Freedom Fighters

Paranoiacs gripped by delusions of grandeur
believe the government is a heart beat away
from fascism
from instituting death camps, death panels
who take every olive branch the leviathan offers
as a rod not to be spared
to lash the people, to punish and enslave
gripped by fear
they cry for their right to personal defense
trusting no one
they desire weapons in every hand
on every hip
because guns fight tyranny
and never bring it

cowardly fools of the worst kind
who trade freedom for fear
and name their fear freedom
sold on security
the suckers purchase imprisonment
buy right into the trap
doing the safety dance
until the jig is up in arms
and the caller calls his last,
“ready. aim. fire.”

Prison Break

I brought the books to the day room
and held all the dice: ten siders, twenty
four sides and eight
suspicion grew around the sixes
but even those the screws let be –
craps was not allowed
the guards would be on that, however,
our gamble wasn’t for wealth
our game was for more, bigger, classier
beyond cigarettes, steaks and punks…
one thing was sure
thieves always wanted to play thieves
thieves greater than they
more dashing, rakish, experienced
successful – most of all that
The fag liked to play too
He wanted us to know we were fags playing a fag game
strange, he decided to play the bard
a gentle poetic soul, sensitive and acute
in a hostile world of cut-throats, bandits, hustlers
and hard luck drunks…
shop lifters and drunk drivers mostly –
in truth, the fag was our only murderer,
homicide by snow shovel.
He was destined for a serious lockdown.
his lover’s blood so red on the fresh snow
soft flakes falling, frosting over the stain,
melting on the young man’s still warm skin,
so white like the new snow next to the so red blood
as the others rolled dice
and slit the throats of their enemies
our faggot bard sang a song praising our bravery
until our dope dealing wizard ran a magic missile up his ass.

Infrasonic Booty Call

Grey fragments are what we are
given of the world
cold slivers, distortions
delivered through our senses
what more must there be than
sight, sound, smell,
flavor and touch
scarce sensations
revealing only what was
gun smoke is seen
before the report heard
the shot light hitting our eyes too late
we live, literally, in the past
existence is a disobedient slave
manacled in a dungeon where bio-luminescent fungi
crawl the walls, shedding the only light
what the eagle sees twitch
two miles off in the grass – we cannot
see from within inches
what the whales call infrasonically
through hundreds of miles of sea
we can’t hear at all
what our pet dog smells:
a nasal universe
more complex, awesome, vibrant
than anything dreamt under our dead nose
the flower the bee sees is not ours
the shape of reality the bat maps is not ours
spectrums flee our vision
we are stranded in a micro-band of sense
lost, weak, victims of delusion
certain of our triumph
our ultimate place in the big picture
the part of it we, at least,
are capable of seeing
one we pray was stroked by a divine brush
even while our senses scream
at the sub-audible edges of denial

Enshrined Barbarism

How do you choose who
when the time comes for 2nd amendment solutions?

Everyone faces the tyrant of their choice
picking all by themselves at their will
the despot du jour
to overthrow
to righteously kill
the revolution will not be organized
will not be organized, but televised
it must be and is
to inflame the psychopath
to tip the scales of the mentally unbalanced
to take up arms
this awful right of the people
O, this unimpeded right of the mob
to have, to hold, to bear, carry and conceal
but to shoot… to shoot
to murder
this is the price of the right
one man’s choice
of what ground to stand
is the cessation of another’s life
and all the choices of her future unfulfilled
a broken promise
a smoking gun
in this one way
this one way at least
the founding fathers and their constitution
got it wrong
a big gaping wound of an error to think
man acts in rational self-interest
and not in the names of gods
in corporations
in arms manufacturers
in paranoia
and misinformation
yes it is true
the old revolutionaries made a mistake
pumped up on the success of their own liberation from tyranny
they put in place the right
the horrible right to violence
that’s what the 2nd amendment says
violence is the answer
and maybe then, in that era
of imperial colonialism
intercontinental slave trade
conquest, manifest destiny, dispute settled by duel
it was
it was the principle answer
for these men of the enlightenment
who enlightened as they were
never-the-less enshrined this barbarism
into the law of the land
the right of the people
to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed
and that’s a damn shame
damn national shame

Habeas Corpus

We stumble, gout-footed
forward in growing ignorance
like goiters of cooling lava
erupting under chiseled Rushmore chins
burbling out and up
effacing the proud works
of a noble-intended past
in a vein-rutted atlas
of misdirection, wrong-ways and dead-ends
examined and flipped, this way and that, fueling
ceaseless argument over
that which should never be argued
until the faces are gone
the bodies that never were
never matter more

Wah!

Kill me in the baby monitor’s red pulsing lights
Kill me to the crying in the early morning
to the hungry monkey vocals of my offspring
or on the aircraft
Kill me as I fly first class
and sincerely believe the people there
do not deserve a moment’s discomfort
because they are class – a class above,
curtained away from the rabble – beautiful in riches refinery
Kill me in coach
where I mute my child trumpet-esque
not from concern or respect
but of disdain
for the commonness of the lower crab-scrambling class
their common thoughts clambering back-ways side-wards
filled full of dead barnacle rage
they will hate the disturbance that is theirs
made in hateful ignorance
and I want for them – the filter feeders – filtered by diseased love –
Peace
a moments
television-free
for once
for them, for their placidity
for their moment of emptiness
clear, undisturbed, reflective
to mirror their anger, perfectly
back at them – into them
so they see and feel – just once
who they are – a beast – and then
maybe – just once
some day they will walk away from the howling death calls of the crowd
stay their fist, their bellowing impotence
as they recall, in a hard-shelled moment
when that infant stayed its wails
granting serenity
in the tin clam
a mile high
and if that deep breath, that invert ten count
could come to them as they enter the voting booth
then I am an awesome father
humanitarian
and soother of children
whose big bawls of “Wah! Wah! Wah!”
should be quelled early
before they cry the same
as these coach class ass eaters
inflight: to
Sarasota, to Boise,
to Arkansas, Indiana
your backyard or mine.

The Cup

Atop the dresser, a man in a soufflé cup
lock of hair, guitar pick, skull ring and teeth
the dead are things left behind
a few tangibles: photographs, audio and video
mostly memories
more and more daily impaired
that’s all
not too bad considering
there is, in remembrances and possessions, luxury
the decadence of leisure
to think back and lie of the deceased
how perfect, how loyal
how endlessly better gone than present
precious perishable humanity
allow me to tell you how
the dead in our head do not lie
never betray
always smell good
rarely excuse themselves to piss, shit, sneeze or look away
unable to any longer bear your gaze
hounding them, hounding them into their graves
of lit cigarettes and too sharp curves
unsafe speeds and ill-spoken words
the decisions of life that accumulate
to make the picture of the ride that was
always destined no matter the choice
to crash, to burn, to end, never last
that’s the way to the dresser’s top
mildly or wildly
we all get in the same cup

The End of War

My testes were a green zone
a tempting oasis of safety in a desert of hostility
warriors free from fear in security
soundly slumbering, suppressing the nightmares
waiting in the greater world beyond
deployment means death
soldiers accept this reality
they are but bullets in the rifle of the state
to be fired wantonly
until victory or surrender

My testes are a concentration camp
supply lines cut
gates shuttered and locked
everyone doomed to die inside
escape is impossible
from this prison there is no break
struggle and search as they may
the way is blocked
to the frontlines there is no return
no glory, no despair

I have put an end to war
as could every man if man enough
for the scalpel
for cauterization
for the end of war
there is an operation
as simple as tying your shoes
as easy as converting
green zone to concentration camp
so how about it
you don’t even have to surrender your weapon
are you man enough?

Diseased Virtues

Individualism, curse of the west
glorification of competition
pigs sucking fat at the trough of triumph
no concern are the emotions of others
the self is the sum of selfish desires
no more than inferiority complex
passing itself off as a life
culture corrupted by a false win or lose dichotomy
entrenched in its conqueror roots
so completely contaminated
cooperation and compassion are derided as faults
pro-social participation condemned
in preference of anti-social ambition
consuming abundantly
hoarding excessively
diseases mistaken as virtues
condensed to its most callous form
in conservatism
in crony capitalism
in a cold heart Hell-bent on maximizing profit
a far easier way to kill our children
than assault rifles in the classroom

The Rub

I am a futilely rubbed lamp
an improperly worded wish
the trout’s eye staring up from your plate
like the egg yolk beside it
I am the punishment of Abel and the prize of the planter
a kingdom and a harem
forty-three sons, two goats
and an arboreal swan.
A chance against the odds
reward for murder
exile, solitude
a peace-time of quiet genocide
cumming genies and devils
and slow burning oil
for the gamble – for the rub
for the rub of the head against
the landing strip and the fast flash into fire
where we all line up and check into cash
POOF! There-in it lies…
who will call me master when the sun goes down?