Life –
Passing by us all
Some try
Some fail
Some by deeds enumerated
Some by acquisitions agglomerated
Some by happy happenstance
Some because they never leave their house.
Some because they resisted touching their face.

Some because the education system worked in their favor
were taught they a basic understanding of statistics
Of those who trusted the experts making their best guesses in uncertain times.
Those are the ones who protected their families
Who put the safety of others before their summer holiday.
Stewards who suffered in a self-inflicted desert
So a few more people could live the collective dream.

Some people want a house in the suburbs
down the culdesac next to the place
where they lost their virginity
behind the gas station
where their older brother bought them booze

Some people want a trailer in the desert
with low humidity

I want a marble palace in the mountains of Ecuador
With my own private art museum
And a family so proud they open a gift shop

#1
Dad slugs snowy rocks
Cold anger breaking the ice
“Who wants some ice cream?”

#2
Uncle John is gone
They marched him into the woods
Another secret kept

#3
Still waters run deep
Especially for Timmy
Strip mines need good fences

#4
Ten to life up north
A catered room with a view
Statutory rape

#5
An old mining town
Filled with pin oaks and brown deer
Burning from below

#6
Scores of old nanas
Stuffing cabbage in church halls
Food for the needy

#7
A fun fair with rides
With food, fun and families
That carnie is drunk

#8
Fresh maple syrup
Tapped into old groves of trees
Corn syrup’s cheaper

#9
Pennsylvania
Two cities with hicks between
Still not Ohio

#10
Steam trains to nowhere
Winding through old brick houses
All factories gone

What’s a Parthenon to a Persian rapist?
Or an Pantheon to a marauding papist?
A sacred site constructed in god’s will
A once timeless tomb now reclaimed landfill.
Historical heroes vying for timeless vestige
All knowing their legacy is a pointless investment.
Beneath their crowns the inkling rides
Reflected in their gilt mirrored tides
That at the end of their succession
They’re little more than a pub quiz question.

The old Khmer empires did it right.
One god king would tear down another’s might
And use the bones to build something better.
War waged and winners weathered
The new Khmer harnessed only destruction.
And can only manage gilded stuppes
And dirty waters.

Imagine all our monuments broken down.
Chipped and smelted.
Powdered an wilted.
Some new upstart with an eye for redecorating
Marching armies with standards high.

When Helios deigns to show his sun-blasted face,
He brings out a prism of local colours.
That’s when I step out of my hovel,
Pull my cap down ov’r my eyes,
And go drink,
at a bar,
Run by a gay man
Who loathes me.

Though he sneers when he slams down my drink,
And abruptly adjourns our conversations,
Frequently forgets my orders,
and sighs smoke in my face,
He’s the only publican
in this fucking town
Who can make a proper cocktail.

He uses a glass screwed into a shaker,
The right bourbon and the sweetest vermouth,
With a symmetrical sliver of lemon
Twisted and seared
Mimicking the drinker and the maker.
He decants into a fancy glass
and garnishes with a gored cherry.

Outside, away from his jeering eye,
I sip my drink and watch the regulars.
I study the indigenous and destitute
As they socialise on a bench
They always welcome me,
Like they don’t know me
And like we are the oldest friends.

A native, smelling of glue, has his face tattooed.
That’s only acceptable on an island
Equally worshipping and scared of its heritage.
He interposes himself on my observation.
And frankly asks for a cigarette.
When I refuse, he doesn’t falter.
He just interrogates me about my day.

The off-duty prostitute surprises me,
she’s not on her usual corner.
Instead, she spreads herself on the warm bench
With her sad face and melted features,
Her missing teeth and blue bark,
She quotes Camus
To her compatriots.

When they leave,
The bartender emerges with a pot of boiling water.
He possessively scalds the public bench they dared to sit on.
Disinfecting their presence from his upscale atmosphere.
He’s an expatriated Castro Fag from the Frisco Bay.
Battle hardened by the local leather scene
Though he hasn’t lost his accent.
He’s as jaded as the stone Moko,
Set in dirty pavement stone.
Strode by prostitutes and artists alike.

When Helios deigns to show his sun-blasted face,
He brings out a prism of the local colours.
That’s when I step into the light
Burn away my undeveloped privacy
I merge with the other colours,
Become refracted and reflected,
Just another dying hue.

Onyx eyes reflecting a solitary beam
Long halls delved down deep
Tracing ringing echoes across cracked tableaus
Seeking answers in ancient dirt

Why unearth old answers?
Why seek gods in the secreted corners?
Will they help us remember?
Will they restore our faith?

The myths of tombs are full of dangers
Long buried pressure plates
And propped up boulders
Ancient evils best left alone

Careful what your beam catches
As you probe down deep
Not everything is a reinforced arch
Some are old barbarisms

The ancient ruins of our past
Are tempting sirens retold in odes
While there is the occasional gem
Most are lies hiding ignorance

Look at the past with a Roman eye
Take the fables as foibles
And seek new treasures
Outside the tombs of the dead

We needed to focus.
We had been divided
but, you showed us the way.
You showed us
what it really means
to be a senator.

You gave us a bad guy.
Showed us the heart of darkness.
Gave us a villain worthy of Hollywood.

After all, we love our action movies.
We like nice clean cut stories.
We needed someone really evil.
To really unite this country.

Lean into it, man.
Start wearing black,
practice your throaty voice
and your death grip.

You already got the backstory
You killed enough kids
Destroyed enough homes
Stood idly by
as the apocalypse kicked up

Redirect tax payer dollars
Fund you final opus.
It needs to stand with the greats.
You got to out pageant Nuremberg
You got to cross swords than Saddam.
You got to unhorse Putin.
We need a fitting backdrop
For a dramatic conclusion.

Make sure your statue
is taller than your ancestors.
Build it big and tall!
Make sure we need all of us
to pull it down into the dirt.

Stop

“Stop fucking up,”
We say collectively
to ourselves.

It’s one part indictment
One part affirmation
and all a bit unconvincing.

Three wisteria bushes jut from a hunk of basalt
Marking the grave of someone so important
No one remembers how to spell their name.

Why do we even want to be remembered?
The age of Cadillacs has come and gone.
We’re always a step too late.

If everything is imitation,
why do I claw at the roots of my ancestors
Digging for deeper understanding?

Only two wisteria remain -
Lightning struck one and transformed it into charcoal
Suitable for a cave painting.

“Stop fucking up,”
We cry to the heavens
to no avail.

I watched her brilliance
as she flashed amidst heaven -
midair for effect.

She scorched a Sakura blossom.
The pink petal drifted on a hot wind
and then slowly curled
edges blackening like burnt paper.
I smelled a cherry scent
tinged with an aroma of vaporised flesh -
her perfume.

The shadows grew real,
as she made them elongate.
Their names etched in stone.

Only I could survive her.
Years of war had lined me
with lead and concrete.
Like some mad Oppenheimer,
changing history for the sake of curiosity,
I had blinded myself with my slated glasses.

I stood transfigured
With heaped ashes of spent lives
Swirling as she came.

#PROLOGUE

The Myth of Damocles as told by Uncle Lenny
He was this dude who complimented King Dionysius for having it so good and being so wealthy and having a fuck all easy life. And the King was like, “Bitch, I got problems too.”
You sit here in my cushy cushy throne with this fucking broadsword over your head.
Then I’ll march in every mother fucker who hates you
And really wants to cut your fucking head off.
And see how you fucking like it.”

#POEM

Swing, blade o’r my head, swing.
Drop down and do your terminable thing.
A few inches inch lower or just a snapped string.
And spare me from this insufferable King.

My wits are worn down to the dwindling fray,
As he forces me to be king for a day.
Why threaten with such a metaphorical display
And make me a parable to cut the way?

I just complimented his golden piss pot
On his wealth and privilege without a thought.
And strapped to his allusory throne was the thanks that I got?
“Rich people got problems,” is the morale he sought?

Just have me bargain for barley for days at a time
Or show me the stacks of scrolls that need signed
Please, show me the tedium of the bureaucratic grind
Or any of your daily problems that happen to mind.

You always had a penchant for the dramatic
And acted in ways that were so very erratic
Must your swift vengeance be so operatic?
You can educate without being traumatic.

I grow weary of this protracted affair
And wish death would come demand his fare.
To think the end is hanging just there
And all I can do is offer a prayer

“So, drop you fucking thing, drop
And make this hellish play come to a stop.
Fall like the red curtain dropped from the top.
And bring things to a close with a chop.”