You Should Shut Up Now

I really think (and this is my most humble opinion)
that you’re a lying sack of shit, and that your presumed
prescience that you think hovers above your
lowly, uneducated friends is nothing but posturing
and overcompensation for your insurmountable dim wit.
And if you think that I’m gonna sit here and take this
lying down, that I’ll roll over so you can get some kind
of lackluster crown from all those unimaginative
sheeple you think you actually lead around,
you aren’t steeped in logic and rationality.
You may be a one man cult of personality, but
your opinions are just word salad,
heavy on the garnish, low on nutrition,
just like your ego, bolstered by your so called
intuition. You’re just an unenlightened
regular old human being. So cut the crap
and start keying in to all the people
in all the towns and cities and places you’ve been.
Because this is life, not just some family sitcom
where everything’s better at the end.


Somewhere in the Fantasy Section

Take off my cellophane wrapping,
because to you I’ll be an open book,
wrap your hands around my hard
cover and tell the horn-rimmed
glasses to screw herself
as she scans my barcode.
Her lasar-red eyes can’t
separate you from me.
I’ll let you check me out indefinitely.


At night, I gaze at people hunting houses on the
savanna boardwalk townhouse plains.
Sometimes sit with my friend and watch those
fossil fuel burning piston pushers,
twangy accents and headlight stickers,
as the night lights flicker on.
Watch Paula slip into a diabetic coma
in time to see the X get factored out
of the equation set before the big
bang theory starts.
But by then it’s just weight loss
and how you too can find the
alcoholism addiction cure.
Free book, CD, and fishing lure.
But I’m already caught by the ASPCA
and late night infomercial spree.
Ready to get 30 day abs and chop
mountains of perfectly sliced and diced
vegetables for Foreman grills and juicers
I don’t need, and bedazzle my pant legs
because I’m bored and want to see something
that shines in my life other than the
late night flicker of a TV screen.

The Heartwood

The devil’s in the details,
the phloem and xylem veins,
that stretch like vines toward’s
the inner sanctum of the steeple.
Blackened and riddled is the heartwood,
as if the parishioners had shot it up,
2nd amendment remedy style
with small handguns and a few grenades,
lake of fire licking at their upturned heels,
flailing and dumb struck at their abject guilt.
It looks fine, if you don’t pick at it.
Really, who would want to?
It’s fine on the outside.
All whitewashed. Born again and free.
Blood of the lamb and all that…
Amazing grace and sweet sounds.
But… carpenter aside…
the devil’s in the details.


The car lot on 7th is full again,
all tough leather and chrome and whitewall,
sports model firebrand deluxe model engine stalled.
I told Mallary I’d call. But I was caught up.
There was a catfight and bar brawl.
7th avenue clientele. All hush hush after nightfall.
It’s another cityscape’s white bright heroin night.
Pretty colors flash devilish dresses for the scummy lowlife,
brothels, speakeasies, and turntables,
small screams, seedy dives, back ally schemers.
It’s hot, and as my car stops, I see a gun flash
trailing my headlights. Two pops, broken windows. All stop.
Wet neck with hot skin. Porch light flickers off and on again.
Vision blurs. Pale yellow bars, black earth, white hot stars.
Bleeding out on 7th Street. Three miles from paradise.
Cop lights shine, whispering safety but I fall asleep.

A Parody of Recent Events

“What light through yonder window breaks?”
‘Tis the Middle East, with Freedom’s Son,
born of riot, claw, and tongue.

And what of that, The Fourth Estate?

A raging, vicious caliphate!

The people’s rising temper, sate!
The ruler’s hold a frail affair,
with Freedom’s call enough to bear.

Oh! Zuckerburg Oh! Twitter Feed
King’s fingertips, the magic freed.

Let loose the dogs of Hosni’s lair,
the people gathered at the square
shall lend the East their voices there.

What tragety, what hearts doth break
to find their ruler’s grip abate
and in its stead a tighter clasp,
with spikes and terrors in its path.
Cry out, Oh! World, cry at long last!
Let rivers flow toward huddled mass
and feed the fields with water red
from wound to wound your people bled.

See Engle LIVE from parapet!

And now, dear friends, a commercial break.
Note to self: Stock in OPEC.

Lights Off

Let the lampposts light the freeway tonight.
Smiling v-shape guiders. Bird stoops. Night blinders.
Let the roadway grooves shock driver’s loose,
bound eastward with their soul to lose.
Keep us coloring between them.
Pale yellow bars. Black rock. White stars.

It’s night on the freeway. 20/20.
No cars in sight.

Lights off.
Let the lampposts light the freeway tonight.