My nutritionist told me I need to increase my caloric intake and eat more carbs. I asked my nutritionist, “aren’t carbs bad for you?”
She said, “No. Carbs are not bad for you, carbs are an immediate energy source for your body to use, what’s bad for you is not eating enough and passing out at the end of the day like some ***** *****. Now eat some carbs and get some meat on those bones before I order you a ******* pizza myself.”

I should mention that my nutritionist is also my best friend. I call her Lady Reptar, because she is one. A lady, not a reptar, even though she’s twenty times more awesome than a dinosaur and fifty times nicer. She’s beautiful like a ******* daisy in the woods and she’s sharp and wittier than her cooking knives and she’s warmer than her father’s woodstove.

"So, do poppy seeds count as protein?"

in my family conversation is seldom thoughtful questioning filled with wonder quiet pauses instead it is sociable banter teasing goading spontaneous gratuitous remarks clever embellishment excessive flattery it is an ancient system passed down patronage pecking order nepotism sycophancy near to impossible for me to be honest in presence of their overwhelming vanity when it comes to family gatherings my voice isn’t very strong my family’s joking squelches my chirp they are each and all more loud sarcastic faster wittier more crude outrageous more funny loud gregarious sanguine Mom embarrasses herself with uncalled for flirtations (her mental state rapidly deteriorating) everyone laughs boisterously they snap kid exaggerate amplify taunt i can hardly get word in i need to repeat myself several times or more to be heard my voice is minor i struggle to tell story they listen politely then rush back into their rowdy repartee i am way too sincere way too naked in my ineptitude my stomach ties in knots biting lip shivering from cold fear what’s going to happen pitch black in front of me voice inside screams please i need help so bad please make it easier i’m lost in all this commotion drama hunger lack of clarity

Chicago 1980 Odysseus always revered cousin Chris is taller tan-skinned handsomer stronger protective of Odysseus knowing he is frivolous liability tags along with Chris and his prosperous trader friends advantaged echelon inherited wealth educated white young men they float above everyone else their tastes in clothes furnishings run Brooks Brothers Burberry Giorgio Armani Ralph Lauren John-Paul Gautier Paul Smith Emile Zegna Salvatore Ferragamo their preference in women run typically blonde large ******* tight butts make-up painted nails they think Odysseus is a freak because he usually chooses females none of them want Odysseus likes skinny girls flat chests glasses he knows he is an extraneous art pet to Chris and his group

Chris joins newly built state of art fitness facility pricey membership accesses all of Chicago’s fast track shakers movers politicians lawyers pretty people Odysseus has his limits he does not have money to join also he dislikes snooty elitism several times Chris invites Odysseus as guest Odysseus feels insecure outsider Chris always includes Odysseus pays for dinners they begin with round of doubles then 2nd round of doubles before glancing at menu Chris drinks Canadian Club on the rocks Odysseus follows they raucously order extravagant meals with appetizers 3rd 4th 5th rounds of doubles after pricey dinner at chic restaurant Chris’s group rendezvous at bar or club they order round of drinks tip lavishly sip drink glare around room leave barely touched drinks walk out with look of disdain they scavenge more bars in search of females or some intangible attraction Odysseus is never certain what they are looking for or what is the source of their contempt each wears black leather jacket carries huge wads of cash $20s $50s $100s folded stuffed in front pockets no wallets or clips

the Red Meat palace or Chang’s Szechwan grill are their favorite restaurants as many as 8 men sit at table pack mentality prevails for dessert course they pull out small brown bottles filled with ******* if it is Friday night Chris’s pad is frequently elected females other arrangements settle bill depart restaurant one night Odysseus arrives early at Chang’s wanders downstairs into women’s boutique salesgirl named Fiona greets him they hit it off he invites her to join him and his hosts upstairs after her shift is done Fiona arrives as dessert is about to be served table of men look desirously at Fiona beams Odysseus and Fiona along with Chris Phil Tom go to Odysseus’s place Fiona is perhaps 22 petite lovely with deep blue eyes set wide apart long eyelashes brown thick hair cut to shoulders high ******* pink ******* fragrance of linden flowers delighted by male attention Fiona ***** fondles each men are quite intoxicated Odysseus and Phil are only capable to sustain erections Odysseus stares mesmerized at Fiona’s extraordinarily swollen ***** she notices his fixation grins blushing men shout commands but in actuality Fiona is in charge reducing each of them to little boys vying for her attention near conclusion she requests they form circle around her ******* on her chest she fondles them touches herself men laugh mockingly as if to compensate for their lack of performance Tom picks up plastic dart gun aims it at Fiona she laughs crawls on all fours Tom fires dart hitting her on **** Phil grabs gun from Tom reloads another dart suddenly it feels like fraternity stunt Odysseus goes along offended by his own complicity to him episode feels more like men having *** with each other than being with a woman telephone rings it is Odysseus’s latest love pursuit she tells him she is on her way over everyone rushes to put on clothes change bed sheets they depart within minutes she arrives finally ready after weeks of romancing to put out for him after that night when Chris and Odysseus get buzzed in bar Chris routinely speaks the line to women have you ever been done by 2 cousins one night at Green River tavern woman squeezes milk from her ****** into shot glass dares cousins to drink Chris laughing turns down her offer Odysseus shoots back shot of milk then takes swig of Irish whiskey cousins go see Billy Idol at Odysseus’s insistence they stand near front stage young girls screaming after show driving home in Chris’s Fiat Spider Chris complains his ears are ringing i don’t know how i’ll be able to work tomorrow Odysseus nods like he hears hollers out window hey little sister shotgun!

Mom and Dad want their son to enjoy fruits of burgeoning affluence they feel certain what they are doing is best for him they rent quarter seat at Chicago Mercantile Exchange they originally promised full seat but they are overextended Odysseus enrolls in trading course he learns to trade Certificates of Deposit and Eurodollars which are recently established markets suddenly Odysseus has lots of cash his parents are dishing out he does not know what he is doing newly launched markets lack investment and fleece young men of their parent’s money his friends surroundings change he loses sight of himself he is a thoroughly incompetent trader bleeding cash scatters money between harebrained panicked trades or ******* girls $1000. wristwatch when Mom and Dad see jewelry they become furious in a way he represents his parent’s design for how to build successful son yet their plan is going dreadfully wrong he wants to stand up speak out against Dad and Mom he is not courageous enough to counter their weight he wants to express with more assurance his passion to pursue painting and writing isn’t fact he graduated from art school evidence enough of his aspirations commodities exchange is last place in the world he belongs Odysseus is risk taker but he is not aggressive or entrepreneurial only lesson he has learned with respect to his parents is how to run away

by all appearances cousin Chris is brilliant trader in reality Chris is hooked up with powerful crooked brokers they use him as their bagman he covers losing trades and is compensated or offsets winning side of profitable trades subsequently dealt his share Chris is not a criminal he stumbles into profit-making situation when certain conditions are flexible to advantages Chris is diligent hard worker the vast sums of money he earns do not distort his personality he is always generous shielding of Odysseus gold trading pit becomes so shady S.E.C. intervenes relinquishing exchange’s contract Chris and his bosses walk away unscathed having made their bundles

Mom and Aunt Rita run social itinerary for family including birthdays holidays all other gatherings where family will meet changes by the minute depending on Mom and Aunt Rita’s caprice checking in by telephone at least an hour before is mandatory arriving at destination Mom and Aunt Rita insist on specific table location seating arrangement it is important they be seen viewed by others at restaurant they never sit near kitchen or washrooms or where there is too much noise light away from drafts who sits next to who is crucial round tables are their favorite preferring backs to wall looking out so they can nod wave Mom rules from proud pedestal Dad upholds chain of command sometimes he irritably gripes Aunt Rita immediately comes to Mom’s defense Dad points finger back off Rita you’re way out of line where do you come up with a remark like that Mom mediates Max that’s enough in a way the sisters are spoiled little girls over-indulged by their father they believe their opinions and tastes are the best most correct everyone in family are subordinate to their no and don’t Mom and Aunt Rita routinely criticize Odysseus’s semantics oppose his observations critical of his clothes conduct they handily misconstrue his comments to mean fodder for their amusement Mom and Aunt Rita’s efforts to keep prim proper decorum cause resentment Odysseus feels constricted by his subservient role in drama of family he fails to understand their care

Odysseus busts out of markets leaving behind alarming debts for family to pay off he feels humiliation disgrace plunges into bottomless sleepless despair hides in house door locked window shutters shut phone rings unanswered hates life willfully wants to destroy himself there is no way out after week Chris comes by to see if he is all right Odysseus is reluctant to let Chris in Chris commands be a man get a grip on yourself Odysseus replies maybe i’m not a man he feels failure shame realizes he has become traitor to himself he wants to look at existence head on embrace it but all he knows are dishonor regret deception he conceives his being has been stolen he wants his life back but knows not how to recover it he feels deep in obligation to Mom and Dad thinks to escape from Chicago but his parent’s control is crushing he wakes late drinks black coffee smokes cigarettes marijuana hangs out alone sky changes from light to dark to light phone rings he reads Nietzsche Sartre frequents ***** Hole punk rock dive several blocks from residence becomes orphan of night drinking drugging

January 5 2011 30 years have passed Chris marries fathers son becomes best father to his child he can be leaves markets in late 80’s Dad dies in ’91 Odysseus leaves Chicago in 1994 he manages to paint some paintings write some words stomach ties in knots biting lip shivering from cold fear what’s going to happen ***** pink gray skies behind pitch black in front sometimes you need to take a step back in order to move forward Mom says she worried enough about money when she was younger and isn’t going to worry about it anymore her entire life she boasted i’m saving for my children but in the end she saved solely for herself Odysseus never learned to stand on his own all he ever wanted is to love and be loved he wonders what will happen next

We have never had to compete.
You are so much older than I am
So much prettier
So much wittier (you have said so yourself).
You are healthy
Not very wealthy
You proclaim your wisdom.

But I don't think you are as wise as you think.
With your doctorate,
You may have book learnin'
But you never learned how to be a part of our family.

I don't live in a liberal state
I don't eat all organic things
I am not involved in as many things
as you feel I should be
But I am trying to find my way
Without destroying our mother.

Every time you come
You bring chaos
And hurtful words.
You bring blame and hate
And you spew it.

You never think of anyone except
For yourself
And you twist the truth
In your mind,
Like you lied about being kidnapped,
Until you believe that you are the wronged.

You don't feel safe?
I don't feel safe with you.
I'm glad we don't compete...
There's no way I could win,
And hurt Mom, or our sister, or our nephew...
Or anyone
As much as you do.

the ego is a balm
for watching herds--
ezra pound is dead..

withought the ***** to make it rue
of wittier witter aphorisms never trilling forceful to undo

singular muse,
where do you come
in head or tip of head?
elusive beauty, disappear
i act in other barefoot dreams


typos bless the will to mean
of finality
of seem seam flawless be
i **** the emperor of ice cream
with concupiscent "words"
that verb the still to be a yogurt burv


single fractal frog
jumps like rhyme of toggle cog,
cutting grandma's mind

empty cup fills want
with other bristle sip+
eclipse Hypatia naked at the shrine
failure of a form
cones another phage
with peaceful loving bawl

freedom fighters flaunt
masturbatory rights of congress whim and taunt
crackle jackal fire sights
sing single missile lights

do i jest
or do i best,
lest simple techne tumble kite of waiting in the dark
of politician's lark
inventive lewd
of plaintiff plea
and rumble drum democracy

venous cud
of bovine mewing in the mud of affuenza's motherhood
strikes painful cords electric suds
that lather in the lackey's trodden figure's utter
venus aphrodite's *****'s foam

hopkins is at home
manley in the rub of constant loathsome comb
that preens a matish apparition's tomb

hello kind traveler
that takes me by the hand
rolling in the grass has never been as such
the band plays off Genghis Khan
like Gandhi spitting soup
in afternoon reprieve of ignoramOus fun

the meaning is ajar
i know i war with Stevens too to
bear the furry calousness of wartime's endless true
a bond of moneylicsious new accounted even in the dew
that sunders sounds to recreate a farflung brew
of history's adieu
which only sPeares you in the gut
(an existential reference here to trope the nom)
elusive Lear that wanders in the Foolish storm caressing cave to find
another mind
that only someone special kKnew of Kent
encapsulating time in brands that offer (a[0I]ether dust for tolling flight
growing down into the mushroom ground
spanning subtentious fraughtful nocturnes in the night
to bide that meaning's plight i wish i
wasn't altogether through
though happy to be here iwth yew

Hello
this is a short message
written this Sunday morning
on March the first

the rain keeps coming from the west
non-stop for two days
risk of flooding
government says.

I miss you - had another dream
driving in sunshine.
It's the sun I miss
mostly - and then of course
there is your friendship
to treasure and to hold.

I hope you're having fun
on your quad.
They say four wheels
are better than two
I'm not so sure
how could you
have Zen and the art of
quad biking -
impossible?

I see you have given in
to peer pressure or whatever
and made your modest entry
in the ******* book
I had a quick look.
It looks
OK.

Now I suppose Twitter
and MySpace
where you can compose
even wittier
sayings.

You're a true master
of Wisdom
with a capital W
But it is not that
you struggle to say something
wise
it comes spontaneously
best when blurted out
immediate response
like:
"they throw babies in dumpsters
in your country too, Janet?"

She'd never forgotten it
as it
was such a strange and powerful thing to say

by the way
I googled your name
and you have loads of coverage
mostly under AHEC and Best.

This is just a few short lines
to say you are on my mind
and in my heart
as always
yours
me.

It's rounding three-forty in the morning
And my reason for sleep is tugging at me like
Gravity to everything

Or a late-night host absolutely convinced
His guest is wittier than himself
And pulling the curtains as if to say "I've failed you"

Really, the only continuity here is the drumming purr,
Outsourced by the shuffling footsteps opposite my door
Of which I am deathly afraid

If they knew what I really did in here
And at this time of night?
Can't even think about it

"Probably *******" they would chortle
Shaking their heads in disappointment over my
Weakness of mind and overall
Failure to hide the sound of skin

But there are better things to do, are being done
Like paper poetry, terrible fortune cookie words
Stitched blindly so to sound nice
To feign significance
But there are better things to do

I am sitting in the bar writing this. I started at the Sir Francis Drake, and I will do a tour of duty in all the great bars of the city before morning. There is a storm outside, a fresh wind and a choppy see from my voyage. But the earth isn't quite big enough for me tonight. I am now at The Globe and plan to proceed to The Moon and The Stars and then make a journey to all the planets, ending in the constellation of Venus - anything so as to be closer to the pleasure zone that is yours, all yours.

It's not my fault I am here. It would start to rain as we were waiting for the bus, and those stupid feelings of mine, hauled me into this bar. It is a dark, cold, confounded hole, fit only for desperadoes and down-and-outs. The cold outside made the warmth of the wine work faster on me.

I wish you could see me now as I am definitely not myself anymore. I'm a much pleasanter, warmer, wittier person than when cold sober and I am sure that I could win your love when I am like this.

The wine hisses upon my heart. Cupid has fired a dart into my liver. I am asking the barman for ice to cool my fevered thoughts. Ice! Clear and cold and definitely melting, just like you. The idiot has brought me olives instead. This is a damnable place. A hideous world, I wish I were out of it and in heaven, by which, of course I mean in your arms. Ah, if only they were bottling your bath water - then there'd be something to slake this incredible thirst! I'd close my eyes, sip you slowly, and let you slide down my throat.

This is my constant prayer, wether I am drunk or sober.

make me wish i could write
in the way i hardly understand
what my words mean at all

like those poets who manage to place
every word, every detail of it
in the most perfect cadence

speaking in a language of only those few
who feel or have been through the same thing could understand
with their deeper and wittier sense
at catching things in the right way

feelings successfully delivered across
like it's the first thing you'll read
in the envelope

and though i still lack the capability of doing so
i'd still stretch any words i have in me
to attempt creating something—
anything less than what the heart feels

you
make me try to utter things
that i’d rather leave unsaid
if it’s about
  anyone but

you were never here
and now
you're gone
what could have been
never was
never will be
well
always more figments
maybe one that's wittier.

dont even try to retrace your footsteps theyre lost in the footnotes,
every turn of the little hand makes the atmosphere heavier, nothing gives.
you see the problems and the solutions but you feel like youre being asked the questions everyone knows the answers too, and being expected to prove them right,
there is not a time when im alone that i feel lonely because something deep inside me gives me comfort and gyroscopic stability that came as an adaptation to seismic unrest like the left side of my chest was strewn accross the san andreas fault, there is a ghost in my room that keeps me company when my grilfriend goes away,
when the sun has left because hes late for his shanghai appointment the moon beams down on me with a smile as wide as hers when that stupid cheerleader song that is too catchy to not sing along to comes on,
the grin on her face when shes wittier than me gives me the same comfort as the phantom of my mind.

I have conversations with you in my head,
my mouth is moving
          a silent film with a torn screen
I picture what you would say,
wrap your beautiful words in quotation marks.
          If they were real they'd be wrapped in a sunrise
I imagine that I am funnier and wittier than I actually am
so I can imagine the laughter coming from your mouth
          and even though this is a silent film
          your smile in my mind takes handfuls of weight from my heart
          ...and almost makes up for the locked doors that dominate what I see

But the torn screen warps your smile
and those locked doors mock me,
         pouring shovels full of weight back into my heart.

It started with him,
Not so long ago
A moment in the past where
My feelings were confusing.

It started with him,
I wanted to read him over again
And analyze him,
And take notes
Figure out each phrase
And memorize themes
About him
I wanted to learn about
Every aspect
And inspect every former draft of him
And figure out why there were
Modifications and changes of him

I wanted to write him down,
Soak pen ink in his name
So I wrote poetry.

I fell in love with him
I fell in love with destructive poetry.

And then I realized one day
My metaphors were getting more passionate
But he was not,
I spent more time on line spacing
Than planning my space around him
I became wittier with words
While his jokes were getting old
He became ideas
That were better expressed by me

So I continued to write
Better poetry
And it’s not ending with him
But now with
Lovelier things,
About lovelier people

Like me-
Who I have learned about
Who I have seen more of
Who I am not afraid to change
And correct
Because of mistakes and errors
Who I have written of
Who I have written.

Singed ink in my name.

Because poetry started with him,
But it’s ending with me.

There is always
Prettier
Smarter
Friendlier
More talented
More confident
Stronger
Faster
Steadier
More whole
More loving
More understanding
Kinder
Wittier
More graceful
More fit
Funnier
Happier
Better
That is how we are never perfect, which they all say is bad. But then aren't we all bad?
I am broken. I am a mess. I am nothing of which you deserve.
But if you see perfection where I see shattered pieces of me
And you hold me as I fall apart
If you love me when I feel my most alone
Then maybe I can live without being perfect
To everyone that is bad
As long as I am perfect
To the one person that is good.

now that i am older,
i am faster,
stronger,
braver,
now that i am older,
i am wittier,
prettier,
probably,
possibly,
definitely,
shitier,

i can help it now i am older,
i will continue to get older,
till i am frail,
pale,
meek,
made obsolete,
they just want to press delete,
i am a burden to the nation of youths,
so wide-eyed and bushy tailed with determination,
endless possibilities,
that will come to an end,
because,
like me,
you will get older,
i promise like me,
pale and meek and obsolete,
someone somewhere,
will press delete.

You were a girl and I won the privilege of watching you grow.
So darling, the porcelain; how trite a description for you.
But it made you smile, always. Even when I didn't put
any inflection in my tone.
It was enough for you that I said it, and only sometimes meant it.

It was Summer, if I remember of any proper, when we met;
or, rather, spoke, for the first time.
Then the Spring where I lost the last line of your beautiful mind.
And that willful fruit bloom from your high hanging branches.
You used to joke, "Don't steal my sap, but lick my wounds."

Arrowheads fletched from your leaves and flew unsoundly,
toward the open eyes of glimmer for those of whom you
allowed near. I caught each one and bled, and with my
oily fingers I drew wilderness and art on your bark.
Spring was meant for you to bloom, my darling.

Maybe you didn't hear, or know. You forgot things sometimes,
like to stretch your arms toward the sun and siphon goodness.
A gentle axe tap to remind you. To make you familiar with,
the pain of the care. The stone was heavy and often deflected.
It's Autumn now. Our favourite time of year. We never got to
make bouquets with your hair.

Winter is coming. You would hate that reference in a poem to you.
Novels are always better, "Except Kubrick!" we would say in unison,
and how you, this time, would always remind me of the night I said
something wittier than the rest of all my life. You cheered up a suicide
because you feared the same loss twice, as all old wounds heal sharply.

How did you do it? Give me laugh lines.
So deep they soak in water and are vibrant.
I don't blame you, all things in nature must wilt.
The markings of calendar, and I know when the rains
wash away the snow and leave blades of grass heavy
you will be there in support, lifting the tiny sprouts with a fingertip.

That they never felt before.

It hurts to not be somebody's first choice
To feel like an afterthought
It hurts when they tell you they care but their actions scream out: "you're worthless!"
It hurts when you sheepishly ask to cuddle and he pointedly sits on the couch across the room
It hurts when you feel like you valued the relationship more than he ever did
It hurts when you feel like a filler of a human
Something that he spent his time on until he could finally obtain someone better
It hurts when you start to wonder if there really is something inherently unlovable about who you are
There must be something fundamentally broken in me because every time a guy gets close enough to see inside, he backs away
Maybe if I had good skin and soft hair and toned abs
Maybe if my sense of humor was wittier
Or my passions were more beautiful
Or my nail beds weren't a disaster
Or if I cared for people better
Or if I was more confident in myself
Maybe then I would be lovable
Maybe then someone would value me as much as I value them
I know relationships are hard and love is a choice but there is a base level of adoration that people seem to have for their partners
Why have I never experienced that?
When will anyone look into my bruised, twisted heart and decide that it is worth choosing?
It hurts to not be somebody's first choice.

Like a fireball of curl
Vivid blue eyes shouting out
Clever wit, wrapped in
Education, so bright
A medal, flashing lights
Standing side by side
A photograph, published in the paper
Little Montgomery, Alabama Genisuses.

A bus ride
Loud echoing laughter
Its been in my mind and haunting me all day
And it reminds me of the time
Before and before
Before, before, before
Where at their own Southern delicate hand
Self medication with fabricated roses
Covered in perhaps a lonesome hatred
And forgetfulness of the love that
Penetrates through timeless beating moments.

Long blonde hair swinging like a monsoon
You were shorter than me
Wittier too.

We smoked **** in the bathroom
Drank whiskey like we were the big shots in town
Because we were Andrew.

Wherever it is that your soul is now
I imagine its very green
Green leaves like the **** we smoked
Or the money we hoped to make
Green like my eyes when we would crash in hotel rooms
Win first place
In our different categories
I wish I had come to the party
But I was there last year
And you were so drunk
****** up
And I wondered.

But aren't we all?
Aren't we all deciphering our health
Benefits
I hope you didn't vote for Trump
I know you didn't.

Because you were and are
A fireball
A fireball in a sea of mossy green
Our man made trophies weren't even
Monumental enough
To keep you here with us.

The tide rolled out
as a fog rolled in

to cover the rest
of what a white sheet couldn't

such as chalk outlined
tangled legs

with patent leather
and stiletto heels

bathed by blue and red
flashing lights

as cars
like dung and soldier beetles

moved along streets
with the names

Wittier Figueroa
and San Fernando Road

Marble, sweat and rivers jolting away
This is the veil in which we play.
A city distracted from other’s gaze and
Far astray from the turtles’ graze. Torchlight
And illuminating words, spark a phantom turn
Ditching the foreign birds and when justice
Is spoken, it is unheard. Unearth
And unearth the doubting worm, feed it
The thieves of the land, allow
Them to punish the thieving man. Speak
Bitter and more wittier than most, tell the
Impotent and spectral ghosts that they, like us,
And like today are not entitled
To a rise in pay. Like the potato men
Who would weigh and weigh
And wade and wade for as
Little pay as
Fourty pence and a kind
Delay on their crippling rent.

Over and over the marble hedge, and
Across the pools of delirious sweat sleeps
Bountifuls of brush and deer, soaking up
The tears of lesser fellas, queer men
Back from deserts,
Tightening their belts and
Clasping at their mother’s gifted quilts.
Cactus sounds follow them home, prickly
Towns await in their ready made tombs, and dirt
Dirt, dirt filled cracks block comfort
And solace in their tracks.

Remembering when thunder struck, and how
‘Tough love falling out of love’ is a thought
Keeping the boys away from graves. Keeping
The boys safe and tucked behind
The garden maze, the green paths and walls
Of Europe's lavish sites keep the boys
Safe and tucked,
And in and out of love like a parrot
Stuck barking the same
Unpleasant rhymes.

Kingdom come, come marching towards
The heavy crimson sun and speak
Easy towards fun and fun. Men have not
Seen fun for some time, it was barred
From the camps on the riverside.
“Pick up a gun and have some fun” the corporal said,
“Pick up a gun and have some fun” the witness said,
And “Pick up a gun and have some fun” the grieving
Brother and
Tired mother cried.  

Fun has thieved the land, taking
Man and man away from the rivers and the lakes. Sinking
Man into water, and engulfing water in man.
Fun has taken life after life and
Watered down the meaning of strife, men
No longer tighten their belts
Or grieve on their mother’s quilts
But rather sip at straws and pause
The heroes on the screens, wishing and hoping
For more meaningful means, perhaps
As numbing and forthcoming
As their midday dreams.