“They Told Me Often”
They told me often, always boisterous, boasting loudly, nights
Would come when I would feel the season’s counterfeits rally round
Ten thousand thousand fresh laconic smiles, duly marinating in their sweet obscenities while chasing tails, and bound
For fiscal glory, yes! I knew they knew it could not last, nor might
Not, could not more than minutes in an icecube’s stand, this half hour, or that,…and yet…
They always raise their fists on high, and swear to God
despite their losses surely, yes, they’d do it all again and lay in flight
Their life’s breath’s coin conjoined where once their wit was hatched to stay
The course and never once betray or even reconsider whom or what they are with no regrets.
Their joy is in the print and watermarks and all that shredding….No! By God! They that were sincere are sweating, and all those shirts will never dry. Standards to the clan, they are,and even after desperate stares
Surround their own deductions, loopholes, distorted egos all aware
They scribble texts, graffitied mountain tailings, organs failing, seal their space:
“A hand! Extend a hand” they cry, “and deal the cards again for as we live
We die together… “Well, the hell you say! In the Fed we trust; the government forgives,
for goodness sake!”:…Mae West my friend, she’ll tell ya bluntly: “…goodness’s got nothin’ to do with it!”
Posted in Corruption, Greed, Lyric Poetry, Mae West, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Wall street
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Lyric Poetry, News Media, Procrastination, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw
“White Men Talking”
White men talking white man’s trash;
You know he’ll take you there in seconds;
It’s the image he explores. He reckons
Knowledge of the thing’s as good as cash
In titbits from the morning business news.
Deception’s deep throat foaming predilection at the profits
Raising mild praise while going long, shorting trusts in sophists’
Perspicuous bends and trends the which to hide vague reviews
In masking casualties in the fray―
Sans the wiser fools who hold the key
And know which racing sheets to play
And which are moot and preordained.
Those who win and those who lose are never meek
At market’s close—they’ll be trading places in a week—
The lines are endless to circuit courts and corner bank machines.
With bankruptcy everywhere as exorcised, an everyday event.
Leaders speak sincerely via Teleprompters as they circumvent
Their margins with the sometime error clearly noted in the weeks’
Receipts of stocks, dead and dying. Mounted, always counted, attacks
Defending anywhere but the living room; placated, always rated,
No one sated by the takeout news of nightly dreams, the dated
Proverbs dismissed at dinner while the guests relax,
Their laughter spinning gilded social checks and votes in tallies
More or less in balanced nuance with the streets and alleys
Of the former evening’s conversation with the O’Malley’s
And kind O’Donahue’s. Their feckless children riot in the basement
Wrestling, laughing, so unaware that such nocturnal loose
Tectonic plates as shift tonight will seal their fates in spent and spending lines
Throughout the later evening, condiments of yet another rubber of
bridge and beer nuts a less than real and nothing near sublime.
Fascism is nothing more nor less than the human dictation of reality.
…art by KRIS KUKSI
Posted in bankruptcy, Corruption, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Stock market
Tagged Bankruptcy, Business, Delusion, Economics, Economy, End Times, Feckless children, Lyric Poetry, News Media, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
Minor prophesies, you see, arrest attentions while the majors
Spin their auguries and send well-wishers to the drawing boards;
He who knows he knows cannot doubt the hoards
Of wisdoms summoning the priests and all wizened pagers
To alarm, the preöccupation of bed
And breakfast even on a holiday. They do not rest,
These prodigies of works in progress, filtered guests
And hosts of baseless hubris laced with lead
That lines the public coffers; petty online petrels elect
To withhold judgment, approval by proxy of produce in a downward spiral
To mask denial, pernicious lesions on tenuous surfaces of viscous viral
Social justification, cumbersome with resolution to deny all defects,
To stack the decks and grease the wheels of Vegas
or possibly occupy another park somewhere on the way to Wall Street.
The meek inherit nothing here; the air itself respeaks the fetid breath
of long-malignant greed, the Vulgate and solipsis of universal internal debt.
In a mass transit to succeed, to seed, to reconnoitre losses to the end,
Someone keeps watch at left, yet another the right; today the knife,
Tomorrow perspicuous incisions wreathed in sutures of strife,
The going price for impatience with what only God can apprehend.
Concuspience no matter by what name, post or missive
Finds traffic and intentions snatched by posses ranged in clouds
Like flies that all but promise folly well before the end of urgency. Sound
Advice is not the issue in a world adrift, submissive,
Spliced from virtue, in metamorphosis to vice, usury and programmed gratitude
Become the plough through ancient fields that will do what must be done.
The melody and rhythm in the closing bells are rung, the one
And only cry multiplied by predilection to kinetic irony calls itself rectitude
Of conduct. A prudent pruning of the prototype provides
The perfect recipe for what can be consumed with fingers and a side of fries.
Stereotypes abound as future founding fathers still arrive
From yet another tribe, the other shore, the still further side
Of bold imagination in the surging tides since 1844. Slide
The rule but inches to the right or left and strive
To understand the ratio or face the inevitable consequence:
Though we took the land from startled natives,
We now tout these varied lists (the case is dative)
In the fray lain wanting in the codex, lost in nuance
That not so long ago applied to Dublin, Roma, gay Paris,
And even Shanghai, Saigon, and more recent private empires–cheques to be
Post dated as the years fly by while those in Congress in a sea
Of interests debate just who’ll pick up the tab, for whom the shopping spree,
And who’ll be the referee.
Posted in Corruption, Fiscal cliff, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Politics, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Double Sonnet, Economics, Economy, End Times, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, News Media, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
“The Defendant Is a Child”
The defendant is a child grown thick and heavy
In the womb landing mere inches
From the starting gate. His guarantees, his clenched
Fist and a gnashing of teeth, ingrown levies’
Gains against the winds, hidden antecedents as we knew them,
Family damned as were the rule of generations.
Friendships, grave degrees inured to hesitation
Now become misbegotten global monsters, stem
Cells to a thing that spawns all former empires,
Confederations, states, and sovereignty, itself, expired,
Null and void, contumely ripped from ancient boils fired,
Assaulted, violated covenants rent thrice in two, his twin spires
Levelled to the ground, and he declares that bread is now unleavened.
Mothers gasp as he praises God for what took place on 9/11. Even an Alexander finds his borders within etherial folds endemic to any practicing god
But God. He has no need to practice, no emphatic caul to breach
With his own fingers and the limits of his teeth.
The Macedonian finds no outlines made by footsteps or the trace of toes
In sands he’s called his own (as well he might) because
He finds no greater force or urgency other than his own breath within this world
To thwart his purpose, no! nor greater banner to unfurl
To curb a multitude of sins, no blatant flaws
Within him to cauterise the blood of his own afterbirth because he stood
Before a mother and a father both circumspect within themselves
Gainsaying natural selection in the wake and weight of countless shelves
Of history, both wore laurels in a world no better than it should
Be sated upon earthly immortality. This Dhul-Qarnayn points to the sky,
At last and says, “It’s yours! By all the gods!” and dies. Minor prophesies of course arrest intentions while the majors
Send condolences from the playing field to the drawing boards.
Who doubts the hoards
Of wisdoms summoning all wizened pagers
To alarm and preëccupation at the water cooler, the watchman to his bed
While even leaders meet on holidays? They do not rest,
These Olympian prodigies amassed in pods and dressed in their egregious best
Within the clouds of baseless hubris as corrosives bleed the lead
That lines the public coffers and endless goblets. Petrels in a line dance elect
To withhold judgement while their instincts never flag in downward spirals
Of loopholes, pernicious soot that lags behind the countenance of viscous viral
Stars grown cumbersome in the spasm of sunrise, now redundant in the deck
That stacks the wheels of Vegas and the halls of Washington. The meek
Inherit all the earth while what they breathe is but a notch above the ideals of Gormenghast and wonders of the noxious gas of mass deceit.
Posted in Alexander the Great, Corruption, Gormenghast, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Macedonia, Poem, Poetry, Radical Islam, Sonnet, Sonnets, Vegas, Washington
Tagged Double Sonnet, End Times, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw