Feeding the Savage Heart

Rainy days won’t do it,
neither will good tunes
or home-ground coffee.

Duchendorf said
sunshine did it but
not for me.
Pat got close with
a little hill country,
a little back roads driving
a little of that ol’ top down,
but not quite there.

Wind across tall grass with
a north Texas skyline and
no other sound but birds
comes very close.

Mountains, per M’s definition;
those with snow year ‘round,
those’ll almost do it.

What all of these lack is M:
Without her, they’re just
vignettes; with her, any place
is the right place.

Gaberlunzie

I’ve a solution to
influence peddling
in D.C.

The problem
is perspective;
we see it as a thing
to be changed,
but its na’ –
It’s a fookin’ addiction...

A wise society accepts
supply an’ demand.

Tax the shit outta ‘em;
make ‘em all Gaberlunzies,
with exorbitant annual fees
to peddle their beads.

Prune the ranks
of the strolling bastards
an’ swell the coffers
in one fell swoop.

Chasing Bird

Born in in Charleston, his
pop started him on drums at 8,
practicing until his fingers bled
then told him he sucked.

Ronnie Free, but not that style;
he swung with Mose, rhythm
tinged with BBQ and R & B.

By the mid ‘50’s in NYC he was
a cat as cool as menthol smoke,
hangin’ and crashin’ at Hall’s loft
he played with them all;
Mose and Lester, Oscar and
Sonny, Charlie, Woody,
Marian and Dizzie.

One night he was a gone daddy;
hooked on horse, he ended up
in Bellevue just like his hero, Bird.

Cleaned up, he went home
didn’t play no more.
But the bell rang again in
the 80’s and he reappeared,
playing magic like he’d never quit.

Of those years, he said
“It was quite a ride;
I wouldn’t trade it for the world,
but I sure wouldn’t want
to do it again.”

For The Holidays

No tree fills the house
with the scent of fir, or
carpets the floor with
fallen needles.

No lights hang from
the eaves or the holly bushes.

The Messiah has been played, once
but no others; they may or may not
in the next couple days.

My love and I are both off work
the day before and the day itself;
mom asked what we have planned,
and she said “Oh, read, eat,
be quiet at home,” and then
she smiled and winked at me.

The forecast calls
for sunny and cold,
a perfect Texas Christmas.

We will not go out, nor
stay up late on
New Year’s Eve, and
the next day I will go
hunting up in Quanah.

Now, it is quiet and
the sky is grey, waiting.
Critters strewn about
the bed and couch,
paws cover faces.
Wind tossed Oleander
scratches at the window.

Uncle Fran died two days ago,
as so many do this time of year.

Perhaps, in my fiftieth year
I have caught a whiff
of that melancholy.

Waffle House, 10:45 a.m.

Where are we getting’ that toilet,
Lowes or Home Depot?
Home Depot, I done tol’ you
and it IS gonna be a present.
It’s gotta be a present, I know that;
you’re gonna put it in the floor too.

It’s been seven years they been married.
It has not been seven years.
It’s been seven years they been married.
It has not been seven years.
I am a’ tellin’ you it has been seven years,
I know it.
You know nothin’ of the kind;
it’s been five years, and I got
proof on account of the dates
on them pictures I took.

Muriel says she wants to get a gun.
Now that ain’t no surprise…
She says she wants to go up to th’ range
and get her one, ‘cause he’s got one.
She just wants a gun so’s she can shoot him first.
Be that as it may, she wants a gun,
jus’ like his.
She does NOT want a gun just like his;
He has him the forty five automatic of
nineteen and eleven –
that gun is too big in every way.
Well then she wants one like that in .38
She does NOT want one like that;
she wants a small revolver and
she aught'n to be smart enough to know.

Well, she wants a gun, that’s all I know;
are you gonna finish your bacon?

Anomie

Murkan Airlines,
with a wink and a nod,
hauls congress to and fro
for the Holiday Break,
the first order of business being
what to call it?
Christmas is too Christian
and if we serve one,
they’ll all want free drinks.

Guzzling sweet crude and
blood diamonds, the Grand Poobah
flashes a greasy smile,
wipes his lips on his lackey’s paycheck
and rumbles “Ain’t nobody serves ‘em up
better ‘n’ Halliburton!”

Back at Gawd-R-Us,
everybody’s lost their shirts
in Texas Hold ‘Em.
It’s game over man;
Diversity catches the
midnight train to Georgia,
laying low in the mail car.

Town hall meeting is cancelled
due to protest by The Organization of
Those Who Don’t Give a Shit,
seeing as it violates their
constitutional right to ambivalence.

Burglars United beds the Brady Bunch
hoping to get bullets labeled as antisocial.

Bernie Madoff, out for good behavior,
skunks Bernanke in a game of one-on-one;
dusting off his jacket, he quips,
“Enough of this politeness shit,
let’s get down to brass tacks.”

The Me Generation wakes from their slumbers,
yearning for the dry look;
Studio 54 reopens in celebration.

Below the hullabaloo,
Mother Theresa rolls over in her grave
slaps her forehead and mutters
“Christ on a crutch,
what if I was wrong?”

Canus Lapus

Hangin’ with Pop,
slimmer and
half the weight
of either cat.

Sprawled full length
there’s still plenty of room
for the laptop.
Head hanging ten
off one ankle,
back feet bathed in
warm computer air.

Black and white fur
against crocheted
white blanket.
One eye closed,
one on the bird feeder,
an ear cocked
tracking the kitties.

Now and again a rise,
a big yawn and
a good shake,
then a muzzle stuck over
the top of the computer,
just to make sure Pop
is paying attention.

Ploce

Kurt Vonnegut said,
“I tell you we are here
on earth to fart around
and don’t let anyone
tell you different;”
true enough, but
there is more to it.

Peace.
Let there be peace.
Let there be peace on earth.

More than a day
or a season wherein
we sing words that
perhaps we do not heed:
They are not just songs
of auld lang syne
they are words to live by.

Peace.
Let there be peace.
Let there be peace on earth.

Politicians speak of war,
economy, and law;
pundits of a better way:
Zealots know the only way,
if one is to be saved.

Peace.
Let there be peace.
Let there be peace on earth.

I tell you that we
are all here to care
for one another
and for this earth
and don’t let anyone tell
you different.

What Cat Is This?

A paean to a fat kitty, to the tune, (Of course), of What Child Is This?

What cat is this who lays at rest
On the dog’s bed is sleeping?
Whom from his birth has gained great girth,
And now is fat and furry.

This, this is Orca boy,
Who eats and sleeps and plays with toys;
Haste, haste, to bring him treats,
The Becky, the Walrus Kitty.

Why lies He so all day long,
Rising only for feeding?
Good Christians fear to draw too near
When Becky Boy is feeding.

This, this is Fanger Boy,
The fattest of all kitties.
Hail, hail his furry gut,
The Becky, the Walrus Kitty.

So bring Him kibble, water and treats,
Come feed him in the kitchen;
The bleat, the meow, the switching tail,
Let food and leavin’s surround him.

This, this is Walrus Cat,
Who’s belly is soft and oh so fat.
Scrub, scrub his furry gut,
The Becky, the Walrus Kitty.

Undeniable

Monique rolls her eyes,
shakes her lovely head, says,
“You are such a boy;”
and notes that
her heart is within.
True enough, but still;
is exquisite wrapping not
essential to the gift?

The Old English root,
brēost, implies
the center of emotion;
and most certainly,
this has never been lost
upon artists across the ages…

Granted, there are other meanings;
the working face of a mine or
an open-hearthed furnace;
sailors breast off a pier,
and mountaineers a peak,
yet…

That gentle swell,
this graceful curve
is not only a delight to the eye
but an ember for the heart.

Ventanas del Alma

She painted live,
on a river bank
high meadow
or a farm wall
in an Italian village;
the memories
hang on the walls
of my home.

Blue water checked
by current and sun
flows by nodding grass;
deeper green downstream
speaks of slow water
and basking turtles.

Sun slants and falls
on yellow enamel pitcher
and tubes of Grumbacher;
this is the paint she always used.
Brushes dry in a ceramic cup
we bought in Naples;
I built this studio for her.

On our bedroom wall hangs
the one she painted from
a mind’s eye snapshot;
highway turned to dusty trail
wreathed in sage.
Windblown wheat laps
like water in a pond.
Hazy view northward whispers
of the Okanogan.

Above it all blue sky wheels,
turns to gray and black
as the storm comes on.

Change Notice

May The Old One
grant me
never loosing track…

Of a dropping barometer
the mood of a room
the stillness of sunrise.

Bird song
wind sigh
star light
my lover’s eyes.

Sunlight on water
wind through trees
fragile blooms
clear, sweet air.

water.
life.
love.

Doggo

Cats have target acquisition
and lock;
“I got tone, I’m takin’ the shot.”
and the best living room
sun puddles are toast.

Bandit hangs ten off the couch
staring at his chewy on the floor,
too lazy to retrieve it.

Birds cluster on the feeders,
wearing leather bomber jackets
and smoking buttless Camels,
talking shit
as you pass.

Cold-stoned honey bee
on the window sill
waiting for sunlight.

Dog day don’t need
an afternoon;
the recliner calls now.

Gimcrack

Someone broke into the Smithsonian,
stole the Hope Diamond,
but it turned out to be
costume jewelry.

The marble walls
of Fort Knox
are painted plywood;
inside, ragged stagehands
sprawl on a trash-strewn
concrete floor
smoking discount cigarettes.

Humvees don’t fit
through the tunneled out
giant redwood,
and besides,
we’ve already seen one…

Texas oil wells
pump Dr. Pepper,
but they don’t make it
with real sugar any more.

The land o’ lakes
has gone dry,
the butter
churned into
margarine.

There’s no more penny candy
and the free lunch
is a half eaten cheeseburger
left on a park bench.

Law of Parties

Two men enter
one man inside
two men leave
one man dies.

Democracy wakes on
a crisp fall morning,
heads outside with
a steamin’ cuppa joe
stops at the wood pile,
selects a nice four by four;
it’s time to whack the people
upside the head.

The Parole Board,
recently fitted with shock collars
turns thumbs up,
but Der HairenFuhrer
ain’t havin’ any o’ that;
his finger hovers
above the remote.

He stabs the button and
in a swirl of spasmodic jerking,
their thumbs swing down.

Halleluiah choruses
echo from the capital dome;
the dry look has saved the day
once again.

Thank heck
for mindless automatons;
were it not for the
icy ones and zeroes
sluicing through their veins,
who among us would
make a sound decision?

Nihilarian

To equate
usefulness
with occupation
is often
sketchy
at best.

That said,
working
loss prevention
at Wal-Mart
may be
an exception
to the rule.

Winter Sky

Gray that speaks
in whispers of
blue and white.

No bird chatters
no dog barks;
fitful semaphore
of branch on window
the only sound.

They may bear
fog, snow,
freezing rain
or cruel wind.

Everything waits.

Manichaean Slide

Which side
are you on,
tell me
which side
are you on?

Faith has
always told me
I am
you are
we are all
children of God.

I will not
be categorized
or defined
by stripe
predilection
or view.

It is
I am
you are
we are all
not
black and white
good and evil
right and wrong.

Duality exists
in the hearts
of those
who do not yet
see color:

I am
you are
we are all
of each other.

And that is
as it should be.

Isn't It Byronic

In my days,
I’ve been called
many things,
among them;

moody,
funny,
taciturn,
brilliant,
stupid,
grumpy,
comedian,
loose cannon,
artistic,
antisocial,
elitist,
and
nuts.

Thankfully,
there's a single word
to express
all that.

Orwellian

Nutbaskets create
the largest ammo shortage
in twenty years;
they think Obama
is comin’ for their guns.

Legions of the brain dead
shy from flu shots
fearing a syringe
full of mind control.

Right wing extremists
systematically eliminate
moderate politics and faith.

Our towns are
endless strip malls, where
Megachurches preach
the gospel of selfishness.

Communities and schools
don’t teach; it infringes upon
our right to be dumbfucks.

Good neighbors are neither
seen nor heard.

Chris Rea said it best:
“This ain’t no upwardly mobile freeway,
oh no, this is the road to hell.”