Eagerly they suck the snake oil
as if it is their mother’s milk,
frenzied and fearful it might spoil—
the conman thus nurtures his ilk.
Gaunt to the point of starvation,
they shake their rattles of unrest,
withered heartland of a nation
and still they suckle at his breast.


To have confidence so cock-sure
as that placid crow standing still
to not be timid or demure,
but as that bird so calm and chill
with swift wings at a flap ready
to lift it high into the sky
with graceful airs, nice and steady,
to spite the bobcat’s baleful eye.
How I should like to be quiet
within and without, as that bird,
feathers smooth as voices riot
and laughing off an angry word.

Drain The Swamp

Drain the swamp! But first, drop your drawers
and throw yourself down on all fours.
Let’s look with a clinical glance
at what you have in your pants.
STI’s galore, right in the crotch,
and a tv remote, with which you watch
Fox News, Hannity, Carlson, Dobbs,
lots of others for whom such jobs
hinge on flattering a bog creature
wet to the undies, no past teacher
being able to potty train you
or your mouth, spewing doodoo
whenever you feel wronged (by the truth)
and lying so fast that no gumshoe sleuth
can trek through the torrential morass
that landslides out of your blustering ass;
so much bullshit in your dirty diaper
that you could be the Pied Piper
of sewer rats, the trail left behind
as you pass like a cess swamp, of a kind.
Just look at the rubbish in your wake,
for it is more than most pants can take:
OAN bullet points, rubles, a puppeteer’s hand
reaching all the way from KGB land,
some Deutsche Bank notes, and IOU’s
that you have written for your dues,
and here is a National Enquirer rag
with a QAnon flyer, Confederate flag,
and now a replica of Mt. Rushmore
featuring your face—you cretinous boor.
“Drain the swamp!” you shout aloud
to your cultist, sycophantic crowd,
but if they could only see what’s under
your diapered orangutan blunder—
looks like a small mushroom stem
in the swamp of “us vs them”.


by a troll,
being goaded
to pay a toll
to a bridge
much too far,
just a smidge
for each railcar.
A coal burner
fed by fire,
a lol earner,
his sole desire
to switch the lever
and thus derail
those not clever
enough to tell
a smoke screen
from a smoke stack,
adult or teen,
online, off-track.


As you grow old, then older,

the waking world seems less real,

the new Summers are colder

and there is less you can feel.

You lose more loved ones each year,

(those most sacred anchor points)

and life drifts far, death draws near,

his claws deep in creaky joints.

Waking life is like a dream

and you dream of things now gone—

the years long past which now seem

truer than any new dawn

till you think this world untrue,

a dream from which none awake,

all things drifting far from you

like waves on a restless lake.

Now watch!  The ripples reflect

a mirrored world solely known

as that which we must reject

for the distortions thus shown—

distortions of the essence

twisting memories askew,

images making less sense

and bringing nightmares anew.

Waking world, you’re for the young

while the old see what’s not there:

a foggy looking glass hung

above a stained napping chair.

Kappa Song


Beware, my friend, beware!
If you care, if you dare,
to go make some night soil
when in nights black as oil
near lakes both dark and still
and you feel a slight chill,
if you squat, drop, or stoop,
Kappa will have his soup!
He likes it fresh, of course,
likes it fresh from the source,
so you mind from behind
or he will not be kind,
taking the best of you
for his witching hour stew—
reaching for an hors d’oeurve,
up your butt, like a perv.

Celebrity Half-Life

Lost in social media solipsism

lost between all selves, the dividing schism

of identity seen through Photoshop,

man and woman distilled as proto Pop;

forged from flesh and digital revision,

splitting essence, influencer fission.

Two lives in parallel, but neither true

on either side of the camera view;

master and slave being one and the same,

a false character under a screen name

that separates and grants immunity,

posting and hosting with impunity

while burning bridges beyond the firewall,

forsaking dial-up life like a thrall

enslaved to the clicks and the hashtag brag,

a doppelganger suffering jetlag

as they try to keep up with their own trend,

millions of followers, but not one friend,

turning up the wi-fi hi-fi volume

of fickle, fleeting visitors, all whom

glance over their sprawling media flow

that gushes everywhere, yet shallow

and so dissipating in the next wave

of celebrity summer, for they crave

always what s fresh, what s Hip, the next new rage

deftly curated on his or her page

until boredom, noise, or distraction drives

them elsewhere, the ADHD half-lives

dissolving all such idols to mere rust,

as with all that cycles from boom to bust,

leaving them with themselves, so that they feel

split by the screen between online  and real