Election day — so it begins. One last, hopefully last, poem about Trump, his lies and conspiracy rants, and his self-fulfilling profits.
Taking, Their Q
They took their Q
From a toxic waste dump
Of conspiracy theories
Truth bastardized and orphaned
Beyond the pail of the retched
Awe the wile
Taking
Their Q cards
From invalid facts
Props
Helled up
Buy the flimsiest of crutches
As if
Some motherless chides
Or if
In power some day
Pigs flying
With all their knew shit
I wanted to post this before the election was complete — however long that may be. The reference to Biden reveals how long ago I wrote this poem. Still, I am cursed with timely and timeless themes, so…this could apply to any presidential race in my lifetime…
King of the Hill
The battle for capital hill
Is off
To the razes
Overrun buy
Corporate prophets
Affront lyin’
In the art of the compromised
And war its extension
666
Like bullets to ahead
Weave rationales for the frayed
And spectacular overlooks
Of democracy a ledge
Leaving US
Holding won’s breath
Barren such inspiration for all
Helled as necessary
Biden our time
Donning such a peril
As emperors knew clothes
The deal clothed
Putting us in a terrible blind
The mustiest of musts
Not passing
The smell attest
As who will lose
The least
As groan from the middle out
And the top
Down with being behind
The curtains
For the wrest of US
Only won thing posed
In perpetual cries is
By hour puppeteers
Who gets
To be king
Wile won thing is a sure abet
Not giving
A hill of beings
Here is a Halloween poem. This poem is an eerie, haunting meditation on imminent death, specifically, at the hands of a deathly force. For some time, I have had this image of someone taking my life and my last words being something to the effect of: “As you release my spirit, may I haunt you in the most beautiful of ways.”
Perhaps not surprisingly, this poem can be read from two different perspective; first, where the figure or figuring is me (the reader or author) dealing with a mortally wounded broken heart in an unjust world; or, second, as the prey of another. May you be beautifully haunted.
Go Figure: Owed to Haunting Season
The figure
Stuck me
With a shiv
Like a missing rib
Returning homme
To an awe ready
Open heart
Oozing and aha-ing
Trickling and treating
Imminent death
Eminent till
Nothing in vein
I commend my spirit
To this haunting figure
Just
A reflection
Of that most beautiful weigh
Wild fire smoke plumes are still messing up our air quality. Unfortunately, with asthma, I pay a lot of attention to such things. Check out the air quality yourself at: https://www.airnow.gov/?city=Toledo&state=OH&country=USA (set for Toledo).
Of course, I have a poem ready for unjust such a situation:
Wiled Fires
Pillars of fire
Smite come our way
In some backwards whirled view
In heaven as on earth
In some sick forum
Of sky righting
Crying for hell up
Wheeze in the same bout
Where there’s smoke
If continuing consumerism is our notion of progress, then carrion and on…
Progress
Progress is
An allusion
To something ails
Bought ensouled
Re: store
As you whir
In case you didn’t no, fratricide is the killing of one’s brother, or sister, or any member of won’s own, such as children of God. O Israel, do not bring a bout a hollowed future echoing with grief.
Fratricide
We are culpable
Of striking you anywhere
Reveling in hour
Blank it
A tact
What can won say
To alleged hommes
And frat reside
Unfortunately Abel
Sow prone to lying
And grave doings
Bared in their desecrate
Deep-sixing humanity
In their deathly loot
And crypt keeping
On anon
Most people are skeptical of something coming out of nowhere — no surprise there. However, many people overlook the commonly cynical view that much of what we do disappears into nothing, makes no difference. Perhaps dispelling this cynical magic would lead us to value what we do a bit more…
Relieved of the Magic of Cynicism
He said determinedly
What you due
Doesn’t matter
No difference to be made
Whatever is the point
Projecting
The tip of the spear
Of cynicism
As some negating mystical acts
Chopping us off of consequences
Of any kind
And shit coming out of nowhere
As from some magical asshole
I opted to reply
Thanks for noticing
This is my superpower
Stepping outside
The chain of causality
Feel free
Creating anew
Give it
A whirl
Of good
You might just
Find it
Super natural
Though at thirst
You may still
Hunger for your chains
Relieved of all you do do
Lots of great stuff in the lost and found, though sometimes we don’t even check it out…
Owner Us
Lost:
One humanity
Return to
Owner
Us
A poem for a summer-y Fall day…
In Summer-y
The springs are increasingly summer-y
The falls are increasingly summer-y
And long last the summers are
Increasingly summer-y
In summer-y
We’ve been warmed
As climate chaos ravages our one and only home, many are still mostly worried about gas prices and refueling…
Re fooling
Gaming on
Saving the planet was
Up to US
And he was speeding down
The high way
Rushing to get off
The broad way
Exit 666
To get too
His hows
He had
Already bought it
Consumed with his own
Life
He was deathly a ware
That he was
Lo, on gas running
Road raging fumes
Naturally, when the law pulled
Him over
He was beside himself
Aping some sign language
Muttering out of breath
Still resenting
Any mother stopping him
A little hot under the collar
Copping a lame plea
I saw you like flying buy
As plane as day
Due you no what fast is?
What might
Be tolled
Making everything
Fine
I was fueling despondent
I had to get
Wear id be home free
Just
Like everyone ails
Yielding a posit
Some vane tempt to feel safe
And secure
Hoping against hope
Fore a bit of credit
Accept we awe no
Hows it goest
Means
Ends
Busyness as usual
Know such luck
Re: fooling ourselves
Letting go and getting on with the good life, that bye the weigh which is not hanging on to wealth, power, and status.
Monkey Business
“To trap a monkey relies on its clenched fist, unwilling to let go.”
It was a jungle out there
He could help himself
So he couldn’t help himself
Grab the villager’s nut
Inexorably tightfisted
Captive to that middle passage
As narrow as fruit full
That bottleneck to capitalists’ dreams
The most for the least
Turning on
Evolution’s trick
An unimaginable catch
Release
Giving everything fore free
However crypt ticket
That message in a bottle
Everything for sail
Monkey sea
Monkey due
That inescapable lesson
That uncanny ajar
And say
Monkeys
Uncle
Let go
Poet versus economist:
A Poet’s Currency
ARE YOU A CAPITALIST?
no
i am more
a kin
to that econ amissed
e e cummings
In case you didn’t know, E. E. Cummings was a poet who often broke the rules of capitalization.
Back to nature. Forward to nature.
Love Birds
His life peered
As an empty field
Soully a tree
Stray flowers
A pair of birds
Blades of grasses
Up on closer inspection
Colonies of bugs
A myriad of life
On the down low
In the dirt and dust
From whence wee come
A grain of sand
To see the world!
And every now and agin
Two legged wons
Scurry buy
Reflecting too themselves
Mirrorly a vacant lot
To sum
Still
Fore me
This lot
Is heaven unearth
Welling up
With awe that is doubly yearned
Out standing in my feeled
Holy culpable
Of telling the deference
Between life and death
Israel has embraced 1984 doublespeak with it’s “de-escalation through escalation.” Our addiction to violence as the only response to violence spawns absurd levels of destruction. We need to inject nonviolence into confrontations, or be drug to war.
Needle-less to Say: ESC Late
We are tempting “de-escalation through escalation.” –Israeli officials
Our culture of violence
Is deeply vein
A main lyin’
Drug through our body politic
Instant solutions
Pressing a lone button
Plunging us into oblivion
Saying high to new problems
For every won wrought
Endlessly strung out
Soully wading
Fore what is
Overdo
War anon
Powerless to compute any amor
Terminally tardy
That singular key
ESC late
Countlessly hitting
And no return
The warring mob bosses speak with murderous necessity about “my enemy made me do it.” A ledged human freedom is disappeared. An even more assure bet is that the mob bosses are, oddly, never out of whack. So, if you are feeling an excess of whacked…
Oddly, Never Out of Whack
Dead enemies in your wake
Dead enemies in your sleep
You might just
Think to celebrate
As laud as you want
Your supplicated preys
Your decimate
Your faux
Lies dead
On a rival
All the same
The lyin’ roars
All that is human
Shield
Every war starts with something to the effect of: “This is a new kind of war, a new kind of enemy that we have never seen before.” Spoiler alert: war is the same owed shit recycled. Anew kind, of war, as some kind of possible.
Brand Knew
They loosed the dogs of war
Fresh meet
Unlike anything weave
Scene before
JD Vance at the Vice Presidential debate became the latest exemplar of the hollow response to school shootings, offering thoughts and preyers, and fortresses, and nothing else in between — except offering up our children to gun terror. This poem is the latest of my gun writes on the last bastion of free dumb.
Fort Knox Elementary
Under lock and key
Beyond broke in mettle detectors
Behind that which is bullet proof
Could our hearts lie
Where our treasure is helled
Those hapless minors of school daze
Undertaking
Alarming drills
Shut up in
The last bastion
Of free dumb
A moment of silence
Reloading
School preyer
Fervent please
That only thoughts
Are passing
Through and through
Our kids’ aheads
Soully choiring what is taut
That might he fortress is
Hour God
No longer culpable
Of being schooled
In the deference
Between bunk and bunker
In sticking to our guns
With this poem, I inaugurate won of my many titles: “The most write irreverend.”
Unfrock The World
I slammed it
Hearty har hard
In fool reveres
Being soully in titled
The most write irreverend
Fore awe
Who will hear
The world is frocked
And the king has no clothes
This poem goes out to those lives and communities where climate disasters wreak havoc, especially those suffering in the chasm between those who have the wherewithal to recover and those who don’t. May we be good neighbors to each other and Mother Earth.
De-construction Jobs
Climate chaos rains supreme
Yielding fateful knews
Of coming grave whether
The hows still standing
Those that have
Assurance
Have brought a bout
A boom
In construction
And those that have not
What just
Remains
Fore sail
An other kind
Of Jōb
Re-manned to the pauper authorities
Re: construct
Or bust
A small chide unherd
If soully a village razing
Their after
Wrests in piece
Some wear ails
Whither work to be undone
Some people claim that people who are a bit disturbed are more creative. This may be true. Surly, I am a bit touched…as this poem would have it.
A Bit Touched
I was a bit down
Taking me
To the dark of night
I was a bit broke
A loan with the riffraff of my mine
I had a dream
That was a bit disturbing
I was wearing nothing
Abut a throng
When from the heart of the rabble
The oldest of friends
Plays their hand
Upon my shoulder
Of a thorough fare warn
Whispering in my ear
Unveiling some poetry
From a place unherd
Giving me
Awe I need
To be
A bit touched
