Is not a test or a game
or an experiment,
it's an inevitability.

Don't want to play?
Too bad, you don't have a choice.

Fix it. I can't fix it.
Fix it. I can't fix it.
Fix it. I can't fix it.

I can't fix it.

Sure, I win my fair share
And more of Scrabble games
And, yes, I’m the one who keeps score
But it’s not just that.

Nearly every day I practice
Drawing tiles for an hour or so

So, when I draw good letters
On my way to victory,
I think of how all that hard work
And preparation is paying off for me.

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

Nauseous to meet you.
Nauseous to greet you.

Nauseous to look at you.
Nauseous to cook for you.

Nauseous to show you.
Nauseous to know you.

Nauseous to talk to you.
Nauseous to walk with you.

Nauseous to smell you.
Nauseous: to hell with you.

Who claimed he liked what I sent
And, though he can’t publish any of it,
Would like to see more I say
I’m sorry but this is pretty much
My best **** anything else I submit
Will, frankly, not be as good
So why should I bother?

Like flies on stink.
Like hair on a gorilla.

The ghouls and goblins.
The rubberneckers. The media.

Here the camp.
Here the shrine.

They gasp. They cluck.
They repeat and repeat.

Until the next one.
Until they pick up and move on.

He survived the firefights
and near misses,
so many that his brothers-in-arms
thought he was charmed,
invisible to Death

Came home after
his third and final tour
and died with a gun in his mouth

"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

Behold the expendable character
Who’s death is designed to help establish
The putative high stakes of the show.

Cue Walter, a homicidal monster.
Little nuance here. Sneering, lecherous,
He’s due a satisfyingly violent demise.

And there’s absolutely no danger
In giving him one.

We talk about cold fronts
and warming trends.
We talk about imminent storms.

Hail, frost, wind.
The long hot summer.
We nod, smile, commiserate.

We talk about the weather
To keep from killing each other.

That the journalist writing
the story about him doesn't know
is that there's no such thing
as meaningless action.

Which is why he's throwing a fit.

Is a lot
more fun
going down
than it is
coming up

One afternoon, years back
I was caught speeding
through a small town
in Northern Iowa

The trooper, a white man
wrote me a ticket
and let me go

Had I been a black man
in Louisiana, the trooper,
a white man, would have
pulled me from the car
and beat the living crap
out of me with his flashlight
while I begged him to stop

He would pretend I was resisting

Later, he and his buds would
have a hearty chuckle over it

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

Any race, gender, color
and it's a little circling,
a sniff of the hand,
a sniff of the crotch,
a sniff of the ****,
a tail wag and it's all good.

It's a temptation to roll
out the vocabulary,
have a parade.

On the other hand,
sometimes less is more.

Can't decide?
You're not alone.

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

Yet another close game
decided by a bad call.
Why bother?
Forget the game. Forget the refs.
Flip a coin.

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.