Monday, October 9, 2017

Christopher Columbus



He always came down the same hill on the same street from that blue color enclave overlooking the toughest parts Paterson, down through the Christopher Columbus projects where my mother dragged me for a time and the street gangs couldn’t get over the fact that a white boy could be poor and live in the projects, too, my friend – the son of a postal worker who had hoped his son would become a postal worker, too – making his way through the broken back of Paterson where the projects met the ruins of the old silk mill workers, na├»ve to a fault, believing because his father started out poor that he might be immune to those evil things that happen when white faces like his wander in places like this, the same street gang waiting half way down the hill for him to appear, his pale face, his funny looking World War I campaign hat, his bellbottom jeans, and the wads of singles he had stuffed in his front pocket so he could make a payment on the guitar he had put on layaway at the music store near Broadway and Main, desperate to own something he could hold in his hand and create art with his voice, and each time he came to pay, they waited, acting as the intermediary collection agency, taking even the loose change he kept in his other pocket for the bus ride home with his receipt, making the same trek until he came to realize he would need to take the bus both ways if he ever expected to avoid the post office and pursue a career in art, four tall towers of the projects looming over even that route, he protected by the thin glass of the bus, shattered in places from kids throwing rocks as the bus passed, these projects all named after questionable men with pale faces, once havens of hope, new shinny kitchens and snug bedrooms offered to the poorest of poor, turning into vertical slums even  old Paterson’s Italian thugs could not have survived – with Christopher Columbus projects the worst in the city, where poor preyed on poor as the police kept guard on the boundaries, keeping everything contained like a virus, with only a few fools like my friend failing to recognize the warning signs until too late, a reckless Columbus searching for new horizons that won’t trap in him a life time job in the post office the way his father was trapped, he willing to risk having his money stolen in a dream he was buying on the installment plan.

Monday, September 25, 2017

Taking a knee



Everybody’s taking a knee these days
During the National Anthem at sports games
A new fad similar to the Ice Bucket Challenge
Of a few years ago, when people dumped
Buckets of ice over their own heads 
For a good cause, or like streaking was
In the 1970s with naked people running 
Through public spaces for some ungodly reason,
Taking a knee says you’re somebody important
Someone with a conscience,
Someone who might otherwise burn a flag
If they could find a lighter in these days
When cigarette smoking is a mortal sin,
This being the latest scheme in a desperate
Anti-administration con game
From sports figures who have milked
The system, while brothers and sisters
Still starve in the ghetto,
A symbolic gesture without any dollars
To back it up in the age of free agency,
Defended by lunatics who hate god
And country after losing their vote
Who a few years ago were first to attack
A spokes figure who took a knee
To thank god for all he had and all he
Would do, win or lose,
Anti-God lunatics howling at the moon
Over this kneeling
When screaming now about the right
For this new breed of sports idiocy
As free speech,
The self righteous railing against
Anything they disagree with,
And so as to silence god or Nazis
While desperate to defend
Free speech they agree with,
Hypocritical lunatics
Blurring the lines between right and wrong,
Shaping anything they disagree with as
The fountain of all evil,
But do whatever it takes to abuse
Those who disagree with them,
He, we, all kneeling 
Pretending what we say when we kneel
That their speech is any less hateful
Than the speech they blame us for

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Judas



They come after Comey
Like a gander of geese,
Squawking about how
He ain’t one of them
Determined to drag down
A government
They did not vote to elect,
Attacking an FBI director
Who should be a hero
To them, but isn’t,
These geese taking to heart
The unstable ramblings
Of a pathetic witch
Who blames everybody
For denying her at place
As the first woman president,
Over educated ignoramuses
Attacking anyone and everyone
For any reason,
Who do know not friend from foe,
Hating Comey the way
The British hated Benedict Arnold,
Knowing that once a Judas
Always a Judas,
Who betrayed them once,
And then their enemy,
A snake in the grass
Who might bite them as well
As they president
They have come to hate,
Confused geese who have
Stopped knowing who 
Their friends are
Because like Comey, 
They don’t have any.


The revenge of the dweebs



They want to make football
So safe people can play it tutus
The perfect revenge of dweebs and geeks
And other uncool kids from high school
Who spent their lives pushing projectors
Down high school halls
While jocks pulled down their pants
The kids who always hid out
In the AV room till their skin got so white
They looked like vampires, 
Growing up into pathetic people
Like Jobs or Zuckerman
In a desperate attempt to get even
For all the slights they suffered as kids,
Turning the world’s population
Into zombies 
All too consumed by staring
Into tiny screens
To actually live in the real world,
High profile geeks and egg heads
Plotting the end of the culture of jocks
By making it as safe and remote
As the AV room that bred the geeks
Like mold,
Creating a world not to make football safe
But them safe from football.

Friday, September 22, 2017

The Barack and Hillary show



Hillary and Barack
Need to put on more lipstick and eye gloss
And keep their speech making to Nevada
where prostitution is is legal,
and pigs can dress up like ordinary people
while selling their souls to Satan
for hundreds of thousands of dollars a pop.
Political whores are nothing new.
But these two take it all to a new level
High priced hookers
Who aren’t worth the experience
Since they both already screwed us, 
And now expect us to pay after the fact,
Making us suffer through speeches
Of how great one was in the White House
And other great the other might have been,
When we all know both were
And would be a national disaster
Making any hurricane look tame
How many times do we need to hear
How Hillary got caught with her fingers
In the cookie jar
And is looking to blame anybody
Everybody else for being uncovered,
Printing her national embarrassment
In a pathetic diatribe 
About how the Russians robbed her
Bernie robbed her,
The FBI robbed her
When we all know she robbed herself,
Her crimes exasperated by clowns like Colbert
Booking her act on late night TV
At least, if these two kept to Las Vegas
We could better recognize
What a side show they are,
And how they continue their con job
And get paid big bucks for it,
And we would know how much they would
Screw us in the future 
If either of them ever got the chance
Again.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Jimmy Kimmel: snake oil salesman



You would think that funny men
Who are not funny
Would have better things to do
Than pick the pockets of working people
Selling snake oil to laborers they secretly hate
The not so funny sons and daughters
Of working class who put on airs
Desperate to shape themselves
Into some sort of pseudo intellectuals
So they don’t have to admit
Where they came from
Ashamed of the grease stains
On their father’s coveralls
And the dirt under their father’s nails,
Funny men who stopped being funny
When they started to hobnob
With Nouveau riche like themselves
A private Liberal social club
To which working people are not invited
Selling snake oil so that their rich doctor
Friends can continue to drive Mercedes
And their insurance executives can
Continue to drink the blood of those
Of us who actually have to pay the bills,
Snobbish would be funny men
Thinking their shit doesn’t stink,
Oozing morality they can never possibly
Live up to.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

What now, Nancy Pelosi?



What will you do, Nancy Pelosi,
When your own kind turn on you,
Like the pack of wolves they are,
Bearing their fangs at you
Because you dare to do
Anything they do not like,
This spoiled breed of beat
We all created back in Kindergarten
When we gave them all awards
Because we did not wish for them to feel bad
When they did not have the right stuff
To complete and always lost,
They are still losers and we coddle them,
As if they are stiff infants
When they are really wolves
Dressed in infants’ clothing,
Ready to tear your throat out
When they don’t get what they want
Or what they think they deserve
We can’t blame their parents
For loving them to much
As to make them into the spoiled brats
They have become,
We must blame ourselves
For letting it get out of hand,
For not putting our foot down
When we still could,
Before the wolf cubs grew fangs
And a taste for blood
Even your blood, Nancy Pelosi,
Or anyone else’s
That gets in their way.