Tuesday, June 23, 2015

A Politician’s Logic

Proves that life itself is dangerous,
Depriving the brain
Of corrective
Chemicals when most needed.
Prolonged breathing of the civic air
Results in serious organ damage
Of a terminal nature
Which makes me wonder
Why no effective vaccine exists
For the health of humanity
Before the disease we call Life
Becomes an epidemic
Of pandemic proportions
Prevention, not treatmentfor the sake
Of the future—stamp out fucking for good!

Monday, June 22, 2015

Villanelle: Granny

Spent her motherhood as if working a dream
Until, lying in her bed in a room alone,
She woke up.  She died unhappy; it seems.

Pious or vulgar, in all the kitchen scenes
She played the lead, a ruthless Queen on her throne;
She spent her motherhood as if working a dream.

Her blue eyes would send out two laser-beams
On good days, on the bad she'd cut us to the bone.
She woke up.  She died unhappy, it seems,

Doing what she imagined would give us the means
To “live right, live wrong, but do it on our own.”
She spent her motherhood as if working a dream

For us, her clan now split into smithereens
By a life that demands it all.  Poof! then it’s gone.
She woke up; she died unhappy it seems

To me.  At home (silenced by an inward scream)
I waited for the news to reach the phone—
She woke up.  She died unhappy.  It seems
She spent her motherhood as if working a dream.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Blanketed Potato

Sometimes I’ll be watching
A movie or a commercial’s gauzy
Scene, with a daughter in tears
Re-connecting with her long lost
Father who was captured or dis-
Oriented or developed amnesia
And couldn’t find his way back
To his loved ones, to his world
The one he knew like the green
Eyes of his daughter now happier
Than ever as if looking at a god—
Incomprehensibly, as if there was
No telephone package involved,
No deal to make, I’ll start weeping
Bawling my eyes out like a little
Boy who lost his truck and then
Even harder in shame at coming
Under the spell of today’s masters
Cooking up my eye, ear, heart as
I sit there, a blanketed potato.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Diogenes VII

Sleep sleep you cute little murdering undisturbed sleeper
Sleep like a pampered prince you parasitic paranoid
You dimwitted bombdropping cloak and dagger Frankenstien
You diabolical human piece of heartless earthworm scum

You killer you stupid unredeemable piece of miserable fleshfat
Like a cute little prince you runway-swishing coke-snorting
Yacht-sailing meat-packing piece of slave-driving hightalking fool
Sleep you sleepy cute little murdering dollhouse schmuck

You cataclysmic genetic abomination you evolutionary teardrop
You rotten mismanaged uneducated foul-aimed dunce
Sleep my poor little misunderstood rapist my marauder my holy
Little unashamed prince in bed with the innocents sleep sleep my baby

You won't be starving in the morning bombing in the afternoon
Poisoning the wells so the milk of his mother kills him slowly
Makes sure that he dies a painful death so sleep little prince little
Self-righteous auto-icon sap-souled sweetie of the world

Try to get some sleep we have a big day tomorrow 

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

The Chair

Hurry up, go, bring the chair. 
If we don’t sit this very minute
Who knows what will happen to us, what
Will happen next, what things we’ll do
To regret.  I go get the cabinet ASAP.
I rip apart its four sides for a good one to sit on.
I take a limb from the birch we felled to save the rest
And saw it in half.  I notice the original
Well-pin, hand-hewn with the care of someone
Who draws water from the earth, absurdly
Abandoned in the weeds.  I go get it,
And on the way I pick up a steel rod that sat
Upstairs a hundred years under the brick smokehouse.
I mount the new legs on the new seat with old nails,
Rope, and a welded anchor bolt. 
I remove my sweater unraveling at the cuff,
Torn at the hem, the one my grandmother knitted,
And ball it up for a cushion. Here, it’s all yours,
The way poems get made and are meant to be sat upon
To put off a little what happens next. 

We Christians

Ever since Constantine
We've been as sweet as Jesus
And killing with the passion
Of pagans.  At some point

In the life of an alcoholic
He has to make a choice:
Your story, or your life. 
Words go on as smoothly

As the plaster plasterers
Use to fill in the cracks
Or the artisan uses
To shape the acts of a saint

On the fa├žade of a church
Built to repel an attack.
The heart is like a monk
Buried in the library

Looking for proof
It doesn’t need any.

Foot, Tongue, Boot

bones, thirty-
three joints,
one hundred
and tendons,
of thousands
of miles;
who could forget
that dish
of hard candy,
ten lollipops
to worship—red,
green, peachy
as the day
God made them.
What foot lives
without a tongue
to soothe it? 
The boot warms
the confusion
my mind is—
I pick it up, sniff
you out when
rules the hour,
has you all
to itself, like
a bloodhound
on a leash,
for the fugitive
to return to the scene
of the crime. 

Monday, June 8, 2015

Deathbed Poets

Will hold your hand.  Wipe your ass.
Tell tall tales about the coming glories,
Fetch your slippers, fluff the pillow.
Deathbed poets agree with all you say
And will echo it back with genuine pride
In their voices; but otherly, with a lofty
Flair.  If weeping threatens to breach
The walls built against such an onslaught,
It’s unlikely to bear surprises.  Reborn
So often—who would ever want to be
Deathbed poets for them?—they wither
On vines, in bed with roses.  But this isn’t
About their martyrdom, it’s about yours
And the magnificence that awaits you. 
Take my hand, and start at the beginning.
Tell me what things were like when you
Were little, or have you always been
This old, confined to this deathbed? 
In that case, you might be a poet, too! 
Take my hand; let’s sing about thorns
And perfume until the nurse gets back.