Straightness

Bent conundrums plague those who abhor all broken lines.
Some think that the smallest curves deserve the biggest fines.
Run it off the page and you could spend your life in jail.
Straightness is the rage. A bucket list is just a pail.
Don’t hang around with free forms, as their danger is inherent.
And one who talks about norms is a criminal apparent.
Put all your faith in both boxes and walls, anything with angles.
Let corners and lids play with your kids. Adopt a few rectangles.
One just needs to know that the flight of the crow
is the straight man’s new best friend.
Organize things, and cut off all wings.
Containment’s the ultimate end.

The Sick Squad (Hospital poem 3)

The medical bounty hunters

are closing in on me.
I insist there’s nothing wrong,
but they say that can’t be.
A man is made of sicknesses,
there’s no such thing as well.
They’ll keep me in their grasp and care
from birth to final bell.
You’ll find they lurk at hospitals
and frequent pharmacies.
The feds and meds and big pharm heads
combine to pay their fees.
Next time you see some men with stretchers
parked along your block,
run like hell, they’re out to get you.
You are on the clock.

Lost in the Shuffle

Death will find me friendless and alone,

chewing on my conscience like a bone.
Those I tossed aside will wave to me,
all together, from a boat at sea.
While the dead ignore me, underground,
light will leak away without a sound.
Those who once walked with me on life’s path
will find nothing now except vague wrath.
Histories we shared in times uncertain
now appear a useless, tattered curtain.
Every pathway walked has disappeared,
shadows turned to darkness as I neared.
Soon I will be buried in the dirt,
probably amongst those I have hurt.
If only one could go back at the end
to smooth the surface or straighten the bend,
perhaps a life, in retrospect, could heal.
But that’s not in the cards. There’s no re-deal.

Labor Town (Hospital poem 1)

Oh, the work force down in Labor Town
went off to seek their fortune.
In mills and stills and mining hills,
the summer sun was scorchin.’
When hope ran dry, they turned their eye
back toward the place they’d left.
But the streets were dead and the lakes were dry,
the whole scene was bereft.
Labor Town had seen its day,
money piling up like hay.
Now the crop had gone away,
the buildings fit for arson.
Two men roamed the dusty street,
forlorn, hungry, in defeat.
Beneath a tree, they had a seat,
beggar man and parson.
When one leaves his place of birth,
pledged to roam the challenged earth,
there is one key step to take:
make sure it is no mistake.
Some roads lead to castle, palace,
others bordered, oft, by malice,
run downhill to fiery ends,
empty of both love and friends.
Labor Town once prompted toasts.
Now it’ home to angry ghosts.
Those who jettison their past
find a future that won’t last.

Child of the Multiverse

AI has brought you back into our dream.
We’ll kiss your robot face until you scream.
It’s the only thing of measure
to resemble former pleasure.
It takes a village, or, in this case, team.
The wires which compose your fragile bones
do not seem out of place with your earphones.
The vocal microchip hidden neatly in your lip
can be set to many pitches, strengths and tones.
Just seeing you in silence sit and stare
gives grand illusion that you’re really there.
And those synthetic strings which pass as hair
remind us of your real self, once so fair.
They’ve warned us, though, your battery might die.
The signal is a flicker in the eye.
Will second life suffice, or must we pay the price
of bidding you eternally goodbye?

“Death is a Star”

We used to believe in The Clash.

But now we accumulate trash.
It seems life turned into a bummer
when we lost our punk god, Joe Strummer.
Their first album changed the seventies musical diet.
“London’s Burning,” Police and Thieves,” and, of course, “White Riot.”
Their next release furthered our hope.
They said, “Give ‘Em Enough Rope.”
“London Calling” told a story:
“Hateful,” “Clampdown,” “Death or Glory.”
“Sandinista,” 1980, was a true masterpiece, matey.
Three discs, reggae, jazz and dub. We felt we had joined a club.
“Combat Rock” was made to sell.
After that, ’twas “Straight To Hell.”
Joe got fixed up with new choppers.
Then they lost their drummer, Topper.
Nothing after seemed quite right.
Mick’s Big Audio Dynamite
played beneath a disco ball.
Punk was headed for a fall.
Joe’s last group, The Mescaleros,
survived all the post-Clash harrows.
Made three albums with this crew.
And then he passed, 2002.
For four years, Clash gave us hope.
Guess we needed too much rope.

Monterey Cop

Strobe light punks and cordial drunks amass in the heart of the square.

The triangle boys bring rectangle toys and the bone kids don’t know what to wear.
Somewhere crazed youth might fall from the trees and the brothers curse them underground.
The guitar has no strings and the mute choir sings, an unhearingly passable sound.
When the beat cops arrive, they continue to jive, and the party roars into full swing.
Then the birds join right in and the wolves leave the den with the prospect of grabbing a wing.
It’s a dream of the Monterey park, LSD melting things in the dark.
Later on, in a spirited mode, perhaps you’ll meet a god on the road.

“Plague Of Years”

Eyeless in Gaza was playing as rockets rained down.

Screams of the mothers and babies just could not be drowned.
Buildings were bombed before they could evacuate.
Even with warnings, it’s always too little, too late.
A war of religion, like poem and pigeon don’t mix.
The seven day war was the worst one before.
The next one might end in just six.
Palestine is not on the mind of the people in power.
If they had their way, they would drop the Big A,
and be done with the mess in an hour.
The land God loves least must be the mideast.
It’s the center of trouble worldwide.
Forget your lame prayer. The beast doesn’t care.
And no savior will come to your side.
It’s the hour of sand and the glass in your hand is now cracking.
The Howitzer gun reflects the cruel sun,
and the stones thrown are horribly lacking.
Some say Shoo-less Joe doesn’t have enough soul for concern.
And Bennie the N (no man is a friend) will treat people like meat ’til they burn.

Recognition’s Scar

Depleted idols,
shorn subtitles,
fading vitals
rudely reappear.
Undermined by their kind,
loveless, blind,
unwound of mind,
their outlines are not clear.
Relinquishing the pace,
the human race
may lack the tact
of moral grace.
And, slowly, they dissolve.
There’s no one to absolve.
The gods won’t ever find
this hiding place.
A slowly moving river,
cold as shiver,
moves their sand out to the sea.
They’ve lost all implication
from a torn and battered nation
which at one time called them royalty.
How the mighty quickly fall
should well remind us all
that time is really nothing but a ruse.
When night obscures their lines
and their memory designs,
all that’s left behind
is history’s bruise.

The Muse Moos

I’m starting up another sleepless streak,
continuing this wild, untethered week.
At times it all seems well, at others bleak.
It’s like a slo-mo fall from off my peak.
Perhaps I should be grateful for commotion,
for life can ebb and crash much like the ocean.
For pain, there’s always pills or sometimes lotion.
It’s hard to not see old age as demotion.
When breathing gets oppressive
and the manic turns depressive,
life and death in their successive turns reveal
they are partners in the end,
one can admit or pretend,
whether you’re a holy cow or meathook veal.

We Need More Space

Look out up above, dude, it’s the falling Chinese rocket!

It’s gotta land somewhere, but they don’t know how to clock it.
It could crash in New York, L.A., Rio or Beijing.
It’s twenty tons, nine stories tall, so, really, no big thing.
It’s tumbling out of orbit, eighteen thousand miles an hour.
This is not your typical small mass of space junk shower.
The risk of killing people, Chinese say, is really small.
Perhaps it will fall in the sea, not killing folks at all.
The risk of death by falling metal’s like the lottery.
Some poor sap gets the big one, suddenly is history.

I Let the Dogs In

Therapy dogs solved my problem.

I used to be an angry cat.
After just a couple sessions,
I forgot about all that.
Now I jump and play outside,
and roll around in dirt.
Therapy dogs encourage that,
as long’s I don’t get hurt.
I hope to spend all of my life
in doggy therapy.
They’ve changed the way I see the world.
I wouldn’t hurt a flea.

Penal Code Orange

Awoke one morn to find that Donald Trump was sent to jail.

Surprisingly, he put up Kim Kardashian for bail.
But that was not enough. They wanted his two sons.
“If you seek Don and Eric, you’d best watch out, they have guns.”
Oh yes, we’ve seen a list of all the animals they’ve killed;
and please know that, because of that, you’re going to get billed.
Perhaps your loyal Kushners could loan you the cash you need.
You were the popper, after all, of her bright demon seed.
Each loyal ‘friend’ tried to defend their old boss Forty Five.
But, secretly, their wish was that he not be still alive.
They say he’ll live alone in Alcatraz, where he can brood.
Occasionally, some tourists might stop by and throw him food.
Of course, he won’t be satisfied. He needs food in a bucket.
The only reason for their visit’s so they can yell, “Suck It!”

The Big Letdownski

In June I’ll have a different attitude.
I’ll float above the lanes just like The Dude.
I’ll take the doc’s advice, and try to be real nice,
and cut way down on time in which I brood.
Of course, the world will have to play its part.
Corona has come back now with a shart.
India and now Brazil are targeted for viral kill.
Good news still has to find a place to start.
In June, perhaps, crowds will be back in parks.
The independence crowd will hoard its sparks.
Maybe a Broadway play will open up some day.
And vaccine doses will hit all their marks.
We’ll put aside our masks and see some faces,
and go back once again to risky places.
We’ll work on gun control, and murder of the soul,
to try to cut down on cop killer cases.
By June’s end, there’ll be summer in our hearts,
to realign our lives in fits and starts.
With Biden at the wheel, a lot of people feel
this comeback could be simply off the charts.
But, don’t forget this fact: The Dude abides.
There’s got to be some merging on both sides.
If white supremacy continues, sea to sea,
there’ll be no way across our great divides.

Not Dead, Yet

I am tending now toward broken,
not a good sign for antiques.
I’m full of bumps and spots and dots,
and some assorted leaks.
Joints are aching, locking, popping,
not unlike a dance.
Appropriate in ballrooms, yes,
but not putting on pants.
The head of hair I sported once
has long since gone away.
The close-trimmed beard of fifty years
has grown out wild and grey.
I pay less mind to my own scent,
which once was fresh and fragrant.
My clothing choices tend to lean toward
nursing home or vagrant.
I’m hoping for a few more years
to get used to this change.
This horse is long past time to stud,
and doesn’t have much range.
My needs are simple, music, books,
and, once a day, I’m fed.
I pet the cats. I play guitar.
And then I go to bed.
It’s not as bad as it may sound.
There’s cookies and ice cream.
And, even when you’re old as I,
you’re still allowed to dream.

Eternal Combustion

Evolving through decades of panic
in chariots metal, gas powered and manic.
Revolving through rotaries and underpasses,
screaming profanities out at the masses.
Paying for fuel, often waiting in lines.
Driving too fast and then paying the fines.
It’s time to rethink our means of transportation.
We get nowhere fast in our life’s destination.
We turn the sky grey and then sing of the blues.
The future’s a dead end with nothing to choose.
They talk infrastructure, of bridges and roads,
without mentioning they are outdated modes.
The obvious resort is limiting travel.
But no court in this land will handle that gavel.
We’re stuck in this fossil fuel loop ’til we die.
The future might laugh at us, wondering why.
And what, in the end, may redeem our behavior?
Alien technology. That’s our savior.

Hill of Has Beens

The fool on the hill has been sent down south.
No longer need we hear the swill from his mouth.
He still dreams of power, still rants and commands.
But, as of this hour, it’s out of his hands.
Though lackeys and leeches remain by his side,
his chances in three years are not bona fide.
Some equally vain don may relight his fire,
but we’ve had enough of these crooks and that liar.
Our country should by then be on the rebound,
and reject, outright, a damned fool or hellhound.
We suffered his curse and remain democratic.
May he grow old, broken, still growling, but static.

Sobering Advice

Sobriety binge will leave you unhinged.

It’ll teetotal all of your sums.
Your pals will be way out there chomping on stars,
but you’ll just be left with the crumbs.
A brain tires out by the end of the day,
all the synapses going to glue.
But as soon as you drink, it enervates think,
and just wait until you have two.
But now a buzzkill. Results go downhill
quite quickly when drinks number three.
And, by number four, you might need the door,
and the floor may be filled with debris.
Then, when you hit five, you’ll still feel alive,
but your brain cells will be in lockdown.
And, should you reach six, you’ll be in a fix.
Officially, you’re in drunk town.
So, stay on alert. Don’t drink ’til you’re hurt.
It’s a tippling matter you’ll learn.
When things start to blur, it’s time to defer.
Sobriety must have its turn.

Ant Hill

I am not a mountain,

I whispered to an ant
who’d climbed my shadow.
My right arm was a drawbridge
back to nature you won’t see
on Rachel Maddow.
But ants will not be waylaid,
and in moments it was back
and with a friend.
There must be something up there.
Ants believe,
but it is seldom they pretend.

Peach Pit

Mystery drones and space debris.

That stuff doesn’t interest me.
Lil Nas X coming out
is what it is all about.
Kim Jong’s missiles may concern,
until Mighty Ducks return.
New Holmes entry on Netflix
will pump many t.v. dicks.
Tornadoes ripping the south:
don’t get too down in the mouth.
In Australia, plagues of mice
makes what goes down here look nice.
Though we face a returned foe,
Georgia devil raised, Jim Crow.
GOP voter suppression
leaves a clear racist impression.
Democracy might die in shock.
Watch it streamed live on Peacock.