Fire Ants
they came from the East Coast
they moved South to pick cotton
they brought slaves to pick the crops
and change their children’s diapers
to wash the laundry and scrub the floors
they started moving West
stopping to mine silver in Nevada
ruining Sutter’s mill for gold
they came as Chief Seattle said,
“like the grass while we are like a few trees
we people will be here whispers at night forever.”
they tamed the wild South Coast
no more lions in the Barrancas
they polluted the rivers
killed trees slayed animals
killed the natives and poisoned the air
greedy corporate America fire ants
who killed everything in their path
leaving nothing but bones behind them
they saw themselves as the
center of the universe
that had no beginning have no end
they are but a brief moment in eternal time
a plague called man.
Visiting La Guna Honda Old Age
Home
they spend the hours in the hallways
in wheelchairs or hobbling on walkers
hands to shaky to hold a cup of coffee
with limbs fragile as leaves swaying
in the wind
waiting on orderlies to escort them
to the game or dining room
out of sight out of mind
some too tired to make conversation
the smell of death perfumes the halls
sticks to their skin like glue
in the corner alone off to himself
a man so old the wrinkles have wrinkles
reaches out shakes his fist in the air
as if to ward off an alien
out to devour him
For the Young
one day you will wake-up
and realize you have lost it
maybe while looking in the mirror
or maybe when the razor blade
glides across your face
or maybe in the bedroom settling
for a single climax or none at all
or maybe while coming home after work
and sitting your tired ass down on the sofa
turning on the TV and straining
to read the blurred words at the
bottom of the screen
or maybe at the racetrack
somewhere in between the first
and the last race
or maybe at the boxing matches
somewhere in between the
first and the 15th round
but lose it you will
quicker than a fry cook can flip a flapjack
quicker than a hooker can get you off
quicker than it took me to write
this poem
Superman and the FBI
We know you’re in there
we have you on hidden camera
you can’t win
so come out with your hands
raised high in the air
the swat team will hold their fire
you’re worth more to us alive than dead
take off that silly Superman suit
haven’t you heard Christopher Reeves is dead.
we got you fair and square
Lois Lane was one of us all the time
if she fucked you it was out of curiosity.
take off that suit
admit you're mortal
we’ve cut a deal with the DA
we’ll see you get probation
and one hundred hours of community service
we’ll pump you up with steroids
make you the man you always wanted to be
you can start all over again as a sports hero
no one ever need know the truth
Both And Bar
Sax symphony
deep down gut-wrenching horn
seduces the senses floats though the
blue smoke-ring room
deep into my sensory perception
curls around the table
into a half-empty glass of whiskey
Jazz angels ride one long note after another
in roller-coaster freeze frame slow motion
settling into Southern Comfort bathed brain cells
bass man sweating profusely
takes sip of slow gin
eyes the black princess making love
to the microphone
here at the Both And Bar
lost in a timeless haze
