Friday, November 15, 2013

Toad Heaven

I took a walk early this afternoon and as I walked by some head high bushes, I saw a torn beer can stuffed inside and decided to remove it and put it in recycling.  Well when I looked inside I saw a small brown toad, so I worked to remove it and then I saw another little toad and I released them, then I thought it seemed that they had found a little home and I decided it might be better to put them back in the can so I put them back in the can and stuffed them back in the bushes.  I think they are happy.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Congress Preaches Fiscal Tightening


This means Congress will only be paid for the 119 days they work and because these are part time jobs, they will not receive health care insurance


Friday, July 12, 2013

Mr. ME

Mr. Me sold out years ago. to his bank, to his bottle, to his short –term gain, . He would like to be the cause of bread, but alas he is white bread, self consumptive, flat and bland as yesterday’s dream.  

He is checkbook, a credit card, a test for even the most fastidious banker. He clamors for substance at anyone’s expense.  He feeds the unsteady spine that holds him in a world of stiff-jawed wives and rebellious children.

Master of the salesman’s pitch, the cell phone, the picture clicking supermarket, he insists he must live from one freeway to the next, a plethora of  rapaciousness, awash in the sounds of its own particular gurgle. 

 He is an American determined to be owned by someone else and he will win.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

The Professor Said

I teach soldiers
back from war.
I hear so much silence.

I see such glow
pale suchness
pride, a slim yes
a nod, an offset
remark or two.

They sit in when
A pin drop, a cut
A dark brow, a tuft
A quick smile.

Somewhere in the room
I have soldiers who
ask without asking
What now?

Sunday, February 24, 2013

February 24, 2013

The issue is that rubric distinction managed internally and hermetically solid, should by all means become an amendment verified and signed into law prior to admonishment.

If you disagree, you MUST VOTE

Sunday, November 11, 2012

The Lost Pilot

You sit in the cockpit still
upright in the May Day position.
Hand on the stick, pistol rusted, shoes too big.
The watch on your wrist bones stopped.
Trees and brush cling to the tangled fuselage.
Birds and snakes inhabit the tail.
Where a shout might have been
a gaping hole in the calendar says
you are seventy one years old. 

Fifty years you sat in the cockpit
your nosedive buried, your war over and no one told you.
No one knew where you went.  You just sat there.
Skin rotted off your once handsome face.
Insects ate your flesh, everybody went home.
Your sweetheart stopped crying
and became a grandmother.

In this monument to absurdity, insanity
and silence, may you be in some sweet place
where if there is such a thing
it was a good war that you helped win.
God knows it should have been.
May you be with your new lover on a beach at sunrise
your arms stretched, your chest to the East
free of this endless killing, a rich smile
of famous teeth, wisdom, money to go around. 
May you know, if only for an instant
a truth of your dream. 

Now, I step across this world to your Indonesian grave
reach into the cockpit and take your yellow bony hand in mine.
Your fragile history crumbles.
Flecks of you melt on my skin.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Protest-Written 1992

            We war in Bosia, the Cubans beat themselves to death worrying about Castro while they get their balls cut off at home.  Bobbitt pays his bills with a sewn-on penis, the Haitians get nothing for nothing, the Jamaicans wait table, the Huizengas of the world invest in solid waste to say the least.  O. J. Simpson slices up history and wants to talk about it, paid per view, and Pizza Hut puts pepperoni and cheese in the crust.  America sits numb as a Klondike Bar while the world heats up the ovens for another go.  Kids all over everywhere whack off momma's head, shoot Papa for a trip to Disneyworld and if you don't like that, cancel your NO Fault, NAFTA contract and lease a car. 

            I read stories of wandering crooks and I watch jobless kids hooking in Holiday Park.  I try to imagine some reason for driving up and down I-95, in small wars of little people gone crazy in a swirl of defeat, and broken brains.  What happened to us?

            1969.  I see the swirling day under big sky Washington Monument, how the hill fills with sweeps of beards and hoots and soft sweet songs of somewhere new.  All day sweat sticks to us like new dawn.  All day we wait and listen to the speeches.  Coretta King slices the air with cool oration of where she's been, suffered and how we're here because of wars over there and wars to be fought at home. 

            We eat what we can in the slippery grass running up the hill in the heated day of a war that can't seem to end, and I'm afraid  because I'm still in the Navy, that a camera will catch my military haircut.  The FBI and CIA takes pictures. The screaming little guy in the tee shirt next to me could be a narc, a pig. 

            All day we wait.  Linda's tired but willing, her long face and longer red hair pushed back over her shoulders, her ten year old daughter, Michelle excited, barely knowing why, wants to be with me and wants to know something besides endless treks from one husband or boyfriend to the next.  Her little picket fence smile is full of hope and grit as we swim along with the swirly crowds up and around and the endless swaying hot dog vegetarian day runs clear to the Lincoln Monument. 

            All day the excitement grows; all day we hope for what we're not sure of, a stop to the evil war, the war that "over there," the war that has one ship wondering what the other did, the Westpac, COM 4, Westmoreland's water buffalo counts, South Vietnamese abandoning battle stations to stage their own coups five miles away so the American troops get cut to pieces by their own mines trying to recapture Catholicism in the mud.  All day long the guns pump, recoil big orange smoke rings into the flashy newsy nights.  TVs in all the wardrooms and officers clubs from Hon Matt to Saigon, blink a story choreographed in teenage boy sweat and blood fed buy NBC and little Dan Rathers poking their noses down gun barrels and trenches for the sometimes made up battles with medals.  

            We wait by the big bump Washington Monument reaching to a sky that no longer holds real air/  We wait for the dark, the hand-held candle threaded through an ever bobbing hungry desolate night.  We march down off the hill to Pennsylvania Avenue toward the dome, to the curve in the road, the S that sweeps to the White House, the candles forming a stream, a poetry, the hum the silence overcoming us, the lights in the White House steady, the windows empty, the thundering silence lost in that breathtaking night the President isn't home and won't come out of his so-big White House ever, as long as we all shall live. 

            Now it all seems so long ago and these days, hope knocks on the door with its hand out.  How can we cope?  How do we detach?  All the soldiers have gone home to fight another war.  We dream of the hushed night of candles.  We hear the anthems echo down the hall.  We wait for the phone to ring.  Now I wonder where Linda and Michelle went.  I stand under Orion on a one in a million cold Florida night.  I wonder what have we learned?