Too Long, Didn't Read

 

Too Long, Didn’t Read:
the complicated relationship
between American Exceptionalism
and just being ignorant dickhats.
Using the least amount of
cognitive abilities to justify
the dichotomy of self.

I know I have rights,
I just don’t know what
they are. But I got ‘em,
and I will let you know how
little I know about them
cause I get louder as I get
dumber.

You don’t have the right to infringe
on my right to infringe on your rights,
right? I’m sure that I can do what I want
without consequence as long as you face
consequences for what you did.
Because my being right is better than
your being right.

I’m a Hero, you’re a villain; unless
you are a villain I like, who was just
misunderstood and mistreated by that group
of people who are the real villains and are
keeping me from being a hero.
Cause, I’m a Hero who needs to tell you
how heroic I am.

How will you know how great
I am if you keep trying to stop me
from putting my name on buildings,
airports, casinos and Israel.
Which, as we all know, is really
America Jr. Which would also
look good in gold, and with my name.

I’m not the bad guy,
you’re the bad guy,
I’m the Cowboy,
you’re the Indians,
I’m the white knight,
you’re the… other knight.
I’m the good guy,
I’m the good guy,
I’m the good guy…

Give me that lollipop.
Give me your lunch money.
I’m a good guy, you can’t be trusted with it.
You’d give your lunch to the poor,
I’m giving lollipops to diabetics.
I’m a hero.
I’m winning the wars.

And there’s no getting through to
me; and you can’t tell me I’m wrong,
because this is too long,
and I don’t read.

Whale Watching

 

Troubling times come with
troubling words;
words weighted with lead
fired from angry mouths,
shooting through
every discussion about
us and them, and those
and theirs.

Fighting words, cursing words,
belittling words, dehumanizing words,
spewed from the vomitous gizzards
of small men; splashing on the shoes
of decency and common sense morality,
without apology or self-awareness,
without humility and even the hint
of reasonable shame.

The tribes of men,
hawkishly dangling their
bravado, unembarrassed by
the lack of quality and size,
only to act wounded and rageful
when their bravado goes unappreciated
by those they want to attract or intimidate.
They don’t know which is which.

Troubling times for the honest and decent;
the self-aware and the modest, they are most
abused by the bullying lunkheads who
lumber about spouting hate rhetoric recycled
from the 1940’s, just repurposed for modern times,
always with the same goal;
to hate a white whale so much
that destroys everyone involved in the hunt.

Troubling Times,
call for peaceful words,
from better poets than me.  

Blue

 

Blue.

Feeling Blue.

With icy tragedies.

Freezing us in place.

With no plans for the thaw.

A bitter wind howling.

Frozen tears in the brutal breezes.

Streaming through chattering teeth.

Frostbitten hearts barely beating.

Under layers of tragedy,

accumulated like skin,

under thick jackets,

but still too thin.

 

Souls swirling like snowflakes.

In wailing squalls smashing

on winter shores and spikey

icy sea spray and cold salty tears,

Coating and covering in sheets of ice.

 

Winter’s bleakness,

twinkling quietly between snowflakes and

tragedy,

muffled in thick snow underfoot,

as we remain motionless,

in our Blues.

Giving Thanks

 

                “Look at them, struggling in the dirt,” said Gawonii, “they will not make it through the winter.”

                “They sure dress in funny garments,” said Chesmu.

The two Native men stood over a slight ridge, looking down over the Plymouth settlement. Shaking their heads.

“I heard Tisquantum is going to help them,” said Gawonii.

“Squanto? What’s he thinking, I mean… look at these helpless baby people,” said Chesmu, “What a waste…,”.

The two men watched the settlement’s residents move about the ground in curious, haphazard ways, like ants or bugs scurrying in the rain. They saw as a small white man carrying a bundle of sticks suddenly tripped along a pathway, splashing into the muddy path. His strange hat flying off his head.  The two men heard a strange guttural yelling sound as the strange white man tried to stand.  He was cursing or praying or something as he shook a fist up at the sky.

“Yes, a waste,” said Gawonii.

The men nodded in agreement and turned away from the ridge and started their long walk back to their tribal lands.  

The men walked through the thick Autum leaves blanketing the woodland floor. They have walked this path since boyhood and knew every dip and rise. It was effortless for them to glide through the thick layer of dead leaves. As they walked, they talked quietly about the coming winter, whether Atohi’s daughter would soon be able to marry or when they would move to the winter lodges.

A gunshot rang out over their heads. Gawonii and Chesmu dove into the thick pile of leaves. A long pause. A second gunshot thundered nearby. Gawonii looked over at Chesmu from under the brush. Chesmu shrugged and tried to lift his head gently to see if he could find out where the shots were coming from.  Through the leaves Chesmu could see a skinny, shirtless white man, stalking through the thick leaves.

“Turkey hunter,” said Chesmu to Gawonii.  Gawonii rolled his eyes and sighed.

“We’re going to be stuck here all day,” said Gawonii.

Chesmu agreed that this hunter would stomp around for hours helplessly unless they told him where the turkey grounds were. It was the only way they could get back to the camp before the sun went down.

Gawonii and Chesmu slowly started to rise from the layer of dead orange and yellow leaves, hands raised.

“Ahoy,” said Gawonii.

“Ahoy,” said Chesmu.

It was the only greeting either man knew of the white people. They heard a ship captain saying it, so they guessed it was a way to greet other white men. They seemed to say it to each other all the time.

The white man turned around, startled, pointing the musket towards Gawonii and Chesmu.

“Ahoy! Ahoy, Ahoy,” shouted Gawonii as they backed up.

The white man’s face, somehow more pale, stared at the two men. The panic in his eyes only relaxed as he recognized the men dressed in their fine buckskin, eagle feathers in their long black hair.

“Oh, Indians, my goodness. You came so close to being shot,” said the white man.

“Ahoy,” said Chesmu as he nudged Gawonii.

“A-hoy…,” said the white man. He began speaking very loud at them, and gesturing rather wildly,  “Have you… two… seen the large… bird?”

Gawonii turned to Chesmu and tried to conceal the smirk stretching across his face.

“Ahoy, yes… large bird… turkey,” said Chesmu as he stepped towards the white man. The white man took a step backwards at the same time.  Chesmu pointed East and then pointed down, which was clear directions to the small valley where the turkeys are known to nest and gather.

“Yes, um, yes…,” said the white man, “Can… you,” pointing at Chesmu, “show me?”

Chesmu shook his head no and pointed again towards the East and then down.

“Oh, thank you. Praise God,” said the white man, “now lead me noble savage.”

Chesmu looked at Gawonii. Gawonii shrugged and pulled his deer antler knife from his belt, stepped up to the white man who looked at Gawonii as innocently as a puppy would a cougar, before realizing Gawonii had stabbed him in the chest.  

The white man’s musket dropped to the forest floor, the man fell down next to it sending a flourish of dead leaves up into the swirling air.

“Baby people,” said Gawonii. He wiped the blood from the blade and put the knife away. Chesmu sighed and joined his friend as they continued back towards their camp. It was getting dark.

 

 

We Don't Go Out Much

 

                They looked like a happy couple when they entered the restaurant. A quiet passivity on both their faces as the hostess guided them to a table. The restaurant was crowded and noisy with endless chatter. A din swallowing up the piped in Mexican/Spanish themed music over the loudspeakers. It wasn’t a restaurant for a common conversation or to hash out the meaning of life together though intense whispering discussions. It was a noisy, mall, franchised, restaurant with crazy crap hanging on the walls.

                The couple was led past our table, toward theirs and they caught my eye. There was nothing extraordinary about them. They appeared to be on the young side of their 30’s, but had a certain doom hanging over them. A grey sort of cloud that instantly made me think, “divorce”.  I nodded to my wife, and gestured with my eyes to check out this couple that was seated two tables away from us. She understood my non-verbal cue and looked towards the couple.

A rhinoceros then burst into the restaurant’s front doors.  Crashing through the booths and tables. Bellowing and roaring, flinging restaurant patrons into the air, spilling pretty good table salsa onto the walls, mixing with the blood of the trampled. The rhinoceros kicked and bucked, swirling in angry circles, knocking down the hot cheese bar and spraying customers with scalding hot Chihuahua and Oaxaca.  The screams and shouting were enough to drown out the Mexican/Spanish music being piped in. Which was okay because I could have sworn they were just playing the same song on repeat.

My wife and I dropped our burritos and dove under the table, hoping to escape the raging Rhinoceros’ painful wallops and clear hatred of this particular Mexican/Spanish restaurant. I looked at my wife and gestured again towards the couple that had recently been seated near us. She turned and looked. They had not ducked under their table, but were still sitting, silently staring at the run-amok Rhino, with a bored look on their faces. As if they had seen a Rhino run-amok in other restaurants before. I could have sworn the young lady actually yawned as we watched them.

The Rhino finally crashed through the large glass window at the front, after trampling the bartenders and a waitress, and bounded through the parking lot, smashing into the parked cars as police sirens started to wail in the distance.  I took my wife’s hand, and we crept out from under our table. She wiped drywall and plaster dust from her shoulders and off of my back. Amazingly, our burritos were still on our table, completely undisturbed. I pointed to the burritos, asking with my eyes if my wife was still hungry. She shook her head “no”. 

I surveyed the collapsing carnage of the restaurant, as sparks sputtered from the destroyed cash registers and multiple wall mounted TVs. The cries and moans of the patrons filled the afternoon air. It was chaos and madness and puddles of hot sauces and people. My wife and I looked for our waitress, as it only seemed right we pay our bill. No sense in stiffing the place in light of the random Rhinoceros attack. Which we understood to be on the rise due to, “wildlife cut-backs”. But we really didn’t watch the News much anymore and didn’t really know much about it. It just seemed like we should probably just pay the bill and go home. We really didn’t go out to dinner much these days anyway, cause things almost always happen whenever we do go out.

I couldn’t find the waitress, but my wife did. Trampled near the bar well. I took out about $60.00 from my wallet and stuffed it into the waitress’s apron. I felt that was probably enough to cover the two burritos and the two sodas we had.  As we started towards the demolished restaurant entrance I bumped into the man from the earlier couple. I mumbled an “excuse me”, as we passed. He snorted slightly and seemed to bristle as the incidental and accidental human contact.  I felt I had to diffuse the situation.

“Rhinos eh,” I said, gesturing to the screaming destruction all around us.

“Yup. Happens all the time now,” said the man.

“Really?” I said, genuinely surprised.

“This is our third rhino attack this week,” said the woman.

“It’s our first,” said my wife, “but we used to live in Chicago, so…”.

“Ah, so then you know,” said the man.

“Yes, I guess we do," I said.

We exchanged another glance, nodding at each other as we entered the parking lot and diverted towards our cars.

“They seemed nice,” said my wife.

“Mm-hm,” I said.

 I opened the passenger door on the car and my wife got in, pausing for our usual kiss.

“I’m in,” she said.

I closed the door and walked to the driver’s side wondering if maybe we should get ice cream on the way home.

 

Happy, Oh Happy Halloween

 

Happy Halloween,
Trick or Treat,
Nightmare wishes and
candy corn dreams,
there’s a Monster
under your bed,
in your closet,
in your head.

Let the moonlight,
cast creeping shadows on
the crisp autumnal night streets,
while nocturnal creatures rise
from sepulchers and graves,
ravenous for sweet living
flesh and the brains of
the innocent.

Beware the black cat crossing
your path, as you traipse
door to door, collecting candy and
frights,  saccharine delights, stinking
of grease paint and the dampening
leaves strewn about the lawns,
keep vigilant for unfamiliar footfalls
at your back.

Dusky and dark,
twilight settling in,
unnerving and anxious,
cold breezes rush in, blowing
a spiral of leaves o’ re head,
Jack-O-Lanter’s candle flames,
flicker, while something sinister
whispers your name.

Happy All Hallows Eve;
pray the morning comes,
but you’ll never be as sure of
what you saw, as you were,
yesterday.
Was it real, or just a dream,
a sugar rush vision of a
possible Hell.

Happy Halloween!!!

Haunted

 

Halloween Horrors are not
quite what they used to be,
it doesn’t seem like ghosts,
ghouls and monsters are all
that scary anymore,
now it is men and women,
dressed in silly camouflage (which clearly works in urban settings)
stalking the streets,
taking people instead of candy.

It is indeed a trick without
the treat, what witches were
once accused of doing seems
commonplace as people are
scooped up off the streets,
and spirited away to secret
caverns where who knows
what horrors are inflicted.

One pumpkin colored man’s fears,
have amplified through
the vacant heads of zombie
hordes, chanting soulless mantras
of their own fear, reverberating
through the bloody fields of
public decorum in endless news
cycles.

I’m not afraid of fictional nightmares,
I’m terrified of the man-made realities;
where division is candy and hatred is
sugar, for bellies too fat on bigotry
to stomach.

Do monsters fear monsters,
or have the monsters always
just been men. Are we afraid of
our shadows, flickering in the firelight
against Plato’s cave wall?
I’m haunted.