I’m a man named Elon Musk -
Rich beyond imagining;
And I just bought myself a country.
I get to say which way it goes
And who will do my bidding.
My monkeys are well trained and willing
Waiting for my every word
And I have many bold ideas.

I decide what papers print
And who is running Germany.
I may buy myself an island.
Greenland may not be for sale
But there are ways to cinch the deal
If I decide I want it.
Each dollar is a warrior
And I control that army.

I’m a man of untold power
Derived from marks on modern scrolls
Stored in vaults of 1s and Os
That multiply at my behest
And give me rights the ancients never had
To buy my way from Egypt’s sand
Into the gilded halls of history
Ensconced in Washington DC.
ljm

I don’t know what I should do.
I can’t manage to get beneath
All the layers of artifice
To finally find the genuine me.

Who is this wounded entity
Wearing the face of an actress
Stumbling across a dim-lit stage
Living her life for an audience.

Where can I go to find the answers
To all the questions that nag me
And why are there no real denouements
To all all the theatrical plots I live.

What soap can take off all the makeup
Applied so thickly with loving care;
And when it’s finally washed away
What kind of person will be standing there.
ljm

I paste a smile
Where a frown belongs
And wear the motley
Of fitting in.

I strive to dance the steps
My feet won’t fit
And sing a tune
I’ve never heard.

I reach out for things I need
Not seeing that I have no arms
And offer up the things I own
To those who have no use for them.
ljm

Was that noise thunder or a bomb?
Don’t sell the children fireworks any more -
It’s all too real and no longer exciting.

Who is more alone than the fearful in the center of a crowd,
Where the brave go willingly and the timid feel trapped.
The price of fun becomes exorbitant with risk.

Fields of flowers sprout up on sidewalks,
Marking all the places where what’s ordinary died,
And wilting in the waiting time for episode the next.

Is this an earthquake or a bomb?
Normality explodes itself in front of those soon dead
And leaves the terrified to gather up the pieces.

Are we become like punch-drunk fighters
No longer noticing the blows as we fall down and get back up again.
Is the fifteenth hit less painful than the first?

A swarthy face is really just a face-
Who paints suspicion on its brow -
And must a head scarf cover more than only hair?

Was that a sonic boom or perhaps another bomb?
You can’t enjoy the sunsets when you’re scanning for
A parcel or a backpack left behind.

One and all, we’re victims of the blasts -
Staggering and dazed with confusion and despair
As we search for safety in a world gone mad with hate.

What is the awful hierarchy of those who lost a love?
Does it become a contest as to who has lost the most
And no one is declared the winner.

ljm