Ump sez ‘you’re out’

Forever on the outside looking in

a hall of fame no-win shoo-in

guilty of the being boring sin

an off balance of yang and yin

chagrin camouflaged by a goofy grin

often anorexic at the gravitas weigh-in

taken one too many on the chin

perennially searching for a life plug-in

in charge of the human waste dustbin

whirled too often by faulty human spin

being quite the deluxe Zelig stand-in

Same Old, Same Old, Nothing To See Here

I saw the light and extinguished it

flowers convulse and wilt from my stare

razzing orphans gives me endorphins

But hell no, I’m not an abhorrent person


Green Berets avert their eyes

special ops, they cross the street

wherever I’m out doing my predator strut

But hell no, I’m not a dangerous person


I see Satan as Diogenes just dressed in red

most humans are rotting organic matter

foreclosing on widows should be an Olympic sport

But hell no, I’m not a disgusting person


My crew chopped up Buddha, crucified Christ

humiliated gods in ways not nice

yep, being while Black is a judicious pre-crime

But hell no, I’m not a vile person


Attila’s Huns did pretty damn good

card-carrying members of cruelty and sin

it’s a club on earth with a long waiting list

But hell no, I’m not a loathsome person


Saints and sinners, losers and winners

ah, these dreary days of whiners and accusers

it’s always been gold, not golden, rules

But hell no, I’m not a repulsive person


I’m just a normal: president, governor, CEO

lawyer, mercenary, priest, FOX talker,

movie mogul, judge, hedge fund owner.

hey, evil is just live spelled backwards

An In-Their-Own-Words Tribute

Inspired by Tim Grimm’s riveting song “Dreaming of King Lear” as well as creations from other artists now passed. Thank you, make that bless you, for your musical illuminations

They weren’t entertainers, artists of life if you will

all about humanity’s truths and universal mysteries

their scriptures often complete stoppers of time

being terms of enrichment to those willing to hear


Al Grierson served as fire, fuse and muse

his ashes the flowers of the flames

always for the roses and the bread

and a non-pareil roller away of stones


Bill Morrissey being of that kind of mystery

peering into eyes and living forever

publishing reports from music heaven

with so many things in his life being unchosen


Dave Carter’s borderline of death and resurrection

where a kick-ass Walmart tie wasn’t de riguer

his songs the only sacred ground some knew

as we carried burdens in the cradle of his grace


It was Jerusalem maƱana for David Olney

with eyes that were never blind

to the oak trees blossoming roses

and Barabbas only living for today


John Prine never had nothin’ to say

let’s kiss his ever so wry ass aloha

for offering a plaintive ‘hello in there’

even when Daddy’s arm had a nasty hole


Stan Rogers never booked a Northwest Passage

nor a life as a humble keeper of the lock

those being chains to some, life anchors for others

his work not to be lost to the knowledge of man


Terence Martin may or may not have been waterproof

but who knows ’cause that’s the way it didn’t go

yes, the problem is certainly in the human

it’s that damn graffiti in the chambers of the heart


Eric Taylor traveled in sacred circles

so when the boatmen stole the Africans

did God ride or row

with the Angelina River always at his back?


Jack Hardy kindly offered to come by

if he ever passes this way again

to remind all who have gathered

that it’s not the singer, it’s the song


They weren’t entertainers, artists of life if you will

all about being, humanity’s truths and universal mysteries

their scriptures often complete stoppers of time

being terms of enrichment to those willing to hear

Disciples are the family you create

I’ve bountiful friends if all my written creations are counted

those being my emerging thoughts dappled with blinding truth

each will endure somewhere out in the vast cosmos

even though I will someday take my bodily leave


Call me a dabbler penning primarily a capella

unsure of who or what germinated these thoughts

am I just picking word mobiles out of the air?

or existentially churning over my existence?


I consider my scribblings actually more my disciples

yes, I’m praying for greater loyalty than Jesus received

way past 12, they keep their own emergence time

good company they are although I’ve bid a few farewell


No, I cannot healthy up the lamed and twisted

even if the common cur can be taught to heel

however, water to wine stumps our four-legged friends

hey, so what if I’m not the next word messiah?


It’s true I once goosed Mona Lisa just to see her smile

it happened in church, in the inner sanctum to be specific

provoking “you shat on the Golden Rule, are you settling for silver?”

I blasphemied, “you wanna be on the comp list for heaven?”


Alas, faith, hope and charity used to mean a lot to me

but they broke it off to consort with a twangy published poet

I left to feed the hungry at the sea of Fleur-de-Lis

they raved that my words were nutritious, not so much the story line

More damn questions

Is “Bringing in the Sleeves” adapted from the tailor’s hymnal?

Is it just in the South that folks cottoned to slavery?

Wasn’t the sole Old Testament method of burying the hatchet into someone’s skull?

Jesus was a Nazareth High alum but did he have any higher education?

Is three sheets to the wind referring to a mini-Ku Klux Klan ride?

Weren’t the southern gentry known for the hit song “we are our brother’s keepers”?


Spoken or sung post written creation

a stampede of irresistibly arranged words

absent a solitary misplaced syllable

producing a five alarm life spark

a detonation of endorphins

capable of bursting the human heart

while dizzying the homo sapien brain

resulting in a gravity nullified unshackling

buoyant glee and ultimately inspiration.


Now realizing back in my earliest childhood days and teens

an inexorable coat of arms draped over my extended family

it being a unique container reeking of whiskey but filled by my kin

supplanting a ship in one of those impossible bottles


‘Irish milk’ it was jokingly yet ruefully called by the Eire choir

other members of my jumbled heritage not so quip literate

the males never in need of an occasion to disappear another sixer

the female DNA in my lineage being reluctant collaborators


This excess liquid cowardice brutally poisoned all in reach

awakening demons requiring just such nutrients for release

the imbibers briefly relieved of their day-to-day burdens

accepting tit-for-tat as a grotesquely even proposition


Still, mine was mostly a family of decent beating hearts

yet busted up and dwarfed lives so very raw and real

with dreams drawn but primarily self-quartered

and loves mutilated despite appearances peripherally intact


Our poverty of mind and wallet an incognito fait accompli

but it gathers no leavening to spit at oneself

true, nobody ever once asked as to our two cents

likely because we showed no means of affording it


Generations later, by tilting at the malignancies

and changes empowered by will and through foresight

we carry a lessened assortment of scarlet letters

with reddened scars now hidden under middle class costumes

Streams of Unconscious Consciousness

There’s no rhyme present (well, very little), not a lot of reason, just a dose or two of judgment and desperately and deliberately little adherence to the formal laws of grammar with some of the scribblings below running four lines, others two, a few just a solitary jotting. You have been warned.

When the Low Holy Days run 365/366

perdition is seen as providential


Only select humans are anointed essential

in our ravenous reluctance for honesty


Most males, yeah, they shrew up quite well

haughtily debating Newton’s Law as civil/criminal

oozing unearned hubris and privilege alabaster

suffocating the breathing of their Greek choruses


The pre-eminent perjurers throughout the land

masterfully send out others to make their stands

while idea philanthropists being a dime a baker’s dozen

are in need of hefty brain floss or a stout fumigation


It’s certain that nobody knows and even less care

maybe it all boils down to Polly just wanting an ester


Denominations continue to bring in the sheaves sheep

even though there ain’t no meat in loaves and fishes


Can impregnable wombs produce ingrown babies?


So tell me, are you hither or are you yon?


Card-carrying members of the calloused hoi polloi

snarl “sundown town, well, don’t that eclipse all”


They offer up 40 acres and a kick-shitting mule

alongside cardiac arrests performed on all deemed less


“Flowers For Algernon” gets re-titled “Who Moved My Cheese?”

as the fine print in reading comes with it own responsibilities