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

Alphabet Soup

Picked up a couple of foreign words who were out hitchhiking

puzzled when they inquired how they could compensate me,

I finally said “two syllables apiece, yes, that would do just fine”

“We only know milky cows” they exclaimed, “no silly bulls”


They disagreed with me that phonetics was a Nokia etiquette app

and that syntax wasn’t the financial result of a Baptist/Catholic merger

Fortunately, our tête-à-tête was set aside for a musical interlude

as we sang a saucy rendition of “you say tomayto, I say tomahto”


One turned crimson when I brought up the basics of conjugation

replying “make nouns, not me, the subjects of your prepositions”

I responded angrily “your synonyms are my antonyms”

as we resolutely failed in developing any lingua franca


Arguing over adverbs being the driving force in commercials

I punctuated my vehemence with “pronouns aren’t for amateurs”

we eventually came to conclude it best to call the whole thing off

and, for a more copacetic journey, we switched to sign language

Qs minus the As

Why isn’t it unlawful to poach eggs?

I’m Irish so shouldn’t I have become a Catho-holic?

One of my early crushes instructed me to make my arse sparse — did literal me do the right thing by joining Jenny Craig?

I was born minus wisdom teeth — am I a protected class?

Where exactly is it that poetic justice is the law of the land?

Are pain-in-the-ass relatives ingrown ingrates?

Faulkner’s first draft of “Dying As I Lay”

Tossing another token to John Prine who epitomized offering more with less. I liken this to a song rather than a poem but I’ll leave that definition to the reader.

Hey, dying ain’t all it’s cracked up to be

so don’t you go listening to that Fibber McGee

nobody’s thinking ‘I gotta hit the finish line strong’

’cause there ain’t any victors racking up wrongs


Living serves up messy helpings of joy and dire

on the level with the devil and singing with the choir

as my hourglass sands silently collect at the bottom

the choir loudly singing ‘smoke ’em if you got ’em’


Did I master the rudiments of bountiful living?

was my existence knowledge minus application bidding?

okay, I’m throwing myself on the mercy of the court

and aborting the generous A+ request on my life report


At the end of our paths of becoming a human emeritus

we remain self executioners serving out a life sentence

I’ve learned not much changes putting the tea kettle on

IPA salvation at the brewery tops a day at the salon


But say I make up my mind I want to come back

unfinished business, hand me that jacket of flak

you know if Google or Apple has an app for that?

We all wish for the one offering just rewards


So before I coldfoot it out of this Hotel Final

where it’s always checkout hour with no revival

I’ll offer a last howl before as a breathing human

serving up these words as my last communion.

Poetic Questions, and Possibly Some Answers

“Poetry is in” chirped my neighbor

alluding to the latest nova burst iteration of wordists

“So were bell bottoms once” I responded

cattily striking my well practiced perpetually penniless pouty poet pose


For isn’t the common calling of the poet’s creed to be out?

while illuminating the invisible and its overlooked inverse

and yes, we know when the truth of our targets has been pricked

regardless of simultaneously superfluous and nutritious validation from others


Do not label the poetic process a struggle

blood is absent, sweat generally sparse, although tears may present (for seasoning)

when a creation becomes infinite or even close enough

the miraculous rush of the birth itself cannot be equaled


What crosses the line of mushing poetry into commodity?

as creativity is art, not to be rated or ranked

appreciated or not, certainly

The Silent Life

Not too long after squeezing out of the womb

encountering the first of many inferred admonitions

my proferred alms became assurances

“I’m just here to observe”

My blankness thus ingrained, designating me negligible and safe


Yes, I indivisible-ized myself

choosing residence in the shadows

abiding in my multiple sanctuaries

facilitating a minimalist social repertoire

in a life of frugal mercies


Banking facts, figures and ideas

my stockpile of interactive fuel

aided by ghostly guide dogs for the tentative and unsure

quiet reading, yes. silent viewing, okay. thinking (to myself), affirmative.

expressing feeling? danger !!! danger!!!


What about questions?

is the stone to be polished or rolled away?

as if I knew anything about either

fleshing these bones — a step too soon?

for to speak is to create a real me

A Holiday Ditty

Santa Claus is now consistently blitzed
The sleigh is perpetually on the fritz
and the elves are demanding to be called little people

St. Nick can no longer take the heat
moaning “Jeff Bezos just can’t be beat”
noting the North Pole ain’t exactly a commerce hub

Just what else could go wrong?
Jeez, is that Rudolph smoking a bong?
and now he and his fellow flyers want to join the Teamsters

Santa can’t tell Dancer and Prancer apart
yep, it’s long past due for a heart-to-heart
for Blitzen’s kibitzing with Vixen and Cupid’s flinging daggers

The working conditions are extremely tense
buoyed no more by free myrrh and frankincense
Wunorse Openslae and two other elves have filed for disability

It was way past time for an intervention
or maybe a simple circumvention
is there anyone up to fulfilling Father Christmas’ challenge?

Shouting “Whoa, red went out with the Cold War”
arrived that mainstay heroine of feminist lore
The only being who could rectify this Kris Kringle disaster

She’s a far distant niece of Santa, this Santee
as competent as only a woman can be
but can she alone turn the tide on Yule’s unfinished business?

Full of fire and pure impropriety
proud bearer of her glamorous notoriety
Santee was a ninja before being a ninja was cool

“Get me the addresses and names”
“We’ll haul my uncle’s butt out of the flames”
“Me and my fierce lady warrior Amazonias will finish the job”

There was no time to dillydally
Aboard came Artemisia, Boudica and Grace O’Malley
Little Debbie was in if no ho-ho’s were to be served or uttered

Logistics being the entire key
Undelivered gifts equal outright blasphemy
Santee needed her wizardly wizardesses to step up grande

So out went an air force of drones apace
enveloping the universe’s deep dark space
the deliverance of offerings on their way to the deserving

All the children received their fervent wishes
alongside the ranks of the blessed moral militias
for it’s the choice of deeds and not waste-of-oxygen speakers that matter

Santee later checked in with her uncle
Him now imbibing only the nectar of honeysuckle
she wanted to know if his holiday wishes came true

“They certainly did my fair niece”
“I’m now clad only in blue-tinged fleece”
“Might I call you now the one and only Christmas chaffeuse?”

“No, this was just a one-off event”
“I’m now seeking out other discontents”
“You can rest assured future December 25s are in many good hands”

The Sound of One Hand Writing

I’m still on my John Prine-ish (if that isn’t heresy) binge. Let’s call this a music-less song rather than a poem.

I got a woodpecker in my pants

some mistake it for a fer-de-lance

it makes my legs sway to and fro

although both my feet flatly say no


I’m stuck with a pair of alligator arms

don’t worry, they’ll do ya no harm

And the eyes I own aren’t the same size

On the beauty way, I’ll win no prize


(Chorus) We have our bodies til death do us part

I think mine was assembled a la carte


My disks are each fully fragmented

still in place, yes, but slightly dented

biting into moon pies makes me giggle

when I get up, my thighs they wiggle


I need to minimize my gluteus max

ain’t all diets a personal sin-tax?

lost count adding up my multiple chins

Let’s call it a maximizing of all my skin


We have our bodies til death do us part

I think mine was assembled a la carte


My nose knows what’s fingerlickin’ good

food tasting should be my livelihood

Throughout my boyhood I just misunderstood

Not too many spark plugs under my hood


We have our bodies til death do us part

I think mine was assembled a la carte


You know my toes, they refuse to twinkle

when it come to snorin’ I’m Rip Van Winkle

my pecs been the victim of some kidnapping

I’m a piss poor candidate for chromosome mapping


The few muscles in me are the slow twitch kind

I’m disinclined to ever seek peace of mind

nobodys ever asked me to pee in a cup

cause my human algorithm has never added up


We have our bodies til death do us part

I think mine was assembled a la carte