.
You’re just a bit cracked.
Here...a little putty,
a little paint,
and look how you shine!
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 6:09 AM UTC
it's monday
and all across america
we stand in the cold
outside office buildings
and warehouses
shuffling our feet
waiting for someone
to unlock the door
or sit in break rooms
drinking coffee
and waiting to punch the clock
our lips as grimly sealed
as the grey winter sky
or forcing smiles and small talk
but all with the same
bewildered eyes
wondering
how how how
******* it
is it monday already...
and where did the weekend go?
all those Sunday evening glances
at the clock
and counting the hours left
til bedtime
or the morning alarm
as though we could catch it
in the act
with its thieving little hands
in the cookie jar...
useless
and then awakening at 2 a.m.
and again at 3
hearing faintly
the clomp of boots
of an advancing army
conquering our territory
piece by piece
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 8:24 AM UTC
We chant our allegiance to it
in shouted slogans,
and fight ****** battles
under its banner,
ironically chained to it
as we are to many other
shadowy and ghostly things.
But never has treasure
so desired
been so eagerly
given away.
Primitive man
gave his to gods
of sun, sky, and earth.
We give ours
to elected tyrants,
weak and corrupt old men
made powerful
by our faith.
To imaginary boundaries
we lock ourselves inside,
to roles we play,
to straitjacket ideologies
we writhe in,
foaming at the mouth.
There are slaves to
their own bodies,
or the bodies of others,
and ******
for the envy of neighbors,
or strangers.
Collared submissives
who bark like dogs
and beg for the whip.
Workaholics, alcoholics,
pill poppers,
shopping addicts,
and spiritual junkies.
In a thousand ways,
we hand it over,
between thumb and forefinger
like a piece of chewing gum
drained of its flavor.
“Here...take this.
I’m done with it.”
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 8:13 AM UTC
Your characters
are carefully crafted,
your plot lines
well thought out,
and each night before bed
you scribble a bit more
of the story down
and each night,
you turn pages
and think,
“I didn’t write this.”
And now the characters
are running amok,
and the plot twists and turns
its way into dead end alleys
you never dreamed of.
You sit and stare,
scratching your head,
then begin scrubbing
and erasing
and rewriting
long into the night,
until you finally
get your fictional little world
back the way it should be.
This goes on,
day after day,
until one night you discover
a new character
is banging the protagonist’s girlfriend,
a sweet midwestern angel,
and she’s howling
like a **** star,
her ankles behind her head.
“She would never!”
You scream.
“That is completely
out of character!”
You erase furiously
like a man possessed,
then say **** it
and tear out pages
until you are certain
you have rid yourself
of this nonsense.
You drink whiskey
from the bottle,
and with each sip,
the pages burn
and cast flickering
shadows on the wall.
You finally sleep.
In the morning,
with an aching head
and blurry vision,
you open your book,
and find those pages
have regrown,
like shiny white leaves
printed with the blackest ink.
You sigh,
pick up your pen,
and ponder
what happens next.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 8:12 AM UTC
We sat at a table
after work,
drinking pitchers of beer,
telling stories,
and venting our disgust
with the ********
in charge of
much of our lives.
He spoke up,
for a change,
a normally quiet,
mild mannered
worker bee of a man,
and said,
“I’ve got a lot of venom
built up in me.”
We stared into
our beer glasses,
no one saying anything,
except two of the women,
who laughed at him,
then continued talking.
I’ll never forget how his face
looked like a mountain slope
stripped after a landslide,
the naked granite beneath
cracked and grey,
standing silent after
the roar of debris,
but still seeming to quiver
as though a second layer
might soon peel
and fall.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
Walking the usual sidewalk,
but something’s different...
could I always see
the mountains from here?
I hear the buzz of chainsaws,
and across the street,
see men working in hard hats,
and the bulldozers,
the piles of trees,
the yellow metal claw
digging at an intransigent stump
two hundred years thick,
a sapling in colonial days.
Unobstructed,
Mt. Rose stands naked
to the west,
all her snow melted,
save one small
teardrop shaped patch
in a shadow near the summit.
The view is glorious,
but it won't be long
until new warehouses
painted in earth tones
block this mountain view
more thoroughly
than oaks and elms
ever did.
But people will have jobs
for the construction phase,
and later shipping
cardboard boxes of stuff
to other people
who desperately need it,
treasure tossed on doorsteps
by overworked delivery men.
For now,
I enjoy the view.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
He wants your madness
but at a safe distance,
like spending the night
on weekends.
Seven years now,
and no proposal
on the horizon.
That sun has set.
You’re not getting
what you hoped
out of this life,
no matter how
you squeeze and wring
that cloth.
Not even working two jobs,
buying a new car,
and the house next door,
rented to Bay Area refugees
at inflated prices
is making it happen.
So the hole gets filled
with clothes and shoes
still tagged a year later,
perfume and jewelry never worn,
dishes that won't fit
in the cupboard,
furniture that won’t fit
in the house,
but sits in the garage
thick with dust,
alongside piles of hardware
for half finished,
abandoned projects.
Jungles of potted plants and flowers
thirst in the backyard,
scorched by the summer sun.
Your housemates see
the yard long
credit card receipts
on the kitchen counter
or the coffee table,
and wonder
about the sudden rent increase
you forced upon them.
They smile
and walk tiptoe
when you’re around,
groan silently when you ask,
“Can you guys help me
carry this thing inside?”
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
Dad and son
play video games together,
spraying their enemies
with bullets,
and chucking grenades,
grinning as the blood
and body parts fly.
They watch movies together too:
westerns with gunfights
and men bleeding,
dying in dusty streets.
Car chase action flicks
with crashes and explosions.
The kid's seven now,
got his own BB gun
he shoots at neighborhood cats,
even killed a few,
and that's all right.
Another year, Dad's
gonna teach him
to shoot the.22
But he got the belt
when Dad caught the boy
in his **** stash.
He squirmed, sitting
at the dinner table that night,
welts stinging his little behind.
He got the buckle end of it
when Dad caught him
and the neighbor boy
trying out some of those
things he'd seen
in the magazine photos.
"No son of mine
is gonna grow up
to be a ******
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
They sing the blues
in shouting matches
with co workers,
with strangers at bars,
with family rarely seen
over Thanksgiving tables.
They play a sad tune
with guns under pillows
and flaming hatred
fanned every day
by radio chatter
and at night
by tv news.
Lonely vibrato from
a street corner guitar echoes
in 2 a.m. tumblers of scotch
as they pace hallways
imagining a country
that never quite was.
Beneath red faced yelling
and epithets
spit like venom,
beneath the scowls
and finger pointing
lie reservoirs of tears
behind locked spillways,
and children trembling,
cornered by the biggest
bully of them all.
If you train your ears,
you can hear
their song of lament
drifting across the land
like a funeral dirge.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 7:55 PM UTC