Monday, November 29, 2010

A Sound and Basic Education

“…the Campaign for Fiscal Equity settlement had been ailing long before Lehman Brothers closed.”[1]

Even when you win you lose,

once again the bureaucratic rope-a-dope

dangling replenishing funds over

the raised bruises on the backs

to come back down with the lash

of the bowed necks of children bent

grimacing over dented and graffitied desks.

They quickly learn that the people

who hold the power care very

little for their efforts sweat and toil

trilling through the tense veins working on

the tops of their scribbling hands

like thick ropes hauling freight at the harbor,

coiled against the thin bones they work their fingers to,

every so often glancing out of tall gated windows,

eyes wide like trapped minnows in a bucket,

begging to be out there beyond the bars

with the young disbarred debutants

doing nothing with the other skittering dropouts

carousing in playgrounds and cart wheeling

out of reach of the desperate agents of truancy.

The Campaign for Equity is

a noble quest formed out

of the frothing behest of

legions of not consulted parents

who only want the best,

for their struggling children

who don’t see the tweed viper

pushed closed against their breasts,

the second the scholastic Sisyphusean race

causing capillaries to careen

through furrowed fork-veined

foreheads, the snake bites down,

seemingly eager to thresh neophyte hopes

because the State reaper’s scope

only sees them fit for a paper hat

greasetrapped future.

Broken schools improperly sutured

Governor Patterson espouses the truth in

press conference sutras:

“The road to economic competitiveness

and renewal runs right through our schools,”

a glimmering thread of truth in the liar’s spool

quickly spun into tightly knit statements

heralding justifications of abatement of help:

“However, during this downturn,

we simply cannot spend more —

so we must spend more effectively.”

the blinders of governmental denial

make it easy to gladhand and just let it be.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

An Ode to Modern Melodrama

Back amongst the stink of the suburbs,

stark as a buzzard,

drifting just a talon

away from the twinkling city,

an eye full of want,

a back full of bent oak trees

and sidewalk stenches

creeping like an abysmal

fog at the toes

of rotting picket fences,

Shuffling soles wish

for better circumstances

for life is viewed

as cadre of tireless dances

and the depressed never learn

the steps,

because life is draped

around the ankles like shackles

clinking to melodic drivel

they choose to define their lives by

until they’ve picked the bones

of melodrama dry,

Without reason to despair

and crippling fear

at the attention they’ll lose

they look to the past to craft

a fictitious noose,

a chance beating from Daddy

made worse by imaginary half truths

muttered loudly and constant

so that normality is impossible,

happiness ever distant

this process is common,

in fact it occurs

all too often,

the now saddened mind

had built quite the ornate coffin

in which this story receives it’s

telltale red stain,

the web of lies is so intricate

the hopeless must even pretend to be slain,

so let’s take a deep breath and start in

on those lovely and vital veins.

A Tiny Exquisite Corpse

Dream stating while awaiting your delayed call,

I don’t like waiting and where

Did I leave my penny loafers?

Those brown refugees cry for wriggling piggies lust

for Kermi was so great she jumped his BONES rattle,

the excited marrow curls with fear they manipulate

the masses to hate what is different,

to oppose progressive change,

and to embrace war,

but that sucks so get to work like a bitch

heat driven towards fulfilling instinctual

commands minds are like a parachute,

what happens when they fail to openly KILL THEM ALL

because I hate this game and

there’s too much to do

and they’re all following me

like floundering barracudas jaws snapping expectantly

like greedy hinges on the red fire door

rings false

the porcelain knitwork vase

stood lean and tall,

is something I always wanted to be

able to open time with wire cutters.

Saturday, November 20, 2010


Within my chest a jackhammering pang,

I sat still at the edge of the bed as

The showers spurted to life under her pale hand.

I was wise to her plan

when I heard the bath stay on,

water rushing and whining

in the pipes,

having had hundreds

of five-finger fantasies in

that tiled space of six feet,

I slyly smile at her attempt

at being discreet,

on light fleet feet

I crept warily to my bedroom door

with lusting aims

breath ragged running hot

with a pervert’s shame

but with clenched jaw

and slowly crouching frame

a peeping tom’s composure

I manage to maintain,

body waiting tensely,

a stick insect stooped low

bones clicking,

head swiveling,

inspecting with a tilt

drawing aural assessments

through her splashing

ears perked, brown headphones

strenuously work past the buzzing

drone of the bathroom fan,

my palms poised lightly

to avoid the telltale squeal

of the old floorboards

I lean towards the sound

of legs sliding against the wet ceramic

she’s going to hear you at any moment

my brain blared with panic,

partially an unwilling party

in this strange scene

unfolding with me,

a crouched tan cat listening

at the hallway wall

suddenly the sloshing bathtub

gave quicker protests

building into rhythmic squeaks

combined with hushed gasps

my mouth hanging open aghast,

I imagined this must be

the spy’s ecstasy

listening to a piece of her

inner life revealing itself to me

as she searches, fingers pleading

through the frothing water

her eager mouth accepting

quenching the hunger

I starve for.