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So what I helped a bit,
Turned a blind eye,
Have I not always taught him
To reach for the sky?

He’s a good boy,
Maybe just lost,
But he tries so **** hard
Little knowing the cost.

I must though admit
I too was quite thrown
By the sheer huge amounts
Of payments since shown.

And then here comes Trump
Full of his bluster,
Figuring we’re the Indians
And somehow he’s General Custer.

I know facts aren’t his bag,
He’s short with the truth,
But even he can’t deny
Custer’s end was uncouth.

Peppered with arrows,
Stripped to the skin,
A little demeaning
To want to be him?

But then I forget
The guy’s a big star
And with make-believe
He’s clearly gone far.

Time for a reckoning,
My boot’s on my foot
A strong upward kick
And he’ll surely stay put.
I’m sure I’m quite right,
I cannot be wrong,
I was always so bright.
My memory’s strong.

I well racked my brain,
Considered all facts
And with consummate strain
Followed the tracks.

The Kurds were not there
Nowhere in sight,
This I declare
Knowing I’m right.

That day on the beaches,
With fighting so strong,
As history teaches,
No Kurds came along.

Now they seek succor,
Too late by a mile,
When so far in the gutter
They needn’t me dial.

They claim we should help them,
Protect them from foes,
It’s me they condemn
For their long list of woes.

Get with the program,
Move it along
Hurry and scram
From the conquering throng.

Don’t try and convince me
I’ve made the wrong choice,
I’m sure you’ll agree
You haven’t a voice.
In my infinite wisdom
I tell you this thing,
In this here my kingdom
Will the pendulum swing;

One minute the Kurds
So cute in their garb,
The other the Turks
With their venomous barb.

The former I’m told
Are people to trust,
But I just like the bold
That don’t self-combust.

Give me a winner,
A strong man each time,
I’d rather a sinner
Who’ll follow my line.

Call me ‘cold-hearted’
But what do I care,
The process now started
Depicts my great flair.

Like a conductor
I set forth the tone,
The finest instructor
The world’s ever known.

Let’s finish this bleating
And follow my lead,
So the Kurds get a beating,
A serious nosebleed;

They’re nothing to me,
Just a festering sore,
I hereby decree
This subject’s a bore.
The man
The untidy one
Hunger his mistress
She likes to watch him suffer, lament
Till he drops at the feet of Mother Pavement.

The wife
Fed up by life
For there's nothing else to feed her
There is no lamp in the city
that can lighten up her Diwali

The child
All bone and skin
clutching on to the alphabet
His coos of learning A, B, C
Drowned by the cacophony of G, D, P
my dickensian observations, with a pinch of satire.
So much to say in such an excruciatingly long and short time,
Like a snake who just digested an owl, you spew lemon, yet you do not shine from your cliff
Do you choose to let the citrus of your breath slowly pervase the depths you do not wish to seek?
I’d be more erudite to listen to the air from the vent
To break a thing down is to bring about more intrigue than your aura of bore
The room is a bubble being blown into with much more
Two opposites that come together to form a center
With such statistics, the room is cold,
As I focus more on it, that feeling becomes more bold

Thorough are your detailed thoughts I suppose
I do believe you drink unsweetened coffee
On and on you do prose
My eyes become weary by the second of your presence
You speak such common sense, with such a light that’s dense

You reach outside no borders
You stay quite consistently where you have been
If you were in the middle of the room, looking up
No one would give you the privilege of our ears
My ears are open, yet at the sound of you, they become muffled
dense teacher of mine, oh so dense you are, this is for you
God what a mess,
My head is spinning,
Each day more stress,
Am I still winning?

Wall street crashing,
The economy near stall,
The media’s constant bashing,
Pelosi’s new curve ball.

My plans are now in tatters,
Forestalled at every turn,
To do what really matters
Is all I truly yearn.

I’m gearing for a fight
The like they’ve never seen,
I use my mouth to bite
And care little if I’m mean.

I’ll tear each one to shreds,
Flail them side to side,
Get well into their heads,
Give them quite a ride.

Clearly they don’t know
The grief they have in store,
They’ll reap what they now sow,
It’s nothing short of war.

Like Bombers flying high
Releasing their payload,
Shells falling from the sky,
I’ll give them what they’re owed.

Cross me once
And risk my wrath,
Yours the choice
To take that path.

Cross me twice
And stay awake,
You’ve cast your dice,
What a mistake.
Robert Ippaso Sep 25
Now they’ve done it, this is real,
Trying hard my job to steal,
Why they’d want it no-one knows,
This frenzied pack of feeding crows.

Impeach for this, Impeach for that,
A sirens’ song that just falls flat,
They little know I planned the lot,
Goading Biden to this spot.

I may be brazen but I’m not dumb,
To simple traps I don’t succumb,
A life of deals, of double talk,
I choose the prey I want to stalk.

Let them rejoice, exchange high fives,
Parade on air flaunting their knives,
While all the time I’m hard at work,
Piling dirt on that servile clerk.

Six feet deep or even more
Is how I’ll settle this one score,
And then who’s left – two ****** fools,
The one just blabbers, the other drools.

So bring it on, I wait with glee,
For all the world this show to see,
Four more years with me on top,
All their efforts one huge flop.
Oculi Sep 24
The tárogató yells
About the Spiritus Sanctus
While I conduct
Electric orchestra
In more ways than one

Noxious fumes
Piles of elastic dolls
The forge beckons
The crisis averted
God bless America

The working man
He's down on his luck
He kills his boss
Then waits in his blood
For the police with a smile

The wooden flute
The samurai's hat
The question of allegience
The barbed wire fences
God bless America

The muezzin talks
To the director
Looking for the paper
The Luzerne Zeitung
That is what he cried

Will I live to see daylight?
Will I choke on a cloth,
Doused in gasoline
With the rabbit skinner?
God bless America

Purple
Yellow
Indigo
Green
Lime
Curmudgeon
Ocher
Bordeau­x
Magenta
Pink

Does the Creator ever question the existence of her own self, or does she sit upon her clouds, oblivious to our plight, performing the greatest of rituals with no effect and appointing herself God of This, God of That, God of Whatever-Comes-To-Mind, naming herself after whatever we want her to be, believing in simply just letting us believe, calculating until our inevitable doom makes her simply useless and lonesome? Would her angels then weep for humanity? Are there angels? Who are you?

Allah?
Krishnu?
Tezcatlipoca?
Zeus?

Inferno is unleashed on the ******* sagging from my chin
The pain burns, but worse is the humiliation
Even worse is the taste
But I endure it, for I must see the yellow brick road once more

The chest grows
The hair grows
The voice grows higher
She stands tall
In her filth
In her rotting lamb's skin
In the armchair
Where bliss once caught her

And a generation dies under the commanding voice of Whoever-The-****
Why would his name matter when all you'll remember is the count of millions?

God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America

Can you dig your own grave, America?
My arms are tired.
God gave us the stars to shoot for
so we would have ***** other
than our sister or brother
eager to reach the shooting range we slammed the shuttle door
on our captain’s silver crown
in a sea spilling from His ichor
sack punctured by our hubris we drown-
memes and cat videos worth dying for

We set fire to the shuttle
gasp as our air begins to leave
Amazon(s) choose to scuttle
trees land and humans need to breathe
a musk most putrid rises as we cannibalize our space ex
who’s so far gone as to not come back
her zombie bridezilla tirade wrecks  
our plan it removes futures from the trajectory track

God gave us the stars to shoot for
so we reduced our target to soot
we revelled in our high score
not feeling the pain in our shot foot
and the cats still in secret revery dance their funny jig
sardonic wit stuffed still in every blank screen -small or large-
on the skeleton of our ghastly ghost space rig
reduced to rubble by a friendly depth charge.

God gave us the stars to shoot for
it was we who chose to use a gun
we chose to ram through the door
not checking if it was open
God gave us the stars to shoot for
leaving the details for us to decide
rockets to be built to make war or explore
as shuttlecraft for a human slingshot ride
an arching advance into the beauties of
our Creator made for us to enjoy in love
~
NM
08/25/19
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