Kinda lost, as a matter of fact
No kind of tricks I can use
To help me to recover from
The Watching The News Blues.
There is no way I seem to
Be able to pay enough dues
To help me avoid getting
The Watching The News Blues.

Politicians stuffing ballot boxes
Some senator ****** little boys
Big Pharma raising their prices
The Pentagon buying broken toys.
We fracked another state up
We are invading another country
We’re outlawing people’s rights
The KKK is gains popularity.

I’ve got that kind of blues
From my hairdo to my shoes.
No over-the-counter drugs
That are any good to use.
It does no good to complain.
Everyone just ignores the clues.
They prefer to let us all suffer
The Watching The News Blues.

Big Oil bought out Washington
And then made solar illegal
If you pay enough money, you
Get to shoot an American Eagle.
DC is selling our forests off
And sells arms to both sides
And the average American
Can’t afford a place to reside.

Kinda lost, as a matter of fact
No kind of tricks I can use
To help me to recover from
The Watching The News Blues.
There is no way I seem to
Be able to pay enough dues
To help me avoid getting
The Watching The News Blues.

There are people somewhere
Almost no one knows about
There are girls and women boys and men
Gone beyond the places people care about
And, no one ever sees them again.
They laugh and love and work and share their daily bread
And, live within the fruits of the soil
Smiling at the treasures only found
In the efforts of the ones who toil.

And nobody sings their anthem
Nobody paves their way;
Trees and rocks are neighbors for
The ones who went away.
The ones who went away,
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
The ones who went away.

Somewhere smoke is curling from a handmade home
Someone sits adrift in a song
Tapping toes to rhythms of a timeless beat
And sometimes laughing loud and strong.
Someone no one knows about will sleep tonight
Content with what was done today.
Smiling with a face that seems to say
They wouldn’t have it any other way.

And nobody sings their anthem
Nobody paves their way;
Trees and rocks are neighbors for
The ones who went away.
The ones who went away,
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
The ones who went away.

Little Timmy Trashcan
Was born on a lonely day.
His mother had him and then
She threw Timmy away.
She never wanted children
She just wanted her man.
So, she got pregnant
And her man just ran.

Little Timmy Trashcan
Grew up nearly all alone.
A neighbor hired to feed him
So, he was all skin and bone.
His teacher tried to help
But the mother told lies.
She watched a lot of TV
And it made her PTA wise.

Little Timmy Trashcan
Much smaller than his peers.
Got beat on and ridiculed
For all his growing years.
No man was there to teach
How to stand up and fight
And his mother was busy
Going out almost every night.

Little Timmy Trashcan
Never made it to adult.
He lived beneath notice
And this was the result.
He learned how to vanish
And bother nobody much.
Little Timmy Trashcan
Died from no loving touch.

I was once capable
Of talking without rhyme.
I could carry conversations,
And I did it all the time.
I could discuss the weather
And even a bit about sports.
I had anecdotes on things like
Political crooks and cohorts.

I could discuss the stars
And the people they dated.
I could reflect on the news
And my words never grated.
I talked about history, too
And how it might affect us.
I marched in protest parades
And didn’t let them deflect us.

But something powerful
In that which makes me
Urges the words I utter
To come out in poetry.
I used to question this
But I no longer chose to.
I don’t hide my poetry
From the world like I used to.

I hear common speech and
I hear cadences and rhyming
In step with what I am doing
And pace my walk to the timing
Of words I’ve heard and talk
That makes a marching beat
That is syncopated to my walk.

So, I no longer apologize
When I am rolling on a stanza.
I look upon it as gifts from the muse,
A positively literary bonanza.
I am my words; my words are me
And if you don’t care for poetry
Listen for a while and maybe see
What truths I write within my poesy.

Dad and Mom both want me
To dress like they both dress.
If I don’t follow their rules
They think my life is a mess.
I understand that they don’t
Like the way I wear my hair
But, if haircuts are mentioned
In the Constitution, tell me where.

I’ll be a mullet-wearing hipster
As a dedication to yesterday
If ever a day is officially declared
Celebrating double-knit polyester.
But until that day comes, folks
I want you both to know
I don’t want to look like I am
Character from a television show.

I don’t mean to be picky here
But I have suffered the ridicule.
I was the only kid dressed up
Like a CPA in elementary school.
We’re not talking about me
Joining a gang of outlaw crooks.
I just don’t want to get beat up
Because of the way I look.

I’m not shaving ‘***** you’ in
The back of my shaved head.
Neither do I want to come
Dressed as a nerd instead.
It’s probably all about moderation
And less about modern style
But with your kind permission
I’d like to talk with you awhile.

Let’s come to some happy medium
Where you don’t think it’s a scam
That I want to enjoy my youth
And be the person I really am.
I do understand parental guidance
And am grateful that you are here.
But please let me get with the times
Before I prematurely age ten more years.

Where I came from
It was that time in history
White people who loved
Black guys faced misery.
There was a huge batch
Of ugly names we earned.
And sometime more than
Just crosses were burned.

Where I came from
The Bible was used to beat
To abjure and vilify us
And toss us into the street.
We were demonized for
Bedding animals they said.
I just couldn’t stand that
Kind of hatred in my head.

Where I came from
Hypocrisy and bigotry rule.
They go to church Sundays
And the rest of the time
They act the total fool.
They demand the right
To tell me who to choose.
Demand the same of them
And brother, you lose.

Where I came from
They throw around the words
Of someone called Jesus
As if they had really heard.
But talk to them of the book
They claim is the word of god
And they come up with answers
That can only be called odd.

Where I came from
There are beggars on the street
And children without food
Or shoes on their tiny feet.
And yet they sing songs
Of good will to all men.
But they really don’t mean it
And prove it again and again.

Where I came from
Much is called restricted.
The Golden Rule and peace
Are so totally conflicted.
I grew up seeing goodness
Reinterpreted by the white
That practiced prejudice
And hate and called it right.

Sounds rather risqué, right?
Like an unmentionable body part.
Not a person you might care about.
No the other half of your heart.
Not my partner or sweetheart
Not my husband or my lover.
Any of those titles above
Will appropriately cover.

No, they call me your friend,
Your little buddy, your ‘thing’.
That last one I always suffer
As particularly insulting.

But, not my watchacallit,
My whatever, or such euphemisms.
They hit me like less than kind
And disapproving colloquialisms.
I mean, how would you feel
If I referred to your wife like that?
Calling her your sidekick or
Something like a stray cat?

I have no problem with asking
How my honey is doing today.
After all, that’s really who he is.
He’s my sweetheart every day.

So, think for a moment, please
Before you begin to speak.
Your lack of sensitivity can
Only make you look weak.
Just because we didn’t choose
The path you chose to take
Doesn’t mean you’re better than I
So, give this bigotry stuff a break.

He’s my partner and sweetheart
He’s my husband and my lover.
Any of those titles above
Will appropriately cover.

For you who served
So others might live.
Some of you gave
All you had to give.
We lost some of you
And it broke our hearts
But, live or die you all
Stood up to do your part.

For those of you who served
When some could not go
You overcame obstacles
That we will never know.
But because you stood
And fought against villainy
You have an honored place
In our country’s history.

No stones can be stacked
High enough to balance
The mothers who lost
Their children in battles
And no speeches made
Can ever appropriately say
What your sacrifice has meant
To every one of us today.

I wandered the lonely road
Like it was the only road.
I called out to nobody there.
I called out but nobody cared.

The echoes sometimes call
From no memory at all.
Nobody ever felt the pain
That caused this refrain;
A sound that startles me
Somehow it shames me.
Often it blames me.

I don’t understand the reason
There can be time without season,
Leaves fall without any tree.
Voices heard but only by me.
Is this only my imagination
Or some kind of hallucination?

I wandered the lonely road
Like it was the only road.
I called out to nobody there.
I called out but nobody cared.

Is this something the lonely do?
Is this what the solitary go through?
Do all loners dance to a ditty
Dictated and orchestrated by pity?
Is being single a kind of madness
Brought on by descent into sadness
Where one is never told
That they have lost their hold?

The is a kind of sad magic
That makes clowns of the tragic
And paints impressive hues
On the excuses I use
To try to mask the crippling pain;
Of swirling around the drain.
It’s not until the last bubble
That I know I am in trouble.

I wandered the lonely road
Like it was the only road.
I called out to nobody there.
I called out but nobody cared.

To be fair, this superstitious stuff
Goes a helluva long way back.
It was around the time of Babel
That the Israelites lost all track
Of logic and reason in the books
They were peddling as God’s word.
Oh, okay, they were just passing on
Mesopotamian stories they heard
But then to start calling it all
The voice of the spiritual over-mind
Means we are expected to be
Sort of intellectually deaf and blind.
Even if one can accept things like
A snake that talks and wheedles
I think accepting talking bushes
Requires stuff in hypodermic needles.

I think you have confused
Your Jehovah with Santa.
They are not the same thing.
Let me hear you say hallelujah!
Some of your traditions are
Verging on the weird and funny
When you peddle stories
About an egg-laying bunny.
And that basket of fishes
To feed a thousand was dumb.
In prehistoric Israel, just where
Did those freeloaders come from?
That strange ‘water into wine’ thing
Would be banned by law today.
Jesus, as evangelical moonshiner?
The authorities would put him away.

But that’s all fine and good if
One personally deems it to be so,
This claiming to run daily life
By words memorized long ago.
Since some of it makes sense
It may be easier to just ignore
Things like wizards and magic
As something from long before.
Evidence today says nobody lived
For eight hundred years and such.
But things like facts don’t seem
To bother religious people that much.
So, have at it, you spooky folks
With your symbols and mystery
Just save your breath if you think
You’ll get acceptance from me.