Centuries Go by in a Flash

Centuries go by in a flash, then they crash

Into clichés.  I recall reading about today’s strife

In a book from caveman times.  Can it last,

Is the first thing you think, can it thrive?

Seven days a week the drunkard ups his drink,

While machines wear themselves out, sink

Into abuse.  Looking forward is looking back,

Since for trouble, we have an old, natural knack.

When I’m asked about what will happen tomorrow

I tell the asker yesterday’s tomorrow’s sorrow,

Unless it isn’t. But you have to put the drink down

And commit to a different path, you have to drown

Your love in an instant, and keep your head high

Above water until you reach a side that’s dry.

Trumperlick 2

There once was a peacock named Donald

Who traced his roots to bonny Scotland—

He wanted nothing else

But to grab beaver pelts,

Before his huge feathered head goes bald.

Trumperlick

A tycoon buffoon by the name of Trump,

Talking shit in a goldplated dump;

     The people called him forth—

     Celebrity trumps worth!—
For whom the world is a thing to hump.

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 trim and fit

To gainsay the dead for the utility of bread

Among hordes envious of those who fled

Shadowside. 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, mis-healed,

Paying the sharksuited to sue the joint.