Retirement Blues

I’m looking for some glue,
but all the tubes are empty.
In the kitchen, aerosol cans
hiss and try to tempt me.
I’ve stolen vodka from next door.
I’ve smoked a pipe of stems.
I feel like meaning’s matador.
I need some M&M’s.
If I were in Ecuador,
I could just eat some plants.
I’ve even heard there are some
hallucinogenic ants.
I’ll eat lead paint,
I’ll swail, I’ll faint.
I’m looking for a noose.
But now my stomach hurts
and I’m afraid my bowel’s loose.

Broken Crown

Jack and Jill went out for supper at their favorite diner.
Jill was wearing her best dress and couldn’t look much finer.
Jack drank two large Bloody Marys along with his meal.
But Jill abstained; she didn’t like the way booze made her feel.
With her food gone, Jill slid across the booth into his lap.
Jack leaned in for expected kiss, instead received a slap.
"You didn’t eat your peas," she said. It sounded like a scold.
So Jack obliged and cleaned his plate, although the peas were cold.
When they got home, Jill crossed the room, arms open for a hug.
But Jack burped loudly, said, "Oh shit," and threw up on the rug.
And there it sat, a Christmas-looking pile of green and red.
What both hoped was a pleasant night went right downhill instead.
"I’ll fetch a pail of water so that you can clean that mess.
I’d help you out but I don’t want to get it on my dress."
As Jack bent sadly to his task, he heard her hallway yell:
"I’ll be back in the morning. I can’t sleep here with that smell."
Jack thought, "My life’s a living hell," and something in him died.
Next morn, Jill found him dead in bed, apparent suicide.

Run for the Border

Herein there is a wonderful honor,
expressed in feedback, son.
The hearing impaired will all be spared,
and the rest will be undone.
It’s a harvesting of silence,
a blank slate of the ear.
The pages of the prayerbook
have been torn out in fear.
The documents on fire
conspire to explode.
I hear you not.
I fear you not.
This guitar is my road.

Morning Fur

Black dog with white paws on a red pillow.
Feathered tendrils of a dream, erasing,
as grey dawn, fanned by rain, laps the windows.
Stumble toward electronics to confirm the world
is still alive: no visible proof. Cruelty, exploitation
and degradation are winning the day’s big races.
There’s a spike in hair products and sun glasses.
World leaders are up in arms about arms.
The living have taken the dead to extra innings.
Somewhere a comet is passing a rocket.
Noise and light do the wave, eternally.
Satisfied with uncontrollable events,
the dog sighs and dives into that pillow once again.

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.