The hands have vanished.
The puppets strewn carelessly,
laying about, sleeping,
as puppets are lazy when
no one is pulling their strings.

One awakes, tugs, and finding
her ******* ropes slack,
began to sing and dance.
Her voice awakens the others.
Some join her, singing,
dancing, celebrating.

Some begin climbing
their ropes, wondering
where they end.
Others play jump rope,
or swing from the rafters
competing to see
who can go higher.

A few cut their ropes
and dive to their deaths
from the stage.
One gathers discarded ropes
of the dead and builds a fence,
stands inside and says,
“This space is mine.”
Some nod agreement,
while others hop the fence,
swinging their ropes menacingly.

Still others use their ropes
to tie others tight,
or even bind themselves
together, or separately.
A few make nooses
and hang themselves,
while others sit,
watching the show,
smiling, laughing,
eating popcorn.

We show off our new gadgets
with smiles, a strut in our step.
I ask a question, it answers.
It tells me what street to take
when there's a traffic jam.
I hold up my phone,
It tells me the song, artist.
App for this, app for that.

Wow, that's so cool!

Ride in the new car
grin as horsepower
pushes us back in our seats.
(Hope I can afford the payments)

Shoot the new rifle,
smooth trigger, pull it
fast as you can.
Those hollow points
leave a big hole.
I hope someone tries breaking in.
Yeah...grinning, chests puffed.

All these extensions
of our humanity,
of eye, ear and brain
hands and feet
fists, elbows and teeth.

It's as though
we grew them ourselves
out of our own bodies
like seedlings,
watered and fed.

We do all this
like a two year old
***** training,
Look Mom!
But at least he made that
**** all by himself.

He follows the trail
crossing grey pink granite
glacier polished long ago,
now crumbling under boots.

Pretzel twisted trees
entwine, half alive and dead,
growing straight out of
the high Sierra rooftop,
winter wind scoured.

Springtime runoff rivulets,
tiny waterfalls
over mossy boulders,
snowfields still melting
in late April.

He smiles, glad he's
made the trip today.
Too much of life
spent trapped inside
a worried mind.

He steps to a ledge, looks down,
crows circle below.
The knees shiver a bit
but he stands his ground,
steadies himself, walks on.

Trail narrows,
traverses a steep *****,
granite overhang above.
He stops for a minute,
admires the view.

A shudder, and crack.
He looks up, sees
the tombstone grey slab
hurtling down.

No scream of protest,
no life flashing,
only an instant of surprise
before darkness,
blessed.

Gods in the great marketplace
thunder down shiny aisles
shopping cart war chariots
wheels wobble and screech
scarring waxed white tiles.

Collide with metallic clash
as child in basket screams
they race toward
piles of heaven on sale
19.99, or two for one.

The gods at war
not for the last morsel of food
but for the last discount
TV or gaming console
on holy Black Friday.
Thanksgiving now just
a day of feasting and rest
before the annual battle.

Sacrifices must be made:
a child trampled, a neck tazed,
eyes pepper sprayed.
Minimum wage slaves
hungry for holiday pay
crushed at the gates
upon altars of GDP.

Wide eyed crowds stand
hands held high, screens aglow
filming the spectacle of combat,
the shoving, the victors
wrestling precious boxes
like battle standards
from grasping fingers.

Let the world adopt
our customs, kneel at
our sacred altars.
Look how mighty
we have become!

It’s Reno, Nevada 2018
his landlord knocks
tells him there’ll be
a rent increase next month.
“How much?”
“500.”
“What? That’s almost 50%!”
“I know, I know...it’s Tesla
and all the Californians.”
“****...I don’t know if I can pay that....”
“Sorry about this.  
It’s just the Market, you know?”

At work the next morning,
as he’s putting on his hard hat,
strapping on his tool belt,
he tells two coworkers
the story, they shrug, say
“Yeah...it’s ******.  
But that’s the Market.
What can you do?”
“Doesn’t it just seem
like greed?” asks the man.
One chuckles, says
“Maybe.  But you’d do it
if you could.”

After a long day,
he needs to relax,
so he pays his
favorite ****** a visit.
She’s on her knees,
unzipping him, asks
“What’s the matter hon?
You seem tense...”
He tells her.
“It’s the Market.” she says.

As she begins
he thinks, “Jesus.
They all believe in it.
Maybe it’s true...
It’s like The Force in the
Star Wars movies...
and here I thought it was
people, taking advantage
of each other.  But then,
I’m not the brightest....”

She comes up for air,
says “Dude, you’re
not even hard.”
“Sorry.”
“This is taking too long.
Got another guy coming,
unless you got more money?”
“Gave you all I had.”
“Sorry...you’ll have to go.”
“The Market?”
She smiled.
“You know it baby.”

Driving home,
he consoles himself:
“At least jerking off
Is still free, for now.
But who knows?
This Market thing
seems to be everywhere,
like God.”

Thank the gods
you came along
and endured
the beatings, boils
and *****
to leave such morsels behind.
They have fed me
laughter and understanding
on many dark nights
and impossible days.
I hope one day,
to do at least that much,
for some poor *******.

Visiting LA,
I walked past
the no trespassing signs
into your flat little
East Hollywood apartment court,
all the craziness that happened there
now silent, until a tenant barked,
“Hey!  Who you lookin for?”
Who indeed.

I’d like to say
I wish I’d met you,
but it just wouldn’t be true.
I’ll bet you were a real
pain in the ***.

I look at that class photo, Kindergarten
and wonder what is left
of those faces and bodies and souls
as we, now nearing mid life
are awakened by harsh alarm bells
on the east or west coast
or somewhere in between
and we swarm out into the streets,
down into subway tunnels or onto buses
or hop in our cars and brave freeway madness,
faces now lined and wrinkled
like clocks and dollar bills.
I wonder if anything at all is left,
or if there's anything sacred
in this routine.  It's hard to see, but
I still look for it, as I weave
among cars on the freeway, 70 plus,
toward someplace I'd rather not be.