INFALLIBLE

INFALLIBLE
I wanted something different, dammit, something that would
Upset the powerful and unfurl a twisting dime´s worth of
A chance to tilt it over enough to fall.
It should fall, all of it.
The sparkling shit shows that pass for news,
The grinding crush of the daily lives most lead,
The waking terror of missing a payment, a lunch, getting stopped for a ticket,
Getting recognized in the food stamp office.

Tilt it all over.
Shoot, knock it down now.

As stressful as I saw it, it was worse for the unlucky,
The lone feeders of the ether, living in boxes out back,
Or rotting trailers with flapping doors, hand to mouthing,
Praying for anyone or anything to makes us
As great as we feel we should be
But never will be and we know it.

Call me infallible.
I ain´t got nothing wrong on that last check to the counters
Where the tips are getting smaller
And the stinginess of the damnable writes “US citizens only” on theirs
Praising Jesus on the drive home, saluting the flag still flying
Near the Post Office, now closed.
Whatever becomes of this shit it´s a whole lot better
Than being vaporized in a wash of radioactive isotopes near a playground or
Dropped above your heads.
Every particle there we eat or breathe is another mark the cancer
We´re set for is a cancer we´ll see through alone
Posting prayer wishes on Facebook, crying that it´s all
Too much to bear.
I keep getting it right. Damn.

We got a choice:
We can turn up the amplitude and get walkin´
Or we can light the fires at home,
But it´s going to take long struggle and a lot more misery
Before that belated victory is seen, the better way demonstrated.

WORMSONG

WORMSONG

We overuse everything: apologies, tools for the yard, commas,
Phones, computers, etc.,
Never taking responsibility for the critical mass we are creating,
One so explosive, it will end us all.

We are dying.

We are all walking dead,
Staring down the abyss of inattentiveness,
Oblivious to everything around us:
Kids walking to school, the ducks on the road, a baby crying down the street,
The sun, the moon, the stars above, the rich, brown earth below.
Maybe there´s an answer on Google,
Maybe someone will remind us that
We are here
To be here,
A prophet to tell us to wake up
And kiss a stranger, hug our neighbors,
Be there when we cut the grass or wash the dishes-
Be there, only there, just there.

Maybe some bacteria will infect our hearts
And collectively, we will all suffer from
Affectionis cardiitis,
Walking around looking straight into the eyes of everyone we meet
And smiling, give them a reminder of why THIS is all we have.

Because it is.

We won´t waffle – we´ll see them straight, like we sometimes see ourselves.
Then, in this new sickness, we´ll crawl on the floors with babies again,
Walk with the old people, slap a buddy on the back for no good reason
Except because he´s there, and so am I.

Maybe this sickness will spread and
Frenchmen will tell dry jokes about the water in Paris
Or Germans will imitate New Yorkers badly
While Russians will burst out with glee at something not heavy, at last!

Our favorite past time, war, will change, too.
Instead off sardine packed troop transports,
Fountains will bring people together where
Dangling feet in the cool freshness will get us all medals
And on TV news-anchors and weather folk alike will take calls
Responsive to their viewers and remind everyone
That the sun might be hidden for now
But go outside in an hour and you´ll be able to rest in it´s glow.

Maybe none of this will come to pass…
Maybe we´ll muddle as usual our way through
Until the firmament above opens up
And a voice yells,
“That´s it, I´m done! Time to start all over again!” and,
In a wash of colors we´ll never see,
Everything blank and sudden and filled with nuclear sparkles,
A sprout will one day pop up in that new time
Somewhere between cement slabs that were
Once sidewalks and,
In conversations none of us would have understood anyway,
The worms will pass the word along…
Instead of one weed popping up in photogenic splendor
Let´s all join hands and, reliant on each other
Spring upwards, breaking through the dense blocks everywhere
And take a look at the new sky
Trying once again to get it all right, this time,
Arm in arm, tail to tail, eye to eye,
Right there, right then.

TERMINAL TERMA

TERMINAL TERMA

E Ma Ho!
How wondrous!
Another expensive cannon,
Another gun, another missile
To be fired
At another enemy yet unnamed
Surely decided upon beforehand,
Unborn, unmanifested until called forth,
The hopeless acceleration
Of the world´s foremost game
Planned by a Navy, an Army, a suit and a tie!
Will a brake be ever put on this drive?
Will a driver be found to steer away from the inevitable?
How wondrous!
We look and see nothing!
There is no change, no meaning,
Only a special Hell for the widow makers
And their repetitive tasks.
There is nothing more to be seen.
It is ever thus, and always to be.
How wondrous!

PAST DISCUSSION

PAST DISCUSSION

In deep waters run foul messages:
A dead powerlessness to move it all,
To alter the streaming waves of refuse
Absorbed, deposited, eaten and flushed back again
Into the blue vastness
Is confirmed. Dying, dying is our Source.

An admiralty of useful idiots
Plotting and designing, stealing from the ocean floor
Dumping on its surface, eating from its bloodied
Sacred heart, in the center depths filled with
BPA, PCB, mercury…

The naked ground of resistance must open,
The compassionate heart must wrench itself free
&, dancing to the light of revolution,
Overcome the pathologies of our time, becoming truly helpful,
Overturning crowds, listening for cries of anger, setting them free,
Pulling morality away from the staid confines of mute discussions.

GARDEN SURPRISE

GARDEN SURPRISE

She walked near the meadow alone, her pen tucked
Neatly behind her ear,
Her inner timer set to ‘soon’. Along the garden path,
Winding in circles she’d remembered as a child,
A stone centaur, half-sunken, glared at her
With scowling menace. In her reverie she’d forgotten to
Affirm her own wit on occasions like this and,
Pulling the pen out quickly, jotted notes to add to her collection
Of nature poesy. A far off whistle caught her attention.
In the midst of sloppily written verbiage she’d later forget to unlock,
Death awakened and, suddenly seeing the Centaur shift
To smile at her, she understood the day would be
A lot longer than planned.

ANIMAL TRAPS

ANIMAL TRAPS

The hill was muddy, the earth smells,
Sweet as we yakked away the time.
The dog barked for food. Later, for Them.
For now, the smallest of us
Aped the threats, mimicking those
On the other side.
He spoke of them as animals, pigs, he said,
Who parroted what their masters told them.
We nodded, agreeing.
“What´s good for the goose is good for the gander”
Another said portentously, though we faced off without him later,
His head suddenly sandwiched between two bullets,
Spread like a bad Picasso on the walls behind us.
We practically flew away, running
As the hounds cornered us on the cliff.
There we beheld the cows in the far fields
Blithely eating grass,
Oblivious to the night´s upcoming,
More bestial ruminations.

 

A PAEAN TO POISON

A PAEAN TO POISON

“You are mistaken”, he kept repeating,
“From this list, I see nothing”.
“Your son must die”.
The conversation begs for reason.
Mothers beg for lives.

Heedless to her calls,
We storm off the stage in our pissiness:
We are the ones to thank.
We are good, we say,
That is what makes us great.
Her son dangles before her.
We watch the Super Bowl and cheer for underdogs.

It is a wonder, isn´t it?
How many extremists have we now?
How many live in the White House
Year after year to end their days
Windsurfing, called gracious?

It isn´t by happenstance that
Sometimes we lie awake, frozen in
Our terror of Them.
We know…

If only she could deflate their egos,
Their tires would do, but
The hole in her soul begs for more
As she rages inside…
Soon, it is another wonder,
She shares her insides at the gate,
The walls, the windows, all
Splattered with her formless rage,
An artwork to anger.
A paean to our poison.

THE COLD, CERTAIN TIMES

THE COLD, CERTAIN TIMES
Along the treeline, bare patches filled the dry spaces
Between the rocks and the snowy mountaintop. The trail
Cut close to the edge, below, a thousand feet drop back to
The parking lot. The birds numbered few this high up,
But they watch, still.

A few weeks past, floods hit the mountain, towns below nearly
Swept by and limber students from nearby schools were drafted
To help clean the roads.
In March, such hikes were done, but prohibitive-
Bears might return, bobcats were a danger, and
The cold beat though the warmth with pummeling firmness,
While the riverbed presented a dangerous line for us to pass
No matter how fit, or used to the exercise.

Afterwards, a conversation was heard near the trash bins
Concerning the recent events in Washington.
Threats were heard, and promises to defriend were passed back and forth
Like the water bottles we shared back on top.
Their gestures were crude, their language and arguments reminders why
The protest would ultimately fail.

The birds didn´t care for the policies or their pain,
Somewhere soon, beside a towering rock, under a tree,
By the side of the trail, perhaps, up there
They would find their pickings,
That at least, was certain.

THE RIGHT ANSWER

THE RIGHT ANSWER

We wandered into the crevice of pain-
An irksome place, loaded with stares
And compassionate fools filled with helpful insights.
We took wholehearted turns longing for relief, help
Was nowhere close, oblivion nearer.
One excuse for the rush
Was that stars were falling, and time was running out.
Another was simply the death of happiness struck
Down the unafflicted yearning for brighter suns.
We would wait it out until the right answer struck.

The Heart´s Running Scream

THE HEART´S RUNNING SCREAM

Gainfully employed for Christmas
didn´t stop
the attitude I got
from the boss-
“I had hope in you” he said,
pointing to the wall where the figures were etched.
“Sadly we are in no financial position
to retain you
so we´ll have to call it here.”

I could speak of the deplorable
arrangements
my mind made-
the antics like shitting on his chair
after the cleaning man and I
rearranged his office to look like
a tornado in August.

No, I won´t dive into that mess.
I´ll conserve my attitude
pack my stuff
leave the office
in dogeared facetime
and return
home to where I will
still be asked,
“How was your day, hon?”

It´s not like I will die or live
from the loss.
Not tonight.

Life is a whole lot of non-binary signals
attracting hope in the middle.

We´ll leave the aberrant wishes
for another wistful day.
Tonight, I´ll take out the trash
and stifle the heart´s running scream.