When the Ray Gun wasn’t on his meds,
he might, off the cuff, say, "Nuke the Reds."
Once he’d shouted, like a baseball call,
"Mister Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"
But he wasn’t able to conceal
that he’d made an Iran-Contra deal.
Later, when his brain was giving in,
he was mostly Mommy’s mannequin.
History shows his coin as two-sided.
Many deem his policies misguided.
Poor folks called him old son of a bitch.
But he was a hero to the rich.
Life is the wonder socket,
a pulse of ice and fire
that churns the steam of dreams,
a forest of unbidden shadows’
masked parade of time.
The prayer of clocks
cannot drown the mystery of fears,
their ripped pocket of unending trials.
All thought rides the rails of perspective,
tapering ever toward death’s horizon.
Energy consumes. Entropy enlightens.
A soothing drop in a bucket of fright
is all that the stars will allow.
Suddenly, everyone was wearing red hats.
Those that didn’t were vilified, even pushed around.
Beneath their crimson brims they screamed of country.
People without proper hats were scared to go outside.
They had to sneak around at night, keep out of sight,
risking harm in their own neighborhoods.
Some preferred blue hats, but would never say so.
Eventually, it was easier just to get one, to blend with
those marching about the streets and restricted zones.
Of course one didn’t have to really like them.
After all, it was just a color.
Mrs. Ritz spits out bits of olive pits
from the knitted chair in which she always sits.
Her entire house is filled with strange mementos.
She freely admits addiction to pimentos.
She’s surrounded by her cats, a baker’s dozen,
every one related, uncle, aunt or cousin.
Also in the mix are her two feisty parrots,
who will dance and sing if tempted by raw carrots.
They prefer old gospel songs or Broadway tunes.
One sings like Hank Williams while the other croons.
Neighbors who drop by to see her day to day
say it all seems like an Ionesco play.
Cats run up the curtains, chase around and fight,
while the birds duet on Hank’s "I Saw The Light."
Never pin your hopes on a phantom.
Massage your cliff face daily
and oil all squeaking parts.
Walk lightly on the wire of consciousness.
Sweep street smarts to the sidewalk, then run.
Smash ideas into quarters, re-paste at random.
Settle back, arch spine, climb in trunk.
Don’t ever drink absinthe with newsboys.
Sail blithely over open space bars.
Best avoid magnetic socks with steel-toed shoes.
Push and pull with equal frequency on days off.
Rotate memories from basement to attic.
Give fingers names and whisper to them secrets.
Always blink eyes rhythmically to ska.