I wrote poetry tonight of sunsets and ponds,
worthless topics in light of the state of the world.
Just ended a hospital stay...needed to be mellow.
But this godawful earth gives me the heebie jeebies.
Forced confinement that came with cable t.v.
I wallowed in insanity and stupidity that seemed
                  to have no freakin end
We are teetering on so many brinks, but what was on?
A series about a guy makes a chain of hamburgers
on the family name...
Watched them play on a lawn big enough to choke a goat,
swim in their waterfall pool and frolic in designer clothes.
A series about mansions that cost millions of dollars
and could each house the homeless population of this town.
     Freaking carbon combat boot prints.
Worked all my life.
Me and my three cats struggle - disability does not

               buy mansions!

The world in on a precipice so **** scary
God himself can’t tip it back.

Korea, Iran and all those Isis ******* that put
bullets in the heads of six year-old boys.

And they show wanton consumption - reckless regard
for the land - don’t tell me they earned their money
and deserve to have obscene disregard for others.

When the rich have to  pay their fair share...
when life is equitable and no one goes hungry
or sick
or without education...

Then maybe it won’t be so sickening.

She shuffles purposely, eyes down,
seeing only that path her veiny legs mark out.
A broken old toy on a frayed string.

Flesh of her feet squeezed past
the boundaries of her sneakers.
Pitted, marshmallow feet that have traded
high heels and sheer hose for sweat sox.
She wears three pairs...all she has -
trading them each day.

She swims against the tide, determined
to make her way - to remember her destination.
Her green Book of the Month bag is clutched
to the fray of her coat...everything she has
and is - is in that bag.

Her eyes play peek-a-boo with the sun.
Images flit on her retina, frightening her
to jump; some shadow-shape approaches...
she flies apart, afraid and confused,
helpless to regain her route from memory.

The place she goes is not the place
she wants to be, but it is such a long trip home...
if she could remember where home is.

Auntie Ellen was already crazy
The day her brother moved her in.
She was not my relation but
Everyone addressed her like kin.
She was Auntie to everyone
And she got rather hollersome
If you didn’t call her that way;
She’d shout until kingdom come.

Rumor had it she met a fellow
When she did factory work.
He led her on and dumped her.
He was that kind of a ****.
Something snapped inside her
And she was never the same.
About that time, she started in
Telling people her choice of name.

She lived down the block, alone
And you could hear the music playing.
She’d wave when I passed her home;
I couldn’t hear what she was saying.
One time I started to walk closer
So I could hear the words she said
But she got very angry all at once
And chucked a dirt clod at my head.

We all felt sorry for Auntie Ellen
And didn’t think she was a threat.
The occasional dirt clod was not
Something any of us would sweat.
Her brother came around at times
To see how Auntie Ellen was faring.
I don’t think anyone ever understood
Her words to know if she was swearing.

She was sort of our neighborhood’s
Crazy person we kept in the attic.
She looked strange and sounded worse
And her behavior was quite erratic.
But she never harmed anyone here
And her dirt chucking always missed.
So, we just remembered her as
Auntie Ellen who was usually ******.

The man lay upon the city bench, his eyes closed against the day.
Dark aged skin warmed against the bleached and crackled paint.
Shadows of humanity are the only clouds to cross his mood,
a hastened pace helps avert its formless gaze when passing by.
What judgments has the world heaped upon him, or he upon his-self,
that has brought him to this space of civic consideration?
Is he ignorant of the angst he’s caused to be set upon our bliss?
To how disconcerting to the whole, his social presence is?
He is the dying form of a comrade seen through the smoke of the day’s long battle.
The one who is forsaken to preserve our flimsy rationales,
least we be brought low in some vain attempt to save our dignity.
Whose eyes once open might catch us in their noēsis gaze,
and hold us there unable to avert their silent condemnation.
Yet they are closed.
And our troubles stir him not.

A fragile little rose
(It's always a rose)
Petals clinging on for life
(Are they ever healthy?)
Soon to fall to the ground
(Probably smoothly)
And be trampled underfoot
(I dare say it's a symbol).

I see dead bodies
Where libraries used to be

I take nothing seriously
Not even this poem
Or the literary value
I don't give a ****
(love me)

Traditional structure is a prison
And I am Andy Dufresne

My pen is a knife and
This paper is skin,
I cut myself open to feel
The poetry ooze like red art

Stardust settles around my livid woe
Hopelessly like divine snow

**(I bury myself in all my falseness—
A poet was never there.)

If you heard sounds over Chicago
Would it be UFOs or the blast of guns?
Do they sound like drums hurting everyone
Are they hitting your heart or your conscience?
If you fell over holes on the streets would you get eaten by Alligators

If you see spaceships over Chicago
Would you be alarmed as the snow?
Going down the city and drive you crazy

Is this the end of the world or is that snow?