Open Mike, January 14, 2014

At this time of year we are all told to “count our blessings”.
You put on a bright yellow smiley-face face mask,
Screw your courage to the sticking place,
and look at what’s good in your world.
But I hold this truth to be self evident-
          all blessings are not created equal.

Blessings, in today’s America, are like speech-
You can buy them with cold, hard cash.
In today’s America, if you’re rich-
You’ve got a lot of blessings to count.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
because you can afford the best politicians
money can buy to write laws
to make you even more money
To buy yourself even more politicians.
Don’t call it Corruption, call it “An Investment”.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
Because politicians have convinced us that we can
only get the poor to work harder by paying them less,
and the rich to work harder by paying them more.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
because the tax laws written by the politicians you bought
Make your stock-dividend income taxable at a lower rate
than the wages of the single mother who cleans your office,
or the green-card immigrant who mows your lawn.
Don’t call that “Unfair”. Call that “Free Enterprise”.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
Because Glenn Beck just declared
That the reformed Scrooge was a wussy, pussy Socialist
and the old Scrooge was an All-American role model.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
because even though you inherited your wealth,
everybody is sure you deserve every bit of it,
and it’s the the 18-hour a day, minimum wage workers
the media calls “Lazy, undeserving takers”.
Don’t call that “Hypocrisy. Call it “Fair and Balanced”.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
because although “energy independence” means
ripping apart the West Virginia countryside,
and ruining the well-water in farmland Kansas,
They’ll never allow a wind farm off the coast
within sight of your beach house.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
because when you finance a leveraged buy-out
that bankrupts a healthy company,
and then you sell the parts off to China for a handsome profit,
and end up putting 3,000 people out of work,
Fox won’t call you a thug, they’ll call you a job-creator.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-

Because it’s you who gets to vote for the wars
that poor people’s sons and daughters get to go and die in.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
Because there is an entire news network
dedicated to proving that Jesus
was a white, Protestant CEO from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.
And he said that it’s easy for a rich man to get into Heaven,
and it’s easy for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle,
Because the rich man owns Heaven,
and he owns the camel, and he owns the needle.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
Because that poor person caught with an ounce of weed?
He’ll spend the next fifteen years in your privatized, for-profit prison,
and because he’s an ex-con he loses his right to vote,
So he can’t vote for reform politicians to change those laws,
and isn’t that what Democracy is all about, Charlie Brown?

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
because if you’re a banker who commits massive mortgage fraud,
and costs taxpayers hundreds of millions of dollars,
You get a golden parachute payoff, and seat on the Board of Directors.
And if you were REALLY bad?  We’ll even discuss
making you a member of the Federal Reserve.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
and declare proudly that “We’re all in this together!
You guys all row the boat!
I’ll stand here in the bow,
sipping my martini,
watching for icebergs.”

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
because poems like this
listing all the blessings you have that others don’t,
are reviled as “Class Warfare”.

If you’re rich, you can count your blessings-
and tell the poor to count their blessings,
Because blessings are better than money, right?
And because telling people that keeps them quiet,
and passive, and poor.

Open Mike, Week #3

My Poetic Muse sits in a little corner of my brain,

(looking a lot like Katherine Zetas Jones,

in that Zorro movie),

and she gives me bad advice.

That’s partly my own fault.

If you take your Muse out on Saturday night,

load her  up with Tanqueray and Wild Turkey,

and then pay any attention to what she tells you to do?

well then- you’re an idiot.

I want to make money with my words,

I told her. That’s easy, she said-

Write this down on a sheet of paper,

And you’ll make bagfuls of money:

“Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Fill this bag with 10s and 20s.

No dye packets”.

Ha, I said, good joke.

Easy to make fun at the expense 

of a tortured, starving artist, and, wait-

Should I capitalize “Dye Packets” ?

My Muse told me there’s a ton of money

to be made writing poetry.

Just look at the classifieds

in the back of Parade magazine-

Hallmark’s hiring.

Making money with poetry is easy.

All you have to do is come up with

57 words that rhyme with “Anniversary”.

News Flash to my Poetic Muse:

There is not a single word,

in the entire English language,

that rhymes with Anniversary.

Of all the ones I thought of,

the one that came closest? Penury.

But I tried anyway.

Happy Anniversary,

Happy Anniversary?

Happy Anniversary,

Haaappy Anniversary!!

Fuck it.

Rhyme is over-rated.

Finally, after consuming 5 pots of coffee,

and the entire contents of that little plastic baggie

I found in the back corner 

of my roommate’s sock drawer (in 1997),

I lost consciousness at my desk,

and dreamed that giant pink Easter bunnies,

(Rhyming, carnivorous pink Easter bunnies)

were chasing me around the Eifel Tower.

I woke up to find that I’d used my keyboard 

to batter my monitor senseless.

Thanks, ironic Poetic Muse

(who looks startlingly like Katherine Zeta Jones).

Thanks.

Look, I told her, I want to write poems 

that make a difference in people’s lives.

Failing that, I want to write poems that

at least make me happy. Failing that- 

Wait, she said.  Tell me the truth!

OK, I admitted- here’s the truth-

I am going to write a poem that gets made 

into the world’s first poetry-based

Hollywood blockbuster action thriller!

Leaves of Grass? Meet Die Hard Eight.

-He’s back, and he RHYMES!

It will be directed by Arnold Schwartzenager,

and star Daniel Craig and Hugh Jackman, and-

 dare I hope?

Katherine Zeta Jones!

Open Mike, Week #2

So, last night I read again at Northampton Poetry's Open Mike- a real change-up from last week's piece, this one is titled "Kosovo" -

Our grandfathers built this stone wall-
It replaced a stone wall our great-great-grandfathers built,
around our little town square.
Today, from the safety of this crumbling wall,
I look out at our small, suddenly-empty square,
Where the bullets patter like raindrops on dusty, packed-earth,
And bright pieces of shattered wedding cake,
scattered like snowflakes, melt, in the hot July sun.

This is the square where I teased you and
you made faces at me so long ago;
This is the square where we first kissed,
waking from our childhood slumber
and seeing each other again for the first time.

This is the square where we held each other forever
on that day we said was the happiest of our lives,
before today -today.
This is the square where you lie so still
on that dust-packed earth,
and I crouch behind this wall
and listen to the patter of the bullets.

You always said your raven-black hair
was not black at all,
You said it had streaks and glints of chestnut red,
and you'd get angry that I could never quite see them,
but I can see them now.

And I think, how generous of your hair,
and how like you, to share that red of which you were so proud,
to share it with the dry, thirsty ground
where the red glints lie now, crimsoned splashes all around you,
soaking deep into the soil.

Just wait another moment, my childhood friend,
just wait another moment my grown-up love,
wait a moment while I screw my courage to the sticking place
on this pockmarked and shadowed wall,
wait a moment, and then I will come out and join you.

Haiku

Some Thursday morning Bookseller Haiku:

Yesterday the book
Was here. Now (sold), it's missing.
!@#$%^&&*((*&^%#@!!!!

Open Mike, Week #1

Last night I stood up during Northampton Poetrys open mike period and read something I’d written. It was a lot of fun, I’m glad I did it. Now I’m going to be even more self-indulgent and post it here. Friends who read my book catalogs may notice some similarity of tone and style -

Your poem is lovely, she said.
Quite charming.

Lovely? Charming?
I’d hoped she’d say moving,
thoughtful, thought-provoking,
intense, insightful, inspired,
brilliant, barn-burner, bad-ass!
You’ve written a poem that would make
Charles Bukowski weep with pride!!!

But lovely?
Charming?
How about-
cute?
sweet?
adorable?
preciousssss?????

It was a poem about a homeless man
who gets flattened like a pancake by a bus
on the 12th street bridge.
Lovely?
Charles Bukowski gently wept.

I wanted that poem to make her
question her beliefs,
fight the system, rage against the machine,
re-arrange all the paradoxes
and go help me save a little baby seal.

I wanted that poem to make her
quit her job as a bank analyst
and dress up in gypsy bohemian caftan
and write rude emails to Ted Cruz.

I wanted that poem
to make us have hot poet sex
on the floor
of T.S. Elliot’s kitchen.

Charming doesn’t get you there.
Charming gets you high tea
in William Wordsworth’s living room.

I dragged out the dictionary
and logged into my account
on Wiki-Synonyms dot com.
I pricked my finger and,
by the light of a black candle,
swore a blood oath
never to rhyme again.

I tore that poem open,
took a pail full of adverbs,
and stuffed that sucker up.
I removed every word suggesting
a color brighter than gray.
I called my cousin,
the career Navy man,
for some evocative words for
interesting bodily functions.

Well, she said,
putting down the poem,
her eyes fixed on the table,
her face the color of unripe dough:
This is- interesting.
Sort of like ... phlegm.

That’s cool.
It wasn’t getting me into
T.S. Elliot’s kitchen,
and the little baby seals
will have to make it through
another winter without us,
but at least it wasn’t fucking lovely.
It’s a start.

For Joey, & Cissy, & Atlas...

...and all my other fellow-poemers out there. We have anther poemer in our midst, a lady of infinite ability and a big bosom. A lady who makes sounding incomprehensible look incredibly easy.

The good folks at Slate.com have discovered this important new American rhymin' voice, so ladies & gentlemen, I am proud to present-

Sarah Palin, American Poemer!!


"You Can't Blink"

You can't blink.
You have to be wired
In a way of being
So committed to the mission,

The mission that we're on,
Reform of this country,
And victory in the war,
You can't blink.

So I didn't blink.

(To C. Gibson, ABC News, Sept. 11, 2008)


"Haiku"

These corporations.
Today it was AIG,
Important call, there.

(To S. Hannity, Fox News, Sept. 18, 2008)


"Befoulers of the Verbiage"

It was an unfair attack on the verbiage
That Senator McCain chose to use,
Because the fundamentals,
As he was having to explain afterwards,
He means our workforce.
He means the ingenuity of the American.
And of course that is strong,
And that is the foundation of our economy.
So that was an unfair attack there,
Again based on verbiage.

(To S. Hannity, Fox News, Sept. 18, 2008)


"On the Bailout"

Ultimately,
What the bailout does
Is help those who are concerned
About the health care reform
That is needed
To help shore up our economy,
Helping the—
It's got to be all about job creation, too.

Shoring up our economy
And putting it back on the right track.
So health care reform
And reducing taxes
And reining in spending
Has got to accompany tax reductions
And tax relief for Americans.
And trade.

We've got to see trade
As opportunity
Not as a competitive, scary thing.
But one in five jobs
Being created in the trade sector today,
We've got to look at that
As more opportunity.
All those things.

(To K. Couric, CBS News, Sept. 25, 2008)


"On Reporters"

It's funny that
A comment like that
Was kinda made to,
I don't know,
You know ...

Reporters.

(To K. Couric, CBS News, Sept. 25, 2008)

-

Move over, Emily Dickinson...

44th and 6th

I wrote this about 15 years ago after a trip to New York City. I fear it still may apply-


44th and Sixth

The old man stands like a shadow in some deep South shanty,
beer-swilling, Main-Street town,
as he covers his head for the New York cabbies and bus drivers
who pass him every day on his corner as he stands and waits.

He stands on the corner of 44th and 6th,
stands their every day,
to greet the bank manager and his help
as they rush to work.

Go away old man,
take your stubble-face,
and your hunger-stumble walk,
and your booze-sour breath,
and go away.
We don't want you here.
You're not our fault.

A man in a three-piece Italian suit hurries by
and the old man stumbles across the sidewalk,
a smile on his blank, glassy face;
Hey, old man,
don't stare at me from your corner of the street;
I am not your solution,
and you are not my problem..
I have problems of my own.
My BMW is always in the shop;
my club is admitting Jews and blacks;
my accountant is screwing my accounts,
and my wife too, every Thursday;
so get out of my way, old man,
I'm in a hurry.
I need a good stiff drink.
And don't stare at me, old man.
I am not you.

A passerby gives the old man a dollar
and the last half of an uneaten sandwich from the local deli,
and the banker glares at him through his glass wall,
as the old man stumbles away to eat the sandwich,
and to use the dollar to buy some respite
from his reality.

But he'll be back.
In a day, or a week, or a month,
as you pass there again,
scarf tight against the slicing November wind,
the old man still stands,
head bowed,
like a shadow in some deep-south,
pickup-truck, Main Street town,
lost and at large in his reality,
as the cabbies grind by,
and the buses miss him by inches,
and the banker sits behind his glass wall,
because its not his fault.

Duck Doodles-

Back some years ago, in another lifetime, I raised ducks as a hobby. I lived beside a nice stream, and in addition to a dozen or so domestic ducks, there were usually a few hundred wild mallards hanging out, especially in the wintertime. I'd go through about a hundred pounds of cracked corn a week...

One fun thing to do with the ducks was make "Duck Doodles" in the wintertime. All you need to make a Duck Doodle is about ten pounds of cracked corn, 200-300 ducks, and a second floor window to view your work from. You decide what word you want to write, and then quickly sprinkle the corn on the ground in letters about three-feet high. The eating ducks will fill in all the letters, and you have a living, wiggling Duck Doodle. Unfortunately I never got a picture of one of the Duck Doodles.

All that is by way of introduction to this little ditty I wrote at some point during my duck-raising career, and which I offer today because it's so damned hot and humid that I swear I just saw a duck paddle by three feet off the ground-


My Momma has a duck,
she wears it like a hat!
I'd really, really rather
my Momma had a cat.

I wish she had a kitten,
named Rose or Friar Tuck.
A cuddly, bubbly kitten-
but no. She has a duck.

My Momma's duck lives in the house,
it eats with us at meals.
When Aunt Bernice saw that one night,
she made an awful squeal.

My Momma's duck is big and white,
and Poppa's awful pleased
she doesn't take it to bed at night,
'cause feathers make him sneeze.

My Momma takes her duck for walks,
she talks to it for hours,
she lets it on the couch, and (once)
she put it in the shower.

My Momma has a lovely duck,
I can't complain 'bout that...
It's just I'd really, really, rather
my Momma had a cat.

In other news...

You know, I was not quite sure what to post today. Was I going to go political (which I had sworn I was not going to do here) and point out that the Bush commutation of Libby's sentence could be the basis for an Obstruction of Justice charge against The Decider?

Well, maybe not. That is going to show up on State of Denial in a few days.

Instead, since the gardens are, for the most part, going great, I decided to share a poem I wrote about fifteen years ago, which reached final form about five years ago. I posted it on Sideon's blog a few weeks ago, but thought I'd post it here as well. What the hell.

The jealous rocks mutter early,
in the pearly morning light;
grow surly now, sharp words define-
the faults of the morning glory vine.
Which twists and turns,
turning divine, the craggy,
crabby space it climbs.