Anti Antifa

We know flags mean much to you,
for you wave them in our face,
but tear and burn our own, you do,
and somehow, you avoid disgrace.

Codified is your doctrine,
despite others’ naive claims.
Beliefs defined as our opposition
is how you play this deadly game.

Unified are your resources,
for, where there’s smoke, there’s mirrors;
revealed are your donors and sources
whom fuel your reign of terror.

You preach “No KKK, No Fascist USA”,
but bruise those who nurse mild qualms.
You screech Marx and sing May Day
but beat those who dare cite the Psalms.

Your curses on the boys in green —
second to those on the boys in blue,
even as the latter is seen,
while you protest, protecting you.

But, truly, I say with heavy heart and sadness,
you shall rue the day when you get what you want:
two side orders of lead and madness
as patience wanes and restraint turns gaunt.
For whom the gods wish to destroy, they impassion, and make mad,
and rabid raiders at the gates, are your financiers and comrades;
Read the writing on the walls of the country, villages, and towns —
Heed this warning while you can: Stand down, stand down, stand down!

Moments dropped

I saw a statue weeping
at the ruins of Penn Plaza.

He fell to his knees.
Cursed fate for his demise.
Evaporated into a
minimalist mist.

———

Form is an eternity’s final moment,
the hand on the doorknob,
weak legs standing
at the ledge

and

we are busy destroying beauty,
building filth,
throwing our sons to the dogs.
We lament the tiny letters,
we despair the harsh sentence,
but the gentle Word
is dust.

———

I walked through the sorry vapor,
and, somehow —

spiegel im spiegel

Our crosses are broken,
Our chops are well busted,
but the Lord strikes the keys
and plays a melody.

My head thinks its funny
to play pranks on my heart,
which loses its temper
and throws a glass on the floor
which shatters into a thousand regrets,
but the Lord strikes the keys
and plays a melody.

Our nations are dens of knaves.
To the dogs, our fathers, they gave.
We are being replaced.
The arches bear weight no more,
but the Lord strikes the keys,
and plays a melody.

Atlas retires with a broken back.
Disc herniation at L5-S1.
Spinal Osteoarthritis.
A knot at the nape of his neck,
a crick in his jaw,
but the Lord strikes the keys,
and plays a melody.

My grandmother’s birthday was today.
For every year gained,
five pounds are lost.
Not enough strength to open
the peanut butter jar,
but the Lord strikes the keys
and plays a melody.

The West crumbles.
I fight writer’s block.
Imposters of each other.
But if you listen,
you clearly hear

the Lord striking the keys,
and playing a melody.

Mootopia

Eat, drink from the Rivers of Cream.
Contention expressed:
excess body mass index. Laziness?
No — retention, say the biologists.
Base forms stomping a primitive path,
watchmen forbidden from expressing their wrath.
From the codices of life, hidden, is inequality,
and Christian restriction is preached in the face of savagery.
“Are we the Abyss?”, for they have become it,
coloring their eyes, trading wool for silk,
as they curse from the cow but drink the milk.