Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Intelligent Design

Such monumental mulling went into it
That any reversal of fortune implies a bid
Against a house of curtaincalls, accordingly
Carded for the timeless therapy of a spree;

Such purposeful pain and purity went into it
That you’d think none of us rightly trim and fit
To gainsay the dead for the utility of bread
Effected by hordes envious of those who fled

Shadow-wise.  Credibility marooned, bereft
Of tantalizing foolery to foul a dreamer’s yield;
It builds seascapes to sail, a pagan’s point

To parse the sky’s failure to repair.  I’m left
All alone, ozoned bones brittle and dis-healed,
Paying sharksuited lawyers to sue the joint.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Envy Wallowing

Imagine for a second that you’re Mookie Betts.
He’s about your size. Runs more, lifts more,
But sideways you’re about equal. Imagine
That you rolled a seven, hit the number,
Put your money on the longshot horse, drew
Inside for a straight-flush; imagine you blasted
The walk-off hit that wakes up the stadium’s
Pagan Thank You. You have a god’s body
And enough treasure to start your own country.
Imagine it’s guaranteed, no fine print, all yours.
Imagine flying an airplane after hitting a homerun.
Imagine sliding on the turf to snag a slicing hit.
Imagine stealing second then third then home.
You are Mookie Betts, oyster and pearl,
The best thing that happened to your team,
The best thing that happened to your friends,
The best that ever happened to your family; go ‘head,
Ask them. Imagine you’re Mookie Betts eating
Prime rib in a classy place with an umlaut name and a chef;
Someone in the lavatory wants an autograph
After you pee and wash your million dollar hands,
Mookie Betts, the best thing since regular guys
Were invented. Imagine being resident on Mt. Olympus
With the other beauties, a chest of gold and diamonds,
Platinum, jewels glittering in piles, and someone
Somewhere building a temple, an altar for bowing
In cap and jersey, Mookie Betts, number 50,
Boston Red Sox home colors.  Imagine being Mookie
Betts with the kind of money only a moron
Or a saint could squander, and having a name like Mookie,
And all you ever have to do is show up to be loved,
Just get out of the car with your entourage
Of friends, walk into the building, the stadium
Toward the front where the emcee is standing, waiting
With his microphone to introduce the greatest person
In the whole world, the best, the only, you. Imagine
Being Mookie Betts for one eternal second.

Friday, June 30, 2017

Villanelle

My grandmother was tortured so tortured us,
Saying mom was fat, dumb, and should see a shrink,
Though we all got used to that.  She was the boss.

No matter your age or how many grandkids you toss
On the family pile, you always stood on the brink:
My grandmother was tortured so tortured us

Wherever we were, as she saw fit.  Without any fuss
She identified her targets: we were her playthings!
Though we all got used to that, she was the boss,

With underlings to beat down, to belittle, she’d cuss
In our faces till we cried and fled the family shin dings.
My grandmother was tortured so tortured us,

Thinking, perhaps, we’d get stronger, more robust
Of spirit, ready to take on the world, and never sink!
Though we all got used to that, she was the boss

That gave no promotions, no praise, tallied each loss
In columns with our names attached by chain-link.
My grandmother was tortured so tortured us,
Though we got used to that. She was the boss.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Orgy Over

all the world's battlefields
like monumental beds

where millions sleep it off
in the arms of one another

after going at it like hell
like there's no tomorrow--

walking through this one
on tiptoe not to wake them

Friday, June 9, 2017

Gerontic Fable

Two people meet in the middle of a bridge. They start talking. One's dressed in blue and the other's in red. They finish their conversation amicably, and walk off in the opposite direction, each scratching her head in confusion. "So, how was it," is the question they face upon reaching their compatriots. "Fine," they say. "But those people have a hard time with reality." Suddenly a speedboat shoots by beneath the bridge. Its co-pilot holding a sign that reads: Jump, jump and we'll save you!

Monday, May 29, 2017

In This Garden, May 28, 2017

In this garden there are no fuming voices
With answers and choices that are neither.
On a Sunday with a woodpecker and a fat jay
Singing for their stake, in the shade of hazelnut

Bushes, now trees you can’t control no matter
How much you need deep down to grab hold
And steer them, hydra-headed it all comes back
Like the offspring of war.  Today I let it grow

As will, as squirrels bellyflop from the branches
To help me drown out the very best gone sour,
This hour when the lizard makes a mad dash

Between nettle cover along the narrow path,
Their hands wide open to the angle of the sun;
Already critical of what I have yet to write down.

Monday, May 22, 2017

America, the Game

In the game some play
By the rules, others slay
According to the aim
No matter what shame

Gets visited on the game,
The aim is always to win
And climb out of that sin
Losers feel all the same.

Unless your God awaits
With a book of notations
And timeless quotations
For your choice of fates,

Playing the game of lies
And disdain for the whys
Lands you the only prize:
Fear, in power’s disguise.

Rules apply to saps
And those with a vision
Of eternal damnation,
Feathers in their caps

Burning as beacons
For the whole of creation
Like blushing deacons
Witness dog exultation

On the corner where Go
Has an electric fence
To fry the poor and low,
Whose capital offense

Is being. Hence a God
Or a conqueror’s bod
Since the game’s rules
Are meant for the fools

While life means zero
To the capitalist weirdo
Whose one God is fame
And a moneyed last name.