Archive for November, 2012
Snake Oil Cures for Little Men with Smaller Dreams
I heard your poem on the radio today.
Little children were crying and bleeding
bowing to your mighty power.
I pulled my glass eye out
and rolled it down a bubble-gum sidewalk.
Three flies were mystically immersed in conversation.
They were talking about you, of course.
How you fought off all the angry slaves
so we could all drink milk and hug when
the cheerios were no longer crunchy.
I stepped on a pile of you today.
But my new no-stick nuclear shoes
kept me balanced and poised
for your next question.
I had to answer honestly
as all the satellites were
joyously listening
and the quiet drone
of your newly found synthetic existence
filtered the last ounce of sincerity
in the world.
Now everything is happy blue
and darkness hides inside a solar flare.
My chain keeps rattling loudly
inside this cold locked chamber.
And all of our hammers and shovels
were worn down to splintered oak.
But I forgot what trees looked like.
And when I pulled your plastic vagina
from underneath the dusty glass dome
it wouldn’t talk to me anymore.
It dried out and shriveled away.
Now all I have left is a rusty nail
and two holes in my blood soaked hands.
—————————————————
GRANDPA
With his brittle bones and his sun cracked face he rode near ‘bout every mile of the round-up trail. He licks the wind and stares out at nothing tobacco dripping lip, spits. Hell, I fought the sun, and I won fought a sneakin’ coyote once, he lost. Broke rattlesnakes in half between bare hands. Got caught in the drought of the Tulsa ride, too. Thought I’d die in that damn burning desert never have I thirst, so much for one wet drop. They found me about four miles from Breakers Pass. Eighteen-ninety-seven, that was my last long ride. Too many damn city boys tryin’ to run the drive. And now my grandson drives off in that noisy pick-up. He’ll never know the dry taste of sand and grainy dust between your teeth. Wind kicking in your face like a thousand angry hoofs punched in your mouth. And my friend, cold black night. Damn all this fancy fiddle. ___________________________
THE CIRCUS . . . . . . . . . AND THE ZOO 
Written
on 11/18/2012