Loose Change

Some say that I’m not of these times.

I’m lost in recollections.
Some hear bells but I hear chimes.
I don’t ask for directions.
Now some would like to define me
as nothing but a hoarder.
But I see things that they don’t see.
And everything has order.
While they see piles and tons of crap,
each thing has special meaning.
An eight foot stack of magazines
they only see as leaning.
Each item has its history.
My memories are not crimes.
Inside each life’s a mystery.
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.

There’s baseball cards and movie stills
and paperbacks from France,
a shoebox full of teenage frills,
a corsage from the dance.
I even saved the glove from when
I shook a singer’s hand.
I don’t even recall his name,
but, man, he had some band.
I even have the knife and fork
saved from my dad’s last supper.
And here’s the poison bottle’s cork.
Not everything’s an upper.
See, everything is organized
by places, deeds and times.
In tins and jars I realized
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.
Here’s a sack of balls I caught
while sitting in the stands.
And check out all these postcards bought
and sent from foreign lands.
Got photographs of family members
going  back a century.
Yes, there’s some no one remembers.
But to toss is blasphemy.
Boxes labeled, cartons tabled,
bags and bags in many places.
Yes my movements are disabled,
but in all things I see faces.
Uncles used these decks of cards,
grandmas wore these jewelry shards,
Every word in this collection rhymes.
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.

Borderline Psychotic

So here’s a song which could have subtitle new national anthem:

I’ll put a fucking wall
around you all.
I’ll toss your kids in cages
in the cold.
Paranoia has me in its thrall.
But I am made of concrete
and I will never fold.

Don’t talk about taxes.
What about the faxes?
Fake news! Dems are the colluders!
I have every right to cede
this country to intruders.

Pack up your investigation.
Won’t outlast my litigation.
Second term will be vacation.
Sell off many parcels of our nation.
What’s left will
have significant revamps.
And some amongst you
will be sent to camps.

Don’t mention obstruction.
The deep state’s big construction.
Witch hunt! The media committed treason.
I might just declare that this is
liberal hunting season.

Barsy

My mother died a year ago today.

I feel I need do more than light a candle.
I should sit on a rock and meditate,
but somehow feel that’s more than I can handle.
It’s been suggested I should plant a tree
but my yard is already over crowded.
I could walk through the streets calling her name,
all dressed in black or maybe even shrouded.
Some say that I should play her favorite song,
the one which almost mentioned her by name.
I think I could not handle that for long,
no matter who the voice is singing “Mame.”
The proper thing, of course, would be to go
into a church and sit down in a pew,
reciting prayers to her departed soul,
but that’s something an atheist can’t do.
And so my tribute will be quite low key.
No chants or songs directed up above.
I’ll just remember what she meant to me.
And try to wrap my heart around her love.

Scupper

There’s a lot to be saved if for drinking supper;
cycle all those liquids as if you’re human scupper.

Give me one more beer, dear bartender.
I’m still a few away from being on a bender.
When I start to ask for whiskey, that’s a sign I’m getting frisky,
and it’s best if you return me to sender.

I would live in a bar and become a drunk star.
I would detail my antics on line.
I’d abandon my house and then total my car.
Every night I’d mix whiskey with wine.

There’s a lot to be saved by drinking supper;
cycle them damn liquids around like a human scupper.

A man might dedicate his life to alcohol.
And his friends might tell him that he’s headed for a fall.
But what’s the sense of living your life up against the wall?
The great god of fermentation has provided me my call.

I am loved in liquor stores and cabarets.
My life is interrupted frequently by short jail stays.
I often see the world as nothing but a bottle maze.
But I’m much to old to change my sippin’ ways.

There’s a lot to be said for drinking supper;
run them liquids in and out just like a human scupper.

The Week Will Inherit the Earth

It was just the saddest thing I’d heard.
Blue Monday’s sun was eaten by a bird.
It took off to the moon.
That light was gone too soon.
And now the dark’s just waiting for the word.
More bad news came the next day as I feared.
Ruby Tuesday up and disappeared.
Her dreams had all gone wrong.
She strangled in the song.
And then the restaurant: now that was weird.

Now there’s a weakness in the middle of the week,
a wrongness that wrecks words and makes it hard to speak.
And then the weekend comes, a three-day weirdness tweak.
But then it starts again, the bird with sun in beak.

///////oy couldn’t find a Wednesday connect except morning comin down /// if you can throw in WThF verses, then the last 4 lines could be chorus in this spot and at the end . ////// . we could have false names for writing credits, like Jah&Pa .
Stay tuned.

Rocking Chair Blues

I get those rocking chair blues
every time I hear the news.
There’s a man in shirt and shoes
who is drowning in his clues.
And a circle of bad folks
who are out there telling jokes.
And no one’s dying anywhere
or hiding dirty underwear.
There is no legal treason case
when all the judges wear his face.
And everyone not on the take
is vilified as wrong or fake.
The workers take his hardest hits.
When he opens his mouth he shits.
His odor spreads around the globe.
In all, he is a mankind-phobe.
That’s why I got to get out
from these rocking chair blues.
I’m sick of seeing nazis
toting guns and fire and booze.
There’s a man upon a hill
in shirt, shoes and red tie,
who’ll stop these rocking, shocking blues
when hung up by his lie.

Slip of the Tongue

I only ate one slice of bacon,

just some gristle and some fat,
but my vegan friends went crazy,
asking how could I do that.
Acted like I’d stripped a forest,
killed Babe, eaten Bambi’s mom,
like I’d torn off Dumbo’s ears
or dropped a raw hamburger bomb.
It was just a momentary lapse,
I hastened to explain.
But that pork inside my stomach
really seemed to give them pain.
There’s no calming hard-line vegans
once you have ingested meat.
Might as well take this thing further,
walk ’em down carnivore street.
Told them I was really sorry,
their forgiveness I would beg.
It’s a good thing, then I mumbled,
that they hadn’t seen the egg.
And tonight, said, for my supper,
I was planning one great meal:
frogs’ legs all done up in butter,
chicken liver and some veal.
Now my vegan friends are wary.
When I pass, they all look south.
I imagine I look scary
with blood dripping from my mouth.

The Aged Stage

I’m not a man of grace. In fact, I can be mean.

I don’t respect the president, the papacy or queen.
There is only one thing that I love, and this is true.
There’s one face on my totem, dear, and that belongs to you.
I drink too much and sleep all day, then party through the night.
I don’t help to support the left although I hate the right.
I don’t take part in races ’cause I always throw a shoe.
My heart’s a silver locket and the face inside is you.
The road not taken’s long behind and up ahead’s a wall.
My life is in its winter phase. I’m ready for the fall.
I’ll climb that ladder in the sky up to the castle blue.
The one face on the parapet I’m looking for is you.
I’m a cold brother trucker never got off that dirt road.
I’ve thrown aside some friends, it’s true, to lighten up my load.
But when I break out of the cage, escape the human zoo,
my sidekick on the trip to come eternally is you.

The Aged Stage

I’m not a man of grace. In fact, I can be mean.

I don’t respect the president, the papacy or queen.
There is only one thing that I love, and this is true.
There’s one face on my totem, dear, and that belongs to you.
I drink too much and sleep all day, then party through the night.
I don’t help to support the left although I hate the right.
I don’t take part in races ’cause I always throw a shoe.
My heart’s a silver locket and the face inside is you.
The road not taken’s long behind and up ahead’s a wall.
My life is in its winter phase. I’m ready for the fall.
I’ll climb that ladder in the sky up to the castle blue.
The one face on the parapet I’m looking for is you.
I’m a cold brother trucker never got off that dirt road.
I’ve thrown aside some friends, it’s true, to lighten up my load.
But when I break out of the cage, escape the human zoo,
my sidekick on the trip to come eternally is you.

Once Moor, With Feeling

Othello. He hated Jello.
He was a Moor and things that shake
destroyed his mellow.
And his good wife, Desdemona,
who lived in Venice but quite enjoyed Barcelona,
got entangled with Iago,
who was a tough guy from Detroit or else Chicago.
There were some Turks,
but they got drownded.
And Desdemona dropped her hankie and got grounded.
And meanwhile Cassio, who was a soldier,
becomes important in act five when he gets older.
But when Othello strangles his wife,
you realize the play’s run out of life.
The bad Iago, mute on the shelf,
kills his own wife, and then Othello kills himself.
The play then ends. You go outside.
It seems it’s either have a drink or suicide.
You hit the pub. And close the door,
not sure if you like Shakespeare any moor.

Outage Problems

Facebook’s having problems, but it must assure it’s backers

your blackouts have nothing to do with all those Russian hackers.
It’s just a little downtime, like a much needed vacation.
It has nothing to do with our revealing information.
We would never violate your sacred privacy.
By the way, please say, “Get well” to your poor old aunt Bee.
There’s no need to read the fine print, go ahead and skim it.
By the way, your credit card is real close to its limit.
Just consider this time off a hazard of our age.
Apologies, we must go now and spy another page.

Rocky Shiitake

'Shrooms of all kinds
play with our minds,
infold like little umbrellas.
Some that you find
could be unkind.
They can be rough little fellas.
But everyone loves a Shiitake.
Their energy makes you feel cocky.
They taste really good with Japanese food.
Especially when there is sake.

Hue and Cry

I shook out the sleep dust from your pillow.
Seemed as if you'd dreamed in black and white.
I was thinking more in terms of color.
So I had to wake you every night.
Surely there must somewhere be a flower,
spot of sunlight or a slice of sky.
Now I have to wake you every hour,
dabbing at the grayish tears you cry.

Smirky Jerky

Catholic boys in MAGA hats, bothersome as swarming gnats.

Worse, in fact, ’cause they’re much louder.
Couldn’t make their parents prouder.
White boys smirking, taunting, yelling. Border walls is what they’re selling.
Theirs is an exclusive school, contoured to the rich and cruel.
They think that they own the land. Orange Man’s their wizard grand.
Their bravado makes us grateful that we are not all that hateful.
Parents, teachers, show some guts. Put some leashes on these mutts.
No excuse for how they acted. Some folks just should be redacted.

Pinning the Knight

Imagine getting old enough to teach a grandson dice games.
Never happen.
There will be holograms programmable on your home court.
Or headset participation: you are guarding Gary Payton,
hooking over Alcindor. Athletes will become prototypes.
 Arenas will be built in condo walls.
One day someone will say Jordan wasn’t real. We’ll lose the feel.
I’m so glad to have made the transition from black and white to color
to 3D quadrophonic and back to balsa.
The flight of the crumbled free.
Here we are amidst many armies, listening to steel guitars.
What honor has been bestowed upon us
with the quick disintegration of time,
watching beauty explode in its daily ministry, light to dark, red to blue.
There is no telling what to do. Just look to the woods.

When You Wish Upon A Tsar

The Tsar made me do it.
I didn’t quite think through it.
Convinced me that collusion
was nothing but illusion.
I wanted a hotel
and figured what the hell.
I guessed I could get by
by acting as a spy.
So I became their mole,
their stinking commie troll.
I had a lot of debt.
It all seemed a good bet.
So I became their plant.
And I went on a rant.
Said immigrants are bad.
It drove the people mad.
I covered all the bases,
appealed to all white faces.
And when the fix was in,
the reds said I would win.
Now that I’m head of state,
I realize, too late,
I should have had more reason.
My coda could be treason.

The Agony of Victory

Bats flew like helicopters
from stadiums, sandlots and parks,
all across the sports-infected country.
It was the first protest of its kind.
Inappropriate usage of trees, they ranted.
Last year they’d ruined dear football
with their chants about saving brains.
And hockey has long been a styrofoam sport.
Next year they will focus on MMA
with a call for the incorporation
of body painting within the ring action.
Mixed Partial Arts will never fly.
The moving backboard all but killed hoops.
And the elderly-in-crosswalks
addition will be the end of NASCAR.
All this to pump up the ratings for war.
Generals want that sweet advertising money.
And the pop-up battles have, indeed,
captured the public’s attention.
Gunshots aren’t quite so scary
when it might just be a game breaking out.

Come Back, Sweet Lou

This guy was Sessions’ Chief of Staff.
His resume could make one laugh.
He lost a couple statewide runs.
But he works out and has big guns.
He’s almost fifty, from Des Moines,
loved by guys who praise their groin.
He played football for the Hawkeyes
but lost in Rose Bowl game.
He coached Rick Perry’s POTUS run,
which crashed and burned, oh shame.
He jumped into the business world
with both his size twelve feet,
investing first in trailers,
then in day care, then concrete.
He got involved in marketing
but fraud charge shut that down.
So he became a talking head,
conservative news clown.
He gained Drumpf’s keen attention
dismissing all his crimes.
He thought he’d get a judgeship
and climb back to good times.
But his gestapo manner
and posture as good cop,
shot him up the justice arm
and landed him on top.
So now Attorney General’s
just another name for goon.
These con man grifters come and go.
Let’s hope this one’s gone soon.