We, The People

Political tailors keep us naked and starving.
Vested interests are like suits
with two pairs of pants,
one gray,
one herringbone.
There can be no black or white.
There can be no straightforward pattern.

Pentagonian pimps turn democracy into a whore,
a kept woman
who answers only to her keepers.
Every day she looks more like lady justice-
blinders in place.

Our shining star of freedom
has developed a curious green patina
and a fishy odor.
We grow old
and our sense of smell fails.
Is that stink from the right or the left?
Alas, it isn’t behind us yet.

So stand in line to register.
Stand in line to choose.
Vote your rightful conscience.
Then deposit the ballot
and flush twice.
It’s a long, long way
to Florida.


(published by Third Eye)

The Day We Put My Mother in the Ground

The sun forgot to rise
on the day we put my mother in the ground.
There was a gray ocean above us,
and in the distance thunder pounded
like the surf was crashing
against some far away celestial beach head.
Rain had cleansed the air; it smelled so sweet.
It held the scent of fresh dirt.
Nothing is cleaner than dirt.
My wool suit had a scent of its own too
that cool, clammy morning.
Damp wool, all clingy and scratchy,
the sheep’s revenge I suppose.

By the time we got to church the storm had come close,
and the peals of thunder made it seem as if God himself
was mourning for my mother.
The electric lights dimmed a few times,
but the wax candles continued to flicker, held their vigil.
No slackers those votive lights.
And people took turns speaking about my mother,
but I can’t remember what they said.
What I remember is numbness,
and the worst kind of headache.
The kind that makes even your hair hurt.

When they carried the casket out of the church
raindrops started to fall onto it, angels tears for sure.
But tears of joy, not sorrow. For our loss on this side
was their gain on the other.
And at the graveyard we laid my mother in the ground.
A good resting place for a pure woman.
Nothing is cleaner than dirt.

(appears in Passing, published by Poetworks Press)

Power Supply

Homo Sapien hard drive crash
needs biological bios flash.
Illuminati dim and dying.
Cell phone ring no longer crying.
Auto starter clicking-clacking
jumper cable sources lacking.
Dome light black light dashboard dark
shove the shifter back in park.
Scan through discs to look for drivers
install patches hope for rivers.
Order nicad cell replacement
bar graph reading in the basement.
Magnet storm transformer whack
power fades from brown to black.
Flat lined in the mind and heart
rubber soul transfusion start.
OEM should be consulted
operator error cited.
Warranty still validated
what he needs will soon be sated.
Information clearly needed
ignorance of all conceded.
This is all the problem took-
Opened cover, read the book.

(published by Contemporary Rhyme)

Slip Covers

Fresh laundry,
blue jeans
and sweat shirts,
un-pegged from the line.
Wind-whipped, sun-dried,
crackle-stiff
and so clean
they’re innocent.

Fold these clothes,
slip covers
for your child’s soul.

Mate these sock-angels
so they can bear your little Christ up,
lest he dash one of his feet
against a stone.

That’s what parents do,
stand in the gap between
the soiled and the immaculate,
between the dirty and the divine.

(published by Artistry of Life)