The Palette Blinded By Personal Neediness

The genesis: — “Bush On The Couch” by Dr. Justin A. Frank

It’s your station in life commanding fear or respect

a quality forged by bridges built or wrecked

to aid the weak or succor the powerful

it’s a mantle earned by who you call and cull

 

Being so broken, drink or dominion offer no fix

the holes and flaws become your dominatrix

the higher you go harming on a grander scale

the naked light of failure a darker shade of pale

 

Scuttlin’ from reality, gripping your demon shield

blissful sadism and omnipotence to wickedly wield

tethered to a megalomania writ oh so divine

fostering a callousness of the impervious kind

 

Running and hiding when it was your turn

keeping the VC out of downtown Galveston

as commander, you tell who to kick ass

but in your time to serve, you took a pass

 

An entire life riddled and riven by grievous need

drunk or sober bathing in moral bankruptcy

the U.S. presidency so way out of your league

or a brush cowboy Al-Qaeda-failure-to-heed

 

3,000 people perished in infernos today

code red intel spikes spelling a fray

yet tragedy’s lesson ends with this call

you’ll just need to head out to the mall

 

Because it doesn’t matter what or how

winning the moment, your sacred cow

in your empty suit which you so belong

just bang a gong, getting your war on

 

Chaney and the rest spun you like a top

with a wink and a nod to a virtueless sop

them knowing just what to do and say

GeorgieT got asked to come out and play

 

Sending soldiers off to your madeup war

sexing up the terms, stacking the score

bodies come back, maimed or boxed

your crocodile tears smudging the cost

 

Jesus ain’t served by your lies and war

or trying incessantly to top Daddy’s score

never saying sorry ’cause nobody else mattered

the dead decomposing, their being splattered

 

Just go with the gut, light on the fact

to hell with looking forward and back

no need for analysis and surely no debate

that’s work and carries too heavy a freight

 

New Orleans drowns in water and wind

while who’s pickin’ a guitar, flashing a grin

What was predicted sadly came to pass

“Heckuva job Brownie” is what’s heard last

 

Tryin’ now to counterfeit what is history

judgment lapses for all to feel and see

truth as mangled as your brand of compassion

making selfless good something to ration

 

Dylan, yes, he was spot on back in 1965

telling us with a wink and his loquacious jive

it don’t take a weatherman to make the deduction

GWB, yes, he’s a weapon of mass destruction

 

(written in 2011)

A Lullaby For The Dark

Sour neighborhoods cluttered with soft hard kids

the gates of egress adorned with prickly spikes

no directional signage for life’s stations of the cross

very few chutes, mostly mirages of ladders, minus rungs

perchance to dream, sure, more likely just lay low

 

Slickly oiled up and anointed as tabula rasas

ensconced in the insidest of sick jokes

breathing in and out in a sundown world 24/7/365

the keys to any kingdom always beyond grasp

it’s a fabled concept spewed by word torturers

 

In even the most forlorn, yes, resides a dim glimmer of hope

can it ever intermittently eschew dormancy, or even artfully rule?

Try attempting facing the mirror and diving through the distortion

seeking the sprouting, shunning the stunted and gnarled

while praying all searing pain and hurt could be exit wounds