I’m looking for some glue,
but all the tubes are empty.
In the kitchen, aerosol cans
hiss and try to tempt me.
I’ve stolen vodka from next door.
I’ve smoked a pipe of stems.
I feel like meaning’s matador.
I need some M&M’s.
If I were in Ecuador,
I could just eat some plants.
I’ve even heard there are some
hallucinogenic ants.
I’ll eat lead paint,
I’ll swail, I’ll faint.
I’m looking for a noose.
But now my stomach hurts
and I’m afraid my bowel’s loose.
Jack and Jill went out for supper at their favorite diner.
Jill was wearing her best dress and couldn’t look much finer.
Jack drank two large Bloody Marys along with his meal.
But Jill abstained; she didn’t like the way booze made her feel.
With her food gone, Jill slid across the booth into his lap.
Jack leaned in for expected kiss, instead received a slap.
"You didn’t eat your peas," she said. It sounded like a scold.
So Jack obliged and cleaned his plate, although the peas were cold.
When they got home, Jill crossed the room, arms open for a hug.
But Jack burped loudly, said, "Oh shit," and threw up on the rug.
And there it sat, a Christmas-looking pile of green and red.
What both hoped was a pleasant night went right downhill instead.
"I’ll fetch a pail of water so that you can clean that mess.
I’d help you out but I don’t want to get it on my dress."
As Jack bent sadly to his task, he heard her hallway yell:
"I’ll be back in the morning. I can’t sleep here with that smell."
Jack thought, "My life’s a living hell," and something in him died.
Next morn, Jill found him dead in bed, apparent suicide.
Herein there is a wonderful honor,
expressed in feedback, son.
The hearing impaired will all be spared,
and the rest will be undone.
It’s a harvesting of silence,
a blank slate of the ear.
The pages of the prayerbook
have been torn out in fear.
The documents on fire
conspire to explode.
I hear you not.
I fear you not.
This guitar is my road.
Black dog with white paws on a red pillow.
Feathered tendrils of a dream, erasing,
as grey dawn, fanned by rain, laps the windows.
Stumble toward electronics to confirm the world
is still alive: no visible proof. Cruelty, exploitation
and degradation are winning the day’s big races.
There’s a spike in hair products and sun glasses.
World leaders are up in arms about arms.
The living have taken the dead to extra innings.
Somewhere a comet is passing a rocket.
Noise and light do the wave, eternally.
Satisfied with uncontrollable events,
the dog sighs and dives into that pillow once again.
Awake on a win, asleep on defeat,
the competition always raged elsewhere.
Inside, naught but grey matter, ideas splash and spatter.
Yet nothing ever mattered anywhere.
To nod off midst a rally, from mountains, all is valley.
To come alive, the sand and sea divide.
The universal wind blew its music through the skinned,
and sparked an impulse as the power died.
Just walk under a ladder, the world gets ever madder.
The super stitching breaks, the core revealed.
The inside, once united, becomes, alas, indicted.
It’s horrible to see what’s been concealed.
My Medicaid has been phased out,
and I will die, without a doubt.
Republicans have just rung my death knell.
Obama Care did give me hope,
but now I’m looking at the rope.
Red senators, I’ll see you all in hell.
Trump Care will cause thousands of deaths,
and, as we take our final breaths,
we’ll hope that we are martyrs bringing change.
The gall of one percent to usurp the government
is damnably cruel if not deranged.
Fight the power never meant so much at any time
as it does these days with government so steeped in crime.
We cry out, the euthanized, to this regime compromised,
crawl out now to save us from this wave of slime.