voices in flight (20170515)

consider the old saying
that every time a bell rings
an angel gets its wings

and think of all the times
you have heard a cash register chime
or the wall street stock exchange
or a fire alarm
or the low slow clangs of cowbells
as they are led to the slaughterhouse

what the hell are those angels making
their feathers out of
misery, greed, blood and fire?

i have always preferred birdsong
an earthly tune to be sure
unfettered yet surrounded by sky
even if it is all about territory
and sexual conquest
and where the best worms are

ice caps (20170511)

what if a genie offered
you a wish
something it swears
it wouldn’t fuck up for you
even though you know all genies
{except for barbara eden}
hate mankind

what if it offered an end
to hunger and climate change
every single human being would
have enough food
but it would be the blandest food ever

no going back
no supplementing
no more steaks
no more sundaes
no more s’mores
or apples
or peaches
or ice cream
or butter or cheese

just gray, tasteless crackers
that practically dissolve
on your tongue
too fast to get a sense
of whether they taste bad
or in fact taste at all

fat third world children
no sustenance farmers
not one single animal getting the axe
to feed a human being
ever again

all you have to do is say yes
to the little gray communion wafer
the genie is offering you

you get to decide
the genie says
no tricks
no twisty loopholes
no soylent green
waiting in the wings

a reformed genie
as affable as robin williams
and eager to save the human race
from starvation
and melting ice caps

you can hear the moon talking to herself (20170508)

the wolf plants himself by the fire
just an emaciated bag of sticks

–what do you want, moon chaser

he licks a paw and grins

–just waiting for you to die, fat boy

–ingrate

together, we watch flames
sparks echo stars
shadows echo night

——

for
dVerse ~ Poets Pub
Quadrille #32: echo

matryoshka (20170507)

this hollowness aches
a matryoshka missing
its final babushka
a cold shadow
without enough room
to allow even an echo
but all too empty
the walls too far apart
the smell of wood
faint
the odor of red paint
overwhelming

x marks the spot
where the heart is buried
but the map is now lost at sea
and no one searches
either on the sea
or in the woods
no one willing to dig
no one willing to open
that last casket