“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
Marilyn Monroe [1926-1962]
“If I’d observed all the rules, I’d never have got anywhere…”
Take away the shackles of faculties, the prodigal powers
Of youth, the viscosity of strangers
And friends, the leonine odds of birth with dangers
Lurking in the pride of family hours,
And beyond; remove the adulation of the ubiquitous twin towers
Touted through the Belt Way from Wall Street to the manger;
Displace, then, the landed genii, articles of faith in sycophants and trolls; anger’s
Legions, mantras of the deaf and dumb, the apostates of the flowers
Of all generations, the misgivings of those that wink at love that cannot last,
and set above all it all common traffic in camera, sessions in the night,
Rites that are never forgotten but should be,
The mythology of ends far out-weighs the infamy of means.
To forget to forget as Laius to his Œdipus, witnesses that cast
Lots in choruses eager to testify to shadows in the dawn’s early light.
Posted in Apostates, Happiness, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Manger, Marilyn Monroe [1926-1962], Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Sycophants, Trolls, Wall street
Tagged Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Marilyn Monroe [1926-1962], Mortality, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife, Tragic Flaw
“They Will Not Stop”
They will not stop, you know, until they cannot bleed.
Medical reports and residuals lead along with grocery lists at pharmacies,
An incessant rush to check the listings, read it; Pharisees
Of all descriptions grease their glistening needs, their silences as Oprah leads
The willing and the lambs to where they’ll find a finer grass,
Their pastures filled with bargains and abundance in the aisles. Omission smiles
On senators and preachers alike while the candidates cross the miles
Between the nearest hometown threat—one’s neighbour’s ass—
And gasoline that surely tops the current troy ounce of gold.
They’ll turn the page (they must of course) and trash
The smokers. Pump the gas and all that cash
Gets laid on ever-righteous Exxon barrels from oil rigs grown bold
In seas with calibrated bets and calibrated ease and no one is about to change.
If the goal is self-destruction, that, too, can be easily arranged.
They cannot listen nor can they speak but add to texts and stare
In disbelief and aptly vapid joy or base relief.
It keeps them glued to screens for clues in sound-bites of vicarious sleep
Gaining gravitas as they crowd the streets in hot pursuit of here and there.
Within their palm-grown cast of “Friends” and plenteous roe of virtual Network
Sites, seeds of virtual gardens, the literary fantasies of high-speed basic needs
Are gathering rams whose force has not abated. Nor have others failed to cede
What must come, eleventh in hours, aphorisms distilled to slogans. It begets
A certain sobriety while in the flush of wine they watch the tube,
The latest and exclusive live reports of signs of life in presaged strife,
Of storms on every coast, perhaps a virus in the circuit as the people vote—
Specifically on Wall Street and the Treasury, the spin of market’s quotes—
Before the rage of Ponzis and daily revelations of electoral strife
Amongst the self-anointed Mayans of the day recorded as a long pursuit,
Another longest march to what it means to scream and yet be mute.
Posted in Aphorisms, Electoral strife, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Market quotations, Markets, Mayans, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Self-destruction, Slogans, Sonnet, Sonnets, Wall street
Tagged Double Sonnet, Ecology, Economics, Economy, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Sonnets