Maybe I Can Plug it Up

 

The novelty of outrage

is worn out,

I’m beyond outrage’s reach,

I’m just sad now,

for so many bleeding

heart reasons.

 

It pains me so very much,

to read or hear the News,

and it makes me tearful,

when madness is the norm

over rationality.

But it isn’t outrage.

 

I am not outraged.

I am as disappointed

as a parent, hearing their

child lie about

something they know to

be untrue.

 

“Are you sure you don’t know

who broke the lamp,” asked Mother.

“I swear, I have no idea, it must have just

fallen over,” says Junior.

“Um-Hm,” says Mother, “you’re grounded.

I’m not mad you lied. I’m just disappointed.”

 

I am not mad.

I am disappointed.

I am not outraged.

I am sad.

 

Pundits and politicians,

clamoring for attention,

while the population of children’s graveyards

grows thanks to guns and fundamental human rights

are challenged by Right-wing nuts

who think their morality is the only morality.

 

I am sad.

I am not outraged.

My bleeding heart, is

bleeding,

out.

 

Maybe I can plug it,

maybe I can stop it,

like a nosebleed,

maybe leaning forward

is the right way,

tilting back,

is wrong.

 

 

 

Free Wheeling

 

I noticed him on the side of

the expressway, trying to

get an ancient motorcycle

started. He was lifting his

body up high and dropping down

on the kickstart, trying to get

the engine to start, but it

wasn’t working.

 

The disappointment was

evident in the slump of his

old shoulders, his gray hair

blowing in the morning breeze,

as cars drove past.

His black leather vest fluttered

around his body.

His blue tee shirt was soaked with sweat.

 

The bike was dirty,

cluttered and looked like it

had been in great use in the

1980’s, but alas, it had seen

better days.

The small windshield was brown

with dust and dirt,

the body of the bike, dingy and old.

 

I imagined this older biker,

in some late-night bar the night before,

bragging to anyone who would listen

about his biking glory days and how tomorrow,

he’d take his sweet hog out and go tooling

around town, causing trouble and shaking

things up.

A Rebel.

 

I imagined the shots going down,

the beers being drunk, as he reveled in

anticipation for his free-wheeling motorcycle

adventure he planned.

The open road, the breeze in his hair,

the squares in their cars, never knowing the

excitement of seeing that one front tire

roll over endless concrete miles.  

 

The corners of his wrinkled eyes,

now tearing up, as he sat helplessly on

his old bike, on the side of the road,

one more defeat,

one more setback among

so many,

a blow to his soul,

as he realizes how few

more chances he may have,

to ride.

 

He tried the kickstart again,

the bike didn’t start.

I drove past.

On my own road.

 

 

Reminder of D-Day

 

79 years ago, young men and

women from all walks of life and

nationalities, embarked on the

greatest crusade to bring about

the destruction of the German

War machine and eliminate

Nazi tyranny over Europe.

 

A momentous and ambitious

plan was unfurled to hurl wave

after wave of men at the coast

of Normandy to gain a foothold

in Nazi occupied France and

begin to push back the fascists.

 

It was bold, brash, and brave.

It required an incredible

sacrifice of life, of safety, of love

and comfort but it was a mission

unparalleled in human history.

 

The full destruction of a racist,

authoritarian dictatorship hell bent

on World domination and the eradication

of any peoples it deemed unworthy

of existence. The goal was imperative

and failure was not an option.

 

79 years ago, men and

woman across the globe fought together

to end the human suffering of millions.

It was a noble war, when so few wars are,

with a just cause and righteousness for

the betterment of the World.

 

We all have family members who fought,

perhaps died in this global conflict,

barely any citizen on the planet is too far

removed from the sacrifice of so many,

a once in a generation conflict.

A generation concerned with their

descendants.

 

These sacrifices should not be in vain,

the lives lost should not be marginalized

by those voices who wish to divide and deny the human

community of freedom, self-determination,

and the rights of all people to be the best version of themselves.

 

Nazis are bad.

Fascists are bad.

Book Burners are bad.

Individuals motivated to restrict

the movement or actions of the

citizenry are bad.

 

We shouldn’t have to remind people

that those things are bad,

the reminder, is in the scars on our

families, on fathers, on mother, grandparents

and more. The scars are on the landscapes.

The planet itself.

 

79 years ago, today,

we saw an enemy to humanity

and acted.

It wasn’t all perfect, mistakes were made,

but the goal was pure.

A free world is a safe world.

And I, for one,

will not forget,

the sacrifices made.  

 

 

 

It Came From Space

 

It came from Space,

landing in a New Jersey farm field,

a tubular spacecraft, devoid of windows

or discernable doors, but emanating

a singular golden yellow glow.

 

The citizens, with mixed feelings,

approached with pitchforks,

torches, Bibles, Geiger counters,

x-ray specs, long sticks, and suspicious

contempt for this newly landed

craft.

 

A rumble at the crash site,

shaking the soil and twitching the

trees, as the spacecraft, opened

a large bay door, spilling more

bright light into the New Jersey night,

the citizens shielded their eyes,

dropping a pitchfork or two.

 

A being, of matter and light,

glowing yet fading, emerged from

the large tube, luminous and flickering,

with gentle waves of mass rolling

across it’s surface. Slender arms and legs,

moved languidly forward from the craft.

 

“What is it,” mumbled Sheriff John, his eyes shimmering in the glow.

“A spaceman,” said Mrs. Carter, breathless with awe.

“Whoa, Whoa, who are you to assign it a gender,” said young Polly.

Polly with hands on hips, a confused, yet accusatory look in the eyes.

 

“Well, I mean, I’m from a different era, they were all called Spacemen then,” said Mrs. Carter.

“I don’t see what authority you have, even if you’re from a different era, to just arbitrarily assign a gender to this being,” said Polly.

“I don’t think Mrs. Carter was trying to incite any disagreement here. Just a…a turn of phrase,” said Sheriff John.

“Um-hm,” nodded Polly.

 

The being stretched its long arms out

over the faces of the gasping crowd,

a benevolence emanated from its kind looking

yet Rorschach face, a feeling of calm

rolled in waves. 

 

“Shoot it,” shouted Jerry Bob, “shoot it because it’s different!”

“Now, now, Jerry Bob, we don’t know why it’s here,” said Sheriff John.

“It’ll make the kids gay,” shouted Jerry Bob.

“I don’t think that’s…,” said Sheriff John, now trying to corral the crowd, but he was shouted down.

“Does it believe in God,” asked one far voice, “is Jesus it’s personal savior?”

“It’s got science stuff, it’s the devil. The Devil I say!”

“Let’s rush it!”

 

Sheriff John looked at Polly for a little help.

Polly shrugged, “They haven’t assigned a gender so… I’ve got nothing.”

 

The outer space being’s glowing skin

began to ripple and change,

like deep sea cuttlefish,

the previous wave of calm seemed to mirror the changes,

the townsfolk turned to each other and

projected their suspicions towards each other.

 

“Johnny Welsh is gay,” shouted Mr. Peabody.

“Hey, I told you that in confidence,” said Johnny, “you said you liked it.”

“Ms. Leigh is a murderer, she killed a kid in college with her car,” said Sam the mechanic.

“Well, Sam records women in the bathroom of the garage,” said Ms. Leigh.

“I lied about having cancer, it was just a rash,” said Sven, “took all that fundraising money and went to Vegas.”

 

Sheriff John shook his head.

“Can we focus on the being from space please,” he asked.

 

Polly pointed at the space being.

“Look, it’s leaving. I think it just gave us a… a middle finger.”

 

“I knew Spacemen were going to be jerks, elitist jerks,” said Jerry Bob.

“Really,” scolded Polly, “Again with that.”

 

The being got back into its tubular spacecraft.

The glowing light ceased, and the vehicle phased in and

out of sight until it was gone, leaving a smoking

crater behind.

 

“Damn it you guys,” said Sheriff John, shaking his head, ripping his hat off his head.

Polly looked at him sharply but didn’t say anything.

 

 

A Duel

 

Their swords clanged against one another

as the combatants clashed around the

Medieval stone banquet hall. 

Sparking steel sabers blah, blah, blahing…

 

I’ve been having a hard time

writing much of anything lately

and I think it’s because I’m nervous

about the future.

 

I mean, I’m already terrified of the past,

but at least I know it can’t hurt me,

and I can write about it with a nostalgic twinkle

in my eye; but the future, it unnerves me.

 

I once looked forward to

flying cars and space exploration

as the logical progression of humanity

based on our commonality

and desire to grow. To learn. To be better.

 

Now I feel a future in which

people aren’t shitting in the streets

might be too much to hope for.

My optimism has been cruelly tempered

by scarring skepticism.

 

I’m nervous about the rampant

language of hate, suspicion and

wild leanings toward theocracy and

despotism under the guise of the

“will of the people”.

 

I’m uncomfortable with how

uncomfortable it makes me feel

and how scary it is that a free people can

be coerced by fear mongering and

whataboutisms.

 

I’d like my flying car please; rather than a sword.

 

“A sword fight to the death,” shouted Sir Knight.

“To the death,” agreed the Black Knight.

 

“Clang, clang, clang,” their swords echoed

through the drafty old chambers of stone,

into the long night.

Protest Song

 

In honor and in solidarity

with those participating

in the Writers’ Guild Strike

I would like to submit

this:

 

Banana Legs

 

Igloo Chasing

 

Hot-Dog Heart

 

Manic Subtleness

 

Ah, feels good to add to the

Zeitgeist.

 

 

 

I Don't Want to Sing the Blues

 

Most of what I have written,

as of late,

has to do with my bewilderment

and anger,

at some of my own… kind.

 

Which I’m hesitant to associate

with since they,

do not resemble in any shape or

form... my kind

of people.

 

I’m annoyed that my own writing,

has to reflect that bewilderment.

I’d rather write about love, and sex,

drinking till four o’clock in the morning,

and dancing in the silvery streaks

of moonlight.

 

And yet, every day, I hear something

new, about the dastardly deeds

done in the name of some obscure

and morally corrupt belief system,

to the point that I no longer

want to hear, at all.

 

I don’t want to read the news,

I don’t want to sing the blues,

I don’t want to have to choose,

I don’t want to lose,

I’ve already paid my dues.

 

Yet the terrors of the world

pummel my senses,

and I’m held hostage by my

disgusted astonishment,

at phony outrage and

moral jingoism.

 

Oh look, flowers blooming

in the Spring sunshine,

how nice,

I hope

they

make

it.

                                   ________________________________________________

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