this just in from the white house
positive positive positive
the right moves in this enviro
you got what you want
bush milked it for 7 years
they got away with torture
we Americans are stone immune
to killings, so **** people
add purpose to a culture of death
big lies small lies scared shitless lies
witnesses die at an alarming rate
the first impressions, the spin of tragedy
set the stage for popular opinion
but not for this guy
there is some advantages of being a poet :
the government kills people
and directs incidences of war and terror
to insure world order that benefits
the devil himself

seems like our perception
is flawed, subjective
to base influences
such as our current
digestive state
or the nagging itch
that cannot be reached


there exists no open
invitation of opinion
yet, views appear and enter
every conversation
people rhymes wit steeple


sans wit, the year ends
as it began
with the ground thrush
pecking at the lawn

unhealthy amount of golf here's some poetry from the days of dark corners of 2009

the day was grey, my mood was dour
wisdom’s words could not reveal
as I spent time and paid by the hour
the emptiness that I felt

I have notice as the years pass
the sublime closes in
the unknowable can be felt
and loses a small part
of it’s abstract nature

Decisions pile up, they lead
to this very line verse
our beliefs contort and suffer
when confronted by truth
possessed by hubris

We are dealing with eternity
it can be overwhelming
there was a time where laces
also seemed daunt
they are now handled easily

the air feels damp

echoes of thunder claps

bounce from the wooded hills

and roll through the vale

sockets of blue pierce

through the disrupted

ceiling of cloud

the jackdaw voices

his displeasure

at the summer we’ve been given

but they find annoyance

in most everything


Lake Erie Blues

alarm clock set for early morning
wails and peels without fair warning
rub my eyes in an effort to see
surprised to wake up in the state of VT

what is this, where did it go
whats a po’ boy doing far from buff’lo
where be the park, the lake and da’ strip
where are the people with the stiff upper lip
why leave the breeze, the squalls, the kimmelweck
the taverns where gran’pa drank anisette
that sycamore growin’ on Franklin street
the angst that consumed a community beat
the grimy grey skies to summers impossibly
what happened to lead me to the state of VT?

{not right to accuse others of conceit
   why play handball with self deceit?
    far better to accept the things that be
     and apply my emotions, stoically}

for one place is much like the other
careers are for greenbacks, that’s why the bother
of numbers and lawyers, of panels of priests
up north, out west, down south and back east
I am dissolved in a prelude that leads to eternity
with so many points available, might as well be VT