Addiction offers so many
Glamorous ways to die.
It’s total wonder to me
Why everyone doesn’t try.
You can get almost all of the
Diseases known to man.
No other kind of dissolution
Gives what addiction can.

There’s diabetes, and then gout
And pancreatitis too.
All these devastating kinds
Of hell are there for you.
You lose your toes and hands
And maybe you go blind
Or maybe your very guts
Begin to commit inner crimes.

You lose all morality
And rob those you love.
You hold the drug you take
About fifty miles above
Any care or real concern
For those you may destroy.
You become a liar and a thief
Just a typical growing boy.

Nobody trusts, they run away
And leave you to suffer alone.
Life then turns itself into
Your personal Twilight Zone.
Suddenly your companions are
Just as ******* as you.
You are the lowlife you ridiculed
Back a just year or two.

So go right on calling it
That drinking game you do;
Partying and social stuff
Until you know you are through.
That may not be until they throw
The dirt over your casket.
For now, have fun on your trip
To hell in a hand basket.

So many roads I have walked
That I sometimes forget the path.
I’ve been around for decades now.
I’m rather old, so do the math.
So many names and so many faces
I knew and loved have come and gone.
I learned long ago, to let them go
To cherish our time and then move on.

Yesterday’s in-jokes like hairdos
Have changed and been forgotten.
I am not the same kid today I was
Back when my hair looked like cotton.
I don’t run as fast as I once did;
I am not much into random chasing.
Much of the drive I had long ago
Is ever so slowly self-erasing.

I do recall leaping off my couch
To take the day by the throat.
These days, I rise rather noisily
Sounding like an aging old goat.
I have to carefully watch my diet
Because things no longer function
The way they used to back then,
At a former, youthful junction.

But oh the memories I do recall
Of lovely people and adventures.
Back when I was free of arthritis
And unplagued by any dentures.
I still try to be that person now,
But I am dancing much more seldom.
Instead of being on my roller skates
I am on eBay trying to sell them.

Donald, what is wrong with you?
You’re really acting strange.
It’s like your mind has measles
Or bubonic plague or mange.
Something sick is going on
Down deep inside your mind.
It seems to make you stupid
As well as deaf to facts and blind.

Maybe sometime decades back
You might have made some sense
But we have watched a long time now
And it hasn’t happened since.
You don’t seem to be able to
Tell the facts from the lies.
You are getting stranger daily
We can see it in your eyes.

You always were a reprobate
A fact you couldn’t really hide.
Your responses were so obvious
We saw the truth you kept inside.
You looked down on women,
Looked at them as just toys.
You carefully referred to gays
As naughty twisted boys.

You never had much use for blacks
Except for menial kinds of labor.
You certainly didn’t want any of them
To end up as your neighbor.
And now you want control of
The Presidential nuclear codes.
Do you want to sell them off
To buy stuff to put up your nose?

No, Donald, you are sick as hell
And we’ll be glad when you are gone.
The rest of us have had enough
And think you should move on.
Maybe you can get a job
Playing high stakes liar’s poker.
That might fit a guy like you:
A dangerous and unfunny joker.

He was a sad sort of man
And we let him exist
On the corner of our consciousness.
ignoring all his nastiness
And jokes calling women broads
And how he wanted to ******
And pinch them and stare
At them when they were naked.
We giggled at his ugliness
And displays of tacky wealth
And how he has so little
Of anything called class.

We called him an ***
And wrote him off in the seventies
As a silly arriviste fool
Who played around in school
And dodged the draft.
He was a joke fore and aft
But we underestimated
The danger of a snake
Slithering in the silence.
It can bite us just because
We were not looking at it.
And it is no help to ignore it.
No matter the excuses we make.
It is still a slithering snake.

We forgot to take into account
That some people like snakes
And take them as pets
Despite all the epithets
Of their neighbors and family.
They do so happily
Because there is something wrong
With people who handle snakes
And they usually shout about Jesus
Which I am sure he would hate.
But no problem, it seems of late
To them, Jesus was a bigot, a hater.
They must have read later
Some Bible we never saw
With a different set of laws
And advice. Really not nice.

I remember so much
But how much of it was true.
I remember being much bigger
And the house I lived in was too.
I remember how deep the voices
Of the adults living around me.
I recall them as basso profundo,
Not high, nasal and twangy.

I remember people said things
Like “God bless her” a whole lot
But these days, they still say it
But do they mean it, I think not.
I remember singing at church
“Jesus loves the little children.”
They never once had me sing
“But not if they are little heathens!”

I remember while in school
“All men are created equal”.
They should have told me instead,
“Only if they are white people
And then only if they are Christian
From the same church we go to
On Christmas and Easter, kid.”
Because that was our religion.

I remember being told repeatedly
“Do unto others, as they do unto you.”
Later I found out they didn’t mean it.
For gay people it wasn’t true.
Then it was do unto others whatever,
As long as they stay in their place.
They must not kiss or hold hands
Because being gay is a disgrace.

I remember being taught that God
Created everything on this earth
But somehow that teaching missed
Those born non-white or gay at birth.
I remember some nice sounding things
Being said with everyone watching,
But hatred and bigotry like a virus
Seemed to be much more catching.

You are the starlight
On my bank of snow,
The sunlight on my fields;
You make things grow.

You lead the way to
Another summertime;
A lovely day hike
Another hill to climb.

I am the skateboard
You are the wheels.
You are the orange
And I am the peel.

You are the fairy tale
That keeps coming true.
I am one of the children
That was raised in a shoe.

You were the diamond
And I was the rough.
You were the golden link
I was the frayed cuff.

You are the road signs
I am the lonely road.
You were the Frog Prince
I was the lowly toad.

You made today have
A possible tomorrow
And helped me stop
Wallowing in my sorrow.

Now I hear beautiful music
Instead of commercial jingles.
Is this what it feels like
To no longer be single?

I am the skateboard
You are the wheels.
You are the orange
And I am the peel.

He lives in a world
Of never and always
Even though there is
No such land.
You could explain
All the facts to him
But he would fail to
Grasp them or understand.

It’s all about opinion
And how he feels
And the way he thinks
About what he sees.
Nothing fazes him
Nothing teaches him
And no hint of reality
Brings him to his knees.

He only cares about
What he wants to have
Or what he wants
To make you believe.
He doesn’t love anyone
He hates almost everyone
He only gets upset
But he never grieves.

He looks into the mirror
And only sees himself
Because in his universe
There is nobody else.
You are just something
That is here to be used.
If he badly wants to do it
He is allowed to abuse.

After all, sun and moon
Revolve, rise and set on him.
In his solar system one star shines
Everything else is very dim.
Since he is rich, and can afford it
He keeps paid companions close.
He can stand free thinkers
Only by the miniature dose.

Everything he says
Comes out backward.
Nothing about him
Is really straightforward.
It’s like he came here
From Bizarro World.
Both of the forks
Of his tongue are curled.

He makes our lives
Like a lower rank of hell.
You won’t want to buy
A single thing he sells.
You can figure out
This reptilian guy
Just expect everything
He says to be a lie.

If he says it’s a nice day
Run for your umbrella.
At all possible costs
You should avoid this fella.
And if you know someone
Who tells you he is nice
Run as fast as you can
From them, take my advice.

He has never been honest
He has never even tried.
You’ll quickly lose count
Of the times he has lied.
If you think for a second
That he cares about you
Believe me when I say
It just cannot be true.

Because the only person
This guy loves is himself
And he doesn’t give a ****
About anybody else.
Not his family, nor his wife
Please be a believer.
In truth, he doesn’t really
Love himself either.

His whole world is backward,
What he hates describes him.
He tells about how he is
So handsome and slim.
But actually he’s a tub of lard
And socially quite awkward.
But he doesn’t realize it.
He is, after all, himself:
Mister Backward.

It used to be you and me
Separately, distinctively
Distinguished from others
More than sisters and brothers
More than fathers and mothers
A family of our own
Two of us alone
Facing a world ready
To tear us apart
Separate us
Denigrate us
For loving each other
Choosing one another
instead of acquiescing,
Bowing and scraping
To the rules laid out
By those with the clout
To call us names and scorn
Try to deny we were born
As the people we are.
But, it turns out, so far
We are stronger
And out love lasts longer
From when we had begun
Than those who feel none.
As our love moves along
We have become twice as strong.

Liar liar
Pants on fire.
You leave so little
For me to desire.
You have been a brat
Ever since your youth.
One of the things you hate
Is telling people the truth.

You lie and cheat
Because you think you must.
You say it, we doubt it.
You are nobody we can trust.
People in your life
Have totally ruined you
To let your own twisted ego
Take over and consume you.

I used to listen to you
Hang on almost every word.
Now I turn my back
And wish I had never heard.
I regret that I have
Ever played along with you.
Now I know for sure
There’s something wrong with you.

If you brought me cake
I for sure would never eat it.
I would know for sure
It was from someone you cheated.
There is nothing about you
That I ever care to be around
I hate to hear you speak
I get sick from hearing the sound.

Liar liar
Pants on fire.
You leave so little
For me to desire.
You have been a brat
Ever since your youth.
One of the things you hate
Is telling people the truth.

The Monetary Moai
Standing on the shore
Making sure you worship them
Making sure they get more.

More of your offerings
More of your respect
Even if the have to take you
And hang you by the neck.

The Moai are important
With their grant-faced stare.
You may or may not like them
But they don’t have to care.

They are the gods to you,
And you the fools that revere them.
You put them on their pedestals;
Stop others from coming near them.

You, the ones who refuse
To question them and their power
Have made them the gods they are
Right up until their final hour.

It they ever revert to the truth
As just strange hunks of stone
Maybe then you will leave them
Ignored, disintegrating and alone.

But as long as these monoliths
Represent something good to you
There is nothing that the rest of us
Can, by resisting them, can ever do.

We can talk and chant and rant
And tell you that you are all fools
But it was your hands that put them up
Your effort, superstitions and tools.

Am I talking nonsense
Can anybody hear me
Can they hear what I say?
Are they listening today?

I HEAR YOU!

Is there something worth saying?
Or am I only just praying?
Am I preaching to a crowd
Or just shouting out loud?

I WILL HOLD YOU,
I WILL CHERISH YOU.

Am I shouting too loudly
For anyone to hear me?
Do they not hear the joy
Or do they hear only noise.

I AM NOT RUNNING AWAY.
I WILL STAY WITH YOU TODAY.

I am only here to help you
In everything you choose to do.
To help you find your way through
To find out what is true.

YOU MAY HAVE WHAT I NEED.
I WON’T TURN IT INTO GREED.
I HEAR WHAT YOU ARE SAYING
I WILL DANCE TO THE MUSIC
YOU ARE PLAYING.

Life is not all that you are believing;
It can be so painfully deceiving
Because people can get rich
From creating the perfect pitch.

YOU TAUGHT ME LIFE IS LOVE;
LIFE IS MORE ELEGANT THAN LIES.
I BELIEVE MORE THAN WHAT IS SEEN
BY USING ONLY MY TWO EYES.

Clowns can dress as businessmen
And go on and act the fool again
It’s up to you to always remember
What they are December to December.

MEN HAVE WALKED ON THE MOON,
I HAVE SEEN TOO MANY TREES HEWN.
DO THOSE THINGS EXCLUDE EACH OTHER?
HOW CAN I CALL THAT PERSON A BROTHER?

Stay aware of the secret clown.
Look into faces and stare them down.
Stay aware of what they do.
Don’t let them successfully steal from you.

I HAVE COME BECAUSE BIDDEN
TO BE CAUTIOUS OF WHAT IS HIDDEN.
YOU HAVE TRIED TO WAKE ME
TO THINGS THAT WILL BREAK ME.
YOU SING TO ME OF LOVING LIFE
AND WARN ME OF THE HIDDEN KNIFE.

Why listen to lies in happy talk?
Why would you sit when you can walk?
Why be fooled another day
When you get get up and run away?

TODAY I HAVE LEARNED TO WALK AWAY
FROM WHAT I WANTED YESTERDAY
IF WHAT I WANTED SPOILED ME
FROM TODAY’S BEAUTY.

Lies can come in any disguise.
Invest your future in those who are wise.
Teach yourself the Freedom song.
Listen to wisdom and you won’t be wrong.

THE FREEDOM SONG
CAN NEVER BE WRONG
IF IT IS SUNG
BY OLD AND YOUNG
TO CELEBRATE
AND REFUSE TO WAIT
SO ALL OF HUMANITY
CAN FOREVER BE FREE.

Peaches and cream,
That’s what you are to me
Flowers in a stream.
Red and gold sunsets
Just like in a dream.
Cotton candy days
That’s what I have with you
A honey scented haze.
Two people matched in
Ever after ways.

It sometimes seems we
Are floating on a cloud.
It makes someone like me
Want to shout out loud.
I am so lucky,
It makes me want to sing.
I am that wealthy
That I have everything.

Peaches and cream,
It’s like a fairy tale
Just the way it seems.
But I won’t wake up
As this is not a dream.
This is a moment
Like I once wished upon.
A busted wishbone
And all my sadness gone.

Rockabye baby
Up in the air.
Nobody questions
How it got there.
Who would put babies
Up high in a tree?
That sounds like
Child abusing to me!

People have sung this
For hundreds of years
Contributing little
But compounded fears.
They should rethink it
But they feel they must
Later they wonder
About lack of trust.

Like many stories
And songs sung to kids
Some scary stories
Are not so well hid
Like kid-munching witches
And following crumbs
Small wonder they fear
Wicked things come.

So don't put your babies
Up high in a tree
Not even lower
Like branch two or three.
Think up a ditty
That might help them thrive
And grow up happy
That they are alive.

Things are much better now
Then back in days gone by
When I was always lonely
And love songs made me cry.
I no longer get depressed
When couples pass me by
Seeing two people happy
Made me wonder why.

Was I some kind of loser
Or someone undeserving?
Love just kept avoiding me
I found it most unnerving.
I questioned everything about me
Was I really so unloveable?
I could find no answers then.
I only knew I was miserable.

Friends tried hard to fix me up
But nothing seemed to work.
It was like I was a circus clown
Or some kind of social ****.
I smiled and laughed and I
Was oh so very polite
But somehow everything I tried
Did not seem to work out right.

So after such a long time
I decided to give up trying.
If I said I wasn’t nervous then
I would totally be lying.
Once I gave up self-pitying
I began to enjoy every day.
I guess I looked a bit better;
Things began to go my way.

One day a conversation
Turned into a relationship
And all those safeguards
And fears began to slip.
They dropped off and suddenly
I found it easy to feel love.
This was the kind of feeling
I was hearing so much of.

So, the sad times were gone
They had slipped into the past
And out of the blue, unprepared
I have something that lasts.
I am smart enough to know
I should not ask myself why.
I am just delighted that today
Love songs don’t make me cry.

See the Nigra boy statue
On a White front lawn
It is all that is left now
The Old South is gone.
It’s beloved in those towns
With proper church steeples
From the good old days
When people owned people.

It is a symbol of when
Blacks stayed in at night
And all public offices
Were held by the Whites.
When all human rights
Applied to only Caucasians,
And not to Blacks, Hispanics,
American Indians or Asians.

Those were the days when
It was easy to quickly see
Which were the good people
And which ones were guilty.
In those much better times
We didn’t stoop to harrangue them.
If they shot off their mouths
We would  simply hang them.

Two hundred years of tradition
Was rudely taken away
No matter how we fought it
No matter what we had to say.
Those were the best times
And we liked it that way.
And our friendly Congressmen
Should make that way today.

The little Lawn Jockey remains
Almost by himself to carry on
Now that the massas and mistresses
In the Sainted South are gone.
He signifies a better time
Like Stephen Foster songs:
We never found owning darkies
So very evil or all that wrong.

This is the tale of the
Kid’s doll, the wallygog.
A doll meant to look like
A pale pitiful human hog
With a clammy white body
With wimpy yellow hair
And blue button eyes,
And cotton belly to spare.

It is so unattractive that
It must be that this toy
Is meant to insult them,
White girls and boys,
So that playing with it
Puts them in their place
As objects of ridicule
Laughs in the white face.

Because look how sad,
With wan sewn-open lips
And imitation Gap clothes
Sewn to shoulder and hip.
How foolish and rude
Is this toy made by fools.
Who can truly ignore
What is meant by this tool?

Yet is so popular now
The silly Wallygog today;
Some children refuse
As they grow, to set it away.
They carry it around
And it leaves me agog
That they never understand
What it means, this Wallygog.

There will be someone there
Down that long lonely road
Maybe someone who will
Help you carry the load.
Maybe nothing more than
Someone who cares
To listen to you speak
And walk with you somewhere.

It all will depend on you
Whether you are seeing
And whether you can hear
A loving caring being.
Or whether you are hearing
That chanting in your mind
That you have trained yourself
To treat yourself unkind.

It will matter heavily
If you prefer to count weeds
Rather than smell flowers
Because that’s what it needs
If you want to change directions
And take a different route.
Want to ***** and grumble?
You have to cut it out!

Look for the beautiful
The kindness in your life.
Avoid the painful focus
On resentment and strife.
There will be someone there
Down that long lonely road
Maybe someone who will
Help you carry the load.

I woke up this morning
That's a success.
I went to the closet
And found stuff to dress
And cover myself well
Against the elements.
I didn't get trampled
By buffalo or elephants.

I ate well and got ready
For whatever comes today.
Whether it be some work
Or some healthy play.
I made the bed and then
Showered myself clean.
I had some great coffee
While I read a new magazine.

I got into my car, which runs
And enjoyed the scenery.
I didn't sleep under a bridge
Or beg food at a beanery.
I went to work and had some
Fulfilling job satisfaction.
And as I went about my day
Guilty of no criminal action.

I was helpful to all, and I
Was detrimental to nobody.
I did the best at my job
And my work was not shoddy.
I sought support whenever
I knew it was badly needed
And smiled as the problems
Mostly quickly receded.

I have given up whining
And envy of my peers.
I no longer allow jealousy
To linger in my ears.
I am a lucky person today
And grateful to say it.
There is no other way
To properly portray it.

It's the path to righteousness
Put a five dollar bill in the plate
Then be as iniquitous as you like
And your life will turn out great.
Put in a buck or two, maybe more
It's a method known since 1147
In an urchin's hand and you score.
Anyone can buy their way into heaven.

It's the fake as hell, flaky as well
Bend and stretch Holiness Twist.
Do what you like, namecall a ****
Cleanse with a twist of your wrist.
Donate a dime, go commit a crime
To church Sunday, be Jesus kissed
Suddenly resurrected, sins deflected
You're an ace at the Holiness Twist.

Appearances are most important
In the big holiness game of life.
You have to have the big house
The big car and flashy wife.
You have to have the perfect lawn
With the current rage of shrubs.
You have to wear the right clothes
And belong to the right clubs.

But the biggest thing to accomplish
To keep from seeming totally odd
Is you have to have the right and
Obvious choice for your god.
It has to be the right kind of stuff;
It can't be Eastern unless it started
Back when there were miracles
Like when the waters parted.

It's the fake as hell, flaky as well
Bend and stretch Holiness Twist.
Do want you like, namecall a ****
Cleanse with a twist of your wrist.
Donate a dime, go commit a crime;
In church Sunday, be Jesus kissed
Suddenly resurrected, sins deflected
You're an ace at the Holiness Twist.

You go to church on Sunday
And then you've done your part.
Instead of saying “I hate that *****
You just say “Bless her heart.”
Monday starts the week anew
With dog-eat-dog intention.
Live and let live and the like
Seldom rates a mention.

Help the poor and needy
Doesn't pull too much weight
When measuring by dollar signs
To decide what is truly great.
The Bible verses get changed:
“Do unto others” is rewritten
To “Do what we can get by with.”
Thus is the common man smitten.

So you allow the Congress
To do whatever they want:
Outlaw our rights and rob us,
Laugh at us and then flaunt
That nobody can touch them
As they bleed the land dry.
We're just to bless their hearts
While the watch us slowly die.

We can keep on pretending
That everything is just,
Then go to church on Sunday
And brag about “In God we trust”,
Or we could wake the hell up
And start to participate
In what used to be our country
Right now before it's too late.

But that would mean standing up
And not just going along
And not following on party lines
Not singing the downtrodden song.
It means questioning our leaders,
But, you see, right there is the rub.
If we stop ourselves from being robbed
We can't belong to the Hypocrite Club.

Lumpy Dump and Denso Pence
Decided to run for President
Even though, they neither had
An idea what that title meant.
So Lumpy Dump and Denso Pence
Both thought it would be lots of fun
Dump because of the money he'd make
And Pence for fame when they had won.

Lumpy Dump seemed to think
The title made him King of the Earth
Denso Pence hoped to show
Exactly what he was really worth.
Neither one of them realized
They'd have to follow all the rules
Which they were not a mind to do
Because they were both such fools.

Lumpy Dump strung words together
He didn't make all that much sense
But he felt he was doing just fine, as
He sounded brighter than Denso Pence.
Lumpy Dump thought he was slim
Not dumpy like a big ******* of fat.
Denso Pence thought he was bright.
That shows where these to were at.

Let's all hope this is all we hear
Of these two unfunny circus clowns
After Hillary kicks their *****
And runs them both out of town.
We have already had such bad times
And need good times to commence
Which will not happen unless we nix
Lumpy Dump and that idiot Denso Pence.

All the words you say should be listed as a crime
You can't seem to think and talk at the same time.
You babble like a brook after a horrendous flood
And look like an aging cow chewing her cud.
Somebody should have slapped a muzzle on you
Slapped your big **** a time or two.
If lying cost you money, it would be a great joke.
We'd all feel better and you would be broke.

You're a big fat liar,
Seldom speak the truth!
You're a total spoiled brat
Have been  since your youth.
You've got a lousy rememberer
But a very strong forgetter.
You will always tell the lie
When the truth might fit you better.

If words made things happen
You might have a chance to be
The big shot you think you are
Instead of the reality.
You're a tinhorn snakeoil salesman
Like they had in olden days.
You long ago discovered that
Lying far too often pays.

You owe all your successes
To the fact that people trust.
They see a man in a costly suit
And they let him go for bust.
But, bust almost always
Means for anyone but you.
You only ever make a dime
If too many of us are coocoo.

You're a big fat liar,
Seldom speak the truth!
You're a total spoiled brat
Have been  since your youth.
You've got a lousy rememberer
But a very strong forgetter.
You will always tell the lie
When the truth might fit you better.

You call me alarmist
Because I say what I have heard.
You call me socialist
As if it were a ***** word.
You call me communist
Like this is nineteen fifty two.
You make an epithet
Of anyone who contradicts you.

You call me coward
Because I hate war so much.
You call people ******
If men should hug or touch.
You call people terrorists
If they don't worship your way.
You seem to hate the poor
Wish they would just go away.

You have a list of names
You use instead of using specifics.
You have a list of behaviors
You consider to be extra terrific
Like making fun of races
And calling starving people losers.
Make laws against cannabis
While you are a bunch of boozers.

You use Christianity
Like membership in the Rotary.
Won't take your credentials
To be verified by a legal notary.
You hide your profits
And brag about your successes
And become homicidal
If you get anything but yesses.

It's a sick world you sell
With your hate filled speeches.
Surely this is not what
Your spiritual leader teaches.
There is so much disdain
And even evil in what you do.
Let us all hope and pray
Our kids don't turn out like you.

An inconvenient truth
Can spawn a most convenient lie.
But far too often it seems
The truth will crawl off and die
While the lie lives on
To expand and grow new legs
And covers up the facts
That the fiction sadly begs.

It's a horrible fact today
That people look for excuses
To stay the fools they are
And find more convenient uses
For stories they either made up
Or have come to believe;
Mythological legends
That education can't seem to relieve.

A casual glance through history
Is all we really would ever need
To put the lie to death, but
This kind of fool does not read.
The saddest thing to see is
A bigot has no use for truth
When it makes them give up lies
They have depended on since youth.

But the basic thing in this
Is that someone spoiled this person
And made them into something
A step or two below a decent human
Because every religion has
Words just like the old golden rule.
You wouldn't think that
They could be made into an evil tool.

Why aren't you ashamed
Of yourself, your friends
Of anyone around you
That chooses to pretend
That some people are
Somehow lesser beings?
How can you all sleep
With that kind of feeling?

Did somebody close to you
Get inside of your mind
And coach you every day
To be deaf mute and blind
To the beauty of people
And all the good they do
If they were created
A bit different than you?

Did some crazy crook
On some show on teevee
Tell you it will be fine
If you hate them and me
Because we demand
The right to just be?
Who has mistrained you
To despise equality?

If the people around you
Hear such talk and approve
Why did you not decide
To get up and move?
Instead you have chosen
To point fingers and blame
People who are innocent
Why aren't you ashamed?

We arrive at the place
Water running off our faces;
Looking like disgraces
Glibly explaining
That it is still raining.

Just a smattering patter.
Not that it matters.
We'll just sit and chatter
Like social Mad Hatters
At a move-down afternoon tea.

We're all hooked on surreality.
The ladies-who-lunch bunch;
Character assassination over brunch.
Some gossip while we munch
Embroidering on a hunch.

Anything to stay in out of the rain.
After all, it's not our personal pain.
It's some other sucker's sorry.
We will forget it by tomorrow.
For today, while we quickly forget
We just sit and watch the streets get wet.

I wanted so much to like you;
I had heard so much about you.
Your show sounded like fun
Sadly, too soon I had begun
To listen between the lines
To know you, see who you are
To know behind the shallow mask
To see the ugly stained star.

I forgive myself for a bit of it
Because I know that it was
The method you always use.
I would later guess the cause.
Perhaps myself and others
The countless clueless mass
Mistook the rich and famous
As people with any real class.

I had to see the gaudy penthouse
With gold used instead of chrome.
I needed to see the fake opulence
That you chose to be your home.
I saw you hobnob with famous
And calling them your friends
Soon I would be let to see
The photo was where it ends.

So, I packed away any care for you
And chalked it up to my youth.
Little did I know right then
I only guessed at half the truth.
Because you put your skanky ****
Into the presidential race
And this latest **** of your ego
Means I never stop seeing your face.

Running for the highest office
The leader of the free world
Sure seems to have given
Your screwy hair a different twirl.
Suddenly you dragged out  speeches
Of Hiter, Mussolini and Stalin.
You shouted the policies of the KKK
And thew your vitriol all in.

Since too many fools in America
Started chanting Trump, Trump
You seem to want to turn DC
Into something like the town dump.
As for me, I have trouble sleeping
Worried your fans might be letting
And idiot in charge of the nukes
So he can bring on Armageddon.

There was an orange caveman
Who made himself a fancy home.
It was as glitzy as he could make it
Using gold and fancy stones.
He had enough wealth to
Employ many starving slaves.
He fed them as seldom as he could
**** near from womb to grave.

When he took folks to the top
Of his ostentatious dwelling,
You could swear within minutes
You could hear his ego swelling.
He had the softest of couches
And lookouts over the land.
He did his level best to be sure
His caveman home was grand.

His slaves would prepare for him
The most lavish of repasts
And guests were encouraged
To dig in as long as it lasts.
But at end of day all must
Get the hell out of there.
He always had a new young wife
And he didn't like to share.

But, somewhere along the tour
He would keep some internal pledge
And take you up to the top
And point out a jutting ledge.
He would comment on it's proximity
To his bed for the middle of the night.
He explained it was his privy
Quite handy from this lofty height.

He said only whites could use it,
He was quite stubborn about that.
Because the good people in life
Must be careful where they sat.
But he laughed at those below
And made no attempt to hedge.
He enjoyed the idea of their fate
And what comes from the white privy ledge.

If you were the only
Girl in the world
And I were the only boy.
It would be the end of
The human race.
Not another baby would
Ever grace this place.
The Garden of Eden
Would never had been
If I were the only boy.

Nothing much would matter
In the whole world today.
We would all know when
The  race would waste away.
Oh, for sure, we'd have fun
And  end of times rituals
Much of what we did would
End up being quite ******.
Fun and games just because
There ends up being no point.
But still in the end you would
Possibly not feel much joy
If I were the only boy.

If I were the only boy
in the world
And you were the only girl.
Unless you've kept a secret
From the gays of the world
You will be crying as the only girl.
I could take you dancing
With the other boys.
You will surely not want
To play with their toys.
I won't mind helping you
Give your hair a good curl
But, that's all I'll have for
The world's only girl.

Will we end up where we have been
Will anything important have changed
If we were to start all over again?
Or will we end as lovers estranged?
Or will we do it different this time
And make some better choices.
Maybe better words can come
From formerly unsuccessful voices.

After all, we are no longer who
We were before we became
The who we have become now.
We are definitely not the same.
We didn't know then the things
We take for granted today.
We no longer look at our lives
In anything like the same way.

But still we let our feelings
Get away from us so badly
That we began to look at ourselves
And regard each other sadly.
It's like we were someone else
Two different people for sure
Suffering from a kind of illness
For which love had no cure.

After all, we are no longer who
We were before we became
The who we have become now.
We are definitely not the same.
We didn't know then the things
We take for granted today.
We no longer look at our lives
In anything like the same way.

Things were said that seem unreal
When we look back on them now.
We have turned into strangers
But it's like we don't know how.
How did we perform this trick
This sleight of hand without magic?
Why did it take so long to fear
That this would be so tragic?

There were several hundred of us
And we were marching up the street.
We could hear some of the curses
We did not consider defeat.
We were lawfully assembling there
Though the custom  bade us not.
The time had come, we would not stop
We would strike while the iron was hot.

It was the one-year anniversary
Of rebellion against unfair laws
And there were many thousands of us
There to rally for a righteous cause.
We intended to show them all
What social freedom can mean.
And it was all started a year before
By some righteous, rebellious queens.

We were respectful and orderly
As we formed the parade
It was seen to that all permits
Were properly secured and made.
There were some simple floats
And choirs and groups
That were marching together
In Hollywood's traditional
And pleasant summer weather.

The police stood by, many deep
To be sure we **** behaved.
And so we all mostly did
So nobody ended in a grave.
We didn't hear of anyone
Being hustled into the lockup.
Forgive the pun, but it went down
Without much of a cockup.

TV was there, but not a horde,
And we got thirty seconds later.
We were pretty sure that alone
Would stimulate the haters.
To see us gays holding hands
And kissing in the street.
We were sure it would bring
Bigots at home to their feet.

But we didn't care, we had done
What even we didn't expect.
We got Hollywood and society
To look at us with respect.
Things started to change then
In California and everywhere.
We were here and we were queer
And no longer easy to scare.

Stocked up, locked up
In my sanctum *******.
Got *** and cigs and cheap wine;
For me that makes a quorum.
I hope no friend comes by
Acting all hale and hearty.
They're not inside a moment
Then they call up Dial A Party.

Then suddenly my place
Plays host to all the bums
Who have nothing else
But the strength to come
And just sit on my couch
And then eat up all my food
Drink all of my *****
While slurring words like “Dude!”

Now, I'm not anti-social
But I am not Donald Trump
Who has plenty of cash
To entertain these humps.
If they only brought something;
A six-pack or some ****
I'd find an excuse for them;
Some lame reason or need.

So, these days I read
And keep the stereo off.
I don't turn on the lights.
Hell, I don't even cough.
I hide out in the bedroom
Just me and Sam *****,
Seriously reconsidering
The kind of friends I've made.

Scary Larry,
The Margarita Fairy
Could drink anything,
As long as it wasn’t dairy.
Bollocky Pollack
Hung up his smock
Covered with paint
Put it on the auction block.

Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.

And Yeaster Bunny
Thinking he was funny
Baked bread dildoes
That sold for bags of money.
Scott Tissue
Said “We’re gonna miss you.
Your bread will sell quicker
If don’t make it an issue.”

Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.

Phony Joanie
Wishes for alimony
But refuses to divorce
Her husband Tony.
Decided she plans
To keep him instead.
Good for ready money
Though he's lousy in bed.

Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.

**** Poncho,
Everybody seems to
Dig his Mayan body
If only for a day or two.
Then he's off to play
With somebody new
Maybe some other day
He'll make it back to you.

Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.

He worked, all bent
And sweat of brow.
It's how his life went
He remembers it now.
He was told consistently
Since his early childhood
“Hard work earns rewards.”
He believed as a child would.

He believed in the dream
And worked hard most days
Saving whatever he could
Economizing in many ways.
There were no vacations
No brand new automobile.
He was sure in time he'd see
His debts brought to heel.

He bought a modest shack
For his wife and their children.
Nothing fancy, rather tight,
In no way was it modern.
But it was a roof, and safety
A harbor at the end of day.
That sadly came to an end.
The economy took it all away.

He still wants to believe
The dream he believed in
But now he and his family
Have no house to live in.
He feels someone lied to him
And they are doing so still.
Now he is angry at those
Who wrote such awful bills.

I am the rejected child
The neglected son or daughter
That did not live up
To the standard that we ought to
Because we are not
A carbon copy of our parents,
And what we are in life
Is so very honestly apparent
That they can no longer lie
To their friends and neighbors.
We are symbols of rebuke
Of all of their dishonest labors
To make living our lives
All about how they want to look
And how upset they are
That we didn't play by the book.

Some of it is because
The religion they never really studied
Got all tangled up with ego
And the truth became too muddied
For them to pick apart the facts
From fears created for financial gain
Based on ancient stories
That disregard the hurt of others, the pain.
But, their child is one of them
Those others they choose to proudly hate.
But, if they examine themselves
They can change, it is never too late.
If they ask themselves “If God made us
Didn't he make me as well as you?
Surely this moral infanticide
Is not what he wanted you to do.”

I look through my photographs
And see a person I never knew.
An open smiling soul you might
Tell almost anything you wanted to.
And what a fine face I had
With shining unlined skin.
I look at that face and shake my head
Wish I looked like that again.

I don't remember being that cute
It must be a camera trick.
I'm surely not that hot now.
This just makes me sick.
Someone just managed to
Aim that cheap camera right.
Or else it was the lighting
Whether day or night.

I remember that outfit
And the length of my hair.
But I am sure someone doctored
This picture up somewhere
Because I never take pictures well.
I always look like a freak.
I mean these picture make me
Look like I had a widow's peak.

And, look how tiny my waist
And how great my style was then.
I wish I could be that hot
And that young once again.
I would  take that face back again
In a minute if I knew how.
But please no pictures of me today.
I don't like my pictures now.

You dissolute deputation
Of disparate dipsomaniacs
Disparately determined
To drive me, distance me
Definitely, diametrically
Dizzily daft, daily.
Ditzy, I determined to
Deftly divide them;
I defy them, deny them,
Don't deify them
But deride them
Stand beside them
And guide them
To wander away
Until some other day
Some other fool
Who, as a rule
Digs abuse and misuse.

It's not a truce
But an absolute demand
For their total surrender
So they remember
From December to December
I am not a lifetime member
Of the “Beat Me” club.
Aye, there's the rub
You thought I liked it
So you could spike it
Like a basketball.
But, my soul is not at all
Into anything you could call
Masochism or submission.
So, if your mission is
To collect acolytes and slaves
You'd just better save that
For someone sicker than I
And bid me a fond goodbye.

I want to write a poem
So others will hear
The music in here,
In my heart and soul
So it plays a strong role
Helps people reach a goal
In putting aside hate
Before it's too late
And we despoil the soil
And ruin our own world
So that boys and girls
No longer can play
But must scrabble away
Their childhood in clay,
Hands filthy in poverty.
Let that poet be me.

I want to write a poem
With words so ringingly clear
That anyone who hears
Knows that I hold dear
The idea of equallity
That all can exist happily
Loving one another
Like sisters and brothers
Living together fruitfully
Truthfully, dutifully,
Sharing their destiny
And a rewarding future
That has no measure
Beause it is pure pleasure
And because it is bountiful,
It is completely  beautiful.

I just want it to happen
Like it's a work of magic.
Like some kind of miracle
That cancels all that is tragic.
A spontaneous kind of thing
Without me saying a word
As if you read my very thoughts
As if somehow you heard.

It's a hope I've had all my life.
The perfect lover comes along
Saying exactly what I need to hear
Never puts one foot wrong.
Someone proud to be by my side
That I never have to show the way
And stay beside me as I sleep
At the end of every perfect day.

Because I can't stand any more
Of the things I've had to bear.
The many kinds of disrespect
And the obvious lack of care.
I need that someone special
Who has the gift of giving.
Who sees in me perfection
Your world, life, and everything.

I've had too much of the rest
The other kind of love affair
Where I am just a stopgap
They didn't ever really care.
The love I am looking for
And who you just have to be
Is the soul of romanatic essence,
Absolute perfection, like me.

Randolf the bluenosed bigot
Much preferred to tell a lie;
Even if truth fit better
But he never quite knew why.
It was the way he grew up
Telling tales instead of truth.
It was the way his folks were
Ever since his very youth.

Lists of people are no good;
Black and yellow are the worst.
There is a list of who's okay.
White Republicans come first.
And if the truth is told here
Rights belong just to the white.
Granting rights to gals and gays
Never can be truly right.

Randolf thinks God's on his side.;
Made some of the people best.
Being Caucasian and Christian
Puts him ahead of all the rest.
Randolf thinks we all should do
What his religion says to do.
All of that crap about equality,
Randolf doesn't think it's true.

I found seashells and driftwood,
Cans and bottles and much more
Like diapers and picnic stuff
While walking along the shore.
I found cigarette butts and bags
And those horrendous soda holders
That catch on sea life and twist them
In their middle or at their shoulder.

I saw palm trees and jacaranda
Waving in the balmy breeze
And broken plastic lawn chairs
Leaning against the lovely trees.
I found six-packer carriers sitting
With all the beer bottles inside.
I saw pieces of bicycles and big batteries
And I swear I almost sat and cried.

But I had too much to do right then
Gathering up all that random junk.
I carried them to a ******* bin
And I threw it all in, kerthunk!
I wondered for the hundredth time
The parents these creeps had
That let them grow so ill behaved,
And so embarrassingly bad.

What kind of selfish brat can come
And look out on this lovely scene
And throw their ******* all around?
How can they be so mean?
It makes me hope for recompense;
That what goes around come again
And we can stash these human pigs
Into an appropriate kind of pen.

Are you still beating your babies?
Are you still punching your kid?
Are you still calling it discipline;
Not the worst thing you ever did?
Is it always a case of deserving
The punishment you mete out?
Where you teach them what is what;
Call them disgusting names and shout?

Break out the heavy leather belt
Go cut me a big switch
You kids are ******* me off
You’re giving me a big itch.
Bend yourself over here
Don’t run and make me catch you.
Remember this is all your fault.
You’re making me do this to you.

When you get in the mood to punish
Do dress in a special costume?
Does it have to take place in a woodshed
Or in some special kind of room?
Do you double up your fist and hit
Or do you have special equipment?
Does the physical treatment you hand out
Contribute to your fulfillment?

Break out the heavy leather belt
Go cut me a big switch
You kids are ******* me off
You’re giving me a big itch.
Bend yourself over here
Don't run and make me catch you.
Remember this is all your fault.
You’re making me do this to you.

In a world of deserving irony
You’d have to wear a disguise
So neighbors would know about you
And authorities could be made wise.
Then someone could call in specialists
To give some of what you give
And teach you eye-for-an-eye truth
About the way you live.

Break out the heavy leather belt
Go cut me a big switch
You kids are ******* me off
You’re giving me a big itch.
Bend yourself over here
Don't run and make me catch you.
Remember this is all your fault.
You’re making me do this to you.

She was a little stick of a thing
More of a twig than a branch.
She had freckles instead of makeup
But man could that girl dance!
She wore a sack of a dress
With simple holes for her arms
But I was immediately captured
By her open-hearted charm.

It was an accidental meeting
And a charming mental greeting
Two strangers seeking seating
That did not end up as fleeting.

I didn’t own a crystal ball
So I could certainly not see
What this little bit of a girl
Would come to mean to me.
She had beautiful eyes
The color of aged whiskey
That could make a guy
Want to do something risky.

A lovely accidental meeting
And a charming mental greeting
Two strangers seeking seating
That did not end up as fleeting.

So I took her with me dancing
As a harmless thing to do
For two people who are strangers
To whom everything is new.
I expected it to be awkward
Could this beauty even dance?
How was I to know that this
Would be the start of romance?

A simple accidental meeting
And a charming mental greeting
Two strangers seeking seating
That did not end up as fleeting.

There were no blacks
In our part of town
No Asians, no Latinos
None of them around.
There were Italians,
They were treated well.
But anyone of color
Might run into hell.

Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Whenever movies showed
A crowd of good folk
They were all Caucasian
And this is not a joke.

I was raised on TV shows
Like Lassie and ******
And there were no blacks
Living near the Cleavers.
There was no understanding
Of life for any non-whites.
When I grew up I saw
That little I learned was right.

Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Whenever movies showed
A crowd of good folk
They were all Caucasian
And this is not a joke.

There were radio stations then
Where black music could not play.
They had to get around that
Some other sneaky way.
That’s how we got Elvis,
To fill that gaping lack.
He got his first opportunity
Because he sounded black.

Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Maybe it will change someday
When we all celebrate
The diversity of humanity.
Wouldn’t that be great?

Everybody told me
You think only of yourself.
There’s no room in your heart
For anybody else.
But just like every fool
Ever born or ever was.
I had to find out for myself
Because, just because.

Lipstick on the mirror
Gave the whole thing away.
I didn’t really understand
Until I woke up that day.
You only love yourself it seems
And I just didn’t see before.
There’s room in your life for you
And no room for one more.

I began to notice how difficult
It was to walk down the boulevard.
You kept looking into the windows
And seemed to be looking hard.
At first what you were looking at
Managed to escape my detection.
After I while I realized the truth.
You were looking at your reflection.

I knew you would not go outside
If your hair was not done quite right.
To try to say it was good enough
Was to encourage another fight.
Every detail of clothing must be
Perfection all the way through
That meant I had to be perfect
As I was an extension of you.

Lipstick on the mirror
Gave the whole thing away.
I didn’t really understand
Until I woke up that day.
You only love yourself it seems
And I just didn’t see before.
There’s room in your life for you
And no room for one more.

Now I look at the photographs
You have kept in a scrapbook.
I see that you have the ones of you
When you like the way you look.
The pictures of me are there
But only if you are also in the shot.
It’s easy to see that you matter
And easier to see I do not.


Lipstick on the mirror
Gave the whole thing away.
I didn’t really understand
Until I woke up that day.
You only love yourself it seems
And I just didn’t see before.
There’s room in your life for you
And no room for one more.

(I seldom publish anyone else's poetry, but this one is so exceptional on so many levels, I had to reproduce it here. Hillary Clinton reposted it, so why not me?)

“Education then, beyond all other devices of human origin,
Is a great equalizer of the conditions of men.” – Horace Mann, 1848.
At the time of his remarks I couldn’t read — couldn’t write.
Any attempt to do so, punishable by death.
For generations we have known of knowledge’s infinite power.
Yet somehow, we’ve never questioned the keeper of the keys —
The guardians of information.

Unfortunately, I’ve seen more dividing and conquering
In this order of operations — a heinous miscalculation of reality.
For some, the only difference between a classroom and a plantation is time.
How many times must we be made to feel like quotas —
Like tokens in coined phrases? —
“Diversity. Inclusion”
There are days I feel like one, like only —
A lonely blossom in a briar patch of broken promises.
But I’ve always been a thorn in the side of injustice.

Disruptive. Talkative. A distraction.
With a passion that transcends the confines of my consciousness —
Beyond your curriculum, beyond your standards.
I stand here, a manifestation of love and pain,
With veins pumping revolution.
I am the strange fruit that grew too ripe for the poplar tree.
I am a DREAM Act, Dream Deferred incarnate.
I am a movement – an amalgam of memories America would care to forget
My past, alone won’t allow me to sit still.
So my body, like the mind
Cannot be contained.

As educators, rather than raising your voices
Over the rustling of our chains,
Take them off. Un-cuff us.
Unencumbered by the lumbering weight
Of poverty and privilege,
Policy and ignorance.

I was in the 7th grade, when Ms. Parker told me,
“Donovan, we can put your excess energy to good use!”
And she introduced me to the sound of my own voice.
She gave me a stage. A platform.
She told me that our stories are ladders
That make it easier for us to touch the stars.
So climb and grab them.
Keep climbing. Grab them.
Spill your emotions in the big dipper and pour out your soul.
Light up the world with your luminous allure.

To educate requires Galileo-like patience.
Today, when I look my students in the eyes, all I see are constellations.
If you take the time to connect the dots,
You can plot the true shape of their genius —
Shining in their darkest hour.

I look each of my students in the eyes,
And see the same light that aligned Orion’s Belt
And the pyramids of Giza.
I see the same twinkle
That guided Harriet to freedom.
I see them. Beneath their masks and mischief,
Exists an authentic frustration;
An enslavement to your standardized assessments.

At the core, none of us were meant to be common.
We were born to be comets,
Darting across space and time —
Leaving our mark as we crash into everything.
A crater is a reminder that something amazing happened here —
An indelible impact that shook up the world.
Are we not astronomers — looking for the next shooting star?
I teach in hopes of turning content, into rocket ships —
Tribulations into telescopes,
So a child can see their potential from right where they stand.
An injustice is telling them they are stars
Without acknowledging night that surrounds them.
Injustice is telling them education is the key
While you continue to change the locks.

Education is no equalizer —
Rather, it is the sleep that precedes the American Dream.
So wake up — wake up! Lift your voices
Until you’ve patched every hole in a child’s broken sky.
Wake up every child so they know of their celestial potential.
I’ve been a Black hole in the classroom for far too long;
Absorbing everything, without allowing my light escape.
But those days are done. I belong among the stars.
And so do you. And so do they.
Together, we can inspire galaxies of greatness
For generations to come.
No, sky is not the limit. It is only the beginning.
Lift off.

Donovan Livingston
Harvard Commencement 2016

I want to write you a poem
That heals up your scars.
I want to send your hopes
Soaring up to the stars.
I want to clear away stones
From the path you take.
I want to be sure you never
Feel your heart ache or break.

I want to put that feeling
That you give me into a jar
So, I can feel it always
If you should travel very far.
I want to write a symphony
Of the music in your voice.
This is not loyalty or kindness.
I simply do not have a choice.

For you are what I prayed for
Before I ever knew you existed.
You are that magnetism
That I never once resisted.
You have always fit me
Like a split friendship locket.
There never was a moment
You didn’t have me in your pocket.

So, I want to do for you
What you have done for me.
I want to put a trillion stars
In your nighttime reality.
I want to let you know for sure
All that you have meant to me.
I want to share with you
Your gift of love and serenity.

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

Now I don’t ask “Why me, God?”
I realized I was wishing another
Poor somebody suffered my fate.
Who? My sister, father, mother?
When did I gain so much clout
That I deserve a better fate
That moves me up so high
And makes the rest second rate?

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

I had to take stock of life
And realize I have what I need.
Anything else is at least excess
But even more likely it’s greed.
I was looking around to see
What my neighbors had got
And running to my toy box
Moaning of what I had not.

Did I look around me and see
The many who had so little?
Not a crust of bread or a home
Where they could sit and whittle?
So many had no toys at all
They were grateful for a bed;
A place where they could be safe
When they lay down their head.

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

Finally I awoke and saw the truth,
How much I need to be grateful for;
For breathing and resting and joy
A roof, for walls and a floor.
And a place to call my own home
When so many don’t have one.
The day I counted my blessings
Was when a good life was begun.

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

Sometimes it rains a bit
And you aren’t prepared
But it can be rather pretty
So, don’t be so scared.
It cools the temperature
From the clouds above,
Makes a walk the kind
The kind you grow to love.

You won’t need an umbrella;
So what if it’s a smattering?
Nothing wrong with that,
A bit of misty spattering?
Just a bit of a shower
Nothing bad in that.
Be a very happy person,
Under the brim of a hat

A bit of a puddle at times
Depending on your shoes.
It is not a big tragedy
No reason for the blues.
It’s just you and nature
Enjoying the day together.
Mother Nature and child
Spending time with each other.

So go ahead and wander
Out in the misting rain.
Take a cleansing saunter
Let weather clear the brain.
Celebrate just being here
A world gone squeaky clean
Like a painting by Monet
In an artist’s magazine.