Oof, Ouch, and Other Obscenities In the Ring of Life

 

We’ve been in the ring,
fighting the good fight,
but it’s bare-knuckle boxing
with the shadow of Death,
who doesn’t pull its punches,
and ignores the ring judge.

Jabs to the ribs have made it feel as if there
simply wasn’t enough oxygen
in the world to make up for the
breathtaking rounds of heartaches
the last few weeks.

Tribulations have plagued
the minds and hearts of me
and my beloved, resulting in
an explosion of cussing, cursing,
crying, pleading, prayers and patience
testing; ducking, juking and jiving.

The details are unnecessary,
they are swampy and soupy,
in buckets of tears, crumpled towels
in the corner of the ring, and left in places
we don’t want to go, still reflecting
in mirrors we don’t want to see.

It isn’t special, our recent troubles,
others have been gut-punched as well,
it’s as if a wave of malicious intent pummeled
the faces of all mankind like a turbulent
storm, hell-bent on ruckus and chaos.
All Eye-poking and shin kicking.

It is all nothing new, but freshly shocking;
experiences in sorrow and sadness,
waiting for the body blows to stop,
the bell to ring,
and the bout to end.

Until the next round…

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.

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.  

Another Cup

 

The Golden Rule,
swirling in my coffee cup,
amid clouds of French Vanilla
creamer, as steam gently rises
over the lip of my mug.
Bitter, but eye-opening.

Being good to be good
for the good of others;
sticking, lingering slightly
on my tongue as I sip and
swirl my morning.
A happy shiver of cheer.

A smile for the smilers,
a wave for the wavers,
a nod for the nodders,
as I greet my way through the
start of the day, optimism
twinkling in my mind.

Pondering the mixed in
Golden Rule in my coffee,
lamenting the bittersweetness of
it; just slightly so, yet enjoying it
as one would a warm hug or
hearty hand clasp.

A satisfied swallow of
a morning elixir, a breathy sigh,
and a quick lick of the lips,
a whistle wet, ready to speak with
a smile and a laugh stuck in the
corner of my mouth.

Before long, my coffee will be
empty, my doing unto others will
become crisper and edged, a weapon
to wield against the illogical ravings of
a world gone senile. A world that doesn’t
remember the taste of the Golden Rule.

And I will lament,
I will feel shame,
I will regret,
I will mourn innocence,
I will mill about in horror,
and pour another afternoon cup.

 

 

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.