poetry

Graphs and Corruption

If it wasn’t so clumsy, I would have named this Poem
“Why I became a tile setter instead of a scientist”
Or, no one’s ever going to call me Dr. (In parenthesis)
It doesn’t even look good for Mister
My work was always too easily influenced by circumstances beyond my controls
  It seems, the devil was always dancing with my data

For example, it was raining the day I ran the numbers,
Concerning the effects of sunshine on enthusiasm
Who could have foreseen the power outage that accompanied the thunderstorm
Causing my placebo spotlights to fail, quite possibly doubling the rate of suicide
Amongst my subjects who may have been predisposed (my professor pointed out)
To depression and self inflicted wounds, being musicians and poets which,
  I chose wholly in consideration of their proclivity to non violence
When being stiffed for a paycheck since,
If they were any good, this wouldn’t be their first time

How, my judge and juror wanted to know, did I propose to log the effects
Of fair weather on dead people and, did I suppose that artists grew on trees
Pointing out that the ones who hung themselves appeared to
Got me little extra credit
Methodology, means, management, my God the myopia, moaned my mentor, tormentor
Career block inventor, so, I’m thinking... magic
And shuffle the data like a deck of cards

Three, ahem, afore mentioned neckties, two standard issue vein drains
A fellow drowned himself in the business end of a tuba left out in the downpour and,
  One genius put a slip knot in a length of monofilament looped around his neck and,
  Tied to a morose cellists bow, he was garroted by a Sonata!

And the sanctimonious twit bade me leave with the traditional
Bowed head and uplifted finger pointing to the exit
“They’re waiting for you” (I envisioned an executioner), but,
The sun was out and a glare off the bald head of the grounds super was like a light turned on.
He handed me a trowel and
I finished out my education bricking the walkways of higher learning.

Years later, I returned to calk the joints of the massive concrete tilt ups in a university addition.
  Standing on the same stones I’d placed so very ago, I thought how, after all
I had quite literally, paved the way for future generations of fellow beaker breakers, truth seekers
Geeks, Greeks, and tasseled freaks and
After a life time of blue collar sweat accompanied by the twang of Hank Jr. & Co.,
I reckoned the world didn’t really know,
Just how lucky it was, darlin’!

Dick Nixon murders Allende

Dick Nixon murders Allende
& Milton Friedman uses Chili as our model.
Pinoche is still the American hero of our day.

99 percent of us work for our pint of chaff,
We do our alienated labor now for our masters as
Dick Nixon murders Allende.

We work longer hours to keep afloat
as our masters rule the craft, &
Pinoche is still the American hero of our day.

We can’t afford education or healthcare or
even food as prices explode through the roof after
Dick Nixon murders Allende, &

Milton Friedman frees the capitalist to do what he wants, &
we deprive the rest of us to live in the streets.
Pinoche is still the American hero of our day.

Neruda writes a poem about the fascist Nixon & drops dead.
We’ve been buried in our paucity ever since
Dick Nixon murders Allende.

Does a drop of blood stir in the American soul?
Is Dick Nixon today Mitt Romney & Rick Perry?
Pinoche is still the American hero of our day.

9/11 has frightened us into fascism.
We lock our doors to keep us out.
Dick Nixon murders Allende, Dick Nixon murders Allende, &
Pinoche it still the American hero of our day ...

!

I ride my dungbeetle throughout Texas

I ride my dungbeetle throughout Texas,
drinking from oil wells & gunning for Rick Perry.
Kafka tries to stop me from abusing sick animals.

I shoot down Adolf, Bennito, & Karl Rove.
I kill the Koch bros in the streets of Topeka.
I ride my dungbeetle throughout Texas.

I mow down the anti-tax murderers of congress
& the slaughterers of the environment to make a buck.
Kafka tries to stop me from abusing sick animals

& making Michael Vick the keeper of dogs,
the torturers of all animals, from amoebas to whales.
I ride my dungbeetle throughout Texas.

I sleep with homeless Mexicans at the border.
Mr Perry, please tear down this wall.
Kafka tries to stop me from abusing sick animals

like Rick & the Republican horde,
all the bloody conservative smorgasbord.
I ride my dungbeetle throughout Texas.
Kafka tries to stop me from abusing sick animals ...

!

Comparison

You’ve got to understand me, George.
My family was like
The other people on a subway car,
Strangers I will never get to know,
Feel no curiosity about,
Who will exit at another station.
Except they hollered, cussed and gave
Commands and criticized.
On a subway I move unimpeded
But for numbers.

Coffee Alone

Sometimes I drink coffee
While he is asleep -
It reminds me
Of when we’re together
In the early hours
Night to dawn
Drinking it together
Each doing his own thing
Alone - with desultory
Conversation.

Safety’s Measured in Square Feet

    Don’t go looking for a fairy tale, and you won’t be disappointed. Don’t go walking with fantasies, not where romanticism is death. Choose your route with care.

    Don’t go cupping a candle. Blow it out before you leave; do what the winds have planned already. Let the smoke crawl off the wick.

    Don’t go risking expectations; stay within these walls. Safety’s measured in square feet. It is here when threat presents itself. It has no ugly head to rear.

The Horror Show
Of Earth Swarms With Them

For every poet,
There are ten million
Swollen livers,
All grieving,
Burning,
Decaying,
And wishing
While sitting quietly
On a barstool
Like god
On his
Throne.

Payment

You look at your nails, the red paint cracking,
With unpredictable zigzag patterns. “I think
I need a manicure,” you say as you digest the
Pink salmon, that was on your plate a second ago.
“So go get one,” your husband replies, nonchalantly,
Wiping fried calamari crumbs off of his Alligator polo.
You ignore him, annoyed that the waiter is taking so
Long, returning with your third glass of red whine.
You look at your watch; two minutes have passed.
Some grease rests on your upper lip, but you dab it,
With the restaurant’s monogrammed napkin,
And it disappears like the money you throw at the clerks
Working at upper scale department stores where you
Feel satisfied, buying $3,000 purses; they’re name brand.

On the cab ride home, you pride yourself on the
Five dollar tip you so generously gave the waiter.
The bill was $125 dollars, but you remind your
Husband that five dollars was all the man deserved.
“The service was terrible,” you say shaking your head.
The taxi driver rolls his eyes, but neither of you
Notice, as you rest your eyes, eager to use the
New perfumed bath oils that you bought while
Your husband made deals with the hedge-shaper.
Against your better judgment, you pick up a tattered
National Geographic, that lay at your feet.
A bony African child stares at you from one
Of the magazines pages and you tap your husband.
“Would you look at that scrawny thing?” you say.
But your phony remorse is drowned out by
The city lights, honking taxis, and pedestrians.
And so too you cannot see or hear

Wide-eyed children staring at unpredictable zigzag
Cracks forming on mud huts that are their homes or
Their raw bodies, slowly diminishing, because
Their dinners are made of the same material as their
Homes, and mud is all calories, no nutrition. You
Cannot see a dying mother waiting eagerly for her
Son to return from the well for water, because her
Newborn child might not make it into the morning.
And the mother who can only wipe her tears with
Her rough skin, as she watches her child throw up
What little food he has in his tiny body. No, you do not
Know any of these children’s names like you do the purses.

But your brothers and sisters must be satisfied with
The grains of rice that are donated to them, while you
Smirk, pleased that you robbed the waiter of money that
You might treat as a penny anyways. The water that they
Bathe in is not clean, but those children widen their eyes,
Gaping, as they hear tales of those humans on the other side of the
Globe, and ask their mothers and fathers, “Who are those good people
Who get to be kings and queens?”

On What Should Be, But Isn't,
An Aim in Psychiatric Wards

To keep those whose illness makes them predators
far far away
from those whose illness makes them prey

Thief in the Night

I steal words,
the ones that curl my toes.
I color each one with glitter
  and gold,
and call it poetry.

Nuclear proliferation

Once, I held nuclear proliferation
an unmitigated disaster
but now I’ve begun to appreciate
growing nuclear parity’s just
confirmation of our humanity,
for what better antidote to “global warming”
than “nuclear winter.”

Moon Sky

When night opens its doors,
before the sun is gone,
the moon leaves its winter garden
that we see at night
in fields of stars,
above a meadow full of clouds.
The red-sandaled moon goes walking
through heaven’s ocean
in the sky, near the sky.