The Dancer's Lament

We came to have fun,
But instead saw a gun.
Now we must just run,
From a wannabe Sun.

The music of death,
Is so short of breath.
We should have just went
To an unarmed event.

Sad Cinderella,
Where is your fella?
Did he lose his good way,
With the old N.R.A.?

Mr. Poe felt a drop,
Of impermanence plop
Like bullets to the head,
Then in Baltimore dead.

No more dancing for you!
Ship you back to the Zoo,
Age as iron not mere flesh,
And then rust from the test.

Love's Vaccine

The outbreak of love was outrageous.
Public outcry demanded a cure.

Government agencies answered,
Quicker than passion’s sweat.

Local Health Departments were
Well stocked within three days.

Everyone aged ten to eleventy-one
Were urged/forced to take the serum.

The contagion was contained.
The world died.

B.I.G.

Biggie I never knew you.
But I know you well.
You rhymes transcended your times,
They explained the meaning of life.

Your name was Smalls,
But you were Notorious,
Never plain like a KAT bus.
Your rap rapped my heart.

Now the whole world waits,
Like a ticking time bomb,
For a new messenger’s aplomb.
The waiting is the hardest part.

Behind the Sonic a car is parked.
Lorna Doom can’t find her groove,
Mizo Thorne prepares his move,
They are lost in pagan disco beats.

Come back Notorious B.I.G.!
The residue of hope is fading,
The masses are complaining,
They do not know your peace.

Princes are not born,
They are created,
Never satiated,
Always sucking on life’s nipple.

Even after death.
With no regret or guilt
For an empire built,
True Princes reign forever.

Tattoo Scars - for Brenda

Top of my head, from a stob near the house.
Chin, from the floor mopping slip-up.
Right arm, from the little red haired girl in summer school 1972.
Left arm, the polio vaccine, now faded away with time.
Left arm, from the crash of ’76.
Left hand, from a Hiwassee cubicle assembly.
Left hand, from an IGA boxcutter.
Right hand, from a strange blister in the third grade.
Heart, from love’s labours lost.
Stomach, from a myriad of hernias and one bad gallbladder.
Lower back, from a bad L-5 disc.
Knees, from a wonderful childhood.
Left ankle, from a fat girl in dance class.

Ode to the Grandchildren of the Hitler Youth - In memory of General George S. Patton, still fighting the good fight

Hate every chance you get,
Angrily protest the possibility
That your pearl-handled pistols
Might evolve into helping hands.

Rally into mass protests
And shout down reason’s voice.
Your new Reich is waiting-
A fool’s reward with no remorse.

Use the weakness of others
To eliminate their viability.
Heap the rewards of the snake
Into your barren pit of conscience.

Be a fire-brand that rivals
Lucifer’s best attempts since
He tempted One in the desert.
But remember, hard rock awaits.

Label the dissenters, the unwanted, the lost.
Labels are the only “Right” words
In your lexicon of hate.
Despise the hand that gives, vilify love.

Der Fuehrer may salute you
In a ghostly goose-step march,
But the metal detectors of Heaven
Will cast you aside, hollow man.

The Old Log Road

Now an overgrown gulley,
The old log road
Used to be a playground
For the farm children
Playing in the woods.

Cows favored the old log road
For the easy access to
Good shade and yummy
Treats that didn’t grow
Much in the pasture.

Foxes and owls enjoyed
Hunting on the old log road
During night’s shift of
Food gathering and
Predator competitions.

Young lovers and old drunks
Each found happiness and
Safety on the old log road.
Parents and lawmen seldom
Checked there after dark.

The old log road misses the
Laughter and the excitement
That once coursed its vein,
Consoled today only by occasional
Forest breezes and summer rains.

No one sees the old hoop, the slate,
Or the silver locket that were
Left or lost there long ago,
Covered in new growth and
Buried in memories now fading.

The Haunting Moon

Blind people know when the moon is full.
Silvery threads make their presence known
To rich and poor alike,
Casting us all in the same shadow life.

Pets sense it, as do portraits and jello molds.
The translucent signals permeate all matter
Both living and unspirited.
Looming memory strands into emotion cloth.

We remember things normally kept sealed.
Impulses re-image into longings sealed away
Only temporarily, never finally.
The chill we feel is real, again.

We are driving back to your parent’s house.
Journey singing on the radio in the Z,
Lovin’, touchin, feelin’ each other.
Then a cat wails and the curtain falls.

Shiny as that safety pin keychain of yours,
And dull as my over-washed sleeping bag,
The scene is gone.
Dissolved once more into milk’s murk.

Dr. New York

Knowledge policeman in blue,
Watching what you wear and do.

Wardrobe your essence to Dr. New York,
Clothing the evidence used in his court.

No peridot! He dons blue shirt attire,
With beige or such slacks fetched from the armoire.

His eyes, a wintering East River, gaze.
Distilling intent out from hidden haze.

Pure heart beats still within armored chest.
Now all paiges he meets are put to test.

Woe to the tardy, locked minds that be,
Along with non-fans of the Scorsese.

Dr. New York teaches how to write,
To view, and to wage verbal fight.

A rumor persists that New York’s lair
Lies ‘neath old Dark Tower Nev-er-faire.

If you slack in his class, sometimes you will hear,
Anecdotes of an ilk to the Torquemada fear.

His subway precise, his hourglass pristine.
To pass thru his gate, be above the obscene.

Or He’ll Hell you like Ahab dreamed for M.D. whale,
And that last gasp of daylight will fade as you pale.

So, dress well ye your body, its soul and its mind.
Or be left with an F, then a smile not unkind.

The Wal-Mart Way

“Waiting is for K-Mart.”

“I didn’t know I was working with a bunch of drunks.”

“It will take an act of God for you to stay here overnight.”

“I didn’t think you liked paperwork.”

“The only good Ninja is a dead Ninja.”

The Pine Woman

She waits.
The forest is her domain.
Dried gullies her trails.

She waits.
When all is lost.
When life’s meaning obscures.

She waits.
Go to her.
She will listen to you.

She waits.
Gathering the lost,
The aimless, the misplaced.

She waits.
She is there.
You are never alone in the forest.

She waits.
Never blinking,
She waits.

Goldenrod

I'm back in Dallas again,
In the middle of a field of goldenrod.
The goldenrod is swaying away its days.

You introduce me to your sister and say
"Tell us a joke now."

---
A grasshopper walks into a bar,
The owner greets him and says
"Hey I serve a drink named after you!"
The grasshopper is puzzled and replies
"You have a drink named Steve?"
---


She laughs, you laugh, the goldenrod sways away its days.
Beyond the field echoes drift up from the bordering abyss.

A gentle zephyr carries the music of children's mirth,
Mixed with the drum-like clicking of feeding locusts.

I show you one of Warhol's lost works.
Marilyn Monroe prone in this same field of swaying goldenrod.
The breeze chorus whispers "Close your eyes and walk with me.
Nietzsche waits for us in the abyss."

The goldenrod sways away its days.

Then
slowly
the
blooms
all
float
away
-
smiling.