Heirlooms

To shroud yourself in the flayed skin
of your ancestors, your past kin
who bore the harsh kiss of the whips,
and now to flap your sneering lips
as if you were, yourself, a victim
to the woes that did inflict them,
and to steal their woes for your own
like a thief on Agony’s throne
so you might claim with the blood shed
their rights, (rather than mere blood bred)
is just as bad as feeling guilt
for ancient sins, to drive to hilt
the hate-bloodied warblade which flayed
the kin of others, a sword made
among countless other heirlooms
which all peoples have to bear, blooms
of crimson buds, vines thus amassed
and rooted in yesterdays past.
We should not take pride in the rust
on such heirlooms, nor should we trust
in skins which were taken by force
or else we belittle the source,
nor should we supplement the toil
in such gardens with “blood and soil”.
Sheathe the rust, bury the old skin:
do not presume to be your kin.

Some Crude, Lewd Poems

Millennial Miracles
Innumerable millennia of evolution—
of toil and struggle and sacrifice
and immeasurable gallons of
sweat and tears and blood—
and thousands of years of
scientific progress
all so a satellite orbiting earth can
triangulate
the video feed of a Swedish woman
drilling herself with a silicone dildo
mass-produced in China
and send it via encoded super-info highways
down under
to a pubescent boy in Australia
so he can watch it on his smart phone
as he takes a quick wank before
heading to school
to nod off in class
as the monotone teacher talks in utter
disinterest
about Medieval mortality rates.

Teenaged Angst
A teenager squeals his tires
at the change of the traffic light,
his Mustang roaring down Main Street
like a young lion in rut
ready to take on any old beast
for the privilege of his pride.
Meanwhile I take an easy, leisurely pace behind
knowing this is likely the only
action
he will give any rubber tonight
and thinking of my
wife waiting at home
ready for some happy
friction,
her green light saying
GO! GO! GO!
After a few seconds the young dude
putters down to the
speed limit
once again
as if embarrassed by his
premature acceleration.
He turns off at a sidestreet,
Mustang grumbling curses
at another luckless Saturday night
spent revving his engine
for no one at all.

Substance
Poetry would be better as a
choking hazard,
not
baby formula;
it would be better
a scalding bitter tea
rather than
lukewarm kool-aid.
Poetry can be a
comfort food,
if you should like,
but should never be
mass-produced
and easily forgotten.
It should not be
common fare.

Just Toxic Enough

Sometimes I feel overcrowded
and wish to be more like a
black hickory tree—
the kind of selectively antisocial tree whose
toxins
wither almost everything near it
to give it space
so it can grow its foliage
(without throwing shade)
and grow its roots
(without groping)
and drop its nuts
(without worrying about
the consent of whomever
is actively feeling up its
hardwood
from down below).
It is not “manspreading”
or
“mansplaining”,
and it doesn’t make me a pig
or even a
pignut,
nor is it crass cynicism—
it is just a want of
personal space
and some quiet solitude
and natural boundaries
as I keep to myself
to avoid the eager whine of the chainsaws
and the hungry woodchippers.