August Poem 28: The Buddha’s Brain

Well on his way to waking to the world

As a speaker. President Trump fished in

The deep water. If more people would have

The spark to understand his points. If he

Weren’t so eloquent. The best speaker.

Never over the line either way. The

Biggest vocabulary. That’s a word

You might not have heard “vocabulary.”

It’s got the same root as vocation and

I am going to create millions of jobs.

The best jobs. Because taking Trump’s side on a

Subject makes small thinkers lump you in with

The fiction that even “The Donald” would

Have any trouble being understood.

August Poem 24: Lazy Saturday

He was a force in sports walking down Sea

Foam, Breaker, and Windward to the field by

The jetty. Ball, bat and glove in hand, he

Would meet the other kids. If they all showed

It would be a lazy Saturday game.

They’d rotate the at bats and each kid’d keep

His own score. As the day wears on, some of

The kids would wander home to “check in” or

“Get a snack.” The rest of them would jeer with

Calls of “pussy” and “mama’s boy.” When skies

Darken, he would wander home with his ball,

Bat, and glove dreaming of the next game and

Dreading the false structure of a boring

Sunday of scriptural contemplation.

August Poem 13: Death Image

But he would experience death. Image

Through the mass of humanity and stop.

Billy was a small kid. Dead. For he was.

He wasn’t willing to wait in all this

Work. It had begun luggage in language.

Today, Jenkins would take full advantage

Acid tearing away your breath. Feeling

Of the badges perks. He walked past the line

Carver of art. The other. The outside.

The gate shook but didn’t budge. Jenkins turned

Converting to Islam. And were he to

This time, he pointed to his badge and said,

A breath mint. A compilation of short

Hey, let me through. The man in the booth scoffed.

August Poem 12: Blue Brotherhood

Next to the turnstile, he flashed his badge

To the booth and pushed the handicapped gate.

The booth man leaned into the microphone.

“You ain’t one of ours. You pay like the rest.”

Badge in hand, Jenkins eyed a uniformed

Officer standing passed the gate keeping

The crowd back from the yellow safety zone.

Jenkins said, “Hey! Tell him to let me pas.”

The officer walked over. He looked at Jenkins

And his badge. Slightly shook his head. Looked to

The booth, and said, “Go on. Let the man through.”

The clerk rolled his eyes and buzzed Jenkins through.

The officer said, “The guy is an ass.

Jump the turnstile. The fuck’s he gonna do?”

August Poem 11: The Subway Station

In the subway terminal, Jenkins pulled

His shirt away from his chest and pumped it

Back and forth to circulate the cool air.

The air conditioner took the edge off

The triple digit temperatures of late

October. This Indian summer brought

A shroud of strangling humidity

Not unlike the lingering barnyard smell

Of body odor and urine of the

Typical subway stop. Not only was

There a long line to get through the turnstiles,

But the place was jammed with people standing

Around dripping sweat. Likely, most of them

Had stopped in to take a break from the heat.

August Poem 9: Breadwinner

He spent a week of work deemed dead by the

Frenzied emperors of life. They call it

Incident. Frenzied over the death hoax.

Totalitarian bleeding heart libs.

The church had led astray their heartstrings.

Striking heart with a long tipped cigarette,

When they were diminutive mortals who

Would tear into the flesh of their patron,

The blazing hearth Latino. And given

Hand embarrassed as cold greasy burgers.

Even the trout died from the fish that

Sat atop the step and pulled his stringer.

His words were soft deadbeats that refused to

Speak breadwinner. They die. He does. He’s dead.

August Poem 8: POTUS Donald J. Trump

They honor his tax return. Got rusty

Violence. The person after the poem.

Nintendo—Now you’re playing with power.

He seemed to thrive on things being his fault.

When power refers to yourself, that is.

Twenty-eight percent pile below and

Convincing of the legalization

Drew up from the corridors of trade.

Obstinate state of marijuana will.

Feelings leapt of nosegay politicians

Up to my chest, up the elbow. Only

Not going to church. He writes boy scouts in.

He’s just feeling balls of the poll about

Logic fails—Removal of paper backed concepts.