Category: poem

Mom is dead
and my brother
inherited her dog
old herself now
at eighteen.

Hips crippled up
thick cataracts in her eyes
nearly deaf
coat that was once
richly reddish-brown enough
to inspire the name
Cinnamon
now almost entirely white.

Everybody looks at her and thinks
“It won’t be long now.”

And at Cindy’s end
Is another part of Mom gone
Another link to the old days broken
Because Cindy remembers her
And we have loving her in common.

But Cindy’s still here.
Still with us
Still gets the zoomies
(Although 18-year-old
Chihuahua zoomies are
A very different affair from
Puppy zoomies)
Still eats her kibble
With dignified spice girl entheusiasm.

And all I want
Is to keep her with us
And keep her comfortable
And wanting to be with us
until she can’t anymore.

And saying goodbye to her
Becomes another way
To say goodbye
To Mom.

Americans Are Pissed

Don’t piss it all away…

I heard a guy with an English accent
Use the word “pissed” in the American sense.
No one else noticed.

He was talking to Americans
And Americans certainly know
What it means to be pissed.

A prominent example of an American being pissed. Note the red hat.

We are pissed. We all are.
So much of the time
And for every imaginable reason.

Over there on the other side
Of the big drink,”pissed” means “drunk.”
Being pissed is something you do to yourself.

But what are Americans drinking
That makes us so angry?
I answer that question all the time.

We swim in righteous dudgeon.
We ride a high horse as we wade through the river.
We vote our values.

Apparently, one of those values is revenge.
Another is the fear of being wrong.
But the greatest value is property.

You can own all the things
If you buy them in installments.
The things you own also own you.

Don’t piss it all away, some say.
If piss has no value,
Does that mean it’s free?

Like life in the USA is free?
Or bought with borrowed money?
Or rented, like beer and coffee?

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The Drums

I hear the sound
And it’s coming this way
It’s not coming for you.
Yet.

They got drums in their chests
They got big sticks
Fuck that they got bullets
And their righteous fascist rage.

And you were just watching
You were just trying to help.
You weren’t mad.

And they’re
Not coming
For you
Yet.

But if you get in their way –
Impeding, as they say –
They won’t mind
Taking you out

As an example.
With their big boy sticks
And their little hands
I mean big dicks.

And they’re shriveled up with fear
And they see it as only fair
That you should be afraid, too
And then they won’t be so afraid.

To shoot you
To round you up
And take you to
The Big Lock Up

When they start coming for you.
Which they’re not doing yet
So stay out of their way
And live another day

or two.

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