The ghost of mediocrity
is out bowling for dollars.
Ten pins, he wins, the counter spins,
he flies around and hollers.
The game is just a sidelight.
He should really be asleep.
But smashing wood
sometimes feels good,
more fun than counting sheep.
Tomorrow he’ll resume his rounds,
shepherding toward the mean.
But right now there’s a six-ten split,
and he’s a spare machine.
The righteous will die with the damned,
a puzzle all over the land.
The pieces are covered with blood.
We’re working our way to the flood.
The troops are well-meaning, of course,
a brave and insidious force.
The rockets are aimed. The weak will be maimed.
Much later we’ll deal with remorse.
The bombs are all loaded in planes.
War fever is coursing through veins.
Each woman and kid who’s not too well hid
will suffer incredible pains.
The world will forgive us in time.
Some day war will be seen as crime.
But, until that day, we’ll say bombs away.
We’re murderous men in our prime.
My love for the Queen
is out of check.
Want to storm her castle
like a knight.
Call the bishop,
I am sweet love’s pawn.
King me in the palace
of romance.
Conjoined protractors
measure proclivity
in inverse parallels,
negating the subjugated need.
If only the conquerors
Had similar technology,
perhaps we’d not be buried
in the vast electric haze.
When thinking is a shock,
the system must shut down,
allowing present currents
to prevail unopposed.
And in unfettered quantities,
oppression can be static,
a blanket of false charges
like a constant grid
of automatic doom.
The bait shop’s been decorated
with cornstalks and old flags.
Another seasonal war appears.
The leaf wrencher attacks
the futile pushcart vendor.
The fatalistic pharmacist
overpacks his capsules.
Morning mists, like gray troops,
storm the flatlands.
The arc of the earth
and the edge of the sky
clash in thunderous combat.
A sad old woman finds her wave.
Tomorrow the sea will spit bones.
