Remember the time when our waters were fine,
when the rivers weren’t cloudy all day?
When the fish used to swim in the fresh or the brine,
before chemicals came into play.
But now plastic and oil have consorted to spoil
our great waterways, oceans and lakes.
Stop this madness, and soon, or just say, "Goodnight Moon."
Please do it for your grandchildren’s sakes.
Ten years ago today, my heart went on a short vacation.
It called me in my dream state from a pay phone at a station.
"I’m sitting just outside your chest. It’s really quite a view.
Don’t worry, get yourself some rest, I’ll be back in a few.
Amazing how the world looks when you’re not cooped up in ribs.
I seem to be surrounded by a bunch of guys in bibs.
I think I’ll have a little work to ease my miseries.
I’ll have a valve job and perhaps get four new arteries.
I should be home before it’s dark, so please don’t pass away.
And when I’m back, please promise me, do as the doctors say."
A decade since my chest was opened and I’m doing fine.
I’d like to thank my bypass team. My heart is yours, not mine.
A couple days ago, I miscarried.
Just a little blob covered in red.
Now they tell me it’s got to be buried.
Bad enough my zygote child is dead.
Fetus funerals are the law in Texas.
Strange new rules now suddenly abound.
Bring it to the graveyard in a Lexus.
Throw it with some flowers in the ground.
Priest will eulogize our little Cletis.
They suggested that it have a name.
We just made a guess it’s a boy fetus.
This whole system seems a bit insane.
Plan is when the ceremony ends,
we’ll go out to breakfast with some friends.
And, as this crazed situation begs,
we’ll all order sunny side up eggs.
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.