Category: Poetry

If they cheat, it’s over-that is the code.
Being unfaithful is not á la mode.

If they lie, expose them…no exceptions.
You can’t build certainty on deceptions.

Trust isn’t given; it’s earned & broken.
Respect demanded cannot be token.

Finding things hidden distinctly from view…
Tell us about the character of you.

More angry at the spotlight than your crime…
Is exactly why you’re still doing time.

Every life lived is a dead end.
It’s not the finish but the bend.

No destinations, just journeys.
Nowt of note on our last gurney.

How’d you get there; what did you do?
A life flatlined…to look at you.

No substance there behind the eyes.
No giddy fear; no hot takes wise.

No jaded comical one line.
No veritas in vino wine.

You’ve no crepe skin or wrinkles deep.
You’ve no broken face when you weep.

Just doubling down on boring bland…
Down to your last plot of land. 

Self-improvement cannot brand the herded cow.
Nor, can finery raise up the muddy sow.

Fatted calves cannot grasp sacrificial rites.
Crops are not aware of prayers to erase blights.

Rain is ignorant to the dances you do.
Water won’t listen to your feet or to you.

Weakness & disease will not register prayers.
We aren’t the concern of molecules & air.

Do what you will; but my opinion is don’t.
If action is the cure, then survive…most won’t.

We tend our wells of heat;
Formed by bodies & sheets.

That just right feel of air…
Cycled from live skin bare.

Warmth & comfort rosy…
Thread counts pushing cozy.

Curled up in state for days.
Still, builds fire where we lay.

A second away grows cold.
Stay; til winter grows old.

Whether alone or one,
Warm beds in winter…fun.

Inch by inch in season’s swinging purgatory.
Figuring paths thru on the sails of a story.

I take a note of this & elements of that.
Hair of the dog that bit you & wing of a bat.

Turn up the sous vide in iron basins of milk.
A letter from the sole of a heart you have bilked.

Dash of turmeric, ginger, black cohosh & dong.
Stirring & folding pieces…not clockwise, clockwrong.

All in aide of an ointment for conjoining parts.
Each of my joints is now a complaining old fart. 

Does hate know how much cut eye we give ourselves for free?
That nobody on Earth is a bigger enemy?

We’re not good person pickers; with our thirst for challenge.
When it comes to matters of love…“have heart, will scavenge.”

Do it know survival instincts required to come out?
That to exit, we’re readied to fight all; without clout?

Most do not come out to live life mired down by the herd.
Escaping those old binary dynamics absurd.

Much of life lived is defined by the flow of masses.
Roots wanna keep us in the chorus; kissing asses.

So, meekly stand out; or, just burn all their dogma down.
 Just leave the herd behind so your magick can be found.

Marriage, children & accompanied death…
Arbitrary markers of life’s success.

The road most have traveled eluded me.
Slippery perhaps cuz I pruned my tree.

I removed all of the pendulous limbs.
The ones that threatened with dangerous whims.

Then took the sick ones who could not be helped.
The slime filled crumblers & cracked ones that yelped.

We’re here on the top branch, snug in our hole.
Now, our tree looks like a telephone pole.

I will not sire & I will not pair off.
No married folks asked give more smiles than scoffs.

I cannot abide those who long for yore.
Ask me why & I’ll make your ego sore.

Progress, yet, delivers a better new.
So…what from your “good old days” pines for you?

Is it the erosion of your privilege…
That merit won’t let you rape & pillage?

To miss music, culture & some fashions;
Are mostly harmless self-satisfactions.

Though, to yearn so much for the rule of old…
Vile stinking thinking brains; riddled with mold. 

I’ve got places to sit & tv to watch.
Too, I must pay some attention to my crotch.

It’s a busy life & I’ve got to live it.
The path is ahead with nowhere to pivot.

Today’s to-dos all done & now time alone.
Enough juices leftover to pick a bone.

A ring of the phone or a knock at the door;
Is all that I need not to make myself sore.

Deed satisfactory, then on to a snack.
Such brief punctuation, for what most days lack.

Congress or Con-Grease; who can remember?
Murky wealth’s delegated to members.

Fundraised their hearts out & bet on a race.
The victors dump the old & take their place.

They commit plain fraud or deploy their wives.
With disengaged voters, they’re there for lives.

Fat ticks on Wall Street & Federal teat.
No, smoke don’t deter; it helps hide this feat.

Term limits: the fix for judges & reps.
We must audit all they’ve stolen & kept.