3.11 rain

i used to love
knowing things
learning things
the opened eyes
purging the obsolete
now
i love economy
let me sleep

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Low River Bed

the river was low this evening
brown, with smoothed rocks exposed
and fowl pick clean the rotting bed
where flippers now repose

from a bridge i read this frightful scene
i stare -long; my mouth agape
yet walk along my merry way
like a good ape

and many more long languid souls
march upon my path
faster still as their flippers flail
even loonies do the math

no fright, don:t see the razor beaks
crack shell, break bone, lust sate
just walk along your merry way
there now, that:s a good ape

all hear the caws of dinner:s din
do each deserve their day
the fete of those fine feathers, lo!
behold, the sky:s now grey

NPB 2019

Pulpit pimp party!  Pulpit pimp party!
Throw your hands in the air!
Hallelujah!  Throw your hands in the air!

We got kids in cages!
Nazis in rages!
Blackface and stages!
Apologetics by the pages!
Can`t nothing ever faze us!
We are the merchants of the free.

And don`t forget
Your little pointy hats
made from mother`s sheets
And prowl and howl discreet
After our dark-skinned brothers beaten in the streets
(well, beaten if they `re lucky;
bullets if you feel me)
Brass badges for immunity!
My lovely land of liberty!
My pro-life coterie…
God bless the humanity!
It`s such a grand old party
Who`d ever want to leave?!

These vestments own their investments
And the nation waits for their testaments
Dear Calvin has blessed these sacraments
Their divine right, the establishment
Save grace be absent from the sanctity

So the gold laden robes
and multiple mansion homes
are His glory to behold
How these pious pulpit pimps scold
That these riches prove they`re saints

But now I`ll keep it simple
They ain`t.

School Window

 

a tangled lattice of telephone vines
making ties for the clouds
mixing, entwined
til the breast of a mountain cleaves their bonds
pushing puddles `to craters; living ponds

now scattered tatters against blue remains
and haze replaces the empty spaces
strangled by vines that our voices disdain
rending the safety of sacred places

lost, now fumbling,
tumbling through fujin`s winds
the apparitions from puddle`s prison
creep southeast, past the mountains meet the sea
fin`ly free to seek tranquility`s end

Now over the monsters too deep to see
A waving surface roils in ecstasy

Seed

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You frail, fickle thing
where is your green?
I watered Today
and Tuesday
and Noon
Yet your petals -parched, brittle
whittled from the bloom

Shall I get the broom?
Or the kettle?
Whichever still shines its mettle

I guess I`ll water
these husks of ancient green
But not for the wont
But the blood of our seed

sweats

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it is an unconscious thing
the muscles tick and ache
in sleep, when one can
the teeth grind and grate
there is no rapture, no trumpet
heralding an end to the end
nor storms or earthquakes
just a whimpering wind

Had we the time
to breathe a clean breath
How much lighter the breast

One year

forayearidranktokeepthesadnessaway

justanotheryearisokayyouthinkshouldbeok

ithinkitsok

justokthistimetoookokpouranother

justanotheryearisokitsokisntititsokitsok

giaa

god is an american
made of smith and wessen
from a pulpit he preach
pulling blood to the street
to put a stop pop the screech
of a sacred amendment

god is an american
possibly a publican
each tax steals a beat
lobbed pockets silver speach
gluts a lecherous leach
probably a publican

god is an american
just a pill-milled heroine
confined to the worn
of a warm violent porn
it`s what we all want adore
what`s more american?

i think
god is an american

A Coming Fall

I believe I see the first red leaves
Of the coming fall
The summer’s breeze flits in between
A lion’s roar and lull

The winds have cooled and after noon
The sun so early sets
Where mountains loom ‘neath harvest’s moon
This summer night forgets

The fattened bears in turn despair
Should winter come too late
That summer’s gains would thin and wane
Til naught could hunger state

With mother’s love Ma calls her cubs
Into a town at night
Outside the pubs in garbage tubs
She hears old songs of fright

Sweet sorrows bellow from drunken fellows
Drowned in barley’s brew
They dance and dine; their moves divine
No mind for mother’s rue

Outside the songs a chorus kaws!
Dark feathers fill the sky
From high above their forked tongues
Discern the drunkard’s lie

And wait, they wait – they cry the fates
Which mook shall make his end
Then rest in leaves – red, orange, green
Black beaks once meek now grin