Excuse Me, Are You Finished With That Hegemony?

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Hey man,

Respect the dynamic.

Our empire can’t be erected

On the backs of other’s babies.


Again. Can it?

Oh, and speaking of erections

Ladies, maybe if you let us touch your bodies

Every once or twice or three times


We’d let you have a say

About your plumbing or that place

Down there wherever the stork

Deposits the twinkle in God’s eye.


Alls I’m saying is it’s tough being white.


It’s almost, almost like trying

To not there at all.




A slack of stones

Metastasizes like boulders

Beneath your shoulder


Blades where angel’s

Wings sprout one silly

Cilia at a time.


Time. Can I borrow some?

I need a ride, too,

Don’t worry, just out to the


Quarry. How much junk

You got in your trunk?

It’s just that, lately,


I’ve been fearing

I’ll be gone till

Only the mountain remains.


Gravity’s a bitch

For aspiring seraphim

And cherubim alike


Though what passes for

Difference these days

Can’t be pried apart


By a feather

No matter how small

Or how silly.



You got that ride

Or what?



Living on the Bus-Line


I went down to the crossroads

To catch a cross-town bus.

There was swinging with great violence

In a benevolent cacophony.


But the empty pleading eyes

And the emptier pleading hands

Only seemed to say sadly

You have to sit through the whole presentation


In order to get a round-trip ticket.

But there’s coffee and doughnuts.

Except the coffee’s bad

And the doughnuts were gone by 9.


Wetting the tip of my pencil to gauge the wind

I remembered an ember can travel miles

Before being extinguished so I asked my neighbor,

Hey buddy, you got a cigarette?

Reading An Obituary, Missing the Bus


I have fewer secrets

The older I get.

Fewer, but choicer, meatier, damning.

Though I may be confusing it all.


Age tends to do that.

We acquiesce to Age like a bully.

Meekly, wanting to sleep in on a school day

For fear of running into him on the playground


By the swings or teeter-totter yet

Off to school we go daily building lives

Best we can If we’re that fortunate.

Still Life kicks our ass when it wants.


People can change but most don’t.

They try to stay young by keeping secrets

That can’t wait be told anyway

And simply disappear with their telling.

Bumper to Bumper


What frightens you, Norma?

What high holy terror

Can drop like a veil

And curl your toes?


Is it Love?

Is it the sunburned grandchildren

Of your sunburned grandchildren

Roasting along the equator


Where we’ll all move

To peek across the belt

Holding the world’s guts in

To see how the other half lives?


Norma, I am troubled.

I want to mock and deride you

But know it isn’t right.

That’s between you and your god.


Who called by the way

To say he’s stuck in traffic.

Seems Apollo’s chariot got a flat.

This high noon may last awhile.