Downwind Thinking himself quite tall and claiming the high ground, he loomed over them all from atop a dung mound. “You’re beneath me,” he said, “and you always will be.” Bible in hand, he read from Deuteronomy. “So circumcise your heart,” he said, “and be not...stiff...” then choked on the next part, getting too big a whiff of the shit neath his shoes, as did his would-be flock who left, as so behooves those sickened by shit talk. “Wait!” he cried, but then coughed at the odor blowing with the wind, now aloft, and the heat now glowing amidst the Summer sky beaming with its full fire, bringing tears to each eye and worse than any mire. “By God!,” the man exclaimed, “and by Moses and Christ, and all who yet be named, this is a true shite-geist!” He wavered a moment, feeling faint at the smell, but rallied as he went though the smell did but swell. “Yet, I shall reprimand this age of foulest souls and purge this goodly land until the church bell tolls to declare all so pure as a Godly town might...” He gagged as the manure stank in the hot sunlight. Rallying once again from atop his dais, he preached against all sin, saying, “Lord God, stay us from temptation, from lust, from envy and from wrath, show us works we will trust and show us the right path.” Then pointing at a boy passing by with a book, he vowed then to destroy all sinners with a look should they read any tome that was not the Bible, but the boy went on home and cared not of “high bull”. A girl then passed in grace with ribbons fine and fair and the preacher’s green face burned bright red with a glare. “Vanity is thy name! Forsake earthly treasures or it will be thy shame in Heaven, these pleasures!” The girl pinched her nose and gave him a wide berth, fearing to ruin clothes more than her soul on earth. The preacher loathed the cloth of her pink dress as well, saying “Beware the moth that nibbles souls in Hell!” The girl did not glance back, but hastened to the downs, keen to practice her knack for sewing pretty gowns. And many a more soul did the preacher condemn, the world together, whole— leaf and bloom, root and stem. “Foul! Foul! So foul indeed! This world stretched beneath me! An iniquitous seed felled from the Fruitful Tree!” He stomped deep in the mound as if ‘twas what he scorned, kicking filth all around like a bullshitter, horned. “As a Joshua tree will my belief so grow from this filth beneath me and the faith that I show!” All day he preached thereon till sun slept and moon fell, and though he bathed till dawn he could not shake the smell. “The iniquities last, ever without reprieve as shadows from the past cast by Adam and Eve.” He thought it a trial from which others might learn, yet his wife thought it vile— a circumstance to spurn. “If you are so holy,” she said, “be a saint no more roly-poly. Wash away your foul taint!” “Tis the taint of the world!” he said, “and follows thus!” She screamed at him, then hurled a pan, raising a fuss. “Out! Out!” she cried, “Out, swine! I cannot endure you! Were I not wedded thine I would marry anew!” The preacher fled thither, backside aching from blows, and felt his heart wither, as did his crinkling nose. “The stench persists,” he said, walking the country lane, knowing not where to head while stench brimmed in his brain. “Now I am an exile from out my own good home, prey to some devil’s wile and forever to roam!” Angrier than before, the preacher returned now to the high mound once more with a complacent brow. “Still do your sins smell!” he proclaimed, hands aloft. “And will thus unto Hell when sulphur and fire waft! Raise your heads up to me, and know the higher ground, for I stand above thee, a sermon on the mound!” For the rest of his days the mad preacher lectured, decrying the world’s ways while retching on each word.
Go! Leave! Take to flight, February,
for you linger overlong
with such a darksome mood, chill and airy
that sings too mournful a song.
The shortest among monthly brethren,
but not short enough, forsooth,
as we wait for the Spring to set in
and you cling by nail and tooth.
It’s true they stole from you a few days
to add to their collection,
but no one wants you here anyways,
and would rather you had none.
You are the Georgia of Winter days,
the state I hate driving through
on my way to the Gulf’s golden bays—
Florida without the view.
We are all tired of this bleak Winter
and its cold dark solemn hours
so we’ll be in the garden center,
looking at the Spring flowers.
Thou foul beast! O skunk, where art thou at?
Black and white malodorous polecat!
Do not— oh please—take me by surprise
when by dark I seek with cautious eyes
to know where thou lurketh in the night,
thine cloud lingering as doth a blight,
for if I do not heed the wise nose
then heed how futile the water hose!
Not even saints may abide that smell
that be worse than the sulphur of Hell
as it clingeth like sin to the skin
although we scrub again and again.
What devilry beneath that proud tail!
And what a fallout! What a trail
that follows it like a stain on air
warning us all—beware, fool, beware!
Nor can we trust fruit of the nightshade
to cleanse one’s soul of the fetor made;
‘twould be best simply to eat the leaf
and thus pass beyond such earthly grief.
Oft feared more greatly than grizzly’s growls
and worse, by far, than the wolf pack’s howls
and yet how adorable that beast
with its brown eyes, soft fur— cute at least
in eyes that look past its rank odor,
for in the eye of the beholder
beauty be found, and the will to love
what is shunned both below and above…
O god! Where is it? Where’d it go?
Ach! It has sprayed me! Oh no! Oh no!!!
Whenever Earl’s hapless love life
suffered a dry spell,
he found himself a willing wife
in a bourbon cocktail,
and if she ever gave him lip
he would give it in turn,
kissing her cool glass for a sip
to taste true love’s sweet burn.
Earl thought they were a perfect match,
at least for his own taste.
When sad he tossed her down the hatch,
fingers tight on her waist
while he wobbled a wayward dance
that filled him with drunk glee
as he spilled her down his good pants
and fell down, all dizzy.
It was a Mint Julep, his drink,
and some made fun of it,
but he never cared what drunks think—
he never cared a spit.
While other men drank Black Label
and the women drank beer,
Earl drank Mint Juleps, when able,
meanwhile having to hear
people mock him in the tavern
for his “lily liver”
each patron eager at a turn
to sing him downriver.
Their many nights out together
were always rough-and-tumble,
whether in fair or foul weather
he would often stumble,
and often he would come home late
with a black eye in pairs
from when his ice-and-sugar date
had thrown him down some stairs.
Still, no matter how rough and wild
each party and its fight
they were nonetheless reconciled,
sharing a bed at night—
a wet bed at night, all soaked through
as he cuddled her close,
sipping at her minty green dew
for a lullaby dose.
Throughout the years Earl’s love affair
with Mint Juleps was strong;
though he was mocked, he did not care
and drank it all day long.
You see, it was a favorite
of Francine, his late wife,
so he wanted to savor it
now and always in life,
for it reminded him of her,
of the first girl he kissed—
first kiss, first and only lover,
the girl he loved and missed.
A Yorkie so badly wall-eyed
she only sees side to side,
blind to her own black nose
and confused as she goes
bouncing from wall to wall,
each eye a billiard ball
rolling, lolling, bowling
even as she goes strolling—
I am not at all joking:
she is but a broke thing.
No depth perception here
ear to nose to ear—
when looking right at you
you’ll be just out of view:
How does she eat when
she dips her snout in
and misses the whole bowl
with her drooling food-hole?
And that funny overbite!
It just doesn’t look right—
like a bent can opener that
has been mixed with a rat.
Barking at empty shoes
to pick a fight she will lose
and falling off the couch
when too excited (ouch)
and bopping her hairy head
so much she should be dead;
too scared to be alone outside
or she will whine and hide
from wind and sky and rain
or paw at the windowpane.
Look at her snaggletooth gap!
Hear her high-pitched yap?
Beware her wall-eyed stare
as she bounces here and there.
Not quite a dog, nor a rat,
but something of a brat
roughhousing with her teeth
with your fingers— good grief!
Oh, silly little Remy-roo!
As blind as a bat, or Mr Magoo!
Since Superman can travel to space,
why does he linger with the human race?
Is it to protect us from Darkseid
that Kal-El will remain here to abide
being among up-jumped simians
rather than with the New Olympians?
Perhaps it’s sentiment he feels still
after growing up in peaceful Smallville,
or perhaps he’s afraid Lois Lane
will find another beau, maybe Bruce Wayne;
perhaps all aliens revile him
for bestiality, though the same phylum,
family, and genus, ostensibly,
he’s not the same species; he just can’t be
since he was born of Krypton, not earth,
though greatly humanoid, so there is worth
in the suspicion that his mother
laid not with Jor-El, but another—
a human with more dominant genes
expressed in his anatomical means
because the Kryptonian descent
cannot be just like ours, or so recent
since they are so much more advanced
in tech, in culture, their bodies enhanced
by the super AI, Braniac
who condemned them, I guess, the maniac…
But the point of this is just to ask
why Supes stays on earth, and so, to that task,
we must think beyond our small planet
to space and all the big things that span it.
Such a small world for such a big man!
You’d think he would travel more since he can,
but maybe he is not really so tough
when he’s compared to scaled-up cosmic stuff
such as Lobo, that bully who may
give Supes an atomic wedgie each day
if Clark leaves his earthbound comfort zone
and tries to be a Space Scout on his own.
Who knows? Not me— Supes is not real
or else I would not mock the Man of Steel.
When my queen tells me I must trim
my eyebrows till neat and prim,
I say, “Why should I, anyhow,
when it is my wizard’s brow?”
Then she urges me with decree
to sheer them, like bush or tree,
and at such times I must remind
why brows are not kept in kind.
I say, “Each conductor of mine
is a transistor ley line,
and they channel such vast power
as within Merlin’s tower.”
“Cosmic energies they focus
like a coiled karma locus,
or an altar to gods quite old
whose fires have not wavered cold.”
“My queen, would you deprive your court
of the powers of the sort
in measure like Gandalf the White,
shaving his beard ‘fore the fight?”
“Moreover, I must proudly state
that my brows intimidate
ogres, witches, fairies, and trolls,
dragons, goblins and lost souls.”
“Nor do only such foul creatures
fall to my feathered features,
but knights and ladies, lords and kings
are swayed by the winged things.”
“By means of mien wisely strengthened
with wondrous brows quite lengthened
and aspect accented so strong,
I enchant ere I look long.”
And so saying, I flap my brows
to overrule my queen’s vows—
to ensorcell her womanhood
abed, as lovers would.
Alas, my charms affect her not,
such is my unlucky lot,
angering her upon her throne
so that night I slept alone.
For a limited time my children’s novels are free in their kindle format. Though written for children, they also touch upon deeper themes and adult subtexts. I am rather proud of them, though I wish they would gain greater traction (and readership). Below is the link for the first novel. The 2nd novel is titled “Stormy Within The Strawberry Patch”. It is listed on my author page.
to protect your brains
deep fryer vats
for drive-thru lanes,
AM radio talk
on the commute,
spooks that all walk
along your route,
fluoride water fountains,
vapor trails overhead,
melting ice mountains
and nanites in your bed,
a face on Mars
that watches the earth,
eugenic candy bars
to control rates of birth,
high fructose corn syrups
that fatten the “sheeple”,
while they get a peep-full.
Merit badges of
a conspiracy trend
which hate and love
and idiocy lend,
from idiocy born,
and proudly displayed,
and a chandelier moon,
denying the monsoon.
“Dull the edge
of Occam’s Razor,”
as they wedge and hedge,
each a fraternity hazer.
in the glaring stare-down
of conspiracy wars,
the Lizard Crown
and the alien spores,
each conflicted sect
never of an accord,
of the Secret Board.
that socially engineer
to change males into females
and straight men queer,
or so one conspiracy entails
built on their greatest fear:
that the speaker might be gay,
falling out of the closet someday.
It is thus
a lot of fuss,
mass sensiogenic illness
in the heartland from this
opioid pill mess
and yet it would be remiss
of us to not mention Soros
the leader of the Cabal,
that snake, Ouroborus,
the herald of the Zionist Call.
from the pews
against those who declare
When your candidate starts to lose
just blame a “Cabal of Jews”,
but don’t forget the “Deep State”,
the shadow government
made of all the people you hate,
but none from your favored tent.
How nice it must be
to be one of the Good Guys
in your head, free
from ever thinking otherwise.
And when you ask for proof
they say “prove me wrong”,
but that is not the way to Truth—
denial sure is strong.
Burden of proof means nothing
to such riveted brains,
bolted and ironclad with bluffing,
taking great pains
and contrary evidence
people who like
to ride a tin-foil bike
in the emergency lane,
thinking themselves sane.
I say, “You fly to the moon at night
speak to little Boy Blue,”
and they say, “I am right
because you can’t prove it untrue.”
But can you prove that the sun
is not made of unicorn glitter?
Or that the earth is not on the run
from a cosmic bull (shitter)?
They take the pieces
of a puzzle in disarray
and, like a cryptid species
that is whatever they say,
gluing the parts
however they wish,
like Post-Modern Arts
a pollo loco dish,
forcing all to fit a narrative
preconceived in their heads,
rather than following the imperative
of reasoning, logic, their meds
the only false flag
are politicians who brag
about their lapel pins.
Humans are natural pattern seekers
and see what’s often not there,
happening by like streakers
bare in the cold, shriveling air,
thrilled by the thought
of a network of nasties
that has bought
They look for
and what’s more
a card deck of names,
but mostly there is only chance
We are social animals, too,
and are programmed to see Man
even out of the clear blue
of a toilet bowl ring.
From random occurrence
of act or event or feature,
whether it be gods, fairies,
or whatever other humanoid creature
that strikes our fancy; it varies
according to our brainwave currents.
That is not to say
that conspiracies do not exist,
whether it be those who we obey
as autocrat, dictator, capitalist,
communist, lord, senator—
they are all in a labyrinth,
as are we,
and Necessity is the Minotaur
and we wish to be free,
but civilization, in fact,
is a kind
of conspiracy, a compact
with which we bind
each other, and how we behave
as we all conspire,
each a slave
to the mire.
Everything confirms the script,
even when cliche plot points don’t pan out;
all reason and sense is stripped
so a true believer can forever shout
abstaining only on Lent.
And while you like to think
you are the one that is waking,
you only drift away and sink
into the pillow of your own making—
many pillows in a padded room
wherein you tell yourself tales
of aliens and lizard men and doom
or Hollywood, if all else fails.
Ascend the throne,
king or president
or emperor, alone,
but in time,
as like tides,
with rhythmic rhyme
you must step down
or suffer a fall,
no more crown
not at all—
The late hour
draws so near
lose all power,
know true fear,
for the birds coo
all reigns end
as the cold
for you, too,
as of old,
the way of kings—