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.