The Cosmos is deaf,
mute, and dumb, too.

We humans make up stories
and call them our lives.

When the stories
don't turn out well,
we curse the Cosmos.

Such hubris!

The Cosmos can't hear
our pathetic laments
and wouldn't care
if it could.

It's too busy just
being the Cosmos.

They are ubiquitous as red, white and blue.
Everybody's entitled to them.
Everybody has many, all insightful.
Everybody feels compelled to share them.
Frankly, I don't care what you think
about Trump, Obamacare, refugees, Syria,
the patriarchy, pumpkins or the Patriots.
But go ahead and fill me in. I know you will.
I will smile politely, as I always do,
while imagining twenty ways to ****** you.

Let us get together and share nightmares.
You show me yours. I'll show you mine.
We will tremble like off balance washing machines.
What is love if not a combination of horrors?
So many intimate fears and phobias to merge!
Assuredly we shall end up an old married couple,
mute at table, staring blankly into the void,
wondering whatever possessed us,
waiting for the inevitable exorcist to arrive.

Valentine's Day Shopping...*

She had a
Mercedes’s face,
a Porsche body,
and a Maserati
libido.

Sadly, I was at
the wrong dealership
looking at
the wrong model.

Another dreary, dismal,
kidney stone of a day
that doesn’t want to pass.
You might name it suicidal
if you were an optimist.
The rain pearls like tears
on every wet, black bough.
Not enough bourbon in
the entire weeping world
to wash them all away.
Dreams of white beaches
and bikini clad women
just do not suffice.
Might as well go out
and sit naked in it,
become one with moisture.
The neighbors will doubtless
not approve. Better to keep
this satori to yourself.

It’s all smoke and mirrors,
he declaims in Caesar's voice.
Do nothing until you hear from me.*
The yokels weep sincere tears.
Women get wet and men tumesce.
He mounts a gilded Mercedes,
glances over a shoulder with disdain,
and motors away, counting the take.

"Poetry Makes Nothing Happen..."*

The New is Confusion.
Embrace it and be baffled.
Give a nod to the absurdists
among us who demand illusion.
That engenders a reality.
Satire cannot compete
with rampant trumpery.
Poets who marry politics
produce stillborn tracts
whose topics will be
forgotten in a week.
In the theme park of words,
they are the talking dead.
This pig wallow of blame
leaves no hands clean.
History's a house that burns
too quickly for choosing sides
or taking detailed notes.
Accept the tangle of Truths.
Nothing outlasts everything.
Never sell out to the moment.