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

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!

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

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.”

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.

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 *****
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.

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.