I have always
wondered
why so many
women
have such
horrible
taste
in men.

Ladies?

I do not create poems
from fancy or for fun,
but to engender reality.

Stories I tell
about stories
I have been told,
or told myself.

All the more real
for being imaginary.
- mce

Dear Louise,

At 2:30 AM after
two hours of sleep
I feel I am looking
through a keyhole
and reality
is sneaking up
from behind
to give me
a much needed
kick in the *****.
Somehow, I have fallen
into a hole so deep
I can't climb out.
The arena of death
destroys the illusion
of safety and
at some point
the naked heart
cannot recover.
Everything seems
after the fact.
Everything is
after the fact.
You can't change
anything after
a split second ago.
I feel a curious desire
to do the right thing,
but there are not
enough right things
to go around.
Is life accessible?
Is life inaccessible?
I have the curious urge
to puke out forty years
of my life's garbage.
Maybe I'll change my name
to Antonio or Ivan,
move to Hiroshima or Dachau
and see the world
through the binocular
but astigmatic
eyes of a tiger.
If you asked me
to describe someone
I really know,
I'd be very hard put.
As a kid I wanted
to be a writer.
I wasn't sure
what that meant;
early ideals can **** you
but you probably
deserve it.
I know I am wrapped
so tight that if
I spring a leak
I'll sink in a day.
Could there be a way
to fence my life in
and keep the world out?
I am consumed
by fatuous sincerity.
I'd write down
all the options
int this case
but I loathe
the **** fascism of lists.
My hormones seem
to be deliquescing
into a viscous pâté
of late life protoplasm.
They belong on a shelf,
not in your pants.
I guess if no one else
will make use of me,
I'll have to make use
of myself.
This is a difficult task.
My life has been
a long preparation
for something that
probably won't occur.
For too long I have
defied almost everything.
A strong man would simply
drink himself to death,
but I'm not that strong.
Many of my sins of omission
are beginning to bother me.
Perhaps the only real use
for today is today.
Maybe I need to get
back to the basics:
eating, ******* and dying.
How to maintain
my equilibrium in the face
of incomprehension?
Waking up is a kind of homage.
Or could it be that
I don't need to change?
I'm just this.
Anyway, it's 2:30 AM
on a long night
in a strange life.
I'd better go.
Dawn may creep up
and release the
stench of coffins.
Louise, if you get this note
and understand it
please let me know
because I don't.

Sincerely,

Mikey

Disregard
the notes;
enter into
the silences.
  - mce

Avoid interstates and airplanes
whenever possible.
Never clean your shotgun
while depressed, listening to
George Jones and drinking whiskey.
Visit between the thighs of women,
but do not become stuck there.
Remember that gold is only a color.
Consider that while drunk
is sometimes absolutely necessary,
sober has its virtues, too.
Assume that you are wrong
and you will probably be right.
Believe in birdsong and blueberries.
Know that when the chips are down,
blood is usually thicker than water.
Doubt the lulling attractions
of usury and power.
If there is any way to stay clear
of marriage and war, do so.
Pay no attention to this list,
make your own, take it to heart,
and never consider it finished.

  ~mce

When I Write Poems

When I’m embraced by airy inspiration,
I am a bridge between the sky and earth.
Of all what heart high-values in creation
I am a king, when breathing with a verse!

Just if my soul wishes it, my fairy,
I shall give you the peaceful coast band,
Where, with a hum, the pinky sea is carrying
The dreaming tide to reach the dreaming land.

I can do all, just trust in me: I’m mighty;
I have the roots for kindness and for love;
And if I want, from clouds and from the lightning
I’ll make a cover your sweet bed above.

And I can, dear, create a word such special,
That it would change laws of the whole world,
To call again its own celebration
And stop the sun from fall in the night cold.

I’m all another in my inspiration,
I am a bridge between the sky and earth.
Of all what heart high-values in creation
I am a king, when breathing with a verse!

Portrait of an Old Woman on the College Tavern Wall**
BY ANNE SEXTON

   Oh down at the tavern
the children are singing
around their round table
and around me still.
Did you hear what it said?

                   I only said
how there is a pewter urn
pinned to the tavern wall,
as old as old is able
to be and be there still.
I said, the poets are there
I hear them singing and lying
around their round table
and around me still.
Across the room is a wreath
made of a corpse’s hair,
framed in glass on the wall,
as old as old is able
to be and be remembered still.
Did you hear what it said?

                  I only said
how I want to be there and I
would sing my songs with the liars
and my lies with all the singers.
And I would, and I would but
it’s my hair in the hair wreath,
my cup pinned to the tavern wall,
my dusty face they sing beneath.
Poets are sitting in my kitchen.
Why do these poets lie?
Why do children get children and
Did you hear what it said?

                  I only said
how I want to be there,
Oh, down at the tavern
where the prophets are singing
around their round table
until they are still.

So tell me God,
isn't divinity
ever boring?
Don't you tire
of being distant,
unapproachable,
and worshipped?
Isn't it lonely?
Don't you ever wish
you could have
a burger,
sip a beer,
just hang out
and *******?
If you ever
get the notion,
let me know.
I'd be happy
for the company.
- mce

Four Hundred Thirty Seven Miles
to a place of hope and possibility.
Not so much a trip as a voyage;
a quest not to be taken lightly.
In your ears, the asphalt seas whisper:
Take to the road, soldier.
There is always a way home for those
who have the guts to risk it.
Crafty Odysseys found the will;
his reward was the great, rooted bed
and the arms of his lonely Queen.
Do you have the strength and courage?
Only take to the highway and drive.
Four Hundred Thirty Seven Miles;
Not far to see an Angel smile; to hear
ancient, faithful Argos  bark again.
Four Hundred Thirty Seven Miles.
The road for the brave always leads home.

1
Sleep is not kind to age.
Evening and morning
mean little to me.
Awake when awake;
asleep when asleep.
As Janis Joplin said,
it's all the same
******* day, man

     2
Sleep is for the young;
now I grab a few hours
here and there when I can.
I have come to know that time
really is of the essence.
        
     3
Older now,
inevitably less
everyday.
Sweet Muse,
I do not fear death,
but dread the thought
we may never meet
and that if we do
I will not
be enough for you.

      4
You are the wise woman,
the alchemist of my soul.
No longer a poet
I have become your poem.
Incant your spell
and I come to life.
    
       5
Old men live on
medicine and memory
telling each other
the same stories
over and over,
enjoying them
each time
while the young
yawn.

      6
Sons grow tall and strong,
take up their lives
and leave yours behind.
This is an old story.
It will be told many times.

      7
The girl I loved
at 17 is 68 now
and lives in Greenwich
contentedly retired.
I have seen her picture.
She is still beautiful.
Why wouldn't she be?

      8
Deep in our aged hearts,
bucking all the odds,
we know that nothing
is ever really lost.

     9
There is a
whole world
out there;
in here, too.

     10
When you find her,
love her;
the universe will
show you the way.

~ mce

Western wind, when wilt thou blow,
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

She was looking for poetry, she said.
I have some experience with that, I said.
I searched gallantly about
and presented her with trophies.
She looked through them.
Her hair was deep evening red
and her white skin translucent.
She wore a thin summer dress
of light green linen.
Choosing, she walked away,
thanking me for my help.
Never did I see her again,
but now she lives in one of my poems.

  ~mce

This bed
is narrow,
but my arms
are wide;
join me.
you are
always
welcome
here inside.
  - mce

Lovers live hard lives;
always in that no-man's land
between self and other.
  - mce

Awake
as a flame
hoping
to burn out.

Sleet and cold.

The cat wonders
what the ****
is up.

The BBC
reports  that
the world
remains
a mess.

What is
worth knowing
at 4 AM?

You are lonely
in darkness.

It will be
a long, long day.

You are caught
in that time,
that is not time.

On a pyre
between worlds,

you burn
and burn,
but are not
consumed.

     mce

At 4am you are as alone
as the last Tasmanian Tiger.
You are a bundle of screaming nerves
with no skin to protect them.
Absolutely nothing matters:
not women, not friends
not ***, not money, not poverty,
not friends, not lovers,
not the future, not the past,
nothing at all. All that exists
is the terrible freedom
of the insignificant
blob of protoplasm that you are.
You know in your soul
that there is a strong possibility
that nothing means anything.
So you go back to bed
and anticipate remembering
nothing of this in the morning.
The bliss of unknowing
is your only hope
in a world of hurt.
Try it. Perhaps it will work.
It never stays 4am forever.

I have looked
in many directions,
but never before north;
What a short sighted
southern fool
I have been,
   ~mce

A big snapping turtle
seeking living water
struggles slowly across
the rough gravel road
toward a dry creek bed
filled with rocks and sand:
                ///
Human, all too human.
  - mce

I'm waiting for a message.
I'm sitting in a bar.
I've flown 10,000 miles.
I've journeyed from afar.

The stranger who would meet me
is no one that I know;
I dreamed her voice in Paradise,
she told me she would show.

Oh where are you my only love,
when will you dance with me,
step from the crowds into my heart,
I long to set you free.

When will you stand before me,
when will your face appear,
I'm sinking into loneliness,
I'm sinking into fear.

I want to lift your flouncing skirt;
I want to touch your soul;
I want my hands to trace your *******;
I want to make you whole.

They're wiping down the tables,
it's time to disappear;
I guess that you are far my love
and yet you feel so near.

But I will haunt this table,
each long and empty night
until you finally show up,
until the time is right.
-mce

One night
of shameless ***
with a warm,
willing, talented,
obscenely younger
woman
works every time.
- mce

A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce

A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce

A lover,
whom I cherished
(and who left me)
once said:
I will always
love your words;
apparently,
my words
are easier to love,
than I am.
- mce

Lover, please find me.
I'm over sixty!

   ~mce

swirling
     vertiginous
downward
    tumbling
freezing
    firey
gyre

  - mce

Lightening from a clear, blue sky.
Random firing synapses. Fluttering twitches.
A moment where the eye and I diverge.
Mind rockets in flight, morning or night.
Become a twisted ball of rubber bands. Writhe.
Avalanche of trembles. Lungs in a vise.
Devastating payload of cognitive dissonance.
How long will this horror of nothing last?
Waiting is the worst. Paralysis of time.
     Sitting on a sofa on a quiet afternoon
     Hoping for a large slice of normal, soon.

On the borrowed
coffee table,
four candles lit
against the dark
share space with
a pack of Camels,
a glass of bourbon.

A Bach sonata
fills the evening
with elegant
notes and silences.

An old man,
remembering
the absent,
sits alone
and smiles.

He is forgotten,
but he is free.

Call that a
New Year's Eve
party:

he does.
  - mce

ἐγγὺς μὲν ἡ σὴ περὶ πάντων λήθη· ἐγγὺς δὲ ἡ πάντων περὶ σοῦ λήθη.

How many streets,
how many times,
has he strolled
in this irrelevant
town?

Fifty years
The perambulating
flaneur.*

Change must be
but often arrives
glacially.

Crows on wires.
Nonchalant bunnies.
Indifferent children.

These ancestors
of that first ramble
take no notice
of the white haired man
with a cane.

The scenery never
comments on the drama.

Walking old streets
where many lives
have lived and vanished

brings neither sadness
nor nostalgia,

only the reminder
of time's inevitable,
ineluctable vortex.

The ultimate arrogance:
believing you can live a life
without consequences.
- mce

is a knot
we unravel
with something
other than
our fingers.

  ~mce

To Be Governed**

“To be GOVERNED is to be watched, inspected, spied upon, directed, law-driven, numbered, regulated, enrolled, indoctrinated, preached at, controlled, checked, estimated, valued, censured, commanded, by creatures who have neither the right nor the wisdom nor the virtue to do so. To be GOVERNED is to be at every operation, at every transaction noted, registered, counted, taxed, stamped, measured, numbered, assessed, licensed, authorized, admonished, prevented, forbidden, reformed, corrected, punished. It is, under pretext of public utility, and in the name of the general interest, to be placed under contribution, drilled, fleeced, exploited, monopolized, extorted from, squeezed, hoaxed, robbed; then, at the slightest resistance, the first word of complaint, to be repressed, fined, vilified, harassed, hunted down, abused, clubbed, disarmed, bound, choked, imprisoned, judged, condemned, shot, deported, sacrificed, sold, betrayed; and to crown all, mocked, ridiculed, derided, outraged, dishonored. That is government; that is its justice; that is its morality."

On being ask why I waste my time writing poetry.*

A poet lives three times:
once remembering,
once writing,
once being read.

Three lives unfolding
the genetic code
of the soul.

Not such easy
lives to create,
but they produce
a map of memory
that vindicates
your existence
and may lead strangers
to small, keen joys
they never imagined.

Modest delights
keep hearts alive.

  ~mce

Someone once said,
"Vietnam is
the great, epic poem
of our generation."

The greatest epic poem
ever written about war
is Homer's Iliad.

So I wondered,
which character
would I be?

Agamemnon? Too pompous.
Achilles? Too deadly.
Odysseus? Too crafty.
Paris? Too dishonest.

Hector, of course.

Destined to fight on
in a lost cause;
his death inevitable,
already foretold;
courage in the face
of doom.

Hector. I like that.
It has a bold ring
to it.

Maybe I'll change
my name.

  ~mce

Admit it:

ninety percent of
human existence
is teasingly absurd.

That's OK with me.

I love the smell
of the preposterous
in the morning.

It smells like
domesticated primates,
irrational and
incongruous, hurling
their own ****
at each other.

Exorcise your
inner monkey.

Take a deep breath.

Nothing like a
whiff of nonsense
to start your day
with a smile.

man
bench
sun

Facts are not
a life.

Details.

old man
park bench
hot sun

Better,
but not enough.

An old man
on a green park bench
baking in the hot sun.

Closer,
but not the truth.

An old man,
still boyish,
sitting on a
green park bench
baking in the hot sun
remembering
that strange young girl
wearing
a paisley scarf,
red and blue silk,
standing like Venus
poised above
blue Aegean water
on the deck
of a white steamer,
her black hair flowing,
four decades past.

Closer still, yet missing...

An old man,
still boyish,
sitting on a
green park bench
baking in the hot sun
remembering
that strange young girl
wearing
a paisley scarf,
red and blue silk,
standing like Venus
poised above
blue Aegean water
on the deck
of a white steamer,
her black hair flowing,
four decades past.
He smiles,
considering
her hot breath,
her long sighs,
her silken thighs:
she lives again.

The poem at the confluence
of memory and imagination
engenders the stories
which render meaning.

Stories about stories;
all we can know of life,
yet enough.
-mce

When the veil
of the temple
is rent, only
the flawed man
of pure heart
dares enter.
  - mce

Reading poetry,
early in the morning,
very nearly
restores my life,
only not quite.
- mce

If the Christian afterlife
is so cool, why would
Jesus play such a cruel
and mean trick as to raise
Lazarus from the dead?

  ~mce

At 30,
you could only
look ahead.
At 55,
I could only
look back.
We only looked
in the same direction
when we looked
at each other.
Looking at you
was all my pleasure,
but future and past
pulled too hard
to overcome.
There are lilacs now,
new lovers,
fresh beginnings.
Still,
I remember
your eyes
looking back
at me,
greener
than even this
soft,
new spring.
–mce

You were born,
as was I.
You are dying,
as am I.
What happens
in between matters.
Too many spend
their time as
they spend
their money,
straining for more
than food, clothes,
shelter until
they suffocate
under attachment
to the unnecessary
they have made
necessary.
They try to buy
meaning with toys
and feel uncomfortable
at the boredom
they have become.
They want the whole
world zoned commercial
so they can work harder,
buy more and feel better,
but they don't.
It is a hard thing
to admit how much
of our lives
we have spent
being full of ****.
Remember:
You were born,
as was I.
You are dying,
as am I.
What happens
in between matters.
We all stand on
wobbly hinges
that can give way
at any moment.
The question becomes
not about death
but about how to live
before the hinges snap
and the noose
breaks our mortal necks.
No easy answers.
It is hard enough
to have your foot
in one world,
let alone two.
You were born,
as was I.
You are dying,
as am I.
What happens
in between matters.
Instead, meditate
on the nothingness
that was and
the nothingness
that will be
at any second.
Do not **** your life
away on nonsense.
Find your way to make
what is in between
matter. Me?
I think I'll go fishing.

  ~mce

I grew up here.
I am sitting
on my porch
listening to
the sound
of nothing.
Then, there were
four or five cars
on the street.
Now it is
parked solid.
Prosperity.
Many vehicles,
good jobs,
nice houses,
peace and quiet
and safety.
But out there
half the world
is burning
and its tortured
populations
flee toward
just this kind
of life.
How long
before this
silence is just
a memory
swamped by
the rising tide
of human misery
desperately seeking
this kind of home.

  ~mce

Every day, make a pledge
to find something where
you’ve never looked before.
Find a banker fried
on the arc lights of power;
a pair of lacy ******* in
your grandpa’s sock drawer;
come stains you can’t recall
on you best umbrella;
a hundred silver dollars
in the cookie jar;
two used condoms
in your aunt’s jello salad;
Nixon’s missing 18 minutes on
the 8 track of your Gremlin;
The Ark Of the Covenant
behind your broken fridge;
a hit of Owsley acid
in your dad’s bible.
Wonder, wonders, wonderful.
Forget a rebirth of wonder.
The truly marvelous lurks
everywhere around
waiting to be found.

  ~mce

The best game in town
must be playing chess with God.

The omniscient old dude
really ****** up by installing
that pesky free will.

Now he knows every possible
move you can make, but not
the one you will make.

Scholar's mate or Fool's mate;
pieces of cake, both sweet
redemption in the mortal mouth.

  ~mce

To the many readers, I ******* with my poem about Bukowski.

I don't loathe Bukowski. My point is that he is a cult writer. His cult seems to be made up of people who are ignorant of other much better writers of his time. If they read the Beats (in particular Gary Snyder) or others like Richard Brautigan, Jim Harrison, Wendell Berry and many others, they would see how poorly his writing stands up to comparison.

Bukowski's persona is what seems to attract people. He knew that and cultivated it. It was his meal ticket. The poor, drunken, uncouth, outsider, loser who was scorned by the literati of his time. In truth, he was a writer of pulp poetry. What he needed was a good editor. You could take all of his books of poems, cut out the rambling, self-serving, tedious, self-glorifying *******, and cut them down to maybe two books of decent poetry. His prose is better, but not that much.

Young people, lacking better poetry for comparison, are mainly attracted by this cult of personality. Young people are attracted to rebels, even bogus ones. He himself said he didn't write, he just typed. Some hero.

He portrays himself as a big, tough *** willing to fight the whole world. Actually, he was a fat drunk barely six feet tall. That's why I laughed at him when he threatened me. I was 20, just three weeks back from Vietnam. The thought of fighting an old drunk seemed pathetic to me. I could have easily killed him. Who goes to a poetry reading for that?

There was also his attitude toward women. I believe he really hated women. He saw them as receptacles for his *****, nothing more. He used his fame to **** a good many young admirers. He's not alone in having done that, but he was obsessive about it. Women were a perk, nothing more.

In the end, his cult status will remain, but he will never be taken seriously as a writer, because - by his own admission - he wasn't. There is much excellent poetry out there by better writers of his time. Do yourself a favor, read them, educate yourself. If you only read mediocre poetry, you'll only ever be a mediocre poet.

Even at his most unheroic, he is the hero of his stories and poems, always demanding the reader’s covert approval. That is why he is so easy to love, especially for novice readers with little experience of the genuine challenges of poetry; and why, for more demanding readers, he remains so hard to admire.

Please: Join in. Tell me why I am wrong or right.

Mike Essig

by Joanne Harris**

If you can still write
in spite of the fact
that you’re not getting paid,
that nobody cares about
what you’re writing,
that nobody wants to publish it,
that everybody is telling you
to do something else,
and you still want to
and you still enjoy it
and you can’t stop doing it …
then you’re a writer.

Old men usually wake up with desire
only for coffee and ibuprofen.

So if you wake up
on a perfect spring morning
with a powerful desire
for that magic crease where her
inner thigh meets  her mystery,

Rejoice!

You have just experienced a miracle
and the day will certainly be
a vibrant and delicious one.

  ~mce

If you were not so far away
I'd catch you in my hungry  arms
and you'd lie down and sigh and stay
if you were not so far away
I'd never want to leave or stray
entangled in your eyes and charms
If you were not so far away
I'd catch you in my hungry arms

follow the yellow brick road...*

The terrible freedom unleashed by typewriters.
Condition of complexity judged without criteria.
Radical provocations. Urinals and prams. Contingent.
Anarchist aesthetic. Not truth nor beauty but freedom.
Materiality of language. Multi-hued wheel barrows.
A cuttlefish. A crate. A cassowary. A cigarette. A ******.
Paratactic order. Particular phrasing. Pulsing pastiche.
An infinite conversation without resolution
as with the stupid friend who won’t shut up. Ever.
A transcendent dialectic based solely on proximity.
Ineluctable modality of the near. Only that. Buck it.
An unquiet ghost endlessly self-questioning. No answers.
Moaning in the meaning. A simple stuttering. Sibilant.
Turbulent and unpredictable as waddling wolverines.
Words that only mean whatever is seen. Juxtaposition.
Dissolving into desired dissonance. The magic chord.
Absolute verity in the experience of the fraudulent
for the same reason as the ubiquity of toothpaste.
     The poem as its own universe, complete and whole,
     fodder for the mind, not balm for the soul.

First Evening (Première Soirée)**


Her clothes were almost off;
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.

Perched on my enormous easy chair,
Half ****, she clasped her hands.
Her feet trembled on the floor,
As soft as they could be.

I watched as a ray of pale light,
Trapped in the tree outside,
Danced from her mouth
To her breast, like a fly on a flower.

I kissed her delicate ankles.
She had a soft, brusque laugh
That broke into shining crystals -
A pretty little laugh.

Her feet ducked under her chemise;
"Will you please stop it!…"
But I laughed at her cries -
I knew she really liked it.

Her eye trembled beneath my lips;
They closed at my touch.
Her head went back; she cried:
"Oh, really! That's too much!

"My dear, I'm warning you…"
I stopped her protest with a kiss
And she laughed, low -
A laugh that wanted more than this…

Her clothes were almost off;
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.

"No Gods. No Masters."*

Thursday last while
driving to the convenience store
I was pulled over by a local policeman.

It was midday. I wasn't drunk,
****** or driving recklessly.

He approached my car.
I rolled the window down.

He asked to see my papers.

I asked why.

He said just a "random traffic check."

I asked randomly checking for what.

He told me there was no need
to get belligerent.

I said I wasn't belligerent.

I said I was a free American
who lived in a country
where stopping people randomly
violated the Fouth Amendment
of the Constitution.

He asked again for my papers

I said not until he told me
for what probable cause
I had been stopped.

He said nothing, took a step back.

I asked him if I was under arrest
or being detained for arrest.

He said no.

I said I would be going then,
rolled down my window
and drove away,
being careful to signal.

He glared but did not follow.

Oh my sick and sorry America,
look what you have become.

He expected me to cower
before his uniform.

He was surprised when I didn't.

Never show fear to a cop or a dog.

He wasn't there
to serve and protect
but to harass and intimidate.

He was nothing but a ****
hired by the money that owns us.

Our police are beginning to act
like an arrogant, occupying army.

Let them beware and remember
what Thomas Jefferson said,

"The tree of liberty
must be refreshed
from time to time
with the blood
of patriots and tyrants."

Sometimes poetry can murmur gently,
but sometimes it must howl in rage.

I refuse to be occupied,
harassed or intimidated
by hired thugs and gangsters
in black uniforms with tin stars.

I want my country back.
I will have my country back.
I am not alone. There are many.

Let Officer Friendly consider:
There will come a reckoning.
The tree will be watered again,
even if it takes rivers of blood.

  ~mce