Disorder in a Closed System

Full dawn steaming
into new-day birdsong,
earth spinning
shrugging off the days —

Pull up a chair and relax a’while
as our youth careens entropically,
expanding like sea-foam fading
on a long
sand bar.
.

Supply for making of Mojito’s:  replenished.
Liver:   Soon to be fondly embraced. 

Gentrify Your Mind

All the cool white kids
are moving into the ghettos
for their scraps of indie bread,
singing falsetto bourgeoisie in dancing heels;
dreams come true for those whom spread…

With starved rib-cages and peaked
Monument Valley cheekbones we rise
as stars in the sky — burn outs
long dead, waiting
for our light to be seen through the night —

Carved and painted before the 
ever-changing winds here on
Zeitgeists’ shore, waiting like dogs                  
with ears cocked
for keys sliding into doors locked —

We rise, but toward what sun?
We live, but the Debt-Men hold the title.
We flee, but greener shores are getting harder to find…

“Who cares about any of that, man?  
We’re all dying anyway.  Shut your mouth and 
Pass that dutch.”

Distractions

Simple, pretty ditty
playing on the radio
as a one-eyed cat with
tufted cheeks
purrs and makes biscuits —
    I mark the places your plush tears fall
    onto the sheets 
    like dog-eared pages of 
    my favorite poems by Neruda —
All my anger a’sham
as my words turn contrite
and the Persian cat spins a circle
and settles down along our 
bed-time DMZ.
   

Funny Weather

If all my principles
were arranged across the oceans face
like dotted, emerald islands

they’d be just as screwed
by the ever-rising tides
of the yielding ice
caps’ collapse.

Sad Panda

Yahoo bought Tumblr…  in addition to vomiting forever, I’m putting serious thought into removing my poetry from this site.  Ownership laws are bullshit in this country, and Yahoo is abysmal when it comes to respecting an artists’ legal rights to their own content.  Kind of a bummer, y’all.

Corporate America ruins everything.

Cloudbusting/Do Not Eat of the Tree of Knowledge

Heart hums
like a string plucked,
like the ripest Gala Apple
sliced and peanut butter covered;
joy drips down my tongue.

Like the sun from behind clouds winking,
we catch eyes
and smiles swap —
The devil calls
and our better angels kneel —
a tease, here again.

Gone then.

Generation Ennui

It’s a cancer in the veins;
it’s a poisoned seed left to grow;
it’s the sparrow caught in mid-flight,
the hawk and his need to eat

flesh, simple meat
charged with electricity
to write the most beautiful love songs;
to burn down the house;
to self-immolate over a principle/
an idea.  A thought.

It’s our war on drugs,
a war on crime, wars on poverty meant to end in our time;
wars against the blacks and wars against the not-so-white;
Like an old shoe, the centuries have taught us to wear the battle well,
progress for progress’ sake.

We lose until we fight and fight until we lose again
or until the other man is too exhausted
to raise a fist.  

It’s circles, now and again
The Wheel of Time creaks and calls with fits and shakes
as the snakes consume their own tails
and die upon their own sword —
The dead we call heroes 
and maimed are named lucky.

We draw lines in the shifting sands like children;
We call men wealthy whom consume the most
with their imaginary number games, a credit to their class.
We spend our lives hunting in the urban jungle
for life, liberty and happiness, but it never comes.
We spin endlessly into butter,
hardening like gold, pliable and impermanent,

but pretty tasty nonetheless,
a bullet to the heart.

50/50

Awake; Adrift;
We unmoore and float further from the shore
into a tumultuous sea, the unknown deeps falling away
beneath our feet — what wolves hunt down there?

Adrift/ awake/
we slip away into that hungry eve:
Two candles flickering (two fools alight)
kissing the waves
laughing, laughing
swimming.

Sinking.

Brilliantly alive.

The Cardinal

Spring come in all its’ sultry glory,
the flowers they bend an ear
to hear of the songs I must need whisper:

The cardinal, he cries his triumph 
from the branches of that tall oak;
he watches me and sniggers behind glittering eyes,
his red plume a wine stain 
amongst the leaves.

Like a thief he laughs and takes flight,
his song a mocking call
for all the world to hear:  Of how foolish men can be,
speaking poetry to inanimate bursts of color
beneath a morning sun, stinking of bourbon;
      in last nights’ best suit
      singing of Ms. Billie’s strange fruit,

the smell of magnolias, sweet and fresh
indeed.