Rumors of White Supremacy.
In that row, your column’s number…
Coining new terms in secrecy:
“Boing” (boring minus R) is dumber.

Coiled, then boing like a prompted spring,
Primitive poetic action;
Apes with crayons, coloring;
Hooting in dissatisfaction.

Leaves leave a taste like baseless fears,
Primitive prompts in lyric night.
BOING !  The Jack-in-the-Box appears—
Laughing at your illiberal fright…

You with the Hindu tattoo: Namasté.
I wrote you some verse. There’s no other way.

We met at the Moksha conference last spring—
Just wondered how you had been worshipping.

The God in me greets the Goddess in you:
As sure as one must be followed by two—

Listen, I was thinking: before you buy
The used mantra set from that guru guy,

I meant to ask: How’s your situation?
Still affected by Siddharthafication ?

You all prana-ed up?  You might need to sit,
Just to lower your vibrations a bit . . .

Sure as that there are only two genders,
There’s only one God. We’re all offenders.

Contemplate that. Breathe. Just be here right now.
(Don’t mean to act holier-than-thou,

But the stench of truth is wafting your way
Like a whiff of bloated carcass rotting in an Apple™ sweatshop.)

Loud low-info everywhere.

Think I’m racist? I don’t care.

****** psychos causing drama?

Love them as hard as I love your momma.

Zionists out to **** the poor;

Call me a ****. I’ll endure.

Pentagon war-lords making good?

As long as it’s not MY neighborhood…

All our taxes straight to Ukraine?

Truth is lies, but I feel your pain.

♥✟♥✟♥✟♥✟♥✟♥✟♥

When the Lord resurrects all the dead
And fulfills every word that He said,
Then the Muslims and Jews
Will wake up from their snooze
To appear before Jesus, with dread.

Out-doing each other, they arm
the Oppressor, increasing the harm.
They kiss Zionist ***…
Neither one gets a pass;
And it’s too late to sound an alarm.

If for either my ballot were cast,
Then my guilt and regret could outlast
The slow death of Beirut,
And bear bitter bad fruit,
Till the Zionist shadow has passed.

What, in truth, does my vote stand to gain
Or prevent Palestinian pain . . .
Such a delicate line.
Should I vote for Jill Stein—
Or just sit this one out and abstain?

If you love Haiku,
Go to Badhaikudotcom.
You can join the fun.

Now the rainbow democrats gnash their teeth
And roll their wicked eyes like souls possessed.
Obama and crew, ruling from beneath
Recall the crimes they have not yet confessed.
What they hailed as light now turns to shadow.
(Immigrants eat cats in Colorado . . .)

Heaven mocks hell—it’s contradictory:
Your dank Egyptian darkness is our light!
Your suicidal rage, our victory
Memes poke fun at neurotic left-wing fright.
Your socialistic plans are placed on hold,
While faith increases value more than gold.

Unfit to line the cage of colored fowl
Who twitter on, enraged, in revolution,
White man’s rag, that useless Constitution,
Could save the republic. Let jackals howl . . .
Our founders planned for such an urgency
Now put to trial in an emergency.

जय् हिन्द्

Inhale her blowing piles of mounting trash
Where fragrant winds of change bear human ash.
Eternal allure of the mystic East;
A six-armed goddess beckons to the feast:
Prasadam, chutney, consecrated dhal
And other dishes from the land of Baal.
Sandalwood incense, sickly-smoldering dhoop:
Exhaust from a rocket powered by **** . . .
INDIA! Soon, earth's next superpower—
To wonder when is to need a shower.

Blue-skinned idols bow in superstition,
Third eyes blinded by this apparition;
Your sacred rivers: filth and pollution
Flowing freely, a ***** solution
To your failed nation's shameful backward plight—
True brain-drain as your best minds flee the night
To seek prosperity in Western light.

And so, you've no excuse for arrogance
Amidst the ruins of your temple-dance.
Britain's structures have all long since crumbled;
Your many idols beg to be tumbled
Into the depths of your deathly rivers,
To lie in the muck while God delivers
Your people from their false life-givers . . .

Can Jesus bless, as you go on this way
Benighted—while the West inhabits day?
Will Christ facilitate development
And lift you from your pit of excrement,
Your multitudes freed from ignorant ways?
Jai Hind! And here's to hope of better days.

I'd call it Eastern Wisdom—but it's not.
Bow down in piles of human dung, Bharat;
Worship your cow, while washing in her ****.
My poem's close has finally come to this,
As I my guru's bovine backside kiss.

Godless patricians wring their hands
In their suburban country manors.
Guilty America changes brands,
plays with pronouns. Rainbow banners
Prideful, float on summer breezes.
Faith grows cold, congeals, and freezes.

Clueless worldlings cluck and scold;
Display their plumage, signal virtue.
Preening fowl are waxing bold.
(Could such flightless creatures hurt you?–
Force you to conform, bow down
before their god—a circus clown?)

Here’s to data-driven tyrants
Professional managerial trash;
Narcissism’s dull aspirants
Human resources: their cash.
Shilling out for ***-confusion,
Corporate wokeness, and delusion.

Haiku is nothing.
It takes no talent to write
And boring to read.

As our craft approached the island's coast, the swelling sea grew rough. Every eye on board was wide watching the darkened beach. We rounded the bluff. The nervous crew began to perceive a stench from a yawning chasm in the hill that no night wind, no downpour could quench. The rain ceased. The moon came forth like noontide from behind her veil of cloud, bathing in ghostly light the seaside; and the night sky at last began to allow increasing illumination, no longer overcast. All on board could tell that a foul shadow, something sickly-sour, emanated from entrance of the hillside bower, and closer view of the pit forced even the captain and officers to admit that the hanging cadaver, head still bearing the crown, was the withered and rotting body of the clown. The crowd of sailors strained and jostled to see: in the moonlight, even from a distance, the clown's face in its grimace appeared strangely proud . . .
We knew the members of the first mission were all gone now—no need to excavate the bodies in the cave. The purpose of the hanging corpse, to motivate us to abandon the encounter was successful. We anchored the vessel  near the foot of the looming summit, and prepared to mount her.

Rim-walker, Foe-slayer, Guardian of the sword—
Beast-breaker, War-bringer: BRANDON of the blade
Who slew the dreaded dragon ‘ere the sun had reached the noon;

Bear-baiter, Snout-smasher, Keeper of the Axe—
World-tamer, Science-truster BRANDON of the gaffe
Who slurred the teleprompter’s truths until the mic was off;

Arms-seller, Drone-striker, Valiant war-pig Puppet—
Tax-raiser, Gender-******, BRANDON of the press
Who stumbled up the White House stairs, starting useless wars;

Let every mead-hall hail the clown
And toast his name throughout the land.
Raise high the horn in dread renown
And bravely feast in BRANDON‘s name!

I wish that, philosophically,
I could commune with my dear wife . . .
Instead, we biologically
Against all odds, amidst the strife,
Pursue one therapeutic end
Where pleasures, with relief, descend.

I wish we could discuss the arts—
Talk poetry and invoke the Muse.
In place of that, by fits and starts,
We thrill to what we can’t refuse:
Theory made practice, sweaty, hot…
Conjecture spurned for what we’ve got.

I’ll tell you-all a tale of Crazy Joe:
How he and his son did a-hunting go
Bidin’ their time till the prey was killed
And every hunter’s dream fulfilled.

Joe saw a dragon in the sky
And loaded his rifle. By and by,
Big Joe shot that Chinese dragon;
Hitched its head to his harvest wagon,
Used its wings to make a plane
Then flew himself to far Ukraine.
He took our taxes, started wars
Raised the prices and settled scores,
Set up bio-labs, armed the thugs
While his son was busy taking drugs.

Joe had barely finished shootin’
When from the North came an angry Putin.
Big Joe whooped that Russian bear
Skinned its fur to line his chair;
Took its claws to scratch his back
Called the whole mess “a cyber-attack”,
Then Joe resolved his son’s affairs
While stumbling down the White House stairs.

Hard-drivin’ Hunter took up art
And painted over that “election” part.
All Joe’s handlers, North to South,
held their breath when he opened his mouth…
Father and son got plenty of press
Down at their Washington address,
After they painted the Whitehouse black
And laughed when we asked for our country back.
Wiser than Solomon was Joe
At taking in the foreign dough,
And cutting deals to line his pockets
Providing bombs and arms and rockets.
Joe talked tough to Israel
And gave those proud Yehudis hell—
But sold them weapons on the sly
While the world wondered why.

Build back better? Come on, man . . .
A Pentagon puppet for their plan.
Big Joe himself: the tallest tale
Administrating massive fail.

BRANDON cranes his scrawny neck
Sniffing for a business deal;
Sailors gather on the deck
Murmuring with mutinous zeal…

They’re bailing water from the hull,
Throwing ballast off the stern—
Captain BRANDON’s brain, half-full
Of shipping schemes, begins to churn.

Sensing profits in the ocean,
BRANDON observes the cresting swell.
In his faltering mind, a notion
Starts to form, and none can tell . . .

Fearing for their captain’s health,
The dwindling faithful check his pulse.
Sensing oceanic wealth,
His ****** muscles now convulse.

Then, hark—a mermaid’s silvery voice
Appeals to BRANDON from the sea:
Come to me captain; you’re my choice.
I’ll launder money here for free.

“Man overboard”! the sailors shout
As BRANDON flails upon the waves.
Captain’s handlers harbor doubt—
Yet throw the lifeline. Jesus saves.

The shock of nothing new is so surreal;
Rebellion filters down and fades away
In images that T-shirt merchants steal.
The shock of nothing new is so surreal!
Nor Freud nor Marx can anything reveal,
And Maldoror has nothing more to say.
The shock of nothing new is so surreal—
Rebellion filters down and fades away . . .