Not the Lone Ranger

 

In TV & radio lore, The Lone Ranger
wore a mask to conceal his identity
from a violent gang who ambushed
him and his brother.

The Lone Ranger survived the ambush,
but his brother did not. The violent gang,
believed none had survived their attack.
Riding off confident in their evil deeds.

In order to pursue justice, the survivor made
a mask from his dead brother’s vest
and was able to pursue justice
against that violent gang without
revealing who he was and that he lived.

Thus, the Lone Ranger was made;
symbolizing integrity, fortitude and service
to the greater moral good. The mask, a symbol
of his brother’s sacrifice for law and order.
A heavy burden for justice.

Masks, however, were typically frowned upon
in other aspects of law enforcement, i.e. the
Executioner’s Hood, The Spanish Inquisition,
Kangaroo Courts, shadowy tribunals etc., as being an affront
to the truth.

Wearing a mask during the enforcement of
the law leads me to question the morality of
said laws, and whether those wearing the masks
are proud of the work they are doing, or fearful and
ashamed of it. 

Or the masks somehow hides their lack
of honest integrity in the enforcement of
their belief that what action they are taking
is indeed lawful and just.

I have always thought that proud men and women,
engaging in law enforcement they deem right and just, should
not be afraid to show their face.  I don’t think immigration judges
wear masks while adjudicating immigration hearings. I don’t
think attorneys are wearing them either.

Justice is blind,
we are not; and we can see that
if you’re wearing a mask in the United States
while enforcing the “law”,
then there’s something not quite right about
how you’re going about it.

The fictional Lone Ranger wore a mask
in a fictional version of Texas in the year 1869.
A TV and Radio story.
No one is Batman.
No one is the Green Hornet
No one is a masked vigilante in reality.

If you are in real-life U.S. law enforcement
and wearing a mask, maybe it’s time to
start questioning what these laws are you’re
enforcing that are making you hide your face
from the truth.

If you fear reprisal, maybe you’re in the wrong
business. Good people, being just and forthright,
are not afraid to show their faces for the causes
they believe in. For the laws they believe in.
For the Country they believe in.

 

Eulogy for Supermarket Baggers

 

It was a slow transition,
but is has now arrived.
The sweet art of grocery store
bagging has come to a final end.

I was always taught to place items
I’d like to purchase on the supermarket
conveyor belt in the order in which they
should be bagged.

Heaviest items first,
then lighter items,
and finally any loaf of bread
of carton of eggs.

And to keep frozen items
together as best as possible,
so they don’t start to unfreeze and
get other grocery items wet.

This act of organizing is now moot
as the current generation of supermarket
baggers has no apparent concept of the
weight or composition of items to be bagged.

On a recent trip to the store,
the two bags of frozen hashbrown potatoes
was carelessly bagged directly on top of my
fresh loaf of bread.

When confronted with this egregious error,
the bagger, checker or whichever title is appropriate
met my critique with silence and an indifferent shrug,
as if to say that it was clearly a “me” problem.

So now the world crumbles,
as indifference takes root in the cherished
and untarnished realm of supermarket baggers,
now, lost forever.

This is the true loss of innocence.
Not the wars, the hatred, the disinformation,
not the genuine loss of respect for traditions; nay,
we are lost when indifference smushes our bread.

Old Bones

 

She loves my old bones,
for some reason,
the rigid skeleton under
my skin,
fits her eye,
and I’m not complaining.

The dust of my past,
means little to her,
just part of my road weary
charms and meaningless
philosophies to amuse,
and delight.

She is entertained,
enamored and beguiled,
by this sack of blood and bones,
holding up a noggin’ full of
nonsense, history and meandering
stories with a general humor.

This bag of meat, held together by
all the strangest of sinews, is
loved and there’s a strange pumping
beneath my snarling ribcage,
a familiar beat, but a new
rhythm.

So I’ll marry her,
and we’ll dance to
it.

Heady Art

 

A hole in the head,
a head in the sand,
one foot in the past,
one foot in the grave,
hunched over and straddling
the Present.

Abstract oblivion is
exhausting but we’re well-rehearsed,
and ever so familiar with
everyday Apocalypses
and customary dread.
It's old hat.

It's easy for us to remember Cold Wars,
Hot Wars, Star Wars, depressions,
divorces, heroes turned villains,
icons torn down, disappointments,
sell-outs, and deep resentments
for the world inherited.

Passing down this negligent obsolescence,
to new generations, who are weary with activism,
tired of active shooter drills, bored with outrage,
inconvenienced by extreme violence, and generally
no longer have the
capacity to care.

Maybe the era of half-dead old men
trying to leads waves of middle
aged malcontents and young trauma
survivors will end, and a generation less
scarred by history will steer us
to pull our heads out of the sand.
 
To fill the holes in some heads, and put our feet together,
striding towards a future that includes all people,
grounded in the tangible needs of a global
populace, united in humanity, solidarity,
and in colors so bright that the drabness of
mediocrity will be nothing more than old fashioned.

Anyway, that’s what I think about,
when I think about Art.

 

Augustus

 

August is well underway
as I write these lines,
and it always strikes me
odd how August got its
name.

Augustus Caesar, the first
true Roman Emperor in
27 B.C., made some adjustments
to the calendar, naming this month
after himself.

July was named after Julius Caesar,
of course, after himself.
These men had the power to essentially
change how we interpret the passage
of time, through the present day.

That’s power echoing through
time. It wasn’t pure egotism however,
it was to rectify issues with the
lunar calendar and move more in-line with
the solar calendar. (With a dash of Ego).

Which needed more days
to match the 365 days it takes
for the Earth to orbit the Sun.
Before that there was a lot of
Annus Confusionus – The Year of Confusion.

A reasonable use of power,
demonstrated for the good of all,
or bad, depending on your feelings
regarding the Roman calendar.
But the most prolific use of power
I can imagine.

That is real transcendent power;
a legacy of self-named timekeeping;
nearly unrivaled in historical memory,
a pillar of the Ancient world evident
in every August appointment.

I guess that’s why these trivial
power grab attempts by modern
day Politicians make me chuckle.
Their self-important narcissism and
desire for legitimacy in History is all
iron pyrite.

It glitters,
but it isn’t Gold.

American Underdogs

 

It seems to me Americans,
in general, root for the Underdog.
The plucky upstart facing incredible
odds against their success; it always
seems to be our favorite type of
American tall tale or lore.

From John Henry defeating
the future of industry and steam-power
through sheer will and physical
prowess to Pecos Bill lassoing a
tornado. It is in our national
folklore to cheer these types on.

We wear these characters on our
chests like medals, as examples of
values like courage, virtue, and honesty
and we revere these traits as being
wholly American, (even though they
are obviously not exclusively American.)

We do not typically root for the evil
land-baron, who hires masked
mercenaries to shoo off cowboys
through murder and intimidation
from grazing on the land.
We “boo” and “hiss” at this villain.

We cheer and our hearts swell
when the plucky underdog hero
defeats the corrupt and evil land-baron
in some sort of honorable shoot-out,
or ironic over the top death, saving the
day, the damsel, the town, etc.

We say, “boy that rugged individual
surely had a heart of gold, and he is
a hero for stopping that greedy Oil Tycoon
from polluting the plains, killing the natives,
or ruining the pristine landscapes that so
embodies the American Free Spirit.”

We do not root for the Oil Tycoon,
the corrupt land-baron, the dirty
town Sheriff, and the greedy double talking
politician. Those types are usually
run out of town on a rail and the
underdog type is our Hero.

And yet, it seems, our folklore
has been corrupted by the very
types our plucky hero would have
fought against. An assault on our values,
our virtue, our courage, by those evil types,
has led us to a curious crossroads of American mythology.

Let us not cheer the deeds of the dishonest,
but the deeds of those fighting for the little guys,
the townsfolk, the small business, the people who
need some magnificent strangers to assist them
in their hour of greatest need.  That is the American folklore I know.

Bravery, compassion, empathy, understanding,
dignity and honesty.

Those are the virtues I want our collective
folklore to represent. That we as citizens,
as Americans, stood up against greed and
oppression, stood up against tyranny and
authoritarianism, and ran the corrupt,
the morally lacking, and weak spined out of town and into
the pasture of history.

 We don’t root for the bad guys.
And if you find yourself doing so,
take a step back and maybe reevaluate
who the hero is.
It might just be you.

 _________________________________________________________

Painting by: 

Glenn Dean 

I Weep

 

Is this country run by sociopaths?
It’s a legitimate question I think,
individuals who only think about themselves,
to the detriment of others, incapable of
any empathy or compassion for the plights
of others?

 

It’s a serious question I have in light of

recent events.

Does a certain Elephantine political party really

have any moral center beyond their own

belly buttons?

Are they psychotic? Do they need therapy?

 

Is there too much lead in their water?

Is there a willful ignorance spoon fed to

them in great big ladles? Too much suckling on

the teat of ignorance?

Did they not get hugged enough?

Or is hugging too gay and that’s why

they don’t know?

 

Do they really think that is what Jesus

would do? Do they think Jesus would

kick a poor man to the ground as a

rich man paraded past?

And then spit on the poor.

I think they do.

 

I think their Jesus smokes seven packs

a day, carries high explosives, fights

in bare-knuckle boxing matches in an

octagon, all while singing “Sweet Home

Alabama”, wearing a Budweiser half-shirt,

and cut-off jean shorts with a swastika tattoo on his

extremely white thigh.

 

It seems to me, if this Elephant based party

had a choice; they would rather cull the herd, than

stop the wolf.

A wolf they released into the fields

to hunt sheep, but not their sheep.

That would be absurd.

 

 

My heart hurts, my head hurts,

my bones hurt, and I feel the legacy of

political martyrs, visionaries and true patriots,

that struggled for our liberty, suffering and screaming

in the ashes of the monuments to freedom

they perished for.

 

The Sociopaths and Cultish Psychotics

are certainly running the asylum.

Or Detention Center.

Or Camp.

Whatever they are going to call it.

 

“One from many”, is meaningless.

For them, there’s only Numero Uno,

and no logical, reasonable argument

will pierce the veil of stupid,

ripping a hole into the very soul of

this Republic and true American

values.

 

I weep.

I feel shame.

I feel for those willfully

and callously abandoned.

 

 

 

 

 

Carnival Nights

 

The Carnival finally came to town. They arrived during a light morning Summer rain shower, and by the time the tents were open, and the rides were set up they had a wet glistening hue sparking in the afternoon Sun, flickering like the facets of a diamond.   The humming generators to power the many rides were hidden away, but the faint noise of electricity could still be heard. An electricity that filled the air with anticipation as the Sun dripped below the horizon.

Every Summer the Carnival came to Maynard Point, and every Summer night the carnival grounds were alive with mystery, infecting the town with mischief and the occasional bar brawl between the Carnies and the Townies. The smell of machine oil and popcorn wafting together in the midnight air of crowded cavalcades and promenades in a mixture of roughnecks and folks, looking for adventures or some respite from the long hectic hours of road life or the mundanity of small town life.

The flickering lights and flashing neon, all just an illuminated façade over a dirty and often dangerous ramshackle collection of various deviants, lifelong Carnies and part-time Roadies. All hungry for the small town girls and boys with big city dreams to prey upon with tales of life on the road and their nostalgic romances of bygone times. Shared over a $8.00 hot-dog and a $3.00 watered down soda pop. A few broken hearts, perhaps more, left in their wake.

The young boys in town, seeing the Ferris wheel lit up against the dark summer night sky, playing siren to their desires for a young girl to ride with, maybe steal a kiss, maybe a little more as they rode up and over the crowds. A rumble in their loins as the very thought of that special person of their imaginings actually agreeing to ride with them. Maybe not who everyone thought.  Their fanciful longings lingering on the potential of young love, lasting forever, all from a kiss on the carnival Ferris wheel.

Cotton candy fingers, sticky with sugar and Summer humidity, play boardwalk games, squirt guns filling balloons, too large basketballs shot into too small hoops, ring tosses for a goldfish doomed to die in days. Amid the joyful laughter of old husbands and wives, grandchildren and teens, as a giant stuffed panda toy is awarded to a young girl at the target range. It’s filled with fiberglass and packing materials, but she’ll never forget it until her mother crams it into the rafters of the garage once she moves to college and then Delaware for her job at the hospital. Until then though, she’ll cherish the padded panda monstrosity, stuffed in a corner of her bedroom, ignoring that odd smell it gives off.

The headbangers and the gangbangers, heckle and posture; while big belt buckled cowboys and tight jeaned hipsters wander through crowds of wildly different political landscapes and ideologies, aware of each other, but unaware. There’s a line for the Italian Ice and Big MAGA Galoots and Top-knot Liberals stand in orderly procession. While a seven-fingered carny fills little ice cream cups and toothlessly smiles at the women in their jean shorts, charging $6.50 a cup. Little wooden spoons litter the walkways and seem to trail off in every direction of the carnival grounds like oars for fairy-boats.

The bumper cars bump and buzz, and passengers squeal and shout, while a teenage girl takes her first sip of a half warm beer offered to her by her older brother’s friend as they pretend to smoke by the back of the ticket counters. She fakes liking both the beer and the cigarette, but really she just wants to puke and go home and remember what it was to be young and not so worried about the boys. And if they think she’s as pretty as Liz.

There’s fireworks on the third night. Rows of townsfolk ooh and ahh as ½ price fireworks explode dangerously close to the ground, deafening the older residents who managed to stay out past eight o’clock, and thrilling the 7 and 8 year olds before they begin to drift off into light night sleepiness, yet deny they are tired.  Teenage hearts beat as high school crushes turn serious with a night of hand-holding, or break into a million pieces when during the fireworks they see their special Johnny or Janey making out with someone else, but they try not to cry, and bite their lip and watch the sky explode, like their broken hearts.

Three nights and four days, the carnival carries on like this, electrified amusements crowded between so many stories. Quickly gone the fourth afternoon, as if run out on a rail, by the sensibilities of cooler heads and those less inclined to mysterious, perhaps criminal proclivities.   Gone until next Summer and then into memory.

The Weight on Our Chest

 

The weight on my chest
has a weight on its chest,
resting on an anvil,
chained to an anchor,
being pulled under the
current in oceans of familiar
outrage.

 

The long waited shoe,
dropping, is a combat boot,
across the backside of the
weakest among us,
again. A familiar swift kick,
as unoriginal as always,
yet somehow always a surprise.

 

We were ready for it,
we knew it was coming,
at least the weight of
anticipation has dissipated
slightly, like a throbbing migraine,
dissolving slowly in darkened
rooms.

 

It has come,
aggravating the senses
into a dizzying carnival of
emotions, spinning outrageously,
dervishes of destruction
unbent in devotion to
prevarication and dishonesties.

 

We know what is next,
what will have to be done
to preserve Democracy against
the tyrannical will of a profoundly
stupid narcissist. A shameful
history generations will have to
bear.

 

The weight is colossal,
and makes it hard to breath,
it makes it hard to give voice
for the voiceless;
Because that weight,
is the weight of us all,
and all of us, can bear it,
breathing together.

 

We, the people,
we will endure,
we will resist,
we will be on the right side
of history.

 

Make No Gods of Ordinary Deeds

 

We once stood around
in great, Earth-worn circles,
raising our arms up to
the heavens, praying for
rain, or a good hunt,
in front of a stone monolith,
made from some curious
geologic event.

On stone alters smeared
with human blood we prayed
through sacrifice for good crops,
a good hunt, the end of drought,
for more blessings of fertility;
head-dressed priests, yelled and
smoked, chanted and wailed,
while the people kneeled on rocks.

The ancient mysteries of our
human need to worship
lost to time,
lost to new stone idols,
lost to new Earthen-worn paths,
then new worship thrust upon gold, or
jewels, or even the rare
prophet.

It is our human nature
to want to worship at the feet
of power, even if that power is
fiction. Even if that power comes
from an evil place.
Even if that power is based in lies
and deceit.  We cannot resist
the unrelenting call to worship.

Sky Gods, Sea Gods, Land Gods,
patron Saints of shoes and sand,
heretics and martyrs, vying for a
panoply of virtues, listed on tomb
walls of the wealthy and the poor
alike, tied together in dusty death,
forgotten under time.
Forgotten prayers of the faithful.

Do not pray for the defeat of foes.
Do not worship at the feet of those
who would step on you.
Do not idolize the cruel,
masquerading as if it was bravery.
Shy away from gold lined pockets,
begging for alms.
Follow no crowds over cliffs of grandeur.

Make no Gods of ordinary deeds.

 

 

 

 

The Us in We

 

Burnt out bastards,
bent on bemoaning and
bludgeoning the beautiful
bounty of being.

Loudmouthed lard heads,
licking the lighter fluid off their
lips like incendiary licorice,
lashing the listening with liquid death.

“Me, oh my,  oh me,” they moan,
as mercenaries march in municipalities,
making the masses memories meander
in murderous remembrances.

Clutched pearls as patrols and posse’s
play pretend police to pacify political
practices and punish perspectives of
opposing polarity.

Smiling like snakes as they slither,
from simulated sympathies to scolding
suffocations of simple societal
salvations.

Televised talking heads,
telling lies like truth,
and twisting the truth altogether
into a tortured tumbling turnstile of misdirection.

Nothing needed but nonsense,
noise and negativity to nudge the needle
toward nihilism and negligent nostalgia,
negating the neo-futurists.

Burnt out bastards,
loudmouthed lard heads,
Snakes and talking heads,
missing the point of Human beings.

Forgetting from us,
is We.

 

Another Matter for the Shoes

 

In the never-ending wait
for the other shoe to drop;
the one that also has a
pebble in it, and a nail sticking
up through the sole, and always
blisters your heel, our
anticipation reels.

We know it is coming,

we can see it,

we don’t know where it’ll

land though,

and that is what is keeping

us awake at night.

 

The shoe of Damocles,

dangling by shoestrings

over our chests,

ready to drop through our

ribs and crush our hearts,

again.

 

A shoe the size of a

continent, tumbling

end-over-end in the whistling

wind, plummeting like a dive-bombing

Stuka, wailing with alarms and

chilling the blood.

 

This uncomfortable shoe,

ugly and obscene,

greasy and grotesque,

is coming down,

and we’ll have to decide

if we’re going wear it.

 

Or chuck it into the

ashbin of history,

and get a new shoe,

on that’s clean, comfortable and

well-tailored to fit any

shoesize.

 

I like new shoes.

Good Shoes

 

As I fall off this cliff,
I want you to know,
that I really like these shoes.

As I spin through the air,
I can see the laces flapping
and twirling in front of me.

Still tight on my feet,
as the wind buffers
my graceful plummet.

I see every Sunrise and
Sunset, as I tumble,
end over end in the air.

And my shoes,
tightly tied on my feet,
not going anywhere, but down.

When I land,
broken and dead, I bet
the shoes will still be good.

So, send them to the Moon,
or Mars, because
they are good shoes.

Unless the wolves get me,
Then, maybe,
not so much.

At Least We Can Dance

 

Here we are again,

like never before,

once again,

brand new,

interpreting ancient tea leaves

for a glimpse of the future.

 

A harrowing future pathway

along a disintegrating bridge,

rickety, corroded,

nuts and bolts,

held together by

hope and prayer.

 

Like we’re used to,

but have never seen,

footprints we’ve followed,

along  a wave crashed beach,

don’t know where they’re going,

but we’ve seen where they’ve been.

 

Another new plan,

based on the old,

a bright idea,

dimmed by the cold,

genuine ingenuity,

halted by a cuckold.

 

Nothing so new,

as something passé,

an original plan,

from the outdated textbook,

a forward pass,

to Knute Rockne.

 

We can’t make sense of it

because it doesn’t make sense,

a conundrum of juxtapositions,

all crowded together to appear

large and imposing,

but meaningless.

 

It’s hard to get better,

out of something worse;

at least we can dance around the

fire,

as it all burns.

 

Painting Credit: https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-bonfire-dancing/1721966/8154848/view   

Needlepoint

 

Writing poetry in chaotic

times is a delicate sort of

needlepoint. Pull the wrong

thread and the whole thing

could unravel in a knotted

cluster of jumbled loose ends.

 

A tapestry, spun with words,

to express the zeitgeist of

our current times, one wrong

line and the entire image gets

blurred or marred in a blotchy

canard.

 

I know how to sew,

I know how to stitch,

I can thread a needle,

I can follow a pattern,

I’ll fix that tear,

but a weaver I am not.

 

The thread of our lives,

handled by three old crones,

all sharing an eye,

they hold the shears of fate

at our throats as they speculate

on the future.    

 

They never wrote poetry

in troubled times,

they don’t know how the

starting and stopping,

erasing and editing,

of meager and frustrated prose goes.

 

A fair untroubled hand should

hold the needle as it jabs and

pulls through the fabric of life,

a clean sharp point to puncture

through the designs and craft

works of unambiguous art.

 

Writing poetry in chaotic times,

is hard…

boob.

 

Damn it.  

 

Still Me

 

There’s so much me

in my veins.

Which is curious to

think about, how much

of me is actually

me.

 

All the time,

I’m filled with me, just

pumping and oozing,

flowing and lub-a-dub

dubbing all over the place,

constantly.

 

This pulsing,

crapping, bleeding,

crying, sneezing,

coughing, bag of

flesh and blood,

being me in vast amounts.

 

The voice of me,

in my mind,

saying things, sometimes,

not too kind about me,

and triggering the anxieties

of being me.

 

Electrified matter,

the essence of me,

biologic individuality,

in a sea of the same species,

who are all filled

with themselves, constantly.

 

Until it all stops,

and then, all the me

will cease to be.

And yet, for what it’s worth,

it’ll still be filled

with

me.