Cenataurs

How far they ride upon horse shoes
of beaten silver coin and gold
blacksmithed by the corporations whose
interests have them bought and sold.
Fitted thus they can gallop long
into their old age, man and horse,
even when no longer wise or strong
upon the circuit’s costly course.
Yet they do not steer, horse nor man,
but are driven by the tight reins
of those whose bit and whose bridle can
make or break them in campaigns.

Three More Poems

Geryon
Pay a few bitcoins
and climb on top of this
Monster of Fraud
to circle a few laps
above it all,
making you feel like you are
flying high,
his honest man’s face
as deceptive as
cryptocurrency itself.
Despite however many
blockchains
he is tethered to,
he will buck you when he
gets the chance,
dumping you headfirst into
a river aboil with
financial bubbles
and frothy fraudulence;
a serpentine cauldron
stewing overlong.
What are you shouting
from up there?
Market growth potential?
Yes, he grows larger everyday,
feeding well from his
investments
in liquidated soup stock.

Democratic Primary Debates
You may think you are now
radiant,
but you’re just hitting the atmosphere,
burning out as you come back down
to earth
after twinkling complacently
among the flashing-camera stars.
You are the type that
smacks a man in the face
with a chocolate pie
and then tactlessly accuses him of wearing
black face.
But blood is in the water
after everyone has thrown
chum-miness
overboard,
and there is a media frenzy.
How can any of you
hope to defeat the trumped-up Jester
and would-be King
when you all play the Fool?
Cartwheel round as much as you please—
in the meantime
Lady Pax is walking the gallows
one clown-shoe step at a time.

Shady Lane
At night the lamppost leans
toward the lane,
angling its sullen spotlight
as if glaring at its own
black post
and wondering how it came to be
rooted there.
There is a
“Flood Area Flood” sign
and
a fog rolling around it
from off the distended river
while the silent railroad tracks
lurk, ready to
rattle
to life at any moment.
A muskrat hobbles by,
humpbacked and snout raised,
its long black tail dragging
wetly
behind it; it sniffs at discarded
fast food trash
and moves on,
an amphibious pilgrim in the night.
The black wolf-dog
runs restlessly in and out of the
spotlight,
to and fro,
too excited by the
countless deer in the glimmering
moon-washed fields
to choose any one doe to chase,
sprinting toward every pair
of luminous eyes.
Frogs gurgle in the
flooded yards,
making homes of new swampland,
and black crawdads mosy down the road,
lost from the river,
yet carrying it with them
as a pungent, fishy fragrance.
A roar and a screech
and a Mustang races
out of the darkness,
splitting the quiet lamppost corner
apart,
bursting the pensive, gloomy silence
with a squealing proclamation of
being
before blaring down the road
and disappearing beyond the
shuddering railroad tracks,
the swollen river,
the cowled knobs,
and letting the lamppost glare
solitarily once more,
undiluted by headlights,
carving out its own silent
space
in the sleeping world
just before Dawn awakens the
neighborhood
with cars and trucks
and hurries and worries;
with all things that threaten
the outpost of peace
it resentfully keeps.

War’s Feast

They believed themselves as having been
suckled by War
like Romulus upon the teat
of the she-wolf
before he slew his brother, Remus,
upon the wolf’s embattled bosom
to give eventual rise to Rome,
and that may be true of them,
but what cannibal-mother
did not suckle a child
to fatten him up
for the forthcoming feast?
Can you not see how she
salivates
while you suckle yourself
complacent?

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.

Golden Age Killjoy

You naysaying canary,
shrilling in the open air
with a song so wary—
“Beware, fools! Beware!”

Contrarian canary,
why are you full of distrust?
His answer’s quite scary:
“The boom and the bust!”

You gloomy, winged prophet,
why speak of imminent doom?
Why not just come off it
and enjoy the boom?

“Because the sky is falling
as you drink unto wealth’s dregs,
debtors will be calling
to come break your legs.”

You petulant little bird
flapping in your little cage,
why should we heed your word
in this Golden Age?

“Because you see only the gleam
and think only of the sum,
yet it is but a dream—
the collapse will come.”

Who are you to question us?
We have built lustrous empires!
“Foundations crumble, thus,
and all end in pyres.”

“You have your heads in the ground,
mining gold so as to thrive,
but heed the ancient mound,
men buried alive.”

You vile, pernicious creature!
You’re more crow than canary!
“I am a mere preacher,
though my moods vary.”

“Continue mining the earth
to build castles in the sky
and discover their worth—
rich kings, too, shall die.”

To John Bolton

Near-sighted banty rooster
thinking himself a
thunderbird
to bring fire and fury
to the Middle East,
yet
clawing at his own tailfeathers
and claiming it the work of
desert vultures
as he flies headlong into yet another
Bush,
entangling himself in the branches
as if they belong to a
bird of prey
equal to his own outsized
sense of self.
Clipped, he flies with
waxen wings
toward the Arabian sun.

Two Poems

Iconophiles
They are polishing their beloved idols again
from atop their revered ivory towers;
rubbing the gleaming marble skin
and feeling self-important at all hours.

While they polish each illustrious person
and repeat their prayers in sanctimonious halls,
a cynical crack branches like a creeping curse on
the base of the tower—until it crumbles and falls.

They pray to their idols for whatever cures
might be forthcoming in this catastrophe,
and are shocked when their heroic figures
keep their silence with blank-faced apathy.

To polish icons that crown your culture
when you need to tend to the foundation
is to forego the needful until it totters, full sure,
to collapse across the malcontent nation.

 

Promethean Flame
Apollo’s light never accomplished half so much
as the engineering flame stolen by Prometheus,
nor is his academic light so warm to the touch
as the Titan’s flame bestowed to free us.

But who wouldn’t rather be Apollo spreading light
instead of a Titan chained to a mountain slab
as a menial vulture takes bite after bite
while complacent gods lounge and gab?

The oily, stinking tool shop of a tinker
accomplishes more than any ivory tower
because it is in the former that a doer and thinker
may forge the turbines to harness true power—

including power from the stagnating breath
of idle gods too preoccupied to help us
as they listen only to themselves, utterly deaf
within the bright—yet cold—halls of Olympus.