No tears

Having only some

understanding of your language

there is no clarity

Still don’t trust the message

Masks do not cover

there is no truth in your eyes

Can’t see your lips moving

yet we still know you lie

In some distant future

puzzling over skeletal remains

they won’t tell you from other

lower forms of life

No tears shed for your extinction

Pferd

The horse was a peaceful creature

living free upon the plains

Until once they were subjected

to the bridle and the reins

When men had found them useful

to a purpose more malign

They were made unwitting players

to some sinister design

From Pizarro at Cajamarca

and many more since then

The horse employed as weapon

to enslave all lesser men

What could have been for many

instead advantaged only few

Living things or flying machines

for the evil that men do

They shoot horses, don’t they?

Yes, usually in the head,

but would that they should all grow thumbs

and they shoot man instead

 

 

These days are wrong

The calendar progresses

as the sun grows long

There remains the sense

that these days are wrong

White and fuchsia blossoms

burst forth into light

The lawn grows apace

yet something’s not right

The sun has been sparing

cloud and rain more the rule

Invisible winter that reaches

like some dreaded ghoul

This grey pallor that creeps

between each ray of light

sucks the life from our waking

by some phantom fright

Using statistical models

these tyrants masquerade

as some kind of saviors

to support their charade

We can see through you

there is no mistake

the more that we give you

the more you will take

We don’t fear this virus

and this much is true

Only one menace we face

and clearly it’s you

 

Asylum

The clean white sands of distant beach

A coveted shoreline

bathed in optimism

The hope that anything could be better

Or the sterile blandness

that only institutional grade paint can capture

Antiseptic perfume masks

the urine soaked safety

of supervised narcotic therapy

Poisons more palatable to state sanction

No more white sands await

No stadium could contain your madness

Asylum like an ocean

and no water to drink

 

Put to sea

Graded on style points

vapors only form illusions

Hold no shape of their own

Rearrange the molecules

yet they still slip through your fingers

When all is hot gas

fill up your balloon

We’ll have a laugh when it bursts

You’ll be stripped bare

down to your pathetic denial

No more safe harbor

for your ship of fools

 

No sparrows

This pajama nation

fed on Slim Jims and fiction

Smart phones for weapons

they man digital foxholes

Style over substance

and strange advice

Phone calls with awkward silences

while instincts of institutional preservation

thunder mightily from the east

There is some subtle shading of difference

wide as the gulf

between realization and acceptance

Believing that no sparrow must fall