"The Goon of Doom"

He has no brain,
only a teleprompter
mounted on the handlebars
of his motorcycle.

He zips around town,
then off to the nearby city.

He stops at a good spot,
in a vacant lot
beside the busiest street.

Sitting on his old motorcycle,
he whips out his wireless mike
and reads and begins to talk.

Soon there's a crowd,
as he grins with a strained voice.
A few walk away.
Most stay.

"I am the Goon of Doom
before the rise of the Anti-Christ.
Hear my words of the coming
attractions..."

He takes a deep breath,
"You won't be worth
a burger or can of soup.

You'll have a rag for a cork
after you try to poop...

Plastic robots
will seize you
inking you
down.

Becoming one
like me...

A sign
of what
you will become!"

He rips off his shirt
to a flesh torn ribcage
with a limp heart 
hanging inside...

He laughs
then coughs...

The crowd screaming.

Old Houses

 
We old houses store up long memories.
I know the neighbors look at me askance,
call me a heap of ramshackle debris,
an insult to the neighborhood’s good name.

They look upon my once sleek grey timbers,
shivered and weathered, scarcely holding on,
defying gravity as I shudder
and creak when the wind blows. My aroma

has taken a bad turn from the decay
and rot and wafts out into the street.
Dusty maple floorboards no longer grate
Christmas morning under steps of small feet

sneaking down for a peek at the tree.
Behind the baseboards, a cricket concert
supplants a chorus of the children’s glee.
Dull cobwebbed windows don’t let me observe

the foreclosure postings on the garage.
Past due bills for my long-fled family
spew out of the mailbox onto the grass.
My rooms now serve best for transient stays.
Drained by years of neglect, my dear reader
I’ve lost the strength to even stand in place.
I collapse onto the ground like a deer
shot down by hunters. Soon I will be raised

and burned. My ashes will fall and improve
our community garden which will nourish
the lost and forgotten people, for whom
we old houses always keep open doors.

 

I Can't Help But Think

Each night, as I lay here
getting older
Sometimes I can't help
but think of the friends
who have gone before me.

Tonight
I'm thinking of Bertie.
Once upon a time
we were really good mates.

But, as with most of my old
friends.
Drugs got in the way.

When you've all got bad drug
habits,
such fripperies like
friendship dont matter
anymore.

It's dog eat dog.
It's cop, shoot cop.

Anyway, the last time
I saw good, old Bertie
he was really skinny.

He'd always been a
chubby sort of guy.

I was truly shocked.
I asked him what the
Hell was going on.

He told me that he was dying
of cancer.

I believed him, he looked like
he'd just got out of Belsen.
He was shaking, and sweating.

As I said that was the last time
I ever saw him.

A few months later, a mutual friend
told me that he'd died.
I asked, was it cancer ?

Was it fuck
it was crack !

Well, I guess I was a bit naive
back then.

But it's still very strange.

Why not tell me the truth ?

He didn't ask me for money
or anything.

Anyway, these are the ways that I
pass my non-drinking nights.

Am I Misanthropic 


Well, am I misanthropic ?

I don't know, I try my best
not to be.

I certainly don't hate all
people, just a few of them.

But, upon learning that us
British people, tend to give
a lot more to animal charities
than we do to human charities.

I can totally understand that.

I can easily think of several
people who I dislike.

But, I can't think of any animal
that I couldn't learn to love. 

Moved To Tears

Something about
The jailhouse
Moves me to tears.
Just being a
Fact of life
In its existence
Shows us a failure
Of society.
A failure to keep
God's will and truth,
A sadness in the
Separation of family,
The disregard for
The laws of man,
The corruption and sin
Embraced by society.
But the biggest thing
About the jailhouse
That moves me to tears
Is that I'm in it.

Coming of Age


It grows on us, age does, just thinking about it.
Each year another ring of the bell, yet another
Candle leaking wax as it wanes. At first it is
Not at all subtle. There is the marking of height
On the wall, the recording of weight—call it growth.
Clothes become hand-me-downs. This aging is
A process of reciprocation, we wear it, it wears us
Down and out, until we are worn and memory,
Self-indulgent, reminds as a script for rehearsal,
Repeated repeatedly, again and again, over and over.
The articulation of mind and muscle become softer,
Sagging at the edges. We think to ourselves, this
Getting old is getting old. But when all is said and told,
The thing about age is we will eventually outgrow it.

Reflection

A robin perches on a tree branch,
chirps at its twin in the window,
waits for a reply that never comes.
 
A thud jolts me from the couch,
a feather stuck to glass,
bird dead on the ground.
 
No chirp from my phone,
silence since you threw
your clothes and coffee maker
into a box, ran a marathon
into the future.
 
I look at my twin in the mirror,
attempt the robin’s call,
bang my head against glass,
but I’m still alive.

French Fry Etiquette 

She left me sitting alone in McDonalds
Didn't take a bite of her Big Mac 
Or touch a single one of her  French Fries    
She grabbed her Coke then walked away 
And never even looked back
I thought about eating the fries 
Although I had lost my appetite 
It wasn't because I was hurt by the drama 
She spreads ketchup on top of all of them
Instead of dipping each fry
I'm sure you know
the type 
When it comes to eating French fries 
Her method doesn't follow proper etiquette
Even though it bothered me I never said a word 
Because she gets pissed off so quickly 
And becomes 
belligerent 
I didn't understand what just happened 
It left me totally confused 
Why did she Super Size her order
If she wasn't going to eat the food
We had a date to go for dinner 
I couldn't figure out why she got upset 
I told her she looked gorgeous 
But maybe a little overdressed 
She looked surprised when we arrived 
And said McDonalds you've got to be kidding 
How insensitive of me to take her to McDonalds for dinner 
Knowing her favorite hamburger joint is Burger King

Ashes and grief

Where I’m living these days is
like a second tour of duty in the Nam,
doing a house to house, clearing
the streets, search and destroy,
every place you go, every day you do it,
winning their hearts and minds.
Lots of those boys, then, was lame honky
motherfuckers but they had my ass
and I, sure as shit, had theirs.
Got so tight over there we breathed
the same air, bled the same blood
and anyone who says any different don’t
know squat. Last time I felt anything
remotely like pain was seeing one of those
suckers get dusted catching a mortar
round, waist high and moving fast.
Shit, when the smoke cleared there
was nothing left but a pair of boots
full of blood, two leg stumps still inside.
Like the man said when it’s over,” it’s
all ash and grief.” Only difference now,
The Man catches your ass, he gonna
lock your ass up. Man coming after me
better had been good and dedicated cause
I’m playing hard to get and planning on
staying that way.

The Eagle

 
The day was like a poem—
 
clouds, fluffy and lyrical, the sun
blinked on and off like a strophe.

An eagle had nested, we’d heard,
in Mill Pond, about a mile from
our place on Walloon Lake.

Our kayak skimmed the water like a swan
about to fly.

Water lilies carpeted our way into the pond—
ash and oak witnessed our paddle strokes,
aspen trembled their greetings.

From the sky, she scudded wing-over, under a canopy
of care, constructed for her brown fledgling— 

a canopy invisible to us, but clear
            as sun-gleamed talons to her. 

The beasts below in their slim conveyance radiate
danger, malevolence, power. 

            Once they were nowhere,
            these invaders,
            now they are everywhere. 

Low over us her yellow beak shredded
the air we breathed. Her flight mapped

domains of opportunity and oblivion.

Our hearts pulsed in primitive rhythms—
a cadence of grace, awe, and fear
in this world we share.