On this darkened path I travel in the middle of the night
on a speedened bumped road I ride, a’glistened by moonlight. I would think to take a break, or veer off-course, or somehow stray but I have yet to see an exit and the road is all one-way.
The street is going nowhere, but it seems so everlong
and all the signs and portents, like the middle of a song,
seem to suggest that I’m heading to a place of great renown, but I wouldn’t know for sure; I’ve never even heard of this town.
I am blinded by the luminescence – or rather, by its lack
and while the midnight continues, all is fading into black
and I have miles to go before I sleep or even stop.
It is at times like these you actually pray to spot a cop
for only in these moments may the long arm of the law
express itself as benefit and save you from the maw
of emptiness and loneliness of the road just on and on.
Let something please come save me from this driving til I’m gone.
You’re better than this
or thought you were,
when you were younger, maybe,
perhaps, when you were more subjective.
Possibly you were stupid then
and you are wiser now
and more aware of your own proclivities,
or maybe you’ve just grown more judgmental
– but that’s nigh unto impossible.
You were born judgmental
and the likelihood that you have gotten better
at such a primal thing
is very slight indeed.
you are better
– if not than you
at a prior time,
then that what you are doing now
which is beneath you –
both the you of today and yesterday
and all the yous in-between.
You should be ashamed
and change your ways
and do things better
and be better
and less like that
and more like what you know you should be
you know full well
far better than this.
The flowers were cheap.
I got a good deal
and they looked lonely
on the shelf there.
I just thought,
“If I don’t buy them,
nobody will, and they will wilt and die here,
and that will be a dastardly crime
so I did what I could
to defend Mother Nature
from an offense
that could not be tolerated.
I bought the flowers
which were sold for a song
and I thought you were the sort of person
who might happen to appreciate
their sort of beauty
because of your sort of beauty
and since I just so happened to be
in your part of the country
I just jetted on over here
to present these to you
because I thought
you just might get a kick out of them.
Also, I might love you.
Do you need a vase?
Hold your horses.Calm your jets.
Nothing’s happening – not just yet.
Wait a sec – give or take, per se.
The bombs will not be going off today.
We’ve got a stay of execution
so none shall hear the shot of gun
nor slice of sword nor blow from axe.
No cylinder shall cut the wax
for aught shall happen in the short.
All timatums cried "abort!"
No decisions have been made;
with no explosions, no one’s dead.
So let us breathe uneasy air
and take some steps with worried care.
We dodged one bullet, anyway.
Since no bombs will go off today.
The esteemed ketchup company
had a few more
than the alleged number of products
when it took its famous slogan.
The pickleman-in-chief, though,
knew his way around a brand
and figured out
the best way to sell well
is to lie.
The tour was short.
The town was closed.
The birds were gone
but two gulls
fighting over the last remaining pizza crust
from someone’s hungover yesterday.
“It must have been locals
that left it.
“No one sensible
would visit Cape May
in the dead of winter.”
We watched as we walked
steam obscuring vision to water.
“That’s the ocean.
“Past it lies Delaware.”
“And past that?”
“Fuck if I know.
There were bed and breakfasts
The world around us
was barely filled
a balloon waiting for a pump to fill it,
a pump that would not arrive,
until the month of the town’s name.
“Did you enjoy your stay?”
I was asked.
I sighed and the exhalation
left enough steam to blind me
to the wintry day.
“Let’s get moving.”
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
with the bulging eyes and a twisted mouth
as the fluids dribble from chilling flesh
in trampled magnolias, once so fresh.
Southern trees bear strange fruit;
blood on the leaves and blood at the root.
Rainbow shapes swing in southern breeze.
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
In the daytime, the sun says our produce is clean
but the moonrise tells what alter-facts mean.
Ages pass, and how have we changed
when the night sees these strange bitter crops still remain?
for what they did.
It’s unforgivable how you were treated.
Threatened and berated you,
those bastards did,
day after year,
making you miserable,
building a bitch of a life
from what parts
they provided you
– what disparate parts.
What demeritorious parts.
if only on a genetic level
we owe them a debt.
If not for them
you wouldn’t be here.
You wouldn’t be anywhere.
If not for the hell
they directed you to
who knows who you’d be?
So fuck them, certainly,
but thank them, too
for without them
we would never have you.
So far, nothing’s changed.
I have become no intergalactic superhero
nor have the multisexual models
come to offer me pleasures untethered.
I am no richer
nor more powerful
or more wonderful
than I was during
the last past passing of the planet
around the sun
to this particular relative position.
You have offered me nothing particularly different
and neither has she
and neither has he
or they or it.
This year it appears to be all the same
and it’s still rock and roll to me.
I don’t care anymore
about the change in the weather
or if birds of a feather
have flown to warmer climes.
Whatever changes have crashed on these shores,
the appearance of yesterday bores
so much resemblance to today.
I can’t say if anything will provide a different course
this month or today
around me unless I choose to do it
and that ain’t gonna happen
so where the hell are we this year?
Fuck if I know.
She said she would make music with me
but I didn’t know how to sing
and couldn’t play a thing
could simply make literate lyrics
so she found another
who was far easier to play with.
This is often the way
with easy opportunities:
they flit away
like butterflies at the bottom of a hill
that you thought for a second
could succumb to your will
and be captured
and someday be put in a jar
but you realize you’d never been able
to run quite that far
or so fast to outlast
all the dark in your skull
stating completely you have no control
over what you might want
versus what you might have.
As you race in your chase
with the wings
– soon your calves
will collapse into spasms
and you’ll fall in the dale
and the girl who wanted to make music
will wail with another.
He’ll smother with all that you dreamed
while the wishes you stitched
prove to be unsown seams.
This is what happens
assuming you are every bit like me.