Young reader’s lit is a lucrative gig;
Feeds slop to learner like waste to a pig.
We love to get them reading.   Ah . . . but what?
Such open-minded offal as would shut
The hallowed sluice of Wisdom in a blink.
Grand waste of authorship, paper and ink
Noble trees pulped, and presses run—for this?
Distasteful tales and messages that miss
By so far they ought never have been told
Let alone color-printed, bound and sold.
Grotesqueries and morbid cultural rot
Raw ugliness (intentional or not)
Drips forth from this modern infantile lit
For any reasonable end unfit.
Behold P.C. fluffery, ethnic vibes
(Half of it scribed by lost Israelite tribes)
Global fables for our brave new deviants
Multi Kulti nonsense; non-experience:
Mafupe’s New Ungwa, Tano Means Five
Sho-Sho Goes the Wira-Wira.  Such jive . . .
My, such juvenile literary news
Serving to propagate progressive views:
Tia Fulana the Red Agitator
Grand Dad’s a Genderqueer Instigator . . .
Frida: Surrealist Queen of Misfit Art
Smelly Joe’s Super-Duper Stinky ****
Pages that dribble like a sneeze-filled rag
Well-pitched witchery, spelled out by some hag:
Diego the Dinosaur Reads Karl Marx
Trani the Modern Mixed-up Kitten Barks
Volume on volume of frivolous trash
All New York Times-reviewed (for kiddie cash):
Zombies Want Candy, Jimmy Has Three Moms
Snot-fest For Sassy Sue (Special Ed Bombs).
Manga mediocrity, attention-span killers:
Useless mind-wasting library-fillers.
Humpy and Fluffy Hunt for Chocolate Eggs
Barrels of froth (more like the tepid dregs ?)
Squirrel’s Fall Harvest Festival Goes Nuts
(Death by a thousand cutesy bookish cuts):
Useless reams of mindless marketed waste
With effete tribute paid to vilest taste
A globalist ghetto hype-o-rama
Party that starts and ends with Obama;
Covers flush with myriad fake awards
Encouraging our failing culture towards
The darkened depths. And who should bear the blame?
Publishers who mutually stroke for fame!
Such propaganda aimed at your child
After being mocked, ought to be reviled.
To hail such shameful writing as diverse
Actually serves to achieve the reverse;
Revisionists (more like demons than elves)
Have loaded your local library shelves.
The smoldering wick of so-called children’s lit,
Foolish lamp of decadent light, unfit
To illuminate or to froth about
Thus wavers, flickers faintly, and goes out.

My face is full of laughter
My eyes are dried of tears
But there's fine print
You must read
Burned there from
All the years.

My cheeks are red & rosey
My lips turned up in smiles
But there are lines
Of grief and pain
From walking many miles.

Please take me at face value
For I laugh... I'm laughing still!
But I've endured
Much hardship
For it was God's will.

But if I had not suffered
This peace I'd not enjoy
If I had not known sorrow
I would not fathom Joy!

See the fine print on my face
Those lines that I do wear
Read wisdom in
My countenance
Yes, it is written there.

To every man or woman
Who have known this part
You may have lines
Upon your face

But beauty's in your heart!


SøułSurvivør
4/20/2018

I found you, in a stack of photos:
the 2D you, I can't touch, taste or smell

the first thing that came to mind was sharing a joint with you and spilling the chocolate ice cream cone on your skin-******* shorts

and sneaking into the Woolworth bathroom, and our freaked frenzied scrubbing of fabric with nimble fingers and pink powdered hand soap

and how we couldn't stop laughing
until a woman older than time caught us
before we could consummate

which we did after running the entire
200 yards to my van, wet white shorts in your hand, with me looking over my shoulder for imagined narcs and other freedom snatchers

when we finished, we shared my last Winston, blowing smoke rings in the gathering gloom

your shorts were dry, and our high
had worn off--you didn't kiss me goodbye when I dropped you off

between your pad and mine,
I hit a black mongrel pup wandering on the dark asphalt

I scooped him off the road
with my hands; lifeless, light he was...

I found you, in that stack of ancient
photos--that was the day we conceived a son, one you had shredded in a doctor's office for $300 in illegal tender

I see the messy ice cream, your naked nineteen year old flesh,  smoke rings disappearing, the poor mutt dying

though not for lack of trying, I can't see the child you had executed in utero--without trial, judge or jury, save an elusive dream
of freedom

Albuquerque, 1967

Bird beneath the midnight sky
As on my lonely couch I lie,
I hear thee singing in the dark,
Why sing not I?

No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye;
No fond mate answers to thy cry;
No other voice, through all the dark,
Makes sweet reply.

Yet never sky-lark soaring high
Where sun-lit clouds rejoicing lie,
Sang as thou singest in the dark,
Not mute as I!

O lone, sweet spirit! tell me why
So far thy ringing love-notes fly,
While other birds, hushed by the dark,
Are mute as I?

No prophecy of morn is nigh;
Yet as the somber hours glide by,
Bravely thou singest in the dark
Why sing not I?





በምሽት



እንዳንድ ወፍ እንዳለች ታች ከለሊቱ ሰማይ፣

ጋደም እንዳለኩ ለብቻዬ አልጋ ዬ ላይ

ጥኡመ ዜማ ስታወርጂ አሰማልሁ

‹‹ እኔስ ለምን አልዘምርም ?” እላለሁ፡፡



የትኛውም ኮከብ በነፀብራቁ ቢልቅ፣

ያንቸን ንቁ ዓይን አያስንቅ!

ግና ለጥሪሽ ምነው ቅርብ ጓደኛ

ምላሸ አይሰጥሽ ?

ሌላም ድምፅ፣ በዚ የለሊቱ ግርማ፣

የሚጥም ምላሻዊ ዜማ አያሰማ!



ድርጭት እንኳ እስከላይ በእጅጉ መጥቃ

ተጋድምው፣ ፀሐይ በፍንደቃ የሚሞቁ ደመናዎች

እስተሚስተዋሉብት ድረስ ዘልቃ፣ ስታበቃ፣

እንደዚያ እስከላይ ሄዳ፣

እንደኔ ሳትሆን ለመዝሙር ዲዳ፣

አንቺ በድቅድቅ እንደምታወርጂው ዜማ

ከቶ አታሰማ!



ብቸኛዋ ነፍስ ንገሪኝ

ያንቺ ፍቅር የተጫነበት ዜማ፣

እስከአሁን በመቀጠል የሚሰማ!

ደሞም ምነው ሌሌች ወፎች

በጨለማው ዝማም ተሸብበው

የሆኑት ዲዳ፣ በመደዳ!



የማለዳ ብስራተ በሌለበት

ሠአቱ ለመሄድ ዳተኛ በሆነበት

ትዘምሪያለሸ በድፍረት!



በሞትኩት፣ ለምንድነው

እኔ እንዳንቺ ያልሆነኩት? //

(ጁሊያ ካሎሪን)

One World Limerick

The notion of nations united
gets the global progressives excited.
Their party of Babel
is ******’s own rabble
(we’re left with the Right uninvited).


Values Clarification Limerick

Many worldlings (whose ways we bemoan)
hope their lives we’ll approve and condone.
But we couldn’t care less
for the views they profess;
we just wish they would leave us alone


Roman Limerick

Our antichrist leaders (so Fabian)
are more Nero, and less like Octavian.
So with Caesars and salad
I’ll dress up my ballad.
(The future’s plebeian or Flavian.)


Kente Pajamas Limerick

A racist obtuse Afro-whiner
Tried to give the right-wing a black shiner
While applauding Obama
He railed at my mama
His manners could be a lot finer  .  .  .


Apocalyptic Limerick

The riddles of John’s Revelation
imply a large-scale devastation.
The end is not too clear
but looks rather nuclear:
a well-deserved A–bomb-in-nation.


Freethinking Limerick

An atheist, weary of fables
Found his intellect turning the tables.
He declared: As a nihilist
held to a higher list,
I’m for erasing the labels.


Mendacious Limerick

Fake propaganda as news
only fools those it’s meant to confuse
there is wrong, there is right
when you’re left in the light
of a nation with little to lose.

I sing of human dignity
whose absence can be seen
through lens of foul reality
within Mad Magazine !

The foibles of America,
the hubris and the glory
the paunch, the slouch, the bad-hair lives,
the real plebeian story.

Bruegel’s mobs and Ensor’s masks
improved, enhanced, updated
on comic page, until one asks:
is painting overrated?

Beardsley, Hogarth, masters all—
and acid-etched our race;
but unkind pure hilarious truth
beams forth from Alfred’s face.

The dolts, the clods, the leering fools,
the sociopathic clowns,
glitter like fractured plastic jewels
in Walmart-purchased crowns.

Alfred Neuman has the goods.
The lash, at first, feels bad
when whips of satire welt our back.
Behold the man: he’s MAD !

It’s time to fire up my blog
and add to the poetic smog.
Marching thus, to April’s drum
may cause my muse to pause, mid-strum
and harp on my poetic lack
of will toward permanent attack.
Didactic, though, I strive to be;
And write with pure sincerity.

I’ll do my best to rail, and preach
and by such arts, some poor soul reach
assuring them they are not mad
but yes, the world IS worse than bad.
I’m sorry that I lack the power
to versify upon a flower.
(Leave that for some other, later
blithe pathetic poetaster.)

Where’s my muse?
(They must have maced her.)

Whining—then pitching sullen fits
each time their childish will is crossed,
tech-addled sassy little *****
prove education’s cause is lost.

Such children show that means regress
once the family is supplanted
claiming rights they do not possess;
taking taxpayer funds for granted.

Loosed from homes of dark dysfunction
tyrant-bred by single mothers,
no devoted teacher’s unction
will suffice to raise another’s.

Oblivious to strategies
of motivation and reward
they sing our nation’s elegies.
The dull refrain: yo Miss—I’m bored.

This the greatest reparation
from the coffers of the state:
data-driven education
sacrificed to second-rate.