Go Then if You Must

 

                “Do not go to war young man,” said the grizzled cowpoke. He was leaning back in a rickety bar room chair, balancing on the back legs, that creaked with each slow stretch of his legs.

                “What’s that,” asked the young man at the next table. He was surrounded by his young friends, toasting to the next war adventure, to secure the world from the unknown and unknowable.

                “Do not break bread with killers and anarchists, zealots, evil men or true believers” said the cowpoke.  The grizzled cowpoke took a sip from his straight whisky.

                “What are you talking about old man? What do you know? What gives you the right to tell me anything,” said the young man, edged forward by his stupidly grinning friends.

                “Do not take up arms against the innocent, the poor, the hungry,” said the old cowpoke. He tipped back in his squeaky chair, eyes closed.

                “Hey old man, I’ll do as my country asks of me and I’ll do it proudly, because I know that my leaders are the best leaders in the world and they are smart and wise and can do no wrong. I’d do anything for them,” shouted the young man as he raised his hand up for his friends to high-five him. They oohed and ah-ed at their friends bravery in the face of this judgmental old cowpoke.

                “Do not make men into Gods, and do not make ghosts of men,” said the old cowpoke.

                “Dude, what is your problem, you some kind of Communist or some kind a wise-ass,” asked the young man, “I’ll fucking kick your old fucking ass.”

                The old, grizzled cowpoke looked up and across the bar at the flaring rageful nostrils of the young man. The cowpoke pushed his cowboy hat from off his forehead, so it sat wistfully across his hairline.  Old neon lights flickering pink and blue, and pink and blue.

                “Go then, and be a killer of men. I will be there, at the end, to righteously judge,” said the grizzled old cowpoke. He rose from the rickety bar room chair. He walked heavily towards the door, ghostly chains dragging behind him.  Souls begging, screaming for forgiveness. He disappeared into white mist as he stepped through the doorway.

                The young man stood silent, his friends mouths aghast, a glass broke in the silence, before Fortunate Son began blaring from the ancient jukebox in the corner. The young men jumped with fright.

                “Another round,” asked the toothless, sweaty bartender as he leaned forward, reeking of Death and rot.  

Egg

 I rage.

Silently.

Furious.

With happiness.

This world has

Broken me,

But gladly.

Each new day

Breaks me,

Like an egg,

Over a hot pan,

Sizzled 

Over done.

Hot and broken,

Cracked,

Unhappy with the heat.

Animal Politic

 

The animal politic,
has been a fascination
of mine since I first understood
our system of government as
a schoolchild.  

The simple desire for
liberty and self-determination
under the guise of a Representational
government. A way for even the lowliest
person to be heard and have a choice.

A very attractive concept for a child,
who often did not have a choice in
most of what they had to do, be it bedtime
or chores. We could grow up, vote, and have a
choice in the direction of multiple destinies.

That fascinating, imaginative American
experiment was so alluring to me. So special in fact,
that registered to vote the day I turned 18 and I
was at the polls for the next Primary vote early,
so excited to be a part of this exceptional thing.
I was swollen with American Pride.

In those following years, my affections for
the process, did not diminish. Never missed an
election or a chance to do my civic duty and vote,
vote my conscious, vote for my beliefs, vote
for the things that I hoped would continue this
American progress.

Now, I feel as though this animal politic has
bitten me. Right in the heart, as I hear the rhetoric,
the false choices, the ramblings of power drunk
fat cats leeching off the ideals I once held so dear,
using my ideals as a blanket to cover themselves in
artificial patriotism and gasping relevance.

It hurts me to see something I held so dear,
something I still want to hold dear,
taken from me in the most vile way.
It’s a kick in the ideological cojones,
knocking the wind out of me,
as I struggle to wrap my mind around
how we got here.

I just hope we get out of this spot
and one day I can feel as proud and
excited to cast my vote once again
for empathy, for compassion and
an end to divisiveness.
I hope it comes soon.

 

What I Meant to Say

 

Canis Lupus in Ovis Aries clothing,
being thrown to the Canis Lupus,
by Canis Lupus; is a very Latin way
to say something very simple.
Something straightforward we all
typically understand, imagery we
that makes sense.

Until it is manipulated into
sounding unfamiliar, thus exotic,
or even threatening, as like my
example. It can be done for just
about any commonly understood
phrase. Something we might say
every day.

“E sartagine in ignem”, is a good
example of a phrase we use often,
literally means “out of the frying pan
into the fire”. Yet, turned into an
unfamiliar language, it’s meaning is
lost; the context is gone, and it might as
well be nonsense. For the monolingual anyway.

This happens more and more often
things we now see and hear every day,
how meanings are twisted and changed,
just by the way people say certain things,
where they place there emphasis, or
allege how it’s always been misinterpreted
or accuse us of just not getting it.

When it’s always been what it has been,
without centrifuge or conspiracy,
a wolf in sheep’s clothing is still what it is,
and wolves being thrown to the wolves,
is just as horrible sounding as you can imagine,
but it happens right before our eyes.

Challenges our ears,
and fogs the mind;
until we’re so overwhelmed with
double-talk we can’t be sure
we’re still speaking whatever
tongues we used to speak to
each other with,
and were they always
forked like that?

 

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.