Reaping

Every picture strikes a chord, a scenario

of years long gone, long hidden.

I’ve forgotten my forefathers, hard

working farmers, victims of Depression,

war, disease, lost friends. You’re gone.

Soon, too soon we follow our own parade.

Someone said once “one day older,

one day closer to the end.” I ask the end of what,

the end of a hard day’s work, shoveling stalls,

reaping fields of wheat, or reaping the dead

from wars declared by the rich, the arrogant,

narcissistic kings living in gold and silver

while their followers sleep in hovels declaring

victory over their hard days, slavery never sleeps.

Sunny Forever

It’s just another day, sunny chance of no sun.

My love tells me sun forever

but it’s gone, gone to the bottom of the sea.

Tomorrow will be another day, sunny chance of no sun.

My love tells me tomorrow’s going to be fine.

I’m leaving my sunglasses at home.

Fake News

God loves nothing better than a freshly painted barn,

fresh concrete at the front door, and a Rhode Island Red.

Nice quaffed hair on a virgin girl and a sacred boy with clean hands.

Thou shall not touch thyself, smell the scent of temptation,

or harden at the sight of skin, bare flesh is for cat testosterone.

I wrote it in a book some call the Bible, others call it fake news.

My Corona

A monster crawled through broken tunnels,

street lights ran freely,

stores emptied as the ghost hovered above

the clothing aisle as two Spanish lovers

ran out the sliding doors, eyes like dark fountains.

Fever climbed to a pitch not seen before,

doctors scratched their beards then died.

“Surely,” someone said, “the anti-Christ

has crawled from the cellars of Hell.”

“My god I believe an orgasm of irony

has visited our land.” The king cried,

“I’ll kill that bastard.”

That bastard left town on a politician’s

tan coat, polka dot hat, and a secret lover’s tight sweater.

Mama, I’d like to know you better but I’m dying on a trach tonight.

City Graves

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God.”  Luke 12:6

Somewhere in the big city slush

in snow covered alcoves

a sparrow lies crushed and trampled,

unseen, unknown by busy citizens of God’s green marble.

No obituary given.

No seven p.m. news report

on channel three with Cathy McGee

proclaiming “Local bird is murdered in Manhattan.”

Apathy, a state of no mind

in predominantly God look-a-likes,

an incurable addiction crushing

man’s soul like a vise.

The city streets keep humming

melodies of coming and going.

The sparrow’s friends mourn their brother’s frozen corpse

Disfigured and wedged to his concrete grave.

Mortal Jesus

I declared “I will fight forever for you.”

She smiled, hanged her head, deep socket eyes

moistened until fall breezes stilled them.

Life is  bounteous and bursting

ripe with words from her god.

“I cannot cheat on my Husband.”

“He is not here, I said, “never will be.”

“Your faith is weak,” she declared.

“But I walked the Sea of Galilee and chose you.”

“I have not chosen thee, you are not the Son of God.

You are but Jesus, a man of no means and few words.

You will die in an auto wreck.  I see it in your hands.

Air

Your eyes fade to blue when you’re not here.

My days caught off guard now that I’ve aged

Curds and whey now departed, my memory fogged.

Bars, diners, and hot spots are no longer thoughts.

My sagging scrotum remembers those youthful hangs.

I reach for my oxygen and pray for breath, to breathe

one more heartbeat, one more sunny kiss.

Irony on the Cross

Restless in my bunk

I listened to tank fire

machine gun laughter,

sounds of war.

Felt my bunk jumpin

heard our platoon leader screamin,

felt our barracks collapse and Elvis

smiled for the cameras, superstar.

Creedence ran through the jungle

Johnson shined his surgery scar

And the world said “fuck you”

to Ho chi minh

Trump developed spurs

Pence saw a barber

Mother screwed him silly

Washington, a home for curs.