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The guitar
Is a difficult instrument;
A seasoned guitarist can strum
And pluck
And pick,
Coaxing each nylon organ
Its metallic voice:
Resonant, tinny twang.

Yet,
When they open
Their bristly lips to sing
To moan
To drone,
The rasp that stumbles out
Spoils the diligent work
Of the stringent strings.

It is blasphemous,
Hearing such strained whining
Passed off as expertise
As vocal control
As musicality,
An emotionless, mindless wheeze
Ejaculating empty words of complaint.

The guitar
Is a difficult instrument;
Those who master its hollow frame
Its fretted neck
Its stinging spine,
Will find the throat, tongue, diaphragm
Instruments more difficult to master.

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How do you do? Don’t you think
the weather is fine, it could be better –
But yesterday was worse – By the
way, did you hear about Susan
and her husband? It was a long
time coming, yet it came
all the same and I believe
she could have avoided, it’s her
own damn fault, the way she acted…
I always say “think twice, ask thrice”
and people always ask me what it means –
Do you know what it means? It means…
You know I’ll tell you about it
later because I want to ask how is
your wife? I’m only asking since
I saw her the other day and said to myself
“You know she doesn’t look too well,”
so is she well? You know, when I don’t
feel well I find a good night’s sleep is
the best remedy – but how can one get
sleep when there’s so much to talk
about and things to do and people to –
See, I just don’t have enough time –
Speaking of which, I am meeting a
friend so I have to be going – it was good
talking to you!
Goodbye.

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I plan to throw a feast!
A marvelous, magnanimous feast!
Green beans, pie, and hams galore
Seasoned with spices and sauces and so much more –
Pile those dishes high off the floor!
Come one, come all,
Come short, come tall
To dine in my hall.

Didn’t you hear my call?
The rumbling warmth of my call?
Caviar, cabbage, and potpourri,
Every species of fish you could see in the sea
And every scrumptious morsel is absolutely free!
Come sober, come stoned,
Come paired, come lone,
To dine in my home

I must call off the feast.
My ambitious, delicious feast.
Every person I could possibly ask
Held up a visage, their protective masks,
Hurrying along towards some unforeseen task.
No one came, no one cared,
All this food – I just stared
As I waited to dine with my guests.

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There they go, the Russians –
Dancing
Racing
Squatting on their haunches
And clopping down the street!
With a swig of vodka,
They’re offa!
Wowza!
Butts skidding the sidewalk
While kicking up the heat –
I once asked a Russian Racer how he did it
And was told it was easy as raz and dva and tree –
Instead of explaining the steps and how he got there,
He laughed, then crouched down,
Then danced across the street!
The Russians, they like racing –
Though I know not why this way –
But day and night they like to play
By kicking to the beat!
I’ve raced with them since often
And now think I know why
They race so unconventionally:
Because they think their brand’s unique
Even when I’m in the line
Which, perhaps, makes me Russian.
So now I dance and stomp and steer
With folded arms and widened stance
And join this Russian romp!
Hoi! Hoi! Hoi!

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It happened then
I dug through
My dark basement
In the afternoon
An ancient gramophone
Caught me eye
And held it
Some vinyls lay
Abandoned in sheets
I placed one
Upon the gramophone
“Eye of the Tiger”
It screeched loudly
Disk was fine
I tried again
“September”
It got caught
Though the record
Was not scratched
The next played
A modern hit
“Rolling in the Deep”
The machine clawed
At the surface
The disk broke
My last attempt
“Brown-Eyed Girl”
The tuning swell
The control sublime
I listen contentedly
For hours there
But the gramophone
Seems to play
For itself alone
Remembering distant memories
And nothing else
Would it play.

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In a hallway, sitting crossed,
I find my thoughts a little lost
For in the rooms on either side
Galavants the peace denied:
On my left, a hormoned beat
Pursued by clumsy thumping feet –
Though there’s no tune here for the trance
Techno-pop whips out its dance,
Crippling beasts in heated crowd
As they pant for well-endowed
Rhythms bend them, forward thrust
Until their eardrums almost bust.
On my right, a sweet serenade
By soloist’s skilled promenade;
Cradling cello tenderly,
Coaxing moaning melody,
Jerking bow between tightened strings:
Soft then strong, that rumbling feeling
Until the instrument’s climax
And Cellist’s muscles tense, relax.
One side grinds my nerves for less,
The other pines my heart for more;
Stuck between, neither redress
Tainting once-silent reservoir.

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Better watch out, you Do-Gooders –
Hard-working men,
Loving women –
For the beast unleashed on town tonight
Is like one you’ve never seen before!

To heat the beat of aching heart –
We hit it hard,
And hard it hits,
This back and forth of rapturous pain –
Arousing, sweet passion it ignites!

Ah, the thrill!
Ah, the kill!
To smack and whack and rack and hack
The living world to Hell!

We’re out on a fabulous pummeling
In every town
In every home
To brandish bat and flatten each rat
That stands up for themselves!

We hold aloft our mighty knives
To gut the dog
To flay the dove
We munch and crunch their bloody bones
And swallow with grand gusto!

Oh, the rush…
Oh, the gush!
As heinous vein spurt sanest stain
To paint the brain anew.

The mighty we have made ourselves –
Explosion!
Revulsion
Of this pitiful pitiless broken world
That we rebuild today!

Our fire burns all to the ground
What man creates
What God creates –
For only when we’ve destroyed the world
Can it rise to reclaim our spoils!

See how grand?
Come, take a stand!
As monster sets ablaze to rape and raze
All you hold in hand!

Ha…What bliss!
To take a piss
And fan the flame to cheat the game
‘Til you all do the same.

Oh, what a glorious night…
Blow away all in sight!
For who can doubt the hateful true?
If mass agrees, the few should, too;
Those who rebel, their lives shall rue
For telling us what to do!

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What’s in a kiss?
Nothing but this:
A smacking of lips
At first guarding’s slip,
Heat of the gut,
Clench tight butt,
Tongues intertwined,
Minds all one kind –
For that moment only
You’ll never feel lonely;
But, once it has passed,
Farewell, thou sweet ass.

Your partner in kiss
Only wanted short bliss
In corporeal touch,
But nothing so much
As attractions suppose –
The comfort she chose
Only lies in that second
Though you had reckoned
Stronger affections
When her corrections
Point out that a kiss
Is seldom remiss
Since it did all it could
And made you feel good.

But afterwards, friend,
You wonder your end
Was wrong in the hope
To scale her love’s slope?
A faraway goal,
A kiss the light toll,
To reach her devotion –
But flighty emotion
Soars over your plain
Since it’s just a pain
To walk and observe
When she can conserve
By plucking up fruit
And leaving you mute
As she returns to her airs
And shits on your prayers –
Thus is the class
Of that flighty ass.

I mourn a missed chance,
So stay firm in the stance
That they just want pleasure
Without further measure
And you’ll save wasted time
By remaining in prime
So those emotions stay firm
‘Til they grow past this term…
But even my might
Complains of this plight:
“Oh, how I wish
For just one more kiss!”

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I have oft driven along the road
Late at night, in thunderstorm,
And met with my reflection.

Listening to nostalgic tunes
On the radio, a time gone by,
I ponder on life lost in the rain.

Lightning strikes a pattern
Through dark skies, clanging rain,
Blessing lucidity upon the road to come.

Across the road I glide along,
Beneath overpass, betwixt neighborhood,
As I map out the past.

Raindrops pound into the windshield,
Wipers whipping, back and forth,
To wash away conviction.

I treasure the road in the rain
Because it is open, void of vehicles,
As though the rest fear clarity.

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Faith, Hope, and Charity
with their bountiful bosoms,
Nursing the men of the fields
the Deer of the forest –
that four-legged king –
green grass rolls down their backs
like verdant waterfalls
until it gathers in pools
in the valley below.
So did a tribe, proud people,
rely on their gentility
Until the bleak Midwinter
when guest turned on host
in his own home
and the land did the same
as one woman fled the carnage
one brave, solitary, foolish woman
because she considered the mountains –
their names, their summer cheer –
and expected faith, hope, and charity
but, as she disappeared
into the blizzard and their frozen breasts,
Charity was impossible
Hope was ignorant
Faith was compassionate
but could do nothing
only stay on the woman’s blue lips
as the snow carried her up in a current
and rolled her under its waves
to settle in the valley bed.
And, when the spring came,
the sun answered her prayers
as she thawed in its warm nourishment –
never to fear bloodshed again.

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