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The Sun is high
The Son is nigh –
Easter Sunday

The world in dew
Cleaned green anew
Heralded by more than few
In grateful retribution.

The hawk knows
The shark knows
The sheep know
The leech knows
Today more than any other.

At 9, the church is full
At 11, all but full
The message is joyful
The pastor is lulled
But coffee is free, thank God
To keep us woke in the Garden.

The songs raise high
Bright jubilant sky
And, might as one tries,
It won’t darken from lies
Since God is the reason
For our very existence
And Jesus the reason for living it out.

We leave God’s house
I thank the greeters
“He is Risen!”
“He is Risen, indeed.
Have a wonderful Easter.”
“I’ll try, Lord knows I’ll try.”
“All right, then. Have a Hell of a day!”
I have no more to say.

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Say, ain’t you pleased
And a little teased
To witness a night so clear
As we head with this crowd cheerfully
And ring in the New Year?

It’s a fancy reason
So that every season
Can take a brand new spinner;
When every sin can start again
Everyone’s a winner!

Do you see the shrine,
Its idols fine
With a fresh new coat of lacquer?
Let’s hurry on up to the front –
Don’t be a slacker!

Just twenty yen
Will fly right in
And everyone will be gay-o!
But wash your hands and rinse your mouth
Lest your luck go wacko!

Tie your prayer
On that branch there
For your loved ones, dear-o,
Since that is how the New Year comes
In dear ole Tokyo!

So, clap your hands –
The bow demands
Good fortune for the year new!
And now let’s go get blinding drunk
In order to prepare you!

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Cumberground
You helpless dalcop
Nothing but a flapdoodle
Quite the pathetic raggabrash
Less than a loiter-sacked lubberwort
Wimpy, worthless wandought
Moronic whiffle-whaffle
You filthy bedswerver
A simple boob.

The man in the mirror calls me names,
His list of insults long –
I therefore daily set my aims
In an attempt to prove him wrong.

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let’s all play
the game of LIFE!
The classic Hasbro
game of LIFE!
BUT with rules updated
for our age
since LIFE has since significantly changed

RULE 1
the cars are now colored
white yellow black brown –
leaving everyone out
weighs everything down! –
and anyone can choose
college or not,
but the white cars must wait
five turns at the start

RULE 2
Your career is determined
By the cards that you pull
with thousands of choices –
be it tech, fed, or school –
but, the higher your gross,
the more you must pay
since less-fortunate earners
need it to brighten their day.

RULE 3
when wedding your mate,
be it man, dog, or lamp,
remember that monogamy
makes marriage damp –
it’s better to sleep around
then go once-and-done;
though it’s worth less in the end
you’ll have way more fast fun.

RULE 4
your degree is worth shit
so why buy a house?
you’ll never quite settle
for kids or a spouse –
invest in a camper
since you love the road
and aeroplane tickets
to lighten life’s load!

RULE 5
when you retire
you’ll haven’t a dime
not spent on drugs
or wastes of your time –
the dirt is your home
and the pitch-black expanse
your one claim in LIFE
and your long-hoped advance.

let’s all play
the game of LIFE!
the new, progressive
game of LIFE!
it may not sound fun,
and you may have no chance,
but come! join the dance,
and we’ll make you feel good
being part of our group
where you can quit at your call
since LIFE’s just one pointless cruel game
after all.

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I saw a sign when I was walking:
“Free Hugs for Sale”
With an arrow pointing southward
Down a sunlit alleyway
With beams bouncing in puddles
And flowers grown in cracks
Under splintered windows glinting –
A serene scene like a dream
Where free hugs were being sold.
But I saw no hugger down that path
Only embrace in solid wall,
Which made me wonder how free hugs
Could possibly be sold for less.
I’m sad to disappoint that poor soul
Who is longing for a hug
And turn to carry on my path
Since I cannot discern
Whether hugs were certain down that way
Or a painful lesson to learn.

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Why exactly do I feel
Connection with a time that is not my own?
Is it possible in this 60’s-esque diner
Of rockabillies and pompadours
That I know what I missed?
That this little Watson’s Pharmacy,
Stocked to the ceiling with phials
Replaced by new drugs served at the bar,
Makes me feel nostalgic for something
Of a shapeless dream?
These wood and red-brick ceilings –
A clever disguise of normalcy.
Tonics carefully labeled

But not at all accurate –
‘Long bleached walls, hanging orb lights,
Checkered floors, a candy bar;
Nothing like this
Could possibly have existed in the 60’s
Surely?
Yet, as I finish my burger
And await my apple pie
All alone on this uncomfortable stool,
I cannot help but not care for reservations
Since this spot is all my own, and I can think what ever I like of it.
If it was true to form, a real 60’s bar –
Welp, I might not return,
So better an ideal than a copy.

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You might find me a trifle weird
When I laugh into your face
After you trip over your beard
And crash into the fireplace.

You might think it rather odd
For me to give a cheer
When you were last caught driving
After one too many beers.

You might see me as pretty strange
If I do the opposite of frown
Once your dog has died from mange
And your tears plop freely down.

I hope you’ll please forgive me
When you stub your toe on the ottoman
For your swearing brings me subtle glee
And your crying turns me on.

I’m just a simple, humble sadist
Who finds pleasure in your pain –
I cannot help that which latest
Brings me easy joy to gain.

If it bothers you so terribly,
I advise you cheer up now
For at least it’s you who makes me happy
And not your force upon my brow.

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I have friends in the strangest of places
With the frightfullest fleshiest faces,
But none quite as strange
With a hint of derange
As Richard J. William, my friend estranged. 

Perched in a hidden thick crooked spire
Sprouting red bushes, strumming a lyre,
He keeps one eye peeled
For a woman to steal
Affection on high, a pyre of desire.

When he spots a young lady of appeal,
Strained efforts made, commanding him heel,
Are all spent in naught
On his socialite lot
As he does what he wants, not what he ought.

With the sprightliest sproing in his stache,
Muscles poised and primed for the dash,
That suave fellow sings
A tune promised to bring
Passion and pleasure and rash.

When rough Fun meets morning’s wet hem,
Promises curtail and hightail it with him;
So all are distraught
From the short-termed plots
Of that trampish Richard J. William.

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Been a long night come,
and several trains,
to bring me right back home again.
And in the frigid fallen air
I see two men
a-lying there –
both blend in with darkest night,
the left stands up
the one on right
cannot.
A wheelchair is his curbside throne
where he blurts a chilly groan
protesting Lefty’s aims for home
wherever that may be.
Their speech is English,
yet is not
as if two jawbreakers rolled
and lolled about precariously
in hungry cheeks –
tongues the only thing to chew
on this and many bitter nights.

Reloading my Oyster card,
I was approached
by the rolling man
and I knew what he wanted
though I failed to hear
through those exaggerated lips.
Pity cloaked,
tobogganed head,
olive coat, oiled and greased,
and -most of all-
that mobile shrine of suffering.
I gave him twenty pounds,
was blessed,
and hurried on my way.

But as I left Barnes Station
I forgot:
Did I tap my Oyster card a second time?
I returned with haste
in time
to see the crippled homeless man
scaling the stairs
wheelchair under his arm.
He passed me,
his head low,
as if I would forget the pathetic man
I gifted twenty pounds to.

It was then that I realized:
I’d been bambeggared.

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‘Twas a hot summer day under the hot summer sun
As I wandered about, my vision beginning to fade.
I was perspiring, and at the moment desiring
An ice-cold can of crisp lemonade.

I found not what I sought, but yet
What I did find, sitting at a desk on the pavement,
A queer, slick can, the bottle all tanned,
So I ceased my search under that purple tent.

“Small little can,” pleaded I,
“Pray tell what your name might be?”
“Ignorant man,” scoffed the can,
“I am Root Beer, as you can clearly see!”
“Hm, of you I have not heard,”
I replied, blaming the heat for such a surprise.
“Alas, is that so? Then I must tell you more,”
Answered the drink, its voice flitting high.

“Answer me this; of what do you consist?”
At the moment, I was thinking aloud.
“Nutmeg and sarsaparilla, wintergreen and vanilla,
And of my variety of roots and more I am proud”

“Fair enough, but even so,
Were you originally meant for pleasure?”
“No, I was originally a tonic created by an American colonist,
Whose ingredients, exempting sassafras, were strong and sure.”

“Sassafras? Doesn’t sassafras include
A certain substance called safrole that causes immense pain?”
“You are correct; consuming safrole results in cancer, so today
I am created with sassafras extract in which safrole is not contained.”

“Good, very good; that is completely fine.
But, are you brimming with fizz? Don’t lie!”
“Quite so, for, at my birth, I was
Mercilessly pumped with carbon dioxide.”

“Now one last question, and then I’ll stop;
Am I one of the naive few who hasn’t heard of you?”
“Yes, and I’m exceedingly shocked that you haven’t.
For many companies have been founded for me alone to be brewed!”

“Well, I rest my case; I’ll give you a sip.”
I threw my head back and chugged the liquid down.
“Say! You’re not half bad! What a nice, refreshing feel!
And your taste, oh, your taste does astound!”
“That’s actually just me, I confess,”
Exclaimed the sugary drink with a sigh,
“Every Root Beer has a different flavor
Because our contents get tampered with from time to time.”

Not heeding these words at all,
As I was fully satisfied and left the drink seller their pay,
I tossed the can, much to its protest, in the trash,
And continued along my merry way.

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