True Love

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.

Remy-roo

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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!

Not So Super

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.

Wizard Eyebrows (A Tangleroot Farce)

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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.

Lost and Found Free Kindle Giveaway

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.

Apophenia

Tin-foil hats
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”,
lithotomy stirrups
while they get a peep-full.
Merit badges of
a conspiracy trend
which hate and love
and idiocy lend,
proudly worn,
from idiocy born,
and proudly displayed,
American-made.
Flat Earthers
and a chandelier moon,
Obama Birthers
denying the monsoon.
Shit-throwing baboons,
science-denying loons,
they
say,
“Dull the edge
of Occam’s Razor,”
as they wedge and hedge,
each a fraternity hazer.
No, ostracize
those thinking
contrariwise
without blinking
in the glaring stare-down
of conspiracy wars,
the Lizard Crown
and the alien spores,
each conflicted sect
never of an accord,
each president-elect
of the Secret Board.
Free-for-all
online chats,
slippery snowball
nefarious fat-cats.
Beware chemtrails
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,
out-and-out
about
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.
Trench warfare
from the pews
against those who declare
opposing views.
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
against commonsense
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
untouched, uneaten,
the Man
thus beaten.
Look here,
see clear:
the only false flag
operations
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
figurehead patsies.
They look for
conspiracy games,
and what’s more
a card deck of names,
but mostly there is only chance
and happenstance.
We are social animals, too,
and are programmed to see Man
in everything,
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
without sense
of embarrassment
forever hence,
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.

The Coo Coup Clock

Ascend the throne,
king or president
or emperor, alone,
even heavensent,
but in time,
as like tides,
with rhythmic rhyme
that blind-sides
you must step down
or suffer a fall,
no more crown
for you,
not at all—
coo coup!

The late hour
draws so near
lose all power,
know true fear,
for the birds coo
and ascend
toppling you,
all reigns end
as the cold
pendulum swings
for you, too,
as of old,
the way of kings—
coo coup!