The psychotic notion that greed should be the engine for good has long been capitalism’s premise and wretched selling point. The grifter-in chief has “successfully” weaponized this to turn all of US into rubes. This poem elucidates the roll of government…
The Roll of Government
There was won thing
A greed
We should manipulate
Our base in stinks
Suckering others into good
Sow
Here’s the hooker
Only in this trick
Johns
Trump
Some conspiracy theories are beautiful.
Dihydrogen Monoxide Conspiracy
Water is life
And awe is well
Writing poetry can be surprising.
Awe, Led, Goaled
Awe I know is
Words are alchemy
Turning led to goaled
Before I may even no
What that is
Fly By Night Day Traitors
He con me
Threw me a curve
And I banked on it
The fool faith
And unmoored credit
Of US
Re-lying on treasury bonds
Presidential Sharpies™
And that stock mark it
In dig nation of traders
Specializing in careening futures
Hollowed securities
And fading dollareds
Chiseling into the fecund bed rock
Of beautiful tariffs
Everything is big
In taxes
For the little guise
Not sow much
For the rich
Here is a playful poem about the silence essential for me being an outspoken, unspoken word artist. Also, this poem teases one of my rare envies, that of having musical talent — which I do not have.
Calling Inaudible
If I had
Some musical skill
I’d compose theme songs
For friends and passersby
But a greater wisdom
Has granted me
A silent kind
Other wise
The curdling reprisal
Of care he attune
By all means
Might serendipitously bequeath me
Silent as well
In the same plays
Stuck in my ahead
Joyfully unable
To get it out
Inspired by the mean and chaotic slash and burn of our federal government. Wons agin, welcome to new mismanagement.
Meaner and Leaner, Have Way There
The fat cats
Broad caste
The D.C. shuffle
Their latest arrival
A Department of Departments
Certifiable as nothing like
You’ve seen before
Set fourth as goaled
In ovation for themselves
Allot meaner
Not sow much leaner
Poets are famously unread. Me even more sow.
That’s Wearing on a Poet’s Life
How trying
Too due the impossible
Mirrorly transcribing
Words of God
In some unspeakable language
As indecipherable a diction
Cloak a verse
Abetting my hide
On it
As crazy as home lessness
With peep whole seeing
Write through you
As walk on
Bye
It’s hard to know what is borne from incomprehensible places.
That Shrouded Berth
It was one
Of those moments
Wear my life seemed incomprehensible
A fit
That others did knot
Care to see
Yet I was made
To wonder
If this was the vary spot
That God new from time to time
That shrouded berth divined
Yet carrying on
How ever untended
Frankly, More Than Speaking – Owed to Pope Francis
“Preach the Gospel at all times, and when necessary use words.”
– Ironically, words misattributed to St. Francis of Assisi
There are many weighs to live
And Pope Francis chose
Servant leader
Acceding the Gospel
With bountiful good knews
Radiating listening
Graciously responding
What manor to live in
And wear
Called
Home
What mode of transportation
Long the weigh
What shoes you walk in
What shoes others walk in
And what a bout
The wrest of us
As daze turn to weaks and ears go bye
People of all sorts
Will debate weather
To live in mercy and solidarity
In efface of great lessens
That lode of gentle admonition
Quote others carefully
Awe the better without words
Trump is a meanie.
The Wrest of the Story
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t mean what he says.” –Trump apologists
He may mean what he says
He may not mean what he says
But you can wrest assured
That what he says
Is mean-y
And not in sum average weigh
Whatever chance of going to prison I may have, it increased greatly with the coronation of Donald Trump. The future seems replete with civil disobedience. Resistance is feudal, and I plan to serf the future. In such brutal times, that day may come when the better question may not be, “What are you doing in prison,” but rather, “What are you doing out of prison.” Of course, I worship a God who is as miraculously adept at breaking into prisons as breaking others out of their prisons. May we bring freedom to all places, for life.
Life Timer
I re-member
Well
In the wink of an eye
Washing over me too
Teem up
With God’s
Life time fan club
The soul
One
Breaking into prison
In an assist
From the bench
A titular honor
A man dressed in awe black
Though more like an owed white man
Did his Jōb thingy
Pronouncing that sentence
Rhyming with orange
As would suit me
And as an awe some response ability
To what judge meant a kin to prison
I could soully nation state
You have fell
For the ruse of law
And its parent jest US
Having loud me to break into prison
The guard axed me
A bout the quest in
Of being
The cager of souls
And free men
Worth their wait
In goaled
And what was I doing in hear
Gambling my presents
And future prospects
As kin in the game
And awe I could due
Was soully udder
Beyond the big hows
And pen
The write thing to do
By giving voice too
Perhaps the bettor framing
What are you accomplicing
Out they’re
Breaking me in
There are a lot of theories of why we need need so much sleep and what exactly is going on when we sleep. This poem addresses three theories of dreaming: 1) that in deep sleep, unrememberable, our souls return to their source for a refreshing romp unfettered by earthly concerns; 2) our brains “take out the garbage” by discarding inessential memories and consolidating experiences that are keepers; and 3) our brains practice virtual scenarios, often involving uncertain or anxiety-inducing situations to “brainstorm” possible solutions within the safety of our own skulls. Dream on, dreamers!
Dream Remains
Sum wear a bout
The mettle of the night
We re-seed
Into sacred plays
That cannot be recalled
The soul’s respite
Sailing deep sees
And gentle wins
Beyond skulls
Ahead full
A bundle of nerves
Remains
Taken
Out the trash
Of former daze
Fairy-ly a wake
Skating on thin eyes
As lessen total recall
Unsettling a wrest
As fuzz breaking down adore
Of bottomless school
And awkward commencement
Of anew day break
As souled
On tell a vision
Welcome to the free verse.
The Good, The Bad, and the Ugh-ly
The good news
My poetry can’t be bought
And I can’t be sold out
More sow it’s awe free
And presently
The bad news
It’s worth every penny
Gems paid for
With toil some red
And pain the admission prize
As hearts cracked
Open
Letting the light in
Welcome to the free verse
When it comes to constitutional rights, use them or lose them. Please feel free to exercise your rights and exorcise totalitarianism.
What Does The Security State?
Accordion to security state
Expand surveillance
As the spyin’ of totalitarianism
And into the bargain been
Private eyes
Everything
Contract
Out our freedoms
Shrinking liberty like crazy
As that belle wrings out
Our rights
Wither snowballing be helled
Or socks in one’s drawers
Easier lost than found
Our thirst amendments cornered
Round privacy in the public square
An affront to getting back
And on awe sides
The answer is something a kin
To exorcising each and every right left
Or they just
Go away
I like the saying, “If you aren’t living on the edge, you are taking up too much room.”
Edge Worthy
I found myself
Living on the edge
Anew view
Bounded soully
By spaciousness
The giving
And taking
Up
Space
Optimized
In efface of ecological sanity and even decades-old market forces, the carbon-based life deform known as Donald Trump wants to bring back coal. I guess Trump’s century-old vaudevillian show wants to feature Mother Earth in blackface. Under his watch in Trump 1.0, he wanted something similar and a hundred coal plants closed. Even his second-hand vein attempt and uncanny ability to give people the shaft won’t bring back coal. This poem is an ode to the foolishness and 1984-esque plans to backtrack on renewable energy. Also, the title is a tip of the hat to the satirical, black comedy film, “Don’t Look Up,” which parodied climate-change denial.
Don’t Look Up, Sunny
Listen, sunny
Who wants
Renewable electricity
Lighting the way
What you need unquestionably
Is gas lighting
Even burned
As abate and switch
Back to coal
Does this seam crazy
The back wards of America
Enjoining that nuclear option
As enduring future be lies
The truth left underground
As the hole earth cries out
With the slickness of oil
From right to left
Save that whale blubber
Taken aback
Don’t look up, sunny
We know what is up
The knew down
I predict that there will be an Occupy Wall Street type movement spurred by our suicidal management of our economy plus mindless and heartless austerity on those least able to withstand the brutal disruptions.
Yo Yo, Down With the Stock Market
Yo yo
What’s up with the stock market?
Yo yo
Down with Trump
The fascist there is
With the down aside
Holed steady
His love fare with Main Street
Taxing workers
And cutting deals with capitalists
What too due?
Wee are just
Not holding our breath
To be occupied
Wall the street
It Rains On
The storms of life
Soully whet
My appetite
For free rain
In a whirled
Just
And unjust
I suspect half-truths are more dangerous than complete lies. We can do better. Demand radical honesty.
A Crumb-y Life
He heard the whole truth
And was tolled
You half to believe
People will never swallow that
And with practice
You will learn to live
On crumbs
If I look a little raggedy at times, it’s awe part of a larger plan. Things don’t always look like they seam, a little deeper.
Knot a Frayed
I over herd
Sum won state
You peer a little seed-y
Yet presently
Any wear I look
I fine poetry
And whatever may seam
I am knot a frayed
