Knock the Cover Off

Awake on a win, asleep on defeat,
the competition always raged elsewhere.
Inside, naught but grey matter, ideas splash and spatter.
Yet nothing ever mattered anywhere.
To nod off midst a rally, from mountains, all is valley.
To come alive, the sand and sea divide.
The universal wind blew its music through the skinned,
and sparked an impulse as the power died.
Just walk under a ladder, the world gets ever madder.
The super stitching breaks, the core revealed.
The inside, once united, becomes, alas, indicted.
It’s horrible to see what’s been concealed.

Health Care

My Medicaid has been phased out,
and I will die, without a doubt.
Republicans have just rung my death knell.
Obama Care did give me hope,
but now I’m looking at the rope.
Red senators, I’ll see you all in hell.
Trump Care will cause thousands of deaths,
and, as we take our final breaths,
we’ll hope that we are martyrs bringing change.
The gall of one percent to usurp the government
is damnably cruel if not deranged.
Fight the power never meant so much at any time
as it does these days with government so steeped in crime.
We cry out, the euthanized, to this regime compromised,
crawl out now to save us from this wave of slime.

Somewhere in Kansas

Dorothy’s hallucinating again.
The telltale stare.
The bulkhead stair.
Playing the game, rolls a six,
then boxcars, sixty-six. 666.
The Oz number.
Twister on the near horizon
and she’s outside for the dog,
a heroine to love and sing with.
She’ll get help, as always,
a team to talk her down,
to deal with the witches,
dancing elves and talking trees,
ease her through the vibrant colors.
Get her back home safely.
And somewhere, perhaps,
she’ll find a true wizard
who’ll finally help her
get this flying monkey off her back.

Riding With Jayne

Willie Mays days are here again.
I traded my uncle the right to life
for his extensive stencil collection.
Now my art career can begin in earnest.
First sign, "No Borgnines,"
writ large above the barge
below the pail cathedral.
Let the thought police follow me.
I haunt dead ends.
I fill in lines on all merge signs
and imprint James Dean’s great face
inside the O’s in STOP. Go wild, child.
Don’t let me see you crying
in the breakdown lane.
The cruelty of roadways is the century’s curse.
Nothing worse than no place left to go.
On the one-way streets, I’m drying sheets.
The portrait of Che has a lot to say.
I lost my head in thinking blue and red.
I hope I can get mail while I’m in jail.

Dump

Hazardous waste
has piled up to my waist.
It’s just a simple taste
of worldwide doom.
It seems our end is based
on on-line cut and paste,
and now we all are faced
with satan’s broom.
Sweep away our history.
Keep at bay the mystery.
The life we knew so well
has gone to hell.
When the final bell shall ring
we’ll remember everything.
And our story will boil down
to buy and sell.

Father’s Day

Happy Fathers’ Day. The hours melt away.
Only two more left to sell these cards.
Door to door we’ll go,
knocking, don’t you know,
selling reminiscence and its shards.
And it’s Daddy, Daddy-Oh.
How I love you, head to toe.
Your boots are just the fruits
of love’s sweet stand.
Your seed made me what I am,
schizophrenic and, god-damn,
now I’m playing
in an anarchistic band.
Crash the government.
Bury in cement.
Wash the old world
down the unfurled path.
Come out living clean
in the new world scene,
let the dirty bastards
take a bath.

To An Athlete Growing Old

His fingertips are raisins in a certain light,
like fingerprints that just survived a twelve-round fight.
His knuckles often swell and sometimes they will ache.
And if he tried to throw a curve, it wouldn’t break.
The hands that had the flex once of a lithe gym rat
would blister now just swinging his old baseball bat.
And that’s just what old age does to extremities.
When adding in the damage to the feet and knees,
it’s clear the days are gone when he can play at sport,
unless it is restricted to the walking sort.
To both the long jump shot and perfect spiral pass,
he’ll have to bid adieu and fondly raise a glass.

Hollow Victory

It’s a hard shard to swallow.
It’s a scarred card to follow.
It’s a lumbering craft dragged out to sea.
We were just getting started.
The sand itself departed.
Wave after endless wave and tree by tree.
It came on as expected,
nature tortured and rejected.
We stripped the world of all its mystery.
It’s an invite to extinction,
our last moment of distinction.
We rowed off on the tears of misery.

Power Cord

Grab this dark cloud now and wring it out.
Its tears will be the moneyed mead of oil.
So, shut the lights off, mama, for, no doubt,
you’re gonna have some acid in your soil.
The trees won’t grow, but cars will go.
Some animals will be put out of business.
Extinction helps economy, you know.
You’ll get your bobcat sandwich down at Quiznos.
Who cares about the ocean or the chem trails?
Who cares about the fish; they’re just a fad.
We’re talking greed right off the old pro tem rails.
Where history’s concerned, we’re just plain bad.

Rocky Road

He’s got a fistful of fight but his hands are so small
that to battle makes not one shred of sense at all.
He emerges bloodied from every dust up.
He howls like a wolf then he yowls like a pup.
He’s clearly the loser in his every bout,
but no one’s been able to knock the man out.
He’s back in the ring on the very next day
throwing jabs at the world and just swinging away.
He showers opponents with insults and lies.
When faced with his losses, he simply denies.
His handlers convince him that he is the greatest.
Performance, however, would hint he’s a sadist.
In his corner his trainer and great cut man Bannon
persuades him his power is like a loose cannon.
And so he continues, bruised, dazed but still cocky.
He’s sly and persistent. And our future’s rocky.