Sounds of Music Singalong

There are jackals in the parlour. This is disconcerting.
They do their concerted best to give a concert
but their siren yowls aren’t music to our ears.
The jackdaw is not amused and I’m afraid
if I applaud, the jackals will sense I’m not sincere.
I turn on Netflix for them when they ask.
The jackals’ favourite film, The Sound of Music,
begins again. The jackals sing along.

I remember best when memories are unclear
and I imagine I hear the choo choo engine song.

ONE-ACTER

A spotlight finds the table on the stage.
We see a handgun and a pretzel and a bagel.
‘Who says “handgun” still already?’ asks the bagel.
‘Foot soldiers?’ laughs the pretzel. ‘Question mark.’
‘My words,’ the bagel snickers. ‘Inorganic
is what this gun is. Why it cannot talk.’
The curtain falls. We hear two tap tap shots.

Kick Start Friday Morning with the Blues

Blues. The dance, the passing dance of life.
Can’t win cause I don’t got nothing I can lose.

The dances of life pass white. Then die. The Blues,
Music building castles with no moats,
Ivories blacking nights all whitening blues.

Catfish barbs bait abandoned Barbie dolls.
We dance against the fabric of bad times.

The wind resembles wounds we’re still to suffer.
John Lee Hooker knew. He knew the blues.

What wind resembles only poets can see.
There’s nothing there. It’s getting everywhere.

Coherence is a con game dream times play.

The waking wait for wakes to celebrate.
The sleeping dance as nimble as the quick,
The Southland’s magic making Yankees sick.

Chase the mighty dollar as it shrinks.
We chase a dollar that used to buy us drinks.

It’s all the change now come back from a ten
For that tequila sunrise starting off my day
Dancing on the edge of jumping off
Crying croc tears on Dorito chips,

Dancing shotgun patterns in the snow
Melting mucous membranes as we go.

Meniscus on cold coffee yields to spoon
Stir up shades of white enthusiasm
For black coffee poured on back-up blues.

Pursuing Heaven’s Grin

I wink against the winter wind
and it winks back as if I’ve sinned.
I arrive at one end of a world
where men with power give no sign
they care that what they do is malign.
They give back little of what’s mine.
Morality seldom reaches stars.

We’ve won the war on nature now,
made tigers yield to plough and cow.
I arrive at one end of a world
where mystery is poured into a can
and woods reduce to blowing sand.
There’s nothing left to understand.
Morality seldom reaches stars.

When science saves what we destroy
we build new houses out of straw.
I arrive at one end of a world
where schools of doubtful quality
makes numbers up and pupils free
of values only blind men see.
Morality seldom reaches stars.

Above our orbit comets play
intelligent designs that fray.
I arrive at one end of a world
and wish it less apparent that
since we have learned the Earth’s not flat
its god acts like the Cheshire cat.
Morality seldom reaches stars.

The Wondrous Myth That Almost

I ask my muse to let me loose.
She says, ‘Let you loose on what?’
She says she’s sad that I confuse
What is with what is not.
I recognize she’s drawing me
Into another conversation.
That isn’t where I want to be.
What I want is cessation
Of all the memes she pelts me with
Especially deep in the night.
She says she’ll give me a wondrous myth;
All I must do is write.
I tell her I’m intolerably tired,
That her inspirations give me fits.
She says, ‘I feel I’m being fired!’
And just like that she quits.

Grand Old Elephant Remembers Bitterly

The gods said it before. They will say it again:
An elephant’s memory is his foe not his friend.
Remembering the days when the old GOP
Was conservative and decent covers him in chagrin.
Like poachers depriving his brothers of tusks
The Donald’s and crazies have stolen his heart.
His herds decimated, his high hopes now husks,
He remembers the divisions that tore him apart.