The Kids of Make-Out Ridge

 

The ridge over the desert,

high in the sands,

away from the prying eyes of

parents and pervs, and those

not cool enough for Make-Out Ridge.

 

The Kids of Make-Out Ridge;

they make out.

Car loads of horny teens,

drive up to the ridge,

and kiss each other.

 

They writhe and press,

peck and paw,

lustily gnawing on each

other as if life on this planet

would cease to be if they stopped touching.

 

Row after row,

of foggy windowed cars,

rocking and rolling back and forth,

with every impassioned embrace,

teens living and dying with each

soulful kiss.

 

They talk of love, soul-mates,

children, their lives,

while cuddled in the post kiss

embrace, arm in arm,

hand over hand.

 

The sexual enthusiasm at

a fevered peak; but so few couples

go all the way at Make-Out Ridge,

because that’s not what you do

at Make-Out Ridge.

It’s for kissin’ and for cuddlin’.

 

If you want to go all the way,

you have to go all the way down,

to Eve’s Valley, where the Drive-in Movies used

to be. That’s where the bad kids go.

The bad sex kids and their sexy sexiness.

 

The bad kids and their liberated ideas,

and bodies and minds and cool clothes;

they all “do it” at Eve’s Valley;

which is what all the Kids of Make-Out Ridge

think anyway.  

 

The Kids of Eve’s Valley,

they think the same about

the Kids of Make-Out Ridge,

and no one really knows,

and no one really cares.

 

Now, where did you say you wanted

me to drive you?

 

 

Nothing

 

Treading water,

in a paper cup,

on an escalator,

only going up.

 

Climbing mountains,

made of molehills,

charging windmills,

of prescription pills.

 

Watching static fuzz,

on high-def televisions,

scanning crystal balls,

for prescient visions.

 

Putting puzzles together,

on an elephant’s back,

Adventuring in all weather,

restless sleeping in a nap-sack.

 

Walking in an endless circle,

a wide arc in the sky,

vultures in a carrion fraternal,

noshing on bone and eye.

 

Rhyming in agonizing suspense,

for the next line,

hoping it makes sense,

but I guess it seems fine.

 

Thinking about nothing,

on a nothing sort of day,

while nothing did nothing,

as is its way.

 

                                                                     --

 

 

 

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-The-Nothing/703354/3601617/view

Borderless & Uninterrupted

 

Man walked on the Moon,

53 years ago, today; July 20, 1969.

 

A collaborative effort of colossal

achievement undertaken by men and

women of such different backgrounds,

histories and beliefs, making something

that seemed like an impossible dream,

become a reality.

 

And today we can’t even agree

on anything.

Or at least, anything of consequence.

Or whether a Hot Dog is a sandwich

or not.

Is it?

 

I’d like to get back to the Moon,

so we can see the Earth for what it is;

one planet, inhabited by hundreds

of thousands of different species and

lifeforms.  

 

Borderless and uninterrupted by

the arbitrary map lines drawn by

long dead monarchies or diplomats,

and as a true single planet, adrift, in a

void.

Lonely.

 

The great discoveries are still out

there, and yet; they are here too,

right on our own blue dot.

In the eyes and hearts of our fellow humans,

as we do our best to navigate the isolated

Earth.

 

The collaborative discoveries of acceptance and

love, to be worked on by so many, shared and

embraced, to be marveled upon with equal awe.

As any space exploration dream come true.

 

The Moon, staring down at us,

working on the tides,

helping out with gravity,

wondering if we’ll ever visit again,

and if we’ll ever get our shit together

enough so we can.  

 

 

Stupendously Bonkers

 

Bonkers.

What a great word.

Bonkers.

 

It’s just fun to say,

“That shit is bonkers!”

See, so fun!

 

“It’s bonkers to impose

the morals of the minority

upon the majority.”

See, supes fun to say.

 

Bonkers.

It so adequately describes

the actions of people whom

appear to have struck their

heads very hard, as to “bonk”

their heads, on the boulders of their

mountain of judgment as

they tumble to their

inevitable doom.

 

Yes, bonkers.

I can hear those screaming jerks

tumbling down now.

Asses over ears as they

plummet, into the crevasses of

their own inept certitude.

 

“We’re the moral majority,” the bonkers

bonk heads scream, “We know the will

of the Christian God…,” as they grasp and

cling to the dying roots of a long past

time in our history, before losing their

grip and falling into the abyss of their own

making.

 

I cannot actually comprehend

how bonkers it really is to judge

people without ever having walked

in their shoes. Even if that footwear

happens to be huge clown shoes.

Or those of a ten-year-old girl.

 

But, I suppose it’s bonkers of me

to have any expectations upon certain

types to have any compassion or empathy

or enough self-knowledge to know better

than to enforce their will on those that

simply do not believe the same thing as they do.

 

It’s a bonkers World I suppose.

Stupendously Bonkers.  

 

Writing Something

 

I rubbed my eye and felt

the subtle squeak of my

eye against my eyelid,

as I tried to clear my vision,

blinking,

blink…

 

This page flickering white

on the desktop in a

photon mockery of

anything I try to attach

to it.

Vapid vastness.

 

Have I written about

everything?

Is there really nothing left

for me to say?

I can’t think of a thing,

wracking my brain all day. 

 

Do I try the murder story?

No, I’m tired of death.

Do I attempt the weird

Twilight Zone style twist story

where it was Earth all along?

No. Meh.

 

In an era of exhaustion;

emotionally, physically, and

mentally; it’s hard to stay

fresh and crisp, on the cutting

edge of wordplay and in the

pugilistic ring of poetry.

 

I feel disaffected by my own

words, far away from any meaning,

or substance, as if they are already

gathering dust on some ancient

library bookshelf, written in a dead language

no one alive can decipher.

 

I rub my eye again,

it’s bothering me,

like there’s a twinkle in there

but I can’t seem to get it to

sparkle.

More. Boring. Words.

Problems

 

If you see conspiracies everywhere

and are filled with a constant paranoia

about people in power, or believe that

lizard people are wearing costumes

of human skin and are impersonating

members of the government all

while being pedophiles,

then you are the problem.

 

If you think Gun Control is a

“Mental Health Issue”,

you are the problem.

If you think your “right”

to carry a weapon is

more important than my right

not to get shot,

you’re the problem.

 

If you think a woman’s

right to choose what happens with her body

is an affront to your religious beliefs,

then you are the problem.

 

If you feel persecuted for

your beliefs, perhaps it’s time

to re-evaluate what those beliefs

are. If you can’t see that your belief

system is hurtful, selfish or spiteful,

then you are the problem.

 

If you believe that Jesus or God

chose anyone to “lead” America,

then you are the problem.

 

Yes.

You.

The person who will never

read this poem, because that type,

that type doesn’t read poetry.

That’s the problem.  

 

I feel like I’m just repeating myself,

shouting into the void.

That’s a problem.

Happy Birthday (sigh) U.S.A.

 

So.

America.

It’s your “Birthday”.

In a couple days.

You’re looking…fat.

Like, you’ve really put on

a few pounds and are not

carrying it well.

You know that’s not healthy, right?

 

Really heavy in the middle

there, and the wrinkles,

wow. I’ve seen Egyptian

mummies with better skin,

are you moisturizing or using sunblock or

just letting your neck get so red?

 

You’re pretty young as countries go,

only 246 years old, which frankly, is a

toddler in comparison to a lot of

other countries. Did you know Japan

is over 4,000 years old? They look great

don’t they?

 

Well, I agree, being an Island can

be very slimming.

But I mean, you could have that look too.

If you wanted to, but that’s your choice

I suppose. I mean, if you’re allowed to

have a choice about your physical condition.

Metaphorically, obviously.  Or is it literal now?

 

Why don’t you open the present I got for

you?

That’s right, it’s a box of fireworks to set off

at three o’clock in the morning on a random

Wednesday in November because you’re America

damn it and you’ll be damned if anyone tells you

how and when to set off explosives.

Neighbors suck anyway, right?

 

Actually, USA, I’m not really feeling your

birthday this year. Sure, we’ll go to the party,

and have the BBQ and drink until our kidneys fail,

but I’m just worried about you bro.

You’ve been getting weird in your aging.

Like, so weird.

 

Is something bothering you?

Like, are you upset at us or something?

Did we do something to make you mad?

I mean, you don’t have to answer me right

now, I know that’s the last thing you

want to think about around your birthday but…

 

I mean a lot of people have died for you,

so maybe, I don’t know, have a frank and

honest discussion with us about where you

see yourself going, I mean, do you want to

stay this aging frat bro, or get a little classier

and stop this madness?

 

A lot of people aren’t really “feeling” it

this year. There’s been some really crappy

stuff done in your name bro, so, people

are pretty, just, “not into you” right now.

I mean, I think people are starting to think

Canada is a little hotter than you.

At least that’s what I heard.

 

I am sorry to pressure you bro,

I know you have a lot on your plate,

it appears to mostly be filled with cake,

but a full plate nonetheless.

I just want you to have a Happy Birthday

and to maybe really think about

your choices. The choices that have a deep

and long-lasting effect on us, bro.

 

I hope you find the time this year to

maybe get in a little exercise, maybe

try to take care of yourself a little

better, stop all that pollution and litter

and try to work on all that lard thickening

you up so, so, so much in the middle.

 

Also, don’t do a keg stand this year.

I know you love it, but dude, it’s time to

stop.

Okay, try to have a happy birthday.

I’ll try to have a good Fourth of July.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Photo Credit: https://www.malls-365.xyz/products.aspx?cname=mens+speedo+american+flag&cid=27