October Poem 47: The Lessons We Teach

Structured to hold up the metal bars and

Rusting chains that could have been medieval

Torture equipment if it weren’t for

Examining the parts out of context.

As we tore down the old playground to make

Room for the new, I thought back to childhood

Playing on this equipment. This cage, the

Old jail. One of my older sisters had

Told me that it was a replica of

The place they kept the Union prisoners

Of war. And we joyfully played yankee

And rebel taking turns locking one then

The other in jail ignorant of the

History lessons that we were teaching.

October Poem 20: How Political Sausage is Made: The Liberal Chainsaw Massacre

Inherent guilt and inherent bias.

Injecting Novocain to the nation.

The perpetual spinning of white blades

Pushing forward currents of air panning

Back and forth over the lying bodies.

To dry you to a rigid leather of

Submission. To hollow out and wear you

Like a butcher’s smock, a pair of boots, and

Elbow length gloves. To puppet you through the

Motions of control. To cull dissenters

Like so much chaff among the wheat. Like so

Much grist for the mill. Like so much meat for

Sausage. Spiced, cured, and smoked to be served on

A toasted roll with sauerkraut and Swiss.












October Poem 18: Antifa’s Postmodern Reading of Hard Work

Pulling nails like deconstruction. Now that

He couldn’t bail out they pick an abstract

Word interpreted without the intent

Of breaking a bone. The point of the bent

Nail menacing. The rusted nail like an

Old scythe found in the tall grass. A symbol

Of Death reaping souls. The old rusted nail

In need of a hammer. The bent scythe a

Sickle and hammer on a field of red

Rust. Pulling nails from an old board as the

Soviet Union reaping souls. Chopping

Down the tall grass of the capitalist

World. Red on the nail as blood in the streets.

Violent revolution against fascists.










October Poem 6: Capitalizing on Tragedy

You look at our TV and say look at

All that violence, and I say, what violence?

That isn’t even what violence looks like.

The dust of bullets pelting the ground and

The splinters of wood flying from the wall.

And people nowhere near frightened enough

To be under fire. There is no cry. No scream.

And I turn on the news to hear rhythmic

Tapping and a top down view of a crowd

Dancing not yet aware that the tapping

Is not part of the show. Not aware that

They are under fire. And I change the

Channel disturbed that the actual sight

Of violence had not disturbed me at all.




October Poem 4: The Twilight of the Vampire Mopeds

You won’t have to change the tires or fill

Up the gasoline. Just a few drops of

Blood and you will be racing down the street

Impressing your friends and getting chores done

Lickety-split. Just like Bella climb on

Edward’s back and race down the streets in a

Blur just above two hundred miles per

Hour. With a jab to the ribs, he will

Leap to a nearby stand of trees and flit across

The tops. Slice open a vein and pay for

The wide open American culture

Of vehicular freedom. All very

Reminiscent of The Little Shop of

Horrors that is the Texaco station.





September Poem 53: I am Not Racist but… Now You Think I am Going to Say Something Racist

I am in the underrepresented class

Of straight, white, American male. The “I-

am-not-racist-but…” of identity

Politics. The disenfranchised too big

To study too untalented to do

A damn thing in sports. The raised by a

Single mother that made just enough money

To keep food on the table and a roof

Over our head. The raised by a mother

That had to work two shifts every night to

Keep us just off public assistance. The

Go see his dad on the weekend but have

No male or female role model in the

House. The be without parental super-

Vision the rest of the time. The how the

Fuck did he stay out of jail and off drugs.

The it wasn’t because he didn’t have

A chance. The this is the last time you’ll hear

Me talk about it because it makes me

Sound racist and sexist if I have an

Opinion on anything. The don’t work

Hard because it takes hard work. The don’t do

The work because you are smart enough to

Know the shit without it. The don’t get a

Good job because you let yourself be that

Loser. The don’t write poetry because

That is for other folks (Not that there is any-

Thing wrong with that.). The don’t read books if you

Are a real man. The don’t go to college

Because you barely made it through high school

Without dropping out. The don’t go back to

School because you are too damn old. The don’t

Go back to school because you are too damn

Broke. The don’t go back to school because if

You were smart you would have been through college

Years ago. The don’t follow your dream because

You never had one in the first place. The

Don’t follow your dream because you have to

Earn a living. The why the fuck didn’t

You pay attention to what you were told

Before you ended up with that useless

Fucking English degree. The what are you,

One of them folks that wants to write poetry?

(Not that there is anything wrong with that.)

September Poem 45: Loosen Your Tie, Mr. President

3 a.m. Twitter rantings. The frequent

Bouts of spirit writing. Fingers pecking

Like a field full of hens rushing in on

A computer keyboard in the midst of

A falling handful of feed. The morning

Covfefe and the nicknames like red neck-

Ties pulled so tight. Raining down fire and

Fury like rocket man. Like you’ve never

Seen. Like the storm’s urge of goiter flowing

Over his weak chin. And the circular

Purse of lips like a hanged man grasping for

One last breath of air. Fighting to hold on

To purpled tongue thrusting from rush of blood.

A half waking dream holding to something.




September Poem 39: Ghazal for Trump

Both he and Mrs. Universe were in porns.

They loved their porns. It was a big problem

When Trump paid his taxes.


It made all the papers and

Should have been great for business

When Trump paid his taxes.


His accountant had misunderstood a joke. The Trump

Has the best deadpan… don’t know who said it, but it was said

When Trump paid his taxes.


He was just being stupid because

Not paying taxes makes you smart

When Trump paid his taxes.


He died a

Little inside

When Trump paid his taxes.


He was still

Just a punchline

When Trump paid his taxes.


Who the hell am I kidding?

He never paid his taxes

When Trump paid his taxes.

September Poem 24: Dollar Bills as Rolling Papers

Driven health concerns designed to turn a

Profit. Like the wailing siren of the

Geedunk van stalking neighborhood streets in

Search of unsuspecting children. Luring

Them all. Fooling them with silly songs and

Nursery rhymes. Bright colors and cartoon

Pictures. To sell candy cigarettes. The

Chemicals that cure cancer. Far different

Than the chemicals of big tobacco.

The growth of humid Virginia fields. The

Natural panacea sent across

Oceans as a cure-all for royalty.

The wheezing cough and the dark shadowed mass

On your x-ray are just proof that it works.