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

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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.



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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.


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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.


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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.


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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.



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Dreamers a little dream

They bring their children here to find salvation
Desperate souls from places
we’ve made into slave colonies
Where we tear down trees
so we can feed the cattle
That feeds us our McDonalds burgers
Or where they build dark factories
to make the sneakers we jog in
Or dig the raw materials
so we can have our I-Phones
Stitching shirts with logos
we wear while out at the cafes
With words like “peace” or “Love”
or “Not my president”
Meaningless words
we spew during our protests
Deliberately blind to the warlords and street gangs
That inspire these families
to drag their kids here,
Gangs that beat and exploit them
As much as we did at a distance,
Parents desperate to rain their kids in a place
Where there is less of this,
Unaware until too late that they bring the warlords
And street gangs with them,
And they in their misguided belief they do their children well
But dumping them on the door step on the evil people
Whose sneakers and i-pads, shirts and hamburgers
Created the living hell from which they flee
So their children might grow up to become the remote
Warlords like us,
wearing the same t-shirts, carrying the same i-pads
Eating the same hamburgers
that enslaved them in the first place,
Dreamers dreaming of a better life just like us


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Love song of Steven Colbert

I would love to love you, Steven Colbert
But nobody can love you
As much as you already love yourself,
That self aggrandizement
That exudes from you like sweat,
A stench so raunchy we need no hound dog
To find you lost in the woods,
Their howl not lush from your scent
But a desperation to escape from it,
You that desperate drama queen locked in a media castle
Standing in front of your magic mirror
Asking who is the fairest in the land
And getting vindictive when it says it isn’t you,
You clinging to your watcher rating charts
As you sell yourself as a new Moses
Ready to lead your flock of melting snowflakes
As deluded about reality as you are
Each believing like you they are the fairest
In the land, when they like you, are simply spoiled,
I would love to love you, Steven Colbert,
A media hog, brimming over with self-loathing,
A dirty little mean queen collecting corporate cash
For each twisted little thing that drips out of
Your pathetic little mouth,
Seeing your true self in a distorted mirror,
a perverted little man with a exaggerated ego
And thinking of course it must be someone else

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Better left unsaid

Some things should never get said,
The stirring heart beat
The thought of what is possible, 
Not allowed
This life where things collide
At the wrong moment
We needing a time machine
To go back or ahead
To make things right
Or turn out as they ought
Still unable to still
These thoughts 
That should never get said
Or dwelled upon
Too tempting 
Too much a violation of
All those rules of civilized life
We take for granted
Even in a society
That slowly crumbles
As ours does now
Ideas tick tocking inside our heads
To which we cling like life preservers
On this sinking ship
When they only make us sink
All the faster,
Bearing the burden of unfulfilled
Desires was have no right to wish for
And no sense to keep
Silent about.


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Super hero

Batman couldn’t drive as ruthlessly as she does,
An unrelenting rage against the unfair world,
Refusing to compromise an inch
As she weaves through a city filled
With idiots behind the wheels of beamers,
And other overrated ego-gratifying machines
In a cut throat race to get ahead.
She doesn’t let them get away with anything,
A personal rebellion in a world where
Being a rebel makes you a subject
For crucifixion,
And she, like Batman, puts on a mask
To protect her true identity,
A female Clark Kent that tolerates
The abuses of the daily time clock,
And the mad-hatter who inspires
Rage nobody dares express
Except on the expressway,
She gripping the steering wheel
As she weaves through these streets,
A true super hero
Teaching all these beamers
An appropriate lesson in manners.

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Check mate

You move, then I move,

Then it shifts between us,

Then a dull pain inside us

We do not resist,

We rattle internally

Like chess pieces

With our bodies as the board

A dizzy dispute

Neither of us expects to win,

Both of us embracing

The mood of it

As we strive,

The up and down of it,

The in and out,

The around of it,

The more we move

The more I world sways,

We are drunken sailors

On a self created sea

These storms roared

From out of us,

Making us crave a closeness

We cannot get close enough

To achieve,

This ritual of pain

That is not pain,

The struggle rumbling

Within us,

As our limbs entwine,

Struggling not to think about it

Only to feel it,

Not an act of love so much

As a quest for something

We can’t possibly achieve

You move, then I move,

Making the piece rattle

As I take your queen and you take mine,

The point not to check mate the other,

But to make it so neither of us

Can lose.

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The worst obsession

The more you touch it
The more it scalds
But you just can’t leave it alone
Wrapping your fingers around it
feeling its burn,
taking it into your mouth
and onto your tongue,
until it smolders down
deep inside you,
a volcanic reaction
that needs to explode
Love is not the only obsession
Just the worst
Stirring up nuclear temperatures
You can’t resist
Like a child
Attracted to the kettle on the stove
No matter how many times
Your mother warns you
Not to touch,
You always do,
Failing to learn the lesson
Of once burned
You’re never shy,
Gripping this thing in both hands,
Dipping it deep inside
So you can no longer tell
If it is burning or you are
Nor caring,
Unable to stop consuming it
Consuming yourself,
No matter what the ultimate
Outcome is.

Deserted Island

She’s not the woman you always dreamed
Of being stranded on a deserted island with
Or trapped in a frozen elevator between
The 12th and 13th floor,
Or floating in orbit in a capsule built for two,
Yet is the one you should be with,
All of her exposed only after you have
Rubbed off the tinge to find
The real treasure beneath,
Beautiful first and last, inside and out,
Yet with a rough edge that makes you work
To find out, leaving you just a little raw
From the experience, not enough to stop you,
Just to enough to know this isn’t a one night stand,
All or nothing and nothing just won’t do.
She knows who and what you are from the first glance
And so her eyes gleam with amusement
As you work to know anything about her at all,
She knowing you will never know it all
Or even enough, and will have to walk out
On a tight rope of trust to get her,
And even then you’ll always fear you might fall
Uncertain if she will catch you,
Praying every minute that she will.