For all my finger lickin’, I came back as a chicken.
I ate a thousand wings, now I’m one of those things.
I’m paying for those benders when I ate many tenders.
Did not realize how gory was chicken cacciatore.
I am a chicken now for chewing General Gao.
I’m paying for that fling with chicken a la king.
I ate it diced and shredded, now I’m poultry embedded.
I spent life as a guy who craved the breast and thigh.
Now it’s too late to beg, ’cause I am of the egg.
And it’s no use to growl, I ran afoul of fowl.
Embattled cattle graze and wander,
chew their cud all day.
Rolling eyes, they sit and ponder,
searching for the way.
Holy cow. Zen is now.
This is bull. When they’re full.
they’re turned into steak.
You have killed our gods, McDonald.
You have brought us down.
We would just as soon go hungry,
even eat a clown.
Yes our shoes are made from leather.
We’re no purists, but,
we would rather dine on heather
than put cow in gut.
We reject your quarter-pounder.
We abhor big macs.
Blame goes back to Kroc the founder
for these cow attacks.
Old cats in black boots and dirty jackets sit
around a fire, burning tire, pass around a hit.
They talk of Eisenhower, Vietnam and J.F.K.,
of families and old friends who are not around today.
Most are vets and some served in the war to end all wars.
How can we stand by and know their lives will end outdoors?
Robin spied a spotted uncle on her way to the Dansk outlet.
He flitted from branch to branch, his silvered wrists aflutter.
She’d once thought him a nuthatch, but he’d grown into himself.
She would never forget his bright red coat, that one fashionable fall,
or her childhood wonder at his whispered songs of relativity.
His freckles and moles had been enhanced with henna appliques
and a variety of brightly colored small round bandaids.
This is his season, she thought. Perhaps he could be lured by some chai.
Your words have choked
The droll dithers and hithers
in obvious time.
A parlance afar.
Theresay and herespeak.
Leaking meaning to the edges
of suicidal sentences.
Adverbs and adjectives in combat.
this phrase kills me.
the rebound, the echo
is grounded, sublime,
and in time with the tune
of your moon. La lune.
My ear is in search of your song.
I hope I’ve not heard it all wrong.
Festering instincts operate
the dead machine.
It crawled out from the swamp
to infiltrate our lives.
Art hoax, junk pile,
it watches unceasingly.
Nothing now moves
or makes the slightest noise.
But, somehow, it’s still alive,
anticipating our fear,
drawing the darkness down.
Its huge shadow
now defines the borders
of our helpless realm.
Art hoax, junk pile,
it may never let us know.
We got to run for the border.
There ain’t no law and order.
It’s comin’ down to clowns wearin’ crowns.
The ultimate presumption
by bozos with this gumption
is we don’t got the sense to shoot ’em down.
On close inspection,
this here election
is westworld robots roundin’ up the herd.
They got our number.
The country’s dumber.
And money is the ultimate password.
The edge of a cloud,
when dark as a shroud,
can cauterize the day,
can sweep the blue to Timbuktu
and stain the sun away.
It can disguise the hour,
or else portend a shower,
and even alter
many minds below it.
It dares to smear the sky,
expose it as a lie,
and drive the point home:
you can never know it.
Sitting on the front porch of our cortex,
numbers shine like highly polished knives,
ready to just jump into the vortex,
bringing great precision to our lives.
All lined up in single file or columns,
marching through the tunnels of our brain,
there to scare out all the pot luck golems,
with their mathematical refrain.
One, one, two, one, three, one, two.
Clouds are white and sky is blue.
Nothing wrong these digits cannot cure.
Life is tainted, but these numbers pure.
No class on lawn tonight.
Too dark for prolonged concentration.
Please set timer for last lesson.
Return all books with pages cleaned.
Marks will be given, then taken away.
Thought cannot be taught or bought.
Graduation occurs at sunrise.