Kafka’s Coffee Cup

A poor petitioner spoke unto a grille;
His need was simple, coffee ‘gainst the dawn.
A voice metallic, disembodied, chill
Chanted a liturgy through the speaker ‘phone:

“And would you like some sweetener with that?
Sugar?  Or chemicals, yellow or pink?
Creamer, perhaps, no gluten and no fat;
The selection is yours; what do you think?

“And, oh, yes, would you like to supersize
Your order with a little bit of nosh?
A doughnuts or bagel, some curly fries,
Or a croissant with cream cheese, by gosh!”

(The reader pauses, then speaks the last two lines slowly)

Years passed, as did this tale of Kafka’s woe:
He died while waiting for that cup of joe.

A Secret University

You registered for university
When in the womb you were beloved of God
Your classes then began when you were born
When you awoke, and saw your mother’s eyes

And in them all the possibilities
Of life, of golden life, given to you
Upon this planet with its flowered fields
Forests and rivers beneath its moon and sun

And all these tell you, in eternal Song1
That all the world is your university


1In The Kalevala, in Lewis’ Narnia, and in many faiths, God sings the world into being.

Reclining **** with Pet Frog

Hobby Lobby got caught smuggling artifacts
Vaticanos got caught snuggling each other
Putin and Trump are loose with their facts
The governor of New Jersey is BIG Brother

The Republicans blame the Democrats
The Democrats blame the Russians
The Russians blame the plutocrats
And the Norks won’t join the discussions

All of them make big messes every day
And they expect us to shut up and pay

Still Life with Ant Poison

A summer’s dusk, a rustic garden bench
Deep-weathered from the cycles of seasons and years
And burdened with those homely implements
Beloved of the philosopher-gardener:

Clay pots at rest after nursing young plants
An old birdhouse in need of repair, a trowel
A pair of old cloth gloves, a watering can
A cylinder of painful death for ants

And for the old philosopher’s Vespers
An inch
             (or two)
                           of therapeutic single-malt

The Bishop of DaNang

In Grateful Memory:
Pierre Marie Pham Ngoc Chi,14 May 1909 – 21 January 1988

What did he think of his Americans
Some six or so, just kids, in jungle greens
Receiving from his hands the Sacrament
Of Confirmation there, among Marines

A Quonset hut chapel in the morning sun
Blistering the steel in its passage to noon
Anointing all with gun oil and with sweat
“Do you reject Satan and all his works…?”

The Word and his blessings, a group picture -
And what did the NVA think of him?

What’s in a #?

#“What's in a #? That which we call a #
By any other # would smell as #...”

-#Shakespeare?

You are, by the Grace of God, as you speak;
You are not a #; you are not an @
You are not a consumable to be
Tagged, twitted, labeled, renamed, and recycled

Honor the languages of your ancestors
Who gave to you, through work and dignity,
The Muses Nine of civilization
And not vague scratchings in the muck of now

Write nobly, not in # @ noises weak -
You are, by the Grace of God, as you speak

A Family Luncheon in Honor of Independence Day

The flag posted without enthusiasm
The interior doors locked against children
Whose mothers aver that their pryings and thefts
Are expressions of their authentic selves

Dutiful hot dogs, Chinese paper plates
Surgeries, diets, and bowel movements
Articulated in autopsic detail
And catalogues of recent family deaths

The in-laws sit for hours; they won’t go away -
Now speak again of Independence Day!