Burning photographs does not destroy the past.
Our history is etched inside the bone.
The smoking world outside our eyes was never made to last.
The song of time gone by is just a moan.
That black cloud on the mountain will circle for us soon.
The pattern of the storm has been revealed.
For every day we look away, there disappears a moon.
Our eyes are closed. Our fate is likely sealed.
Leg pain in the upright bass.
Back ache of the sax.
Flat feet tap the odd drum beat.
Grooves engraved in wax.
Jazz is music’s elder statesman,
dizzy possibilities,
history’s record of the great men
seeking out skeleton keys.
Mitt just took a shit upon the Donald.
Made him look more clownish than poor Ronald.
The stormin’ Mormon’s dump made Drumpf look like a chump.
In fact, the dude has been Rosie O’Donnelled!
Back from the dead,
he landed on his head,
and from his mouth words bled:
"There’s nothing to be said."
He’d walked into the light,
prepared to be contrite,
but when the light turned red,
he came back home instead.
I hope you’re not too angry
that I shaved your old fur coat.
The protesters got to me.
Fur is murder, it seems.
So I’ve disguised the dog
as your arthritic uncle
and let the cat know
we’ll no longer be needing his services.
I’ve buried baby’s teddies
as a symbolic gesture,
and donated your questionable
fuzzy bedroom slippers
to some conscienceless charity.
Fur is murder, it seems.
I hope I haven’t gone too far.
Pickled desperadoes
litter the Andes
like mileposts, way stations,
altitude markers.
Two grams gets you this high.
Four grams gets you dead.
Above, the peaks beckon
like cocaine sundaes.
But in the cliffside towns,
where whiskey’s served
in boxes, men will kill you
for a gold tooth,
for your new boots,
or just for fun.
A Peruvian shoeshine
means you’ve been found
socks up, polished off.