A man goes to a doctor—
“Doctor, I’m depressed,”
the man says; life is harsh,
unforgiving, cruel.

The doctor lights up!--
The treatment, after all, is so simple!

“The great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight,”
the doctor says,
“Go and see him! That should sort you out.”

The man bursts into tears.

“But doctor,”
he says,
“I am Pagliacci.”

If you have been following me since HePo 1.0
or just now noticed my pedantic self-affirmations
and feel that twinge of malcontent, maligned, and malevolent

vibing vicariously—
know that I am appreciative,
and I like to give back.

You are heard;
you are the spectral peanut gallery in my head
cheering, jeering,
raising imaginary lighters
when I try something unhinged
and call it a stanza.

You, yes you!—

(in no particular order)

https://hellopoetry.com/bulletcookie/
https://hellopoetry.com/South-by-Southwest/
https://hellopoetry.com/Agnieszka7887/
https://hellopoetry.com/nick-moore/
https://hellopoetry.com/rob-rutledge/
https://hellopoetry.com/u697025/
https://hellopoetry.com/guy-scutellaro/
https://hellopoetry.com/MK/
https://hellopoetry.com/TravelerTim/
https://hellopoetry.com/scarlet-mccall
https://hellopoetry.com/emmackenzie/
https://hellopoetry.com/twcase/
https://hellopoetry.com/jules849/
https://hellopoetry.com/anaisvionet/
https://hellopoetry.com/emmackenzie/

You are not background noise.
You are the static that makes the signal matter.

So,

thank you,
for reading
for reposting
for critiquing
for lurking
for vibing
for surviving
and for letting me whisper something
into the void you also echo from.

Humbly,

badwords

(and if I missed any names, write some bad words and tag me in my failings)

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I already pulled at my hair.
“It’s normal” he says
I swear just to debate,
cause he doesn’t seem to care.

And I’m bleeding through
my scar tissued skin,
the layers only grew
still I find a way in.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate,
I’ll be down to the last strand.
Check or fold the plays,
the cards aren’t that great
I’ll be down the my last hand.

And I’m bleeding through
my thick nice sweater.
It’s a shame as it’s new
and we’re reaching the cold weather.
It will stain the soft fabric
I may just grab the bleach,
but I always made it a habit
to always keep it just out of reach.

I’m getting greys
at an alarming rate
pretty soon I’ll be bald.
On hot coals she stays,
though she shifts her weight
and watches her soles scald.

And I’m bleeding through
my clogged and blocked pores,
and the remaining few
are becoming septic sores.
I’ll shed another layer
of a non-protective bubble,
and my hair will continue to get greyer,
I think I’m now in some trouble.

Our land of stars and stripes, now glows,
with screens that flicker in hallowed halls.
Entranced humans shuffle, with eyes fixed below,
on small gadgets that have us enthralled.

Should the Statue of Liberty, our symbolic girl,
be holding a smartphone up to the world?
While tweets fly like eagles and hashtags swirl,
foreign disinformation trends as fast as it’s purled.

In lunch halls, real conversations take rest,
as influence is sought—in hoity-toity, binary quest.
Friends are backdrops—originality in short supply
as likes and shares make our dopamine fly.

America’s zombies, though ******* drained,
shuffle endlessly on, with Wi-Fi stimulated brains.
Once the land of the free, we’re now the land of tech
with minds wrecked by truths unchecked.

As we rock and sway—the new robot way—
will our old, analog-republic simply fade away?
.
.
Songs for this:
Airhead by Thomas Dolby
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_01.mp3

the night pressed in,
heavy and mean,
the way it always does
when you’re sober long enough
to feel everything you’ve been running from.

i sat in the kitchen,
a cigarette burning in the ashtray,
the smoke curling up
like the ghosts of all the things
i used to believe in.

there was a cockroach on the floor,
big, slow,
moving like it had seen worse days than me.
i thought about smashing it,
about what it must be like
to live your whole life
dodging shoes and poison
and still keep going.

but instead,
i opened the window,
watched it crawl out into the night.
then i crushed the cigarette,
and thought:
maybe that’s all there is—
just figuring out
who’s worth saving.
and hoping someday,
it’s you.

We used to talk about
going
to Montana--escaping it all,
building a log cabin and
making a garden.  We were
going to hunt and fish for
food--make rugs and
hats from the fur.

But look at us now.
You live in the
city and drive a Volvo.
Goldfish in a glass bowl.
You even taught your
cat to walk on
a leash.
Can you see the
sky with all the smog?

I'm not any better.
Living under the bridge;
the only hunting I do is
for cans, the rare and
illusive
aluminum nickel, so that
I can buy *****.  

I walk down to the
river's edge and look up at
the expansive sky.
I close my eyes.
And when I open them, baby,
we're in Montana.

Locked into place.
Orwell’s boot on our face.
The human tragedy.
The human disgrace.
We slept with the enemy;
accepted his embrace.
“Aren’t things better now?”
they say; and it can’t be denied–
some things are better.
But is the difference so wide?
“Isn’t it enough, what I do for you?
Do I have to be perfect, too?”
No one is perfect. And I have gratitude.
But I’m waiting, still waiting
for one thing from you:
Admit what’s been done,
by your kind (and yes, you)
Don’t pretend to be blind.
Admit what we gave.
And what you received.
Admit what you took.
And how we weren’t believed.
When you bear this witness,
When you testify
We’ll be friends forever,
You and I.