Hello Apollo 13 (For Coyotes in Space)

Houston, you've got a problem.
You've got the horizontal covered
but the vertical is all askew ...
Are we reading? Likely not.

Our capsule has gone cold
since the Major kicked out
the front door window
and our view of your blue world
is cracked and the light is scattered.

Could you please explain
what that stream of smoke is
from the coast of Southern California?
Our instruments indicate the place
is unsuitable for landing.

It comes down to this:
Why the hell did you send us out here
when you knew completely fully damn well
this great abyss isn't even friendly
for penguins or polar bears?

We demand an answer
before we allow you
to bring us back.

Nobody told the retrograde of Mercury
 it's no longer in force.
It appears your sphere
is going off the golf course.

These times demand a certain clarity
and all we can hear on our horn is clatter,
as if the mind doesn't matter
and gravity is up for debate
and the whole Earthbound sideshow
is frozen over in hate.

So please don't delay,
our cabin is iced in, buried in snow,
and we'd all be better off
pointing our controls
as we hope for the trickle down,
the hydrating taste of icicles as they melt,
the warming hands of love
in your polyester-made Chinese
beaver pelt.

*Yes, I completely lifted this line from early period Pink Floyd.


RESILIENCE (For the Disappointed)

You have fought to now,
and though now may not
be fighting for you,
your energy is eternal,
and so, there is nothing to fear,
the flesh and the bone and the tears
are the witness to the Creator
of your cares and woes,
so don't ever be afraid to speak out,
to let the thunder roll,
the passion and the patrol
as you walk this world,
stuck within the illusion of gravity,
stuck in the tenebrous web
where justice or just one friend alludes you,
with all of the manacles they attempt
to put on your mind, which they will never
be able to read, your one last truth,
as you pluck the feathers from your mouth,
the stale taste of death and lost love,
as you run the ever increasing treadmill of acquisition,
as you can barely see in front of you, know this:
the circle is there for you to step out of,
and so you are both timeless,
and not of this Earth.


Looking for God Both Inside and Out (For Joan of Arc)

Meanwhile, at the Gothic Art show,
where the library of Alexandria
has failed to burn down,
due to better security
and more available stone,
the question gets asked,
but there is always a chance
for a follow-up question
and the mysteries are further
along, which is to say, more science,
less so magic ... but why roil of crosses?

Why is it written down at all?
Why was it written, or read, upside down?
Why should a Book be painted in two-thirds,
Magdalene in richer surroundings,
revealed with a pot of Lily
in the foreground to foretell
the coming and going of Joan of Arc?

Why would God need to read down,
creating the need to leave the Book
pointed up in order to ascertain
that which the Creator already knows?

In the Book of Kells
the Gaelic kept 
the coming and going,
waiting to leave and weave
out in a swirl of possibilities,
in a dervish tree-mind of Nature ...

O, how such details are wasted
on Jesus believers in a hurry
to get home to watch the Dallas Cowboys
down from above ... They, who have found
such easy answers on the surface, maybe a halo,
a hoot, in the institutions of the arts,
who drive their hairy chariots
across the bones of the Blood
of Jesus, always the little boy,
always the Man, the Saint!

O sure, O sure,
the Iris isn't Eris
for sorrows or such fools,
for neither minnows or Bulls,
for the peacocks or for Pride,
or for Paradise
or for the Google
of the mind ...

For Fibonacci?
For factories in Flanders?
Do we blame the Dutch ... really?
The Dutch? And speaking of towns,
tongues and virgins, unchurched,
but, all the same able to act
quite natural, but hidden from sight
in those visceral bones of sacred light,
the arcana of the Black Madonna
in from views but taller than them all
in the geometric sacred Twin Towers
of Solomon ... for Hieronymous Bosch,
who liked the challenge of harbors
in disorders and hidden orders
to synthesize the Dhambala,
the Sirius, the Dog Star ...
in order to ask O why, o why
or why ...


Los Huerseros (The Bones)

Laying down his bones 
in the back alley 
of the dispossessed 
the lonely man shivers 
in the streetlight 

Ambushing archers, 
waiting in the wood, 
keep a keen eye 
far into the distance 
for the enemies 
of love 

She picks up his bones 
breathes flesh from her stone, 
but then walks away, 
stinging his skin  
with a slap to awake him 

Leaving his bones, again ... 

Le Heusero died again, 
and he lingers here, 
beneath this tree, 
as the corridor waits 
to hear the song 
of the beautiful woman  
whose legend is told 
from hill to hill, 
mountain to mountain, 
sea to misty sea.


SECOND AMENDMENT BLUES (Sung to the Melody of Sympathy for the Devil)

Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man with guns and ammo
but my only weapon is the word

I don't own a gun
but we can't trust
the government:
So I don't own a rifle
that much more

I've got the Second Amendment blues
don't feel no safe cause I pay attention
to the news

I've got no wealth, poor as hell,
but I taste great
and my fire is in my fingers,
my hate is just a waste

No man owns the sun,
but the moon? On the run.
Pleased to meet you, Son of Sam,
and you, angry young man,
holed out in your barnominium
because your friends and loved ones
can't even drop a line
so you play World of Warcraft
on your long drawn out overtime

I've got the Second Amendment blues
You don't feel safe cause you pay no attention
to my views

Fancy guitar part goes here
Here goes part fancy guitar
Part here goes guitar fancy
I'm just saying no to you, Nancy

I am the dead man in your church
and I am bleeding on your daughter
There ain't no rhyme or reason, Sam,
because a well-trained weapon of war
is what they paid me to be and I am
So when I came home, far from the slaughter
the whole unified field theory thang
just made too much sense to me
So I became the chicken come home
to roost to show you what you made of me

I've got the Second Amendment blues
And your silencer is my guard duty
I've got a stolen secret in my shoes, bomber
I've hired my own lawyer to be your judge, Judy 
Tell my dad he should have listened more,
and tell my X she was the best

I've got the Second Amendment blues
You can't be safe cause you locked me
behind the door and I just took the cue

Oooo we ooo. Ooo e woo. Woo woo woo.
Woo woo woo. Ooo e woo. Oooo we ooo.
Ooo e woo. Woo woo woo. Ooo e woo.


TRESPASSING IN AMERICA (For Dennis the Menace)

Walking toward the phony duck pond
made in a one-pony subdivision
in some desert in Southwest America,
pit, plotted, planned, cheaply
made by a dishonest developer
who eventually rotted in a jail cell
for a lie told to rich old maids in NYC
because he had promised lakes
pumped from a river, rotting dry,
like the pond now, where geese
have gathered and school busses pass on by
along winding roads
lacking sidewalks, lacking
thoroughfares for little children
who would be O such a shame
if run over by said same school busses
because there's only one pond
now and empty electricity boxes
still haunt the highways lined
by properties illegally lot-split
by old Ned Warren; he who
made a mint, who sent postcards
back East promising paradise
to a lie, no, overstating,
but nevertheless sold out by some
now laying duck in Washington D.C.

But you he are who walks, talks tax-paying duck
now, that Walmart greeter,
and today I found
the most previously
nasty thing I'd ever written:
That senior citizens
were considered to be
the most dangerous
creatures on Earth
because they have
a piece of paper
from some laying duck
in Washington D.C;
but this book, see,
(so now I have independent confirmation)
also made a mint
with such carefully
rendered lines
as "superpredator
versus senior citizens,"
thus making its mint
and, of course, target market

We walked toward the duck pond
wolf hairy, feathered, lined with brown scum,
candy bar papers, car parts,
beer bottles, broken plastic
parts of Pez dispensers,
left by school children
who could now give a fuck
because their daddies cheat
on tax returns sent to other
cheating fucks who could
also give a shit about you, me:
I've got one blank sheet of paper
downloaded from a Web
made of ether, all created by
one lying duck in Washington D.C.

The pond is peaceful now except
for honking echoes of bright green mallards
who haven't yet turned greedy by little old
men who run the world,
throwing out bits of bread from porches
overlooking fenced in portions
of an artificial landmark, made of water,
promised to them, or, people like them,
who were once promised refuge
by long-dead Ned Warren
that such villages along the Verde
lined with steppes still cluttered
by Apache hand bones still clutching
single pieces of paper signed by
some laying duck in Washington D.C.

Property. Property. Prop. Prop ... er, Tea.


I've got a stack of papers
I can't get to because the one
I love goes into fits of grief and rage
over invisible digits of cash
that disappeared into said same ether
and now those lone gone meat locker loins
must be beefed up again to make up
for the losses caused by greed-head Bernie Madeoffs
who lied to little old ladies and mere millionaires
also rendered lifeless by empty promises made
on eight-by-eleven sheets of paper
signed by laying ducks in Washington D.C.
and not one damn sheet on the dirty old paper pile
will ever work in my favor, so why bother?

Property. Property. Proper tea.

And turning off the rounded lanes,
we have ourselves a polite little party,
laughing ourselves into parties
celebrating the quail who slip in and out
of artificial worlds
lacking sidewalks, where we find a well-worn
trail trod by anarchist atheists misled to believe
there is no god when in fact there is, but, hell,
they are actually referring to the demiurge churned
into trash lining the bone-dry portions of the pond,
perfected into a beautiful life-saving reality
made easier to believe by some duck who lied
in Washington D.C. ... but the dead can be brought
to life no easier than the muck can be raised
to rinse the once-clean waters of the Verde

And off the road, where the Mustangs and Escalades,
made mavericky,
speed on by,
rolling on gasses, endangering
school children, lacking sidewalks; who run
home to play on point-and-shoot games
because there is no place to play
in the faux hopes made by grey old men
who promised paradise to little old ladies
in Washington dee see of we sing ... off the road
there's this well-worn trail only misfits
like me can see or be and she now crouches
to peak into the weeds and sage to hear
the cackle of pheasant hens rendered
accelerating life force made mad by the Sun,
which is overheating now, in mad pulse paces,
mixed in with Venusian skies, pitiless star gazes,
and we move on between properties, made proper,
by little pieces of paper, now lining cages,
feeding parrots who repeat perfect truths
made so by Madeoffs advertising safe acres,
security mom spaces, relying on promises
made perfect by little pieces of paper kept sacred
by men who lie daily from remote high places
in Washington D.C. ...

Property. Property. Proper, E.T.


Among the many mistakes I've made
in my life is turning right, instead of left,
up this well-paved hill leading to
a manicured driveway ... So she,
who hasn't been outdoors for a month,
who might start screaming at any point
of the day because she, made of soft flesh, saintly blood,
is roiling with so little electricity in her head
her once-brilliant mind can only meekly protest
my attempt to blaze a new trail up this steep incline
leading to a canyon, along the steppes, along the Verde

And this Walmart greeter pops out from behind his usually locked door,
now doubt interrupted from watching Poppa rail and bleat
about how property is the momentary might ruining
the likes of me because only I ever saw the truth of a possible
pathway that, if placed into the hands of currently more
enlightened civic minds might form task forces
to imagine places where children might play
and both little old ladies in electrified golf
carts might pass as easily as javalina family trios
and rolling hungry hordes of courtly coyotes, but no,
the Walmart greeter has to pop out, a Jack of his box,
to ask me, "May I help you," inferring later, in review,
masked hostility, happily rendered now at me, a happy target;
and now I turn my back on his perky little puppy
barking out orders made possible
by a little piece of paper signed by,
this shit little paper signed by ...
this fucking shitty lie made perfect ...
I turn, the sudden wolf, and Toto runs away,
and big Him me, who saves the day
has his own damn sheet of ether now
along with the memory of this proper path
where there is a canyon made of crayons of what I know
about eight-by-eleven sheets of paper
signed by ducks who lie daily
in Washington D.C.


All HALLOWS EVE (For the Fleet of the Damned)

I met a girl who sang the blues
and then she walked off
the very face of the Earth.

So good old boys,
drink your whiskey and be wry,
see through your red-shift in thine eye,
the blue-shift in the American pie in the sky,
your lie is no pie, no water and no rye,
and no life is for no foolin'
in the world your rulin', the orb your ruinin'.
Because death is a happily dead peasant
I know, there is nothing more unpleasant.
No bigger lie, bigger no reason
than to keep ourselves
from just being amusin'
at the electro-chemical,
metaphysical union,
this revolutionary season.
It's all just layers
and layers
to a mattress
sale on your tv,
and underneath there's a pearl
in a movie about a whale
and an old pirate guy with TB,
and from there he sailed
the underworld surfer's beliefs
and found the secret in his tea,
that the bones be they
and they be she,
and God's Black Madonna,
is the greatest
in never-ending
human history.

Seventy Two Hours as a Social Darwinist (To the Sound of Cyberpunk We Go)

Spent seventy two hours as a social Darwinist 
Gotta get ahead of you (Seventy two hours) 
Seventy two hours as a Social Darwinist 
Gotta get an edge over the loss, 
vengeance is hip you know 
Gotta get a handle on the guilt I miss 
gotta get a multiple set a girlies to kiss 

Spent seventy two hours as a social Darwinist 
Gotta get over you (seventy two, seventy two, seventy two hours) 
Seventy two fucking shitty hours as a Social Darwinist 
As you tried to convince me of your Know Nothing bliss, 
I let my eyes look away, if for just a minute (Seventy two, seventy two seventy two) 
Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin 
You won`t like the feeling, your empty hand will be shaking (seventy two, seventy two) 
Won`t like the smell as the whole world is quaking (seventy two, seventy two seventy seventy seventy two) 

On the third day I flew across the sky 
rebuilt the temple of love, I did pray 
Sure, I fell, makin` a hell of her heaven, 
and man O man let the bunker busters fly 

I ran for cover, O sweet Sweet Twenty Three Skidoo

(Twenty three, twenty three twenty three skidoo) 
By the sixty-ninth hour as a social Darwinist 
I ran for cover, looking for the way you look at me, 
hoping and I`m praying to look up to you. 

(Jaggedy Guitar riffs here) 

Three more hours as a social Darwinist, 
for just three days I forgot about you (seventy two, O, seventy two, yeah) 
Seventy two hours of living from your hand to my fist 
Separate but equal, sure, gotta get a step on you. 
Treated every living thing like my private little toy 
Dreamin of the cosmos now, when I was just a boy (Darwinist) 
Wore your love like a glove but there was no joy (Darwinist) 
Gotta get around these blank walls, gotta get over you (Darwinist) 

Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin
Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin
Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin


Cat and Andrew's Ring (And a Wedding That Never Happened)

Your ground is weeping
The humid air soaks
Wrinkles into all my
Categorization. I am
The air, ever changing
And it’s easy to see
How my inability
To be ever present
On the earth
Is enough to send
You beneath the surface.

He was a fair-faced man
With a smooth baby face
And a soft tone of mouth
That would easily shatter
But he could shatter none.

They bought a wedding ring
And experienced love
Well before the mildew
Of everyday things
Could wear the heat away

She would talk talk talk
About the little things
I couldn’t see, or believe
My wind heart hardened
Into storm clouds
Into a rain of gloomy
Terror in a private sky.

Mostly I was jealous
But realistic, knowing
Love is a survival game
Old as the dirt and sun
And if for just a while
I consider the trees
As I blow through in ill ease
Of temperature and pain
Let me for just this once
See the majesty
In the impermanent
Pebbles, and in tenderness
For just this one day
Of weather, remain.



In a penguin on the television set apartment,
with no water in my chalice,
home of the grandaughter
of mad bomber physicist
Wolfgang Kurt Hermann "Pief" Panofsky,
who was made famous for the eons
in a Monty Python skit,
I made sure the windows
were all wide open for the cooling
and ran out of the house, trembling,
God forbid the warming, should we
ever break bread with reclaiming
witches living off our free bread

They insisted they could save me;
They were beautiful in their own zonked ways,
and then, the saving being done,
called me the devil, the devil,
the devil, three times,
before they were One ...

And compassion is a virtue
sold out in short supply,
borrowed again for what Ryan Adams
might call the "rescue blues,"
when they pay you up front
and lecture you the rest of your days
with their vitriol and their dim views

And there you were, with my backlit
ghost behind the suffused
dark arts Baphomet computer,
the difference between innocence
and knowledge being sub-atomic,
it’s positively Platonic,
allegorical, hysterical ...
when you ask for a cigarette
since it’s my personal policy
to only give out one cancer stick
per hour to the hopeless ...
(I mean homeless) ... and if they
claim to have hope I give them three:
That’s how smoke-free hopelessness can be.

So it’s back to my parking lot for words,
worlds within worlds,
a bridge too far from the gypsy cafes
as Napoleon, fresh face-i-fied,
sleepwalks into Starbucks to be reborn
and his iconic cup
 of Gaian corporate glee, 
which may be good news,
just maybe ... since I saw
a kachina in my dreams,
then his shirt logo of the same
damn military echelon of wings,
eagle spread, winking

He, a soldier sure, retired, moneyed,
yes, a super serene Baby Bomber ...
A crier of you know what ...
Fear for sale. Fear, the slut.

Say can’t you hear their bird's eye cries,
they are, bling-winged bat men who sigh,
repacking themselves, after landing,
in their imperial cruiser esuvees:
I saw a documentary
on their disappearing, once.
But they will live free to die to free me
to be free, an uneven trade,
the polarity of it, so absurd

I guess I need them more than they need me.

Then one more comes in,
a walking zombie cell phone call
after parking a black hawk
Land Rover, gee ...
she has camo flag pants in tune
to those photos on the big electronic
BBS .. SBB...Bss...BS...Bs...BS...

I would walk down Colfax
all the way to downtown Denver
just to run away to see those neon bells
with a crazy dame like her,
to see the red lines speeding by
of Iranian missile launches
all doctored up to be seen
on this stolen property, this land
for you and me ...

Hey man,
what’s the plan
what was that you sai-i-i-d
sun tan, burning man,
lying there in bed?
You who tried to socialize
but couldn’t seem to find
what just what, Jethro,
you were looking fer,
that sumpin’
on your mind ...

Piped-in classic rock:
The very ether of the Rockies

But a big heron circles
over Starbucks, wide white
sailing, neither failing
nor flailing
with black-tipped wings
... and just as strangely
I almost missed, the ponytailed
programmer in a Prius
as a potential friend
to send this give up, this smoke,
this one-per-hour cigarette of hope
to a guy wearing a turqoise bracelet: 

Hey! Hey! ... Hay?
How much faith do you have today?

I just got a medal in my dream:
A Thunderbird re-e-e-e-ward,
and another laugh, a smile,
from a strong blueish blonde blondee
bird driving a white trash from Truckee Ford

So good, this little gettaway:
Love this parking lot
almost as much 
as I love
having the last word.

~ Written while observing a Starbucks parking lot in Aurora, Colorado



One more sip of water
One last ear of corn
at the Big Pharm

Earth's daughter
is refused
her prescription
to stop the rain

Just bought a rice cooker
From the Chairman Mao
collection: No laugh,
No seed, nothing
to do but sell

Baby strollers
not available
in stores
as I yearn for
a life that bores

The price of diapers
will cause a drop
in the population
sure as cold stone

You just wake up
to Al Roker
to keel over
from the rising heat
on his balance sheet

October games
Terror claims
one more day
with no more rain

Lightning whips
as the highway slips
with hailstones big
as baseballs

Urban nation city state,
we are only as good
as the world we make

They who live behind
their golden gates:
See the ethanol gas can men,
green with greed
as humanity
bends toward liberty
a bit too late

There's nothing
left to satiate,
or kill the pain
or stop the rain
as this dusty dry desert world
goes down the drain
I run out
into the Indian summer
to sell my belongings
just to stay sane

Tossed upon on a mountain, now behind the shades, longing for the lost, ever-changing sea, but not me

We made this place up. You were used,
brought here to recite Faulkner,
to champion great beasts from the sea,
thwarting the diamond-hearted vistas
of America, sold, bought, traded ...
No, another scene: Closer, a yard
of broken concrete, cowards,
laughing, chasing some old lady,
down the road ... No, closer, closer!

You called the police car. You!
Now my nerves are jangled
and the ambulance is gone
and the TV news crew
never arrived like it does
in the movies and the
music is the reason
why I cannot live
without you.

Closer? Can't be. Just can't.
I mean, it's too close, too soon.
The curtains, full of holes,
like a planetarium at mid-day
of endless siestas: My god,
you stayed here with me?
You endured this tormented
corner of trains going
in both directions and audible
rattlesnakes ripping
through the night
and automobile drivers
who just don't get it
and never will?

Don't you see who I am?
I am a man who cannot
even think about leaving
because if I do, it will be
the end of music for me
and I will have to walk down
the straight without your
sweet warm palm
inside my hand and, man,
that's just to close, woman.

You got no right, just no right
to shed such salty tears
on my brow as we hide,
trembling, behind walls
stained by forgotten
details, jagged angry
mad loafers who once
made these roadside
spaces home
away from the sea


Welcome to the Last Water Wars

All typed up in Courier-wet ink
poisoned at dawn, the two messengers
were hung with typewriters for counterweights
to keep stiff in the wind and rain on a sandstone hill

Last water! ... Last water! Beyond your first thirsts:
You cannot be a centrist in the undeclared aquifer war

Come, see Jerusalem, the Gasoline War is over
and they'll be begging for the drinks, me thinks,
from Damascus to all near-beer holes and the shores ...

For water is life for the timid and the meek,
for even satiated Kings and Queens
with red and blue bottles of perfumed wines,
for that sacred drop off the first morning vine

O sure, O, sure ... the autocrat will pour fresh
to soothe and wash their hands of this thing and that,
for the blood of their guilt of our lost daughters and sons,
but only from the sea will we ever so eternally run



Do I look like a Circle K,
a walking convenience store
for your craven desperate needs,
who can dial you up your alcohol
when the state laws say go away?
It has been quite an experience here in hell,
Where the party people all fall out the bars at 2 a.m.
and spill onto the road like antelope with helicopters chasing them
The cops, in their feeding frenzy pick them off, one by one, two by two.
They spin down the boulevard in whirls of ache, the need unsatisfied,
their numbness, slowing going awake. I roll one guy a cigarette
who promised to pay, smoked it and left and I let him go away.
Please go away. Please go, away! The new moon is in its new cycle
and the power of the haunting is getting bigger by the day,
I just went out for a bit of air, time to think, now I howling again
from your need to drink, and the hollow sound of your two-faced lie,
I watch you walk down the alley way, and I wonder why I even try.
Then there's this other guy who told me about a fight, likes Vodka over beer
because it gives him second sight. I tried to get a word in but the liquor
was his holy roll. He broke up a fight and I became his priest to a confession
I didn't even invite. Couldn't get a word in. Couldn't get it right:
So here's what I think of the demons of the night ...



This city is full of stinkers,
wannabe politician shop keepers,
Walmart hoarders, real estate gangsters,
frumped-up bean counters,
dead-tired security guards,
soccer mom whores for the bling,
speed freaks, shallow non-thinkers,
pretty boy coke heads on trust funds,
private drinkers, dressed to kill drivers;
That's the town of thee I sing.
Just how big is your diamond ring?
You can keep it on at the orgy, I think.


So you wake up before dawn:
Not the girl, but the time of day,
and it's just all too heavy, the dark,
the weight of the week,
and sure, you can tell yourself,
"Oh, maybe I can just enjoy
the suspense
of knowing
what's about
to happen

And then you get the coffee loaded,
have that first smoke, and your spiritual advisor
opens the door, your little plastic chair
for a throne, huffing and puffing
the sad magic dragon,
and you say "Sure,
where else would I be?"
And the mystic fortune teller laughs
because at least she knows
it's going to be Okay

The day breaks.
You shake off the snakes.
The doctor who interrogated you
the day before. The bill collector.
The bomb about to go off on your TV.
And you linger, for just one moment,
telling yourself: "Fuck it, this what I do."
There is time for everything,
your old friend once said,
and what there is no time for,
there is no time for.

You go back at it, Jack,
doing it all again,
reeling in your tears
because you know she's out there,
maybe cold, maybe alone, dead,
or worse, and those were just
were your worse fears,

I don't mean to be morose ...
I'm just not comatose

Then all the faces across the land
start popping up, like grains
on some lengthy beach of sand,
the waves washing over you,
the brilliance of all of those
wanting to take a stand

The new day is here.
Good to be alive.
And off that coast,
I dive, the leap of faith,
the lingering love possible,
being just awe right
with this unified field
of friends
is this great sea of people
far out there
in facey space


El Cathedral (For the Forests Now Gone)

Light leaking through the trees
in a voice of sun music
as a Jesuit-taught cowboy
poking gruff holes through
the forest, a well-worn
horse-made trail ...

In the morning's blaze
Sunshine Peak smiles
through touristas
in hangover cobwebs
after a night's
culture shock therapy ...

She is kind, but wise and cautious
as the deer but fearing nothing
except for the coming bulldozers
and coyotes of commerce
preying on the young, the weak ...

(Ah, the weak,
now there's some
cheap meat ...)

And it wouldn't be here
in the future, which is today,
and yesterday is just
this poet's old ghosts ...
roamin' ...

The next day and for years
after that, Set would go on nibbling
on greens, for no one,
said Horus, the hawk,
could crunch on greens
better than Set ...

Among he are those times
is monies folks, old blokes,
who pushed women around
for centuries, like cattle,
due to God's half-written call

And they were good
intentioned men,
just like me ...
who went home,
all unsatisfied,
to beat on their wives,
to then sleep for another day
with their brokers, pork belly
stokers, livin' among chain
smokers, all bragging about
how they had this girl and that girl,
when, in fact, they had not ...

She is kind, and wise
and no longer
free to be
alone ..