Sorcerer’s Apprentice

Once there was a president who was, in fact, insane.
He thought that the office was meant only for his gain.
His head looked like an orange and his hair looked like a pelt.
His best debating tactic was to hit below the belt.
He made fun of the crippled and besmeared any detractors.
Race-baiting and name-calling were his most defining factors.
He said he’d build a wall to keep the foreigners at bay.
I’m smart, I’m rich and one tough bitch was all that he would say.
And, like a vigilante, his great posse rallied ’round.
America the great became his toxic proving ground.
He got himself elected with some sleight help from the mob.
And when he was sworn in he said, "I’m gonna like this job."
He loosened up the gun laws and made voting laws much tighter.
His White House goal was more control to make the country whiter.
His economic policies rocked Wall Street on its heels.
And underneath the table he was making shady deals.
As, one-by-one, we lost our allies to his madcap schemes,
He criminalized freedoms, from protests to jests to dreams.
He made a world of enemies and pushed them to the brink.
Don’t worry, he said, I will tell you how to act and think.
When finally, backed to a corner by his crazy whims,
He said, "Hey, world, don’t fuck with me, I’ve got ICBM’s."
He’d taken our beloved freedom-based enlightened nation
And brought it to the brink of nuclear annihilation.
And these were his last words from just before the world expired:
He pressed the bright red button, laughed out loud and screamed,
"YOU’RE FIRED !"

Toxic City

Gonna take a ride down to Toxic City.
All the algae blooming there’s considered rather pretty.
Everything is glistening and slimy to the touch.
Particles float in the air. Try not to breathe too much.
Best to wear a plastic suit and mask upon your face.
Despite all its drawbacks, still, it’s quite a vivid place.
Animals that roam the streets are of an unknown breed.
Only plants that grow there now are called the devil’s seed.
Once a week a tour comes by inside an armored truck,
people taking photographs of creatures in the muck.
Toxic City’s on the map, but circled in bright red.
All its former residents reportedly are dead.

Opening Day

Baseball’s back, it’s truly spring.
Crack of bat and fastball zing.
Diamond dirt and outfield green.
It’s a time-remembered scene.
Pleasant memories of youth.
House of David. House of Ruth.
Ground out, pop-up, long fly ball.
In the stands or off the wall.
Called third strike right on the black.
Three-oh green light, back, back, back.
Bullpen up and working hard.
Can they keep him in the yard?
Rookies, vets and walk-off hits.
Knucklers and big catcher’s mitts.
Batter’s up and life is good.
Hear that horsehide meet that wood!

Suck It Up

I ain’t got no weapon of mass destruction.
Spend my time just preppin’ for deconstruction.
The first world’s grown real fat and needs a great reduction.
What’s needed’s not inflation but a massive suction.

So suck it up. Don’t pass the buck.
We’re out of luck if you don’t give a fuck.
Deflate the rich. Yes, life’s a bitch.
We’re in the fast lane headed for the ditch.

Third world’s in a hunger state and lookin’ for assistance.
Megaliths upon the throne are puttin’ up resistance.
Money and monopoly have been the rules of play.
Now it’s time to tell the fools this is a brand new day.

So suck it up. Don’t pass the buck.
We’re out of luck if you don’t give a fuck.
Just share the wealth. To hell with stealth.
The time is prime to work toward global health.

Inca Stains

We have killed magnificent people
and mounted their heads on walls.
We have extinguished entire species
and dropped monster bombs on enemies.
We have kept the serfs under control,
but they are restless and grumbling.
We have drugged and raped our planet.
We have made icons of warriors
and martyrs of men of peace.
These stains are the prison tattoos
of our body politic, the most dangerous
gang in the world.

Crazy Quilt

Don’t make fun of the boy with a gun.
He hangs about the bazaar every day,
rescuing abused American Girl dolls,
that he takes home for target practice.
Sometimes he whispers secret verses
into their cold hard ears.
At school he is afforded a respectful distance.
He once wrote an essay about painkillers.
He’s not allowed in gym because of loafers.
In his dreams he’s always riding horses.
Even now he sleeps, at peace,
beneath a Snoopy quilt.

An Image Undestroyed

There’s a portal in the midway
that’s leaking secret gasses.
Extinct birds in the center lane
are taking language classes.
While coronets are exorcised
and passed out to the masses,
the list of devastations
can be read with x-ray glasses.
There’s a pedal in the dance hall
that controls the singer’s motions,
a buzz about the school of doubt
that drones across the oceans.
A subtle breeze that aims to please
is packaged into potions.
But rediscovered photographs
preclude all escape notions.

Forced March

No fox in the hole. Ecological hunting
has trimmed the fur from this vale.
Vague bones kicked up by marchers
are collected by the children as toys.
Manufactured sound has disappeared.
Question marks of smoke
punctuate the sullen distance.
Food is whatever is in the mouth.
The hard times forecast rumble
in the belly of a beast unleashed
by dire misunderstanding.
Somewhere there is an oasis
of healing and imagination.
But right now it’s just carcasses and sand.

Votive

Why’s the hot seat so damned cold?
Why’s the new world seem so old?
If politics are bought and sold,
where’s the truth we’re told we hold?
What’s the purpose of elections
when the money makes selections?
If the system needs corrections,
who will insure our protections?
Question marks proliferate
in a country once called great,
suffering now greed and hate.
Answers must be our mandate.