The bin-men and bin-women
of Birmingham
are on strike.
Black bin bags barricade the streets,
decaying vegetables
rotting meat
and putrid fish
perfume the pavements:
an odour brewed
in the vat
of spending cuts.

In the park
families picnic
between discarded
takeaway boxes:
their children chase
windblown paper towels
round an assault course
of half-empty cola bottles.

Rats big as cats
prowl the roads
like tigers
and eat car wires
bringing the city to
a stinking, gridlocked stop.

A bad day away
From the end of things,
Cause not a person stays.

And everything remains the same,

Despite all the change.

An hour to twelve,
When the clock strikes.
I burn one down.

And the match reminds me of hell;

Of dark depths, lit by scorching light.

Most deepest of desires, and precious hopes
We are fond of holding you close,
Fearful we will share our thoughts

And be lost to ourselves

To understand, what we know we never can

I refuse to write anything brilliant today,
in support of the writers’ strike.

There’s a writers’ strike. Should you be writing today?

The Stop & Shop strike v. Game of Thrones.
In Game what’s not made plain
is the condition of the people
compared with warriors and queens.
There’s no mention of land-clearance, tree-felling,
pruning, chopping, digging, hoeing,
weeding, branding, gelding, slaughtering,
salting, tanning, brewing, boiling,
smelting, forging, milling, thatching,
fencing and hurdle-making, hedging, road-mending and haulage.

As for the strike, most of us
supported the cashiers and clerks—
cutting benefits and pensions
when CEOs make millions.
A few pennies more
for ice cream and tofu
a leg up for our neighbors
and comrades in labor.
But don’t get greedy, power-hungry—
we don’t want the supermarket to go out of business
or the Army of the Dead to extinguish us.

A red-tailed hawk observes what small mammals, birds are in the
     clearcut,
awaits the moment to strike.
Three *****, two strikes, full count. Aaron pitched carefully, slow
     strikes and the opposing team scored.
Transit strike. Part-time tutor,
food deliverer, illegal immigrant,
school bus driver, supermarket bagger.
Let labor flow like capital! Full tank of gas!
In your dreams, you kick ***.
In your daydream, you’re breaking bones, killing mean dogs with bare
     hands .
In my childhood dreams, I fought side by side with my best buddies
against the Army of the Dead.
I wake up to a lightning strike and my dream incinerates.

The strike is over, like a thunderstorm.
Still a half dozen or so episodes of Thrones
before it sinks into the past.
Will women save the world?
Anything’s possible.
Nothing changes in Williamstown, Willie, except the seasons.
The wee hours, the bored minutes, the second guesses,
the town sewer department, the collector of taxes.
Pitcher’s elbow, runner’s knee, reader’s eye,
you live until you die.
That’s no answer.
Without the Mexican and Canadian borders
the White Walkers would dissolve like an aspirin in seltzer water.

The sun is up, the strike is over
next episode of Game is Sunday
the White Walkers attack
some of our favorite characters croak
but humanity survives
though the weather is ominous.
The habitable zone around the sun
is moving outward as the orb expands
getting hotter as it grows older.
Earth a billion years ago
was smack in the middle of the turf
but we’re now half-in, half-out
exposed to the sun’s ardor, agony,
a dragon eating its babies, torching cities.
We’re gonna hafta outsmart it
hold Labor Day barbecues on Mars.

the smell lures you in.
all you want is food
until you're suddenly
fighting for your life.
you can never catch a breath
without someone behind you.
because when you rest
for even one second
that's when they strike.

A smile that lights the darkest corner of this unforgiving world.

You are my fire, cinders in my soul constantly burning
Your touch melted my icy heart, all it ever knew was unrelenting cold.

My soul you armed with confidence, gave it strength, worth It's weapon, it's so bold.

Life handed me a bad hand, without you in it, I would have to fold.

Together we travel this winding road directionless, even if it is unknown.

Every moment love shared, a river of love, we prayed to find each other
Between us it religiously flows.

We both wholeheartedly without any doubt  feel the same, our love knows.

You my heavenly Angel, your words divine,
Your heart your Angelic halo.