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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Just another day they say,
to the dying it’s eternity.
To the muted cat
tomorrow is irrelevant.
To the sun just another circle,
to the moon just another waning
or waxing, that’s the fact dear.
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.
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.