Capitulating the fact yon the masses
Are understood to be
More sluggish
Than cold molasses
Absolutely the rich ones that
Control
Equity foretell
Quite the thundering
Throng. Of indelicate be headings this ship sails on
If the course is not changed.
Quickly .
Anon.
Such a considerate conglomeration of riches
Not been. Scenes told nor
Tales since the turn of two
Centuries haste.
Consider.
Our nation got greater
With not a caste of rich making
Decisions but a healthy
Working class. Unless
We wake up there won't be any
Consumers only outcasts starving
Walking dead. Perhaps that
Was why that show was
So popular.
It foretold?
But, that show
Was about dead brought back and
The one I predict will be
About starving living ones
Trying to take a
Bit of pride bread
And soul back
From the greedy
Clasps
Of the
One percent.

I've only imagined where I'd go were the skies to open up
Magical, and time to be metered
Only in metrical or musical
Timbre what bassoon might be heard when and if
Flutes bass drums human voices
Joined into that chorus of
Nature resounding unheard
On the distance in the forests
On sunrises in flowers
In the eyes of the forlorn
The starving bellies
Of the deserts
In that mass of culled voices
Written on papers buried
In libraries in educated
***** on leather desks in the
Remotest abscesses where the hurt cannot reach or on
Wool carpets decorated
Florals instead of the marvels God
Sent created made us in
Oh I cry loud
I cry at top of my lungs ability
Wake me up
Cry cry
Sound out
Poets
Those with more than
My abilities.
The time is
Now.

“…and thence to a thing that peers in at bedroom and bathroom windows, and thence to a toad, and finally a snake – such is the progress of Satan.”

- C.S. Lewis, A Preface to Paradise Lost

When your last psychographic micro-target
Has through our digital operations
Been processed by multiple data teams
As enhanced predictability models

Standard data analytics suggest
That scraping data from your thoughts, your words
The way you touch the screen may sting a little
But we know what is best for you hashtag

Cross-referenced, analyzed, and synthesized
And vacuum-sealed into a Golden Age

Let us now face the sun, and not ourselves
And so forswear the mirrored loop of Us
That zeitgeist chasing its ossified Now
Into a spiral of dark nothingness

A club that looks endlessly at itself
Sharing dismal, universal handshakes1
Can never see the Incarnation dawn
As joyful, laughing Light upon the world

His star is in the east, and too His sun -
Let us worship the Lord, and not ourselves

1Yes, pinched from John Milton

Eligible for an upgrade...or an upchuck, or something...


Good comrades once were forced to stand in  lines
To register submission to The Cause
And beg for life while starving in the cold
Applauding all the while their misery

Good comrades still fall in obediently
To register submission to the ‘phone
And fight for selfie-space – oooh, look at me!
Applauding bars of connectivity

The irony of queueing before false shrines-
Good comrades once were forced to stand in lines

Air had never been sweeter,
when I swam and broke the tension.
I released myself,
from the crushing oppression that restricted me.
I fought tens of thousands stood side by side, almost unmoved.
Every individual linked arm in arm, together a legion.
Each encompassed my fingers, in an attempt to detain me,
as I brought myself to the surface.
My lungs unfolded and bones reconstructed.
the pressure was lifting and there was utter peace.

So I breathe,

air forced inwards into my lungs,
recollecting within my yearning and frail sacs.
every molecule is treasured,
locked away and undisclosed.
And for a little while,
I was unbound.


Dara.

The duck and cover drill was never frightening
Not like arithmetic, or the teacher’s stare
For if the rockets fell, no more homework
Or switch-inducing notes to Mom and Dad

“Lawrence is a smart boy but needs to work harder.”
We crouched beside our desks and giggled
About old Khruschev bombing East Texas
Any American could whip three Commies

We had James Stewart and President Eisenhower

And so

The duck and cover drill was never frightening

(Written to the tune "On Top of Old Smokey")

When the weather gets Stormy,
What does Trump do?
He talks to his lawyer
And threatens to sue.

So he thinks that suing
Will give him relief?
That doesn't much flatter
A commander in chief.

To be a commander
Requires great skill.
Some people have it;
Some never will.

Will he keep hoping
This storm will not last--
That it won't show up in
Tomorrow's forecast?

Forecasts predict, though,
More storms on the way.
Maybe distractions
Will fill up his day:

He’ll tweet daily nonsense,
Anger more folks,
Fire more staffers,
Or start a new hoax.

The hoaxes he starts will
Stir up his base.
How does he do that
And keep a straight face?

He’ll have to face now
Another big storm.
For him Stormy weather
Is becoming the norm.

-by Bob B (3-19-18)

You confuse me he said,
you with your gypsy heart I couldn't ease
and the reckless galaxies inside your mind
bursting like comet fire through a black sky.

I confuse myself I think,
inside a whirlwind of love and debris
I am growing like a **** towards the sun,
and yet each new flower still holds the embers of an old flame.

Always I look to you as the sea looks to the shoreline,
trace your stoic edges and retreat, leaving seafoam and whispers,
or crash with rage and waves against your certainty
that I do not understand.

Today I am a galaxy, maybe tomorrow I am the moon,
but always I am saddened by the tides that pull me back from you.

Squeamish much?

Did he really think he could call my bluff?

By the way his shoulders fold out to hide his face I assume he sought

Now he's cleaning his mess from the floor, shattered like red rubies

Because he was referring to God but only saw himself in my shades as he accused me

And morality falters with every exhale he can muster

The thought of ripping his spine out, God knows would satisfy my interest in watching him suffer

He stood before me and spat how I was a waste of a woman

Because I prefer soft hands and collarbones, with love as passionate as a dressing room kiss

I said it's perpetually misunderstood in all of its bliss, my preference doesn't hold you liable

Neither, your ignorance

Something about the power invested in the moan of a woman, the throb in my heart causes my blood to flow hotter and brighter

He said its blasphemy, frowned upon in the Bible

So I took his girlfriend for a joyride and taught her how to really smile

Floating on my back in these waters
My company consists of a flicker of light glistening in my peripheral
Reminding me of where I am
Who I am
My arms open, neck exposed
                                                         Still reaching for meaning
Wave after wave, my body continues drifting
One wave…                                  pent up aggression
Two waves…                                         standards and repression
One wave…                                                        manifestation
My own rhythm of solace
But the thousands of miles of burden beneath
             Cannot reach me
And that flickering light…                                                reliability
There’s still a tinge of fear for the unknown hovering on my conscious
The world I know, is crashing all around me
These waves
circulating
all about me
But I will continue to let myself drift
Allowing direction to take its own          course