A tweak here,
a tweak there.

As if the right word
in the right place
could salvage this mess.

But no,
a simple fix won't do.

What's wrong here
is nothing less than
pretty much everything.

So, forget the thesaurus.
Forget the band-aid.

What I need is a miracle.

Cruelty disguised as satire.
Very clever.

And, no Cartman
is not a cutesy Archie Bunker Jr.
He's Ted Bundy
only much smarter.

Don't think so.
God does not play dice with the Universe.

Gatekeeper, gatekeeper,
I'm the Big Bad Wolf let me in

Gatekeeper, gatekeeper,
I'm one of the beautiful people let me in

Gatekeeper, gatekeeper,
I have a Platinum American Express Card let me in

Gatekeeper, gatekeeper,
I'm down on my knees, let me in

Gatekeeper, gatekeeper,
hear my humble plea

"Please, oh please, just let me in"

Before I pooped my pants
in front of a live audience,
long after the age when
such a thing could be done
with impunity and without
embarrassment, I considered,
even obsessed over the possibility
or, rather, the probability of just
such a an event occurring until
it became, not merely possible
but inevitable, a self-fulfilling
prophecy so that, when it did
happen I was prepared--

I had on an adult diaper.

Blind faith, idolatry.
So tempting.

Though it's almost always misplaced.
Though our heroes always fail us.

Not their fault.
We expect too much.
We expect the impossible.

Open the cage door.
Let them go.

"I'll never tell" or "I'm telling"

Like two sides
of the same coin--
heads, tails,
neither choice bodes well.

Which is more disturbing?

I consider one way,
then the other
and conclude:

They're both really creepy

Zombies prefer young brains,
still pink, loaded with nutrients
and yet to be corrupted by life experience.

Zombies sit in their cars
outside grade schools, middle schools,
salivating, waiting for the dismissal bell.

They practice pick-up lines.
"Hey, how's it going?"
"What's your name?"
"Come here often?"

Zombies haunt online chat rooms,
posing as youngsters.
"School ****** today didn't it?"
"Wanna play video games?"
"Wanna meet up and hang out?"

Zombies sit on park benches in front
of the playground, watching, watching.
They bring their puppies.

Don't be a zombie.

Are we talking absolutes here? **** right!
Those rich, slave holding white male landowners
made it clear: "the right of the people to keep
and bear Arms, shall not be infringed"
and never mind that "well regulated militia," crap.

You're eighteen years old and a law abiding citizen.
Or maybe not. Either way you are "the people"
and anything less is a slippery *****.

First they come for your nukes,
then your rocket launchers, then your bazookas.
Then it's your hand grenades, then your assault rifles
and, before you know it, they'll take away
your right to breath, eat and blow stuff up.

So stand up patriots. Tell them crazy Dems "Hell No!"

Jeremy Meeks

Sick of it yet?

Before I won the big jackpot,
I'd pretty much lost my faith
in human nature. But after word
got out things changed.

Some of the jocks who used to
slam my head into the lockers
in school called me up to chat
and see how I was doing. And
the girls who'd shot me down
and laughed in my face over
the years texted me on facebook
and asked if we could get together.

Even my mom who ran off
with her affair partner and went
no contact for twenty years
got in touch and said she wanted
for us to reconnect.

Everyone's been so nice!
I guess people aren't so bad after all.

Disclaimer: It's a hard
and dangerous job and there
are plenty of good cops
and God bless them
but as for the others:

Cops Lie.
They lie and lie.
They even lie when there is video.
They lie even when their lies
are plain to see.
Clearly, the blood and broken nose
are from the victim smashing
his own face into the pavement.
The welts from repeatedly ramming
his head into that peace officer's baton.

If Attila the *** were a cop,
the police union would vigorously
defend his innocence.
He's a fellow officer, after all.
And if anyone on the force,
including the Police Chief,
disagrees the Union backers will
do their darndest to get him fired.

Now, imagine how much worse
it was before cell phones, before video.

Brutal.

To any of you women
who ever voted Republican
in a Presidential Election

To Susan Collins
who claimed to believe
the assault allegations
of a credible women
(sorry sweetie, doesn't matter)
then gave a thumbs up
on the Supreme Court nomination
of a lying, would-be ******
who only failed because
he was too drunk to pull it off

To any of you pro-lifers
who are fine with telling
an eleven-year old ****** victim
to carry a child to term
(sorry sweetie, that's your
problem not ours) or
"you shouldn't have let
yourself get *****"

Congrats and have a nice life

I'm with Brother Beavis
on this one

Listening to the song
"Shiny Happy People"
makes me feel kind
of shiny and happy

Listening to it makes me want
to step away from the ledge,
to take the gun barrel out of my mouth,
to unhook the hose from the exhaust
pipe and open the car windows,
to put the cap back on the bottle of pills,
to pull my head out of the noose,
to put away the razor blade

Yeah, I know it was written tongue in cheek
and meant to be ironic, satiric or whatever

Don't care, it makes me feel good

Aren't we precocious?
Aren't we smart?
Reading at three,
learning poems by heart.

Aren't we precocious?
Aren't we clever?
Writing stories at six,
what an endeavor.

Aren't we precocious?
Aren't we sharp?
Staging plays at nine,
a bit of a lark.

Aren't we precocious?
Aren't we keen?
Making movies at twelve,
blocking out scenes.

Aren't we precocious?
Aren't we the bomb?
Multitasking at sixteen,
skipping the prom.

Aren't we precocious?
Aren't we a lock?
Making bundles at twenty,
buying houses and stock.

Aren't we precocious?
Aren't we the ****?
Rich as Midas at thirty
getting high, getting lit.

Aren't we precocious?
Aren't we sick?
Bankrupt at forty,
we're losing our schtick.

Aren't we precocious?
But where is our head?
Not even fifty
we're spent, then we're dead.

It's only fun if your really smart
and, even then, you better watch out

One of the flunkies
at the journal/review
will glance at your submission
just to say he did,
reflexively hit the REJECT key,

Direct your 3 or, worse, 5 dollar
bribe into the coffers
and think to himself SUCKER.

Just took my third dump of the day
and I'm tired of wiping
but I'm too lazy to take a shower
so I'll have to take my chances out
in the Big Wide World

Which means taking my heart medication,
which means obeying traffic laws,
which means being extra careful
crossing the street, which means
not antagonizing the cops or the homeless

But if I get struck by lightning
or hit by a meteorite or a stray bullet
or attacked by a grizzly bear
chances are I'll **** my pants
anyway which makes worrying
about it at all kind of pointless

Not a thought did I think
Not a word did I write
No tea did I drink
Not a foe did I fight

Not a mile did I walk
Not a page did I link
No door did I read
Not a putt did I sink

Not a patch did I ****
Not a meal did I make
No book did I read
Not a meme did I fake

Yet here I am, here I sit
Excuse me while I throw a fit

Start with a little girl's muddy drawers,
toss in some dialect, stir in some Shakespeare

Add the bellowing of an intellectually challenged man

Add a suicidal sibling, a sassy young black boy,
a dose of Southern ambience and wallah

You're William Faulkner

Mirror, mirror on the wall
who's the most wicked of them all?

Putin.

They say he was born running
and, a little later, he proved it,
toddling around in a diaper,
a fake grin on his face,
later yet, gripping hands and kissing babies,
making promises--a milk bottle
in every fridge and plenty of Gerber--
he couldn't keep, riding in the parade,
waving at the crowd, always hustling,
chasing votes, always on.

Poor *******.

It's not just that I ******
It's that to achieve even
modest competency
I had to play a piece
so many times that
I couldn't stand to play
piano anymore

So I sold the **** thing

They laughed when, hands
bound behind his back,
he ran deliberately headfirst
into a wall to try and escape
the pain

When it didn't work
they jeered and mocked

He wasn't getting off that easily

In Heaven, they spell your name correctly.

In Heaven, you have your own parking space.

In Heaven, you don't need a spam filter on your computer.

In Heaven, there are no sprained ankles or torn ACLs.

In Heaven, they play Tori Amos songs.

In Heaven, you neither sweat nor bleed.

In Heaven, there are no concussions.

In Heaven, there are no flat tires.

In Heaven, there is no male pattern baldness.

In Heaven, *** is optional and always consensual.

In Heaven, crutches, walkers and wheelchairs are superfluous.

In Heaven, meat is grown in a lab.

In Heaven, there are no guns.

In Heaven, the mailmen are friendly.

In Heaven, there are no brass knuckles.

In Heaven, the dogs do not bite.

In Heaven, the pharmacy is always open.

In Heaven, there are no hangovers.

In Heaven an afternoon nap is de rigueur.

In Heaven, we're all BFF.

Announce a competition, any competition
feature the word "Victory,"
offer a shiny Gold Medal to the winner
and watch them beat a path to your door

Me talk good
Me no talk bad
Me always happy
Me never sad

Me sleep good
Me not dream
Me like meat
Me like ice cream

Me walk good
Me don't limp
Me drive car
Me no chimp

Me not done
Me have fun

Remember Eden,
The Tree Of Life,
the forbidden fruit.
Remember Commandments.

"Thou shalt not invade
and subjugate a sovereign country.
Thou shalt not fire upon civilians.
Thou shalt not threaten nuclear war."

Take note little KGB stooge:
The territory you covet
does not belong to you.

"Thou shalt not drop bombs
on schools and hospitals.
Thou shalt not torture dissidents.
Thou shalt not ****** journalists.
Thou shalt not exploit and steal
from you own countrymen."

Little Butcher, Little Troll:

This time, you've gone too far.
This time, you've done it.

Ukraine is not yours to pilfer.
The good citizens will defeat you.
You will not and cannot win.

And on Judgment Day,
The God you disdain will
have something to say.

Wouldn't want to be you Mr. Putin.

"Hey," I said, reading her poem,
"That's pretty good." And by
pretty good, I meant good.
And by good I meant very good.
And by very good I meant
so good I had to change
my pants. Bravo!

I

I think it a clever
pre-emptive move when
I order him a vest
with the stitched message:

"Please Don't Kick The Dog."

No need to tell you
how that works out.

So I take the vest back
to the fire pit and he and I
watch it burn.

                 II

I take my dog for a walk
and, tugging on his leash,
he pulls me along, nose
to the ground, wandering
here, there and everywhere,
stopping now and then
to strategically ***,
living an adventure I can
only remotely share.

                 III

My dog, seated, lifts a leg
to lick himself down there
and looks a little puzzled.

They're gone, of course.

I pat his head,
offer him a meaty treat.

"Sorry Butch," I say,
"I was only following the vet's advice.
Try not to hold it against me,"
then I offer up my hand.

Lick or bite? It's up to him.

Didn't feel comfortable
playing characters smarter
than me, better looking than me,
more successful than me

Now I work at McDonald's

An exhibition and
Michelle Kwan skating
to the Tori Amos song
"Winter"

Not yet knowing
that the Olympic Gold Medal

she so desperately craves
and deserves will
forever elude her

My mind is blown.
Destroyed.
I'll never recover.
Ever.

Meghan McCain
is correct on this one.

The Chinese elite raised
on repression, torture
and butchery, carry on
with repression, torture
and butchery.

But Big Money talks
and the IOC plays
a game of let's pretend.

And Peng Shuai?
Her ****** is probably
first on the list for when
they harvest her organs.

"Get out of the garden!"
No, it wasn't God yelling
it was the angry old man
next door and this wasn't
"That" Garden it was
the small vegetable
garden in his back yard.

And it was two young boys,
their pockets full of carrots,
radishes, turnips and not
Adam and Eve who made
a run for it.

Later, they tossed
their ***** into the gutter
because neither one of them
much liked veggies.

I apologize in advance.
For the stale cliches,
mixed metaphors,
lack of metaphor,
for the generic flowers,
the pretty butterflies,
the mountains that
inevitably invite climbing,
for the references
to Icarus and Sisyphus,
for the name dropping
and dubious allusions,
for the lack of creativity
and imagination,
for the lack of skill,
for the lack of distinction,
for everything my poems
are not and never will be

"That was wack,"
the twenty something said,
referring to something I can't
even begin to remember
and it was the first time
I'd heard someone say it
without air quotes
or an ironic smirk
outside of the movies
and someone else called
him on it, saying "that was wack
to call that (whatever it was) wack,
and, so, the argument was on,
because the word itself
was already on the verge of passe
even for a bunch of bored
small town white boys who
were not remotely hip or gangsta
until somebody passed around
a joint and we forgot all about it

I'm fine with them until they start
******* and pooping all over the place.

Check out those filthy hippos,
in the zoo or in the wild,
flagrantly crapping themselves
on land or, worse, in water swimming
through their own ****.

But, oh, those sweet, darling animals.

Okay, I dislike the idea of eating them
or stealing their milk but my patience
is sorely tested by the lazy cow
who couldn't be bothered to step out
of the middle of the river before
unleashing a thick stream of ****
that went on and on and on while
placidly eyeing our approaching canoes.

And I was going to go swimming later.

Monkeys hurling feces.
Horses, pigs and chickens fouling
their own nests, stepping
in their own crap again and again
even when they could easily avoid it.

I suspect that, given the chances, they'd
foul up the planet as badly as we have.

The believer said:
"Denying the possibility
of an almighty God
exhibits an almost willful
lack of imagination."

To his credit,
the atheist agreed.

Dear Jorie Graham:

I have called your poems
unreadable crap. Repeatedly.

I have referred to your work
as "page-*****" and proclaimed
you the biggest fraud
in the history of literature.
Such arrogance!

My apologies.
I was wrong.
I no longer believe that.

You will never read this.
Still, I wish you well.
I wish you health and a long life.

Now, excuse me while I put
on a dunce cap, sit in the corner
and shut my stupid mouth.

Bandits. Extortionists.
Corporate pirates.
The worst of the worst.

New year? They jack up the rates.
Springtime? They jack up the rates.
Summer? Autumn? Ditto.

Expenses the excuse.
Inflation the excuse.
Hell, they don't need an excuse,
they're Big Cable *******,
so **** it.

Customer Service?
Incompetent or worse,
rude aggressive, dismissive
and incompetent.
A joke.

Tired of dealing with you?
They hang-up or leave
you hanging. Dead air.
You're welcome Buddy.

Shameless. Insulting.

Done with the b------s.
Good-bye and good riddance!

On my deathbed,
my bony finger
will reach for
the keyboard
like Adam's finger
reaches out to God
in Michelangelo's famous
Sistine Chapel painting
and hit, "Delete All."

If I'd known, I wouldn't have died

She comes to my dorm room
from a frat party,
face flushed
stinking of beer.

She rubs herself against me,
tells me how much she loves me,
misses me.

I let her calm down a little
before I ask her,

"So, who've you been
making out with this time?"

Plenty of them out there, forced rhymes,
non sequiturs, contradictory lines,
mixed metaphors, just plain nonsense.

But the music catches you up
and, sooner or later, you're snapping
your fingers and singing along,
mouthing those ****** lyrics
as if they were the finest poetry.

Rambo Jr. mugging
for the camera, little rooster
cocking around.

See his backward cap?
See his AK-15?
Isn't he the coolest?
Isn't he a Sport?

Looking for trouble?
No, begging for it.

And finding it.

So that, when the little
Dork trips over his own feet,
he comes up firing.

Isn't that what he came for?

In court now,
in suit and tie,
his chubby white face
reeking of privilege.

On the stand, coached
by his high-priced lawyers,
not quite as dumb
as he looks on video.

Such a nice boy!

The chatty judge,
half-senile, loves him.

And the white jury?
They do to.

So the little *******
gets away with it.

Three Georgia Crackers
went ++++++  hunting
and bagged themselves
a  ++++++. Not a black man,
not a human being, a  ++++++.

His name was, is Armaud Arbery.
The Crackers did not know
his name that day, nor did they care.
They were proud of themselves.
They thought they got away with it.
The jury thought otherwise.

Thank goodness.

The needle, the vein:
conspirators.

The body, the brain:
accomplices.

The sweet poison:
irresistable.

Ten years of sobriety?
Those good intentions?
A child's balloon
snatched by the wind.
Gone.

Sandusky, Cosby, Madoff:
the wives riding the gravy train,
turning a blind eye

Sandusky: hiding upstairs,
ears finger-plugged, humming
to herself--whatever the Big Goof
was up to down in the basement
with those young boys
none of her business

Cosby: Disarming
his accusers with fake charm,
posing as a good friend while studiously
ignoring all those silly allegations,
as if her Dearly Beloved Meal Ticket
really was America's Favorite Dad
and not America's Most Famous
Serial Roofie-em First ******

Madoff: Hiding assets,
mailing her kids a million dollars
worth of jewelry and trying to keep
it a secret, on TV, she's so, so sorry,
never suspected a thing (okay Pinnochio)
moving now into a pricey mansion,
snacking on caviar again

And the victims? Too **** bad