I walk these streets
lined with maples
where the mighty oak should reign
From windows gaping I am assailed
by bourgeois houseplants
External trappings look the same
These constants ignored
I am the variable
but am I still sane?
Or some spare fruit
of solemn contemplation
The voices heard in the dark
are mocking, mostly laughter
Orwell chortles from the grave
Whos laughing now?
Under any banner
Big Brother all the same
No obligation to listen
nonetheless
tells what you don’t want to hear
I will not be silenced
Die Gedanke sind immer frei
a poem from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent, Ford Wenty
She don’t look like Pocahontas
Her ego blots out the Sun
She well and truly wants us
to believe that she’s the one
The crazy one, Larry David’s foil
running out of things to promise
Raise the cry, no blood for oil
I guess we’ll all be eating hummus
Then there’s skater-boy (don’t get me started)
that emasculated male
Took the stage and only farted
Watch his polling numbers sail
And Kamala, well she’s Kamala
Get it done without a hitch
She’ll deliver Shangri-La
She’s Willie’s little bitch
But they’ll all feel the wrath of CONG
the guy with blood in his eye
They say he just does not belong
that Creepy Old Neighbor Guy
Yes old dogs can learn new tricks
Theres a new slogan to be seen
The failing campaign has found a fix
Brother, can you spare some green?
Pajama nation
There is no bed to retire
Sleep in winter clothes
We witness elemental shift
without premeditation
Random acts less brilliantine
Cause and effect
Their purpose unknown
A furnace spent on final fury
while air fills the vacuum
Like new sheets
descending cool
There is still water
flowing underground
David Byrne swims against the current
This time between
Same as it ever was
Mid summer, sun retires late
across the courtyard
Shadows crept into the eve
Lights out, on the floor
we watched through the bottom pane
Only television flickers
The Braves on TBS
The Fixx on the stereo
Moonrise on crank whores
Stand or fall
They queued for that peanut butter
Stand or fall
Communion from a needle
Red lips and eye liner
a parade of sad clowns
They only had one way out
and in the morning gone
Yet every night the same
Forty years on now
Can see Friday’s lights from here
Return to scene of the crime
Boulevards unchanged
untainted by the shadows of years
and still bathe in afternoon’s
waning light
Bricks hold no memories
only echoes, then vanished
Familiarity donned
like old slippers
Do not lament forgotten years
Done and gone
Fixed for all time
against the mutable spirit
