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Sunday, December 4, 2016

800 Number

For sale
Brand new wheelchair
Never used

Call 1 800 FUNERAL 

Dancing In Red Ink

I want to do it for me I want to write a damn book but I might not
Have the brains or whatever it takes to but then I see all those pulp
Romance paperbacks with all those creased spines lined up like old
Women along a brick building like senior hookers lips red eyes blackened
Prune faced kisses blown in my direction and shrinkage like a frightened
Turtle from these sirens of antiquity I could be a priest easier than a short
Order chef hanging around those gals of yesteryear and so I struggle and
Worry and repeat over and over what the hell can I write a story about
Stream of insanity yes very good I am half nuts and half sane but prefer
To embrace the emotional uproar of crazy to the tepid sheepishness of
Normalcy surround me any given day of routine cookie cutter stereotypical
Mundane respirations of herd life then Monday back to work for a forty hour
Prison sentence only to reoffend on Saturday and Sunday two free days gloriously
Mine but the warden calls and do the crime serve your time bills debts payments
Dancing in red ink cyclic never ending trap cage a wasted life a consumer of goods
And services a life unexamined the greatest sin


Very Far

Vietnam had come home on the TV every evening up close
Our family of five had gone to an evening church service on
Christmas Eve, the church came alive with beautiful red ribbons
And everyone who attended wore church clothes or their very best
The very fair skinned angelic old preacher with studious glasses
Had a message that night, he and his family vacationed that summer
Out west, and fate delivered them a flat tire on a busy four lane highway,
And the lug nuts had rusted on the family station wagon, the preacher
Went on to say how hundreds of cars passed by, and the only vehicle
To stop and assist his stranded family was an old painted van, filled
With travelling hippies, the preacher wanted to know why all the well
Dressed Christians had passed him by? I was young then, maybe twelve
Years old, but knew what Jesus would have done, he would have been
With the hippies, after the service I even donated three dollars of my
Christmas money to His cause, it felt good being a part of this movement,
Christendom, but I had left the packed church service with an unsettling
Other feeling, an awareness sort of, maybe other people couldn’t
Feel the needs of their neighbors, maybe some folks were incapable of
Living their lives as Christians, I had never had such dismal thoughts before,
It was Christmastime, snow on the ground, trees up, kids singing carols
Door to door for cash or cookies, and I had a disturbance in my heart,
And thoughts raced through my head, maybe the reason Jesus did come
Into the world is because man is evil after all, by nature, then this awareness
Stole my holiday spirit, I suddenly wanted to know more about life and what
Really was going on here, that year I carried my bible everywhere, I was
Changing in many ways, I started to know things, like the world was a mess
And people died in wars, real people like our neighbor’s son Billy, we went
To his funeral and everyone was crying and everything was black, and then
They lowered the casket into the ground and I held my breath, I could see
Billy lying on his back waiting, waiting to come out of the ground someday,
And looking up, I saw hundreds and hundreds of grave markers and I knew
My fate, I wanted no part of this world, never, I was going to die someday


Saturday, December 3, 2016

The Poet Extraordinaire

Thirty years ago I was in a college writing class and a guest
Speaker came in with his entourage, groupies sort of, but writers
Come in all forms, this Asian guy a poet of renown read aloud his
Poem about a tiger walking on piano keys, I believe, the class sat
Quietly almost as if in a church or at a funeral, then from the back
Of the room came laughter, a little explosion, and the poet stopped
And smiled, and said, yes yes, and everyone else felt dumb, but
After the reading we were allowed to approach this established poet
In person, and ask questions I assume, being a little older than the
Others I went up and shook his hand, not really understanding a word
He said, he smiled and said thank you, but to the right of me, a man
Leaning on a counter end, was ferociously scribbling words as if possessed,
As if time was running out, his fire for writing consumed his every move
I realized, he was dressed in black from head to toe, a suit a shirt, and
Shoes, even his hair was long thick and black, and his face as white
As the moon when full and lit from the hidden sun, I could feel this man’s
Intent on somehow breaking free from the constraints of the imposed
World around, and it was his attempt to live the written word as a poet
Extraordinaire, he had no awareness of his surroundings, as he descended
In to the madness of sacrificing self for an obsession he thought worthy,
And when these wanderers finally were gone at day’s end, I stopped at a
Bar, had a few drinks, and wondered how his life would turn out, would he
Find what he’s looking for



American Soldiers

Do you love America? Then prepare for the future, now
Learn to make fire bombs, learn to shoot straight, learn
What medications can help if you are exposed, or bleeding,
Or in pain, be a civilian soldier of America, it is your right,
And you owe it to yourself to be ready, because things are
Happening now, and you should never be caught unprotected
Unarmed or uninformed, so learn the basics of survival, and
Remember, the government will put their safety first, above
You and your family 

Changing Times

Prove it bitch, that’s what I’ll tell the judge
Not in her concrete fort, in her heavily armed court
But in the media, out in the light of day
In the streets, on a hill top, from the steps of Congress
I will not be a trapped white mouse conned by a bitch
In her domain then arrested for contempt, then jailed
I do disrespect her, a common whore from Bishop County
A  bar fly talked about around town, a swinger sleeping
With any dog who wants stale pussy, and ugly, an ugly
Judge a monkey couldn’t get it up for, unless the primate is
In a police uniform getting overtime on the tax payer’s dime
So listen up bitch, yea, I’m talking about you, come and get
Me, if you can, times are a changing here and everywhere 

Bad Cops

The detective came to my door and stood with his nose on the wood
And his hand on his gun, I watched from behind the curtain in my
Bedroom, I moved quietly through my home and got my four ten
Shotgun and put a shell in and locked it with a click, then I stood on the
Opposite side of the door as the cop, and pointed it at the door
God I wanted to pull that trigger, and maybe someday I will,
Bad cops like bad Federal Prosecutors need to go missing and some
Day they will, the newspapers will report it, and I will make a bowl of
Kettle corn popcorn and pour me a glass of iced Chardonnay,
I’m telling you I will, I will, I’m serious