Election

The world is falling at my feet

Funny how the pieces look like skin,
leprous from a dying man; the disease
of boils that is the human condition.

The rain is like acid on my face

spit from the bile ducts of angry men,
thrown into the pit, dumb and blind,
and told to stand and make decisions.

No good can come of this

abandoning our better instincts for a bandage
called guile, adult babies sucking pacifiers
filled with opiates, attempting to deny impotence.

Lunatics are falling at my feet

screaming incoherent; oracles quick copy
all their meaningless utterances, selling
them to postulates as dogma truth.

The populace simpers and slobbers at their feet

grateful for the release, the numbing sensation
as the drugs take over, the stasis calm that comes
from the panacea of no longer having to think.

Dying Alive

Life was hanging jagged
on the last limb, waiting
for the Fall, wanting to flutter
away before the coming cold of Winter.

We stared at all the signs,
billboards counting down
Doomsday minutes, our eyes
forever surrendering to "Buy more Coke".

And we mainlined corn syrup,
hoping for a new recipe, our
final betrayal seeming simply Classic.

My lips moved as you passed the bottle,
mouthing platitudes in the drunken dawn,
anything to make the coming daylight bright,
a reason for waking to another day.

You wheezed a phlegm plagued cough,
a sign of tubercular rumblings, deep in
your throat to bring words out breathing:

"I think I'm dying".

I glanced at our surroundings;
the needles of sun highlighting
the ruin of our days, smoke
cascading, frozen in the chilling room.
I grabbed your empty head, proof against meaning,

"Honey, we all die sometime".

Goodbye

Swimming amniotic, already
learning impermanence,
digits splayed in defiant wave,
precursor of goodbye.

They come and go, a human
classroom where everything
is taught by fist to chin;
we mouth the words in painful
recitation, stumbling on goodbye.

And when we fail the yearly tests,
consigned to corners wearing the dunce's
cap, the cuckold's horns and wattles,
traces of fingers on our arms and faces,
we suffer the sing song litany of goodbye.

Sneak through alleyways, along bright corridors
where people pray to sun, denying the dark
passages where losers run to say goodbye.

Warehouses of thrown away humanity,
shuffling, hands outstretched in mournful
calamity, trapped detention, shamble
gaited zombies searching for goodbye.

And I am the arrogant student, philosopher
of the dark arts, pins and needles and tiny dolls,
extracting vengeance for the word goodbye.

What We're Taught/What We Learn

We pass on the dogma of the ages.

Benevolent gods bestowing gifts
on obedient souls, concepts of
Heaven and Hell for good little boys
and girls who keep their panties
clean and don't shit where they eat.

We pass on the execution of morales

Please don't look behind the curtain,
there's only a non-descript shooting
his way through his veins and arteries;
giggling maniac lost in mists and mirrors
smiling down on innocents tomorrow in
immaculate long sleeved shirt.

We pass on what they taught us.

Slinking down alleys, and knocking
on back doors, aliases used to get what
we need, one book for company, another
in a key locked box, never mix the bright
gold keys, hide one in an unknown crevasse

and never, NEVER get caught.....

Construct

Time is a construct, seeming intelligent,
marked by decay and atrophy, the shortest
distance between two differing vantage points.

Measured as the distance of an angel's
wing span, divided by the stretch of
an invisible God, ticking off the birth
and death of stars, a million orbits
'round the nucleus of an atom.

Subtract the devils on a pin's thin head,
the square root of sands forced through
the glass, the miles of souls laid brow to
toe 'til they reach the end of celestial journeys.

And time is a construct , a meaningless measure.


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Fair Weather

Sun's slivers peek through the brightening canopy

and puddles turn to Lilliputian lakes.
Flower shake water from their hard,
cool baths, strectching, catching rays
to dry their rain drenched leaves.

She still sees blackening horizons.

There will be no blue skies here, only
the far off thunder of the next accusation,
lighting flashes of insinuation, ever-growing
lists of things she could have, should have,

did not do.

This is not the season of the fair weather,
rather the dark hours of his verging
dis-content, when absense of the pocket
jingle bodes ominous tides in coming days.

She tiptoes round her clear sky lover

noticing cataracts clouding eyes, navigating rocks
as rancor surges rapid in his monsoon orbs.
He adored her in the rosy dawn of Sprintime
meadows, heady kisses stolen in a blissful moment
cornicopia ever full and spilling out upon the table.

Throwing seed away while others planted

leaving fields fallow in the Summer's heat;
remnants of the Autumn harvest bent and sickened
like the ever shrinking larde behind pantry doors.
But still he twirled her, dancing 'neat the soltice
night, whispering assurances under spells of July moon.

And now she is his reason and his damning blame

His summer sunshine smile shrinks in this land of rain...

Shoes

(This is not about Donald Trump, Lindsay Lohan, The Excomony, Barak Obama, or Paris Hilton.)


I stuffed them with newspapers

the local edition and the New York
Times, and when that wouldn't do I tried
the Daily Mirror, having heard it made
the optimum fodder for situations such as these.

His name was flashing in the headlines
incredible feats of daring do, moving
mountains with the power of his voice.
He spoke softly and enemies dropped
their weapons, loudly and they felt ashamed.

Guiding the tribes with a wave of his hand,
factual lies in pliant ears, give them just
a little truth and it can't hurt them; they
threw flowers, kissed his size 18 feet,
lips blackened but unbelievably satisfied.

His legend grew with every news bite, hyperbole
run rampant on the printed page, words falling
over themselves in their search for superlatives;
people bowing and scraping as a means of closeness.

When I could not read one more word of it, I packed
paper down deep in the toes, finding it still strangely
uncomfortable; toes slapping with each careful step,
my gait stilted like a brain damaged clown.

It will be very hard to fill these shoes.


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