A sign is planted bravely on your grass
Informing those of us who live as brutes
That tolerance abounds within your class
And that we don’t possess your virtuous fruits.
But whether you proclaim by sign or flag
Or misbegotten sticker on your car,
We note you fail to notice that you brag;
And make yourself a moral commissar.
Pride is prideful—all arrogance conceit.
Projecting your neurosis has grown old . . .
We laugh at you, not with you. Your deceit,
Ungrasped by you, is easy to behold.
The barren tree you planted in your pride
Informs the world you’ve failed to take God’s side.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                               Spectrum Cable 2

                                                For 23 April 2025


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It’s got its quirks; it jerks and twerks
And once in a while it sort of works

Is that you / Your eyes slowly fading?

After the stereo (flip that vinyl over)
After the **** hits (burbleburbleburble)
After the subway (next stop Bwahstan Gahden, Bwahstan Gahden)
After bolting down Burger King  (♪ Have it your way... ♫)
        We entered the garden.

Is that you / Your mind full of tears?
Is that you / Searching for a good time?
Is that you / Waiting for all these years?

Santana looked so small way down there on stage from our upper balcony seats, especially Chepito, lit by lurid 70's arena-lights. They seemed disproportionate to the ear-splitting amplification from towering walls of matte-black speakers, amidst  sparklers, firecrackers, with **** wafting over legions of high school students. I can't recall the songs, just the rhythm. When the smoke cleared, ears dazed and ringing, the harsh lights flooded several hundred young persons exiting the garden for the subway.

Is that you / Looking 'cross the ocean
Is that you / Thinking nothing's really there?

J. was still sitting in his seat. Come on. We gotta go.
But my friend J. looked lost, vacant.
Come on J, the trains stop running soon let's go!  
J. did not respond. He leaned forward and vomited on the cement floor between his feet.

Is that you / Waiting for the sunshine?
Is that you / When all you see is glare?

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                    Not Waiting for Godot

We pass much of our lives in waiting for things

Airplanes
Love
Christmas
Jobs
Answers
Mail
Spectrum Cable
You

Mostly, though, we wait for packages from Amazon
Maybe this time there will be happiness

That Japanese thing about ants:
Yoko Ono (but worse) at first glance,
Is an improvisation
Producing frustration
In readers, when given a chance…


I was hoping to find a bit more
In Sawako’s ridiculous Score;
But her total is zero,
This scribbling hero—
Her poem was truly a bore.