her golden fullness
wanton astride
peaked horizon

moon-ravaged
impassioned night
bites down hard

The old songs don’t feel right
wrong key, out of tune
somebody wake Sinatra
reclaim these wayward melodies
My Way, New York
New York
seat of the Queen
a gilded new King
everything he touches
Gold

money equals tower
Freudian crystal skyscrapers
the fitting measure
of a brittle man
who has not strength
to speak the truth
recites instead from
a book of fables
the moral to every one
those in glass houses
shouldn’t throw stones

the town crier proclaims
the truth does not matter
no one cares

hold tight that red hat
lest it be snatched
by a rebellious wind
see it now, a symbol
framed in white and blue
rising above the crowd
boots on the ground speak
shiny brass buttons
on a pert military coat
don’t a revolutionary make

the peddler of lies is just
a liar once-removed
“alternative facts”
brash fabrications
with a fancy semantic bow
such a pretty package
such a pretty family
the biggest crowd
in all of history
let the whole world

Witness

this most
perfect union

grab up a whole bucket of them,
sweep all the floors,
the smallest bits the ****** the
pieces of broken people,
bring them here,
the sinners , because I have been one,
and the floor I suspect,
would be clean of souls,
shiny no people left,
just an earthen loneliness,
a holy scene, a dance floor empty
a shrine:
is that what we propose for God's
sake?
An empty world ,
an empty place?
I do not judge , yet I do see,
that those that do are often the one's
in need of forgiveness.