Thursday, March 23, 2017

We're All Wrong


We’re all wrong.
She’s wrong.
He’s wrong.
They’re wrong.
Everybody’s wrong.

She’s wrong for him.
He’s wrong for her.
They’re wrong for each other.
We’re wrong for it.
It’s all wrong for me.

The country is wrong.
The politicians are wrong.
The pundits are wrong.
The scientists are wrong.
The deniers are wrong.

The country music is wrong.
The Rap is wrong.
The punk music is wrong.
The reggae fusion hip-hop is wrong.
The gospel music is wrong.

Negativity is wrong.
Positivity is wrong.
Growth is wrong.
Stagnation is wrong.
The middle is wrong.

So what is right?
Knowing when it is wrong,
and learning to make it right.
There’s nothing wrong
with that.

This poem is wrong.
But I’m trying to make
it
right.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Stuff to Say



So then I was about to say to you,
how much I wanted to say
to you, about that and this
and all those things between.

I was about to tell you how I was
about to tell you, about how I was
telling everyone, about how I was
feeling the things and such in between.

I was going to tell you, that I was going
to tell you how I never wanted there to
be silence between us about those things
and that and this.

I was going to whisper those whispers I
was going to whisper, in your ear, as you
smile patiently and felt the heartbeat in
my words on your skin.

I’ve heard that you’ve heard about those
things and I hope you can say to me all the
things you can to say to me and tell me how you
were going to tell me.

If I say, and you say, and we hear those things,
the this and the that, and it stays between,
and we agree, then we’ve got chance by the hand
and no silence will deafen us.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

The Lights Upstairs


I’m struggling to understand
why the lights aren’t on upstairs.

I’m pretty sure there are people
up there, but I’ve no idea what they’re doing.

Because there’s no lights on.

They seem to be bumbling around,
in the dark, bumping heads, like coconuts.

I don’t know why they won’t just strike
a match, turn on a light or otherwise illuminate.

I’m mystified as to the darkness upstairs.
And why no one can get in there.

But it’s crowded with people, in the dark,
mumbling nonsense from the shadows.

I tried sending a flashlight to them
as part of an aid package.

They ate all the crackers, but sent the
flashlight back along with the flashlight instructions.

Which had the words, “Witch Craft” scrawled
across them, in blood.

I don’t know why the lights aren’t on
upstairs. I’m not sure who’s in charge.

Maybe they don’t either, because
it’s too dark to see, in the upstairs. 

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Looking Inside


When you crack open the
shell and see the gooey innards,
there’s often an instinct to be
repelled and choke back the vomit.

That shell, crafted so delicately by
nurturing nature, or natural nurture,
is filled with the horrors and odd
delights of history, evolution and growth.

The shell is a rainbow of colors,
organized through layers of time,
chemical compositions and a symphony
of complex microscopic organization.

The inside is goo. Viscous goo.
Slopping and sloshing around in the
evolutionary marvel that is its
container.

The goo has its purpose. It’s there to
fill a need. It’s not there as an accident,
it got their honestly.  Despite the terrible
odor and the grayish blood color.

The shell survives each ordeal,
slapped, kicked, chipped, worn,
abused by elements and time,
a beautiful shield for the curiosity inside.

A curiosity, beating with fervent life,
crafted to be exactly what it is though
the struggles of whatever time had
hurled at the outside shell.

The insides aren’t always pretty,
sometimes it takes a while to
see the beauty, the effort and power
it took to be exactly what it is.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Irritated Grunt


                Today’s piece is titled, “Irritated Grunt”, because that is what I caught myself doing through the majority of President Donald Trump’s Address to Congress last night. I found the whole speech a baffling spectacle of puffery and nonsense.  Mr. Trump said a lot of things that filled the ears of his faithful with the things they like to hear. The Valium of his words were to serve as a relaxant to soothe the nerves of his supporters. However the whole speech lacked any specifics or substance. For those of us with a more critical ear it was truly all sound and fury signifying absolutely nothing.  Grunt.

                 I was really baffled with the 250th anniversary of the United States comments when that anniversary is nine years away! Even if, God forbid, Trump was elected to a second term, he still wouldn’t be President for that anniversary. He was talking about our country in the year 2026 and the wonders this country could achieve by then, without really laying out a blueprint for what will be done in the present.  It was very confusing. It was as if his speech writers, trying to come up with something positive to latch onto chose the future instead of the realities of the present. That was just weird. I would even guess that the uneducated, whom Trump loves so much, think the 250th anniversary of our nation’s independence is this year or something like that. It was a dumb thing to focus on.  Grunt.

                One of the main themes of the speech was supposed to be about unity and bringing the country and our political parties together and encourage them to work together. However, it’s very difficult to seed unity while being sarcastic in your presentation.  Mr. Trump, on several occasions did impress the need for working together while simultaneously gesturing sarcastically at the Democratic representatives in the room. It is possible to gesture sarcastically.  I’m fairly certain that’s not exactly the way to get people excited about unity or working together. Grunt.

                The President’s words did not stir me to emotion. I was frankly embarrassed by his obvious use of Carryn Owens, the widow of a U.S. Navy Special Operator, Senior Chief William "Ryan" Owens for political fodder. It was an abuse of the emotional distress that family is in. The President’s overly drawn sentimentality over it, without taking any responsibility as the Commander in Chief, left me feeling sick. It was the most classic and tasteless use of Propaganda I have seen the Republican right use. I know neither party is above propaganda tactics, but this move seemed too far this time; especially when there is still such controversy surrounding the actual act and facts that left Mrs. Owens a widow.  Grunt.

                The final part of the speech that caused me to grunt with irritation was the President’s closing. His reference to, “We all salute the same, great American flag. And we are all made by the same God.” This last line had me confused since the President had attempted to infer that his American vision was all about unity. This final line seemed to be a jab at those who do not subscribe to organized religion or have different religious beliefs from the President and the majority of his cabinet.  I am a Catholic, but I certainly would never assume my fellow humans believe in the same God as I might. That seems powerfully exclusionary to me.   Vomit grunt.

                All in all, I do not believe the President made for a compelling figure. He was very mild in his presentation, stuttered in the reading of the teleprompters (as if he had only read the speech once on the car ride from the White House to the Capitol),  and seemed unaware of the real responsibilities the President of The United States of America must bear.  It is a thankless and unforgiving job that ages and diminishes even the best intentioned of people. It is our perpetual duty to keep the spotlight on Mr. Trump and his address promises and remind him that he works for us, and not the other way around.  Grunt. 

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Gourmand Tuesday



This is for everybody,
bothered by the noise, the crunching,
the chewing, the back beats
of an out of control jukebox.

This is for everyone, the missed
opportunities and the taken
opportunities that maybe didn’t
work out because you misheard.

This is for everybody, everybody’s
everything. The drums of The Clash,
the silverware dump by the busser,
timed just right to miss the punch line.

The punch line of that long story your
friend was telling over dinner and you have to lean
over everyone who heard and shout above
their laughter, “What?” As you cheeks redden.

This is for everybody, that missed the
boat, missed the moment, missed the
chance, missed it. That “it”. The all
important, “IT”.

Everybody, you didn’t miss this.
Here it is for you. Here’s what it
reads, here’s what it meant,
and now you know.

Everybody’s everyone.
Is there.
You just didn’t know it,
because of the noises.

Or it was Fat Tuesday, in New Orleans,
and you’ve been drinking all day,
you’re half naked in the street wearing
a jester’s hat, drowning in colored beads. 

Maybe that.


Thursday, February 23, 2017

Free Lunch


Try the sandwich, Sir,
Try the sandwich, Miss.
There’s no charge
you see, for either,
you see.

Certainly it’s disease free,
nothing wrong with our
free sandwiches at all,
we only ask,
Sir,
Miss,
that you sit here for a bit.

Nothing shady or wrong,
we believe,
just a wee respite,
with a free sandwich,
while you watch this amazing
video, of our CEO, eating a
sandwich.
Isn’t the sandwich sexy?

Try the sandwich won’t you?
Miss?
Sir?
It’s free; with only a side of
misogyny, bigotry or alien
conspiracies.

Yes, that is home made mayo,
right here in the shop.
No, it’s not gluten free, but
taste the difference, compared to
some other philosophies.

Try the free sandwiches,
Sir?
Miss?
Mister?
Ma’am?
They’re free…