Somewhat broken.
Frayed. So-called
irreparable.
Dinged up and 
flagged for
obsolescence.
Reduced,
made ready to go
to highest bidder.
You know us. You 
think you know us.

Been here
under your noses
long years passing. 
Folk-song old, 
nursery-rhyme
obvious, not
pop-tune insinuation
incessant; more
embedded, part of
vocabulary — you 
use us unconsciously,
need us but cannot
bring yourself to see
that we as aggregate
cannot be bought,
not completely.
We rent ourselves
to you. You
owe us what we
are worth and we
are worth everything
you have.

If we 
just hold tight
to each other. If we
do not fail along
our faults. If we
sing as we are born to 
sing, stay as your
base layer, keep you
warm until we melt away
and then stand by as you
shiver. We hold 
power over
temperature. We
know how to make you 
freeze, how to
stand by singing
as you do.

They so smug
and stinky
with attitude

unearned power
inability to think beyond 
their own Stench

Worry up the people
saying there will be
civil unrest oh no

if and if and if oh no
this that
and the other oh no

oh no
oh no
oh no no no no

No to
sword and scales
doing as designed

They so smug 
and ripe with
a hey nonny nonny

hey derry down
Singing the one song they know
Always ends with don’t even go there

One hand on a big damn gun
One on some fat book
or another 

They so tremendous
Gaseous cloud making
national poison sunset

They so wring handed
They so rolling eyed
You don’t want civil unrest do you

Talking past us
born Stench sick
Talking past us 

song sourcing
land naming
world molding

choke throated
chest burned
child missing

grave stained
stolen
school tortured

compressed but
never small or beige enough
to hide or fit among them

They so right
We don’t want unrest 
to be at all civil

when — blessed paradox —
fire and smoke
can clear the air

To prevent being robbed
in a push in, secure
your AC unit with screws
and window locks 
if you are close enough to the ground 
that a would-be thief could get to you.

To prevent being hurt
in a street crime, give up
your valuables at once and
don’t try to be a hero no matter
what you carry, no matter
what movies you’ve seen. 

To prevent being victimized 
by online predators, scammers,
and trolls use firewalls 
and private networks, stop taking 
quizzes and playing games,
stop being so certain you’re doing fine. 

To prevent being wounded
by family, friend, or lover
stay sharp and ready,
set boundaries early, require
consent explicitly, expel toxicity
whenever it becomes necessary.

To prevent being torn apart 
by your country? Would-be
thief lured by your cool, 
red-white-blue sneer of a thug,
voice in your ear suggesting
blasphemous surrenders?

The advice remains the same.
Never become too surprised 
that the distance between
two criminals of any stripe
is slim, and the only thing
different is that sometimes,

heroism may be required of you. 

The city, gracious and
grievous at once, 
stares at the plates,
rocks back and forth
with longing, with ravenous 
tradition to feed;

that today will call itself
a melting pot with all its flavors
blending into one,
glorying in the mashup
and saying.
this is good;

that tomorrow
will call itself a salad 
whose flavors are distinct
and identifiable, whose 
least desirable ingredients
can always be plucked out and set aside;

that deep down prefers
its plates regimented, this not 
touching that; that will sample
of course, try everything
of course, then wash it down
and away with coldish tap water;

that certainly 
welcomes you to sit at the table
(if you will use only the preferred condiments)
and eat as much as you can 
until you are unable to push away
when you’ve had too much;

that will say this is good again
when you tumble off your fragile chair
to the ground; the city
both gracious and grievous;
melting pot salad city, wash
it away later city, pointing and laughing

at you on the ground where you recall
the city’s ravenous traditions, 
where you see that when all
is done someone’s going to be made
to do all the dishes and if the city
doesn’t get up to help clear the table

it is only because 
it still has room for dessert,
some kind of pie, you know
what they say is in it
but the way they look at you reminds you 
that there’s not an apple tree for miles.

I’m not some
red apple man
for you to factor in
to whatever you’ve planned

Don’t imagine
I can be held
in one hand
for your consumption

Don’t imagine 
that after you snap through
my skin it will be
sweetness and juice within

No red souvenir
for your shelf
No red badge of honor
with which to brand your self

I’m no
red apple man
I’ve got something else in here
that won’t be easy for you

to fit into the simple pie
you’d love to make of me
I’ve got turquoise guts
to break your teeth

and old worms some alive and twisting
More that are sliced and cold
You don’t have the stomach
for what you could make of me

after a few days
place my rotten corpse
somewhere in the edifice
of whatever institution
brought me 
to my end — 
a church,
town hall,
police station, 
august tower of 
industry, or similar
palace of rule
and regulation;

let it be
somehow inconvenient 
to remove it right away —
lock it down with chains
or put it somewhere
obvious but
inaccessible;

make a phone call
with my demand
that someone from within 
the building remove it — not
a custodian or contractor
but a bishop or CEO, captain
or mayor; make sure
they do not send a flunky
to do the stinking work 
of handling death.

When they come forward —
gagging and tentative,
gingerly reaching
for my softened limbs —
offer them a slow clap
for finally getting
their hands sticky
with what they caused.

It will be good for all of us
living and dead to see 
how they move through 
this world in the days
that follow. 

no one
wants to dig
into the closet

where we keep the box
full of the directions once used
for installing this society

that explain that 
when you no longer
have roaming bands

of the native population 
to massacre
you will have to find

something else for those among you 
inclined to mass killing
to work with

some will go the solo route
leaving behind signatures
and ritual wounds

some will take a different tack
and “band of brothers” themselves
into what they’re told is the public good

and some
will turn themselves into heroes 
at gun shows

where they can
pick up the newest tools
of blood patriotism

since the Gatling guns 
once used at Wounded Knee
are so hard to carry 

It has stopped now.
No going forward.
It’s going to end right here
where it has stalled.

Gently, gently,
we call to it. If you’re
going to fail, do it
gently; fade, don’t explode.

Each day it sits there
we can hear a fuse
burning within, crisp sizzle
suggesting that 

it’s not listening or
can’t hear over 
that sound. It’s stopped
and going no further.

Its weight is sinking it.
Its rust is hindering it. 
It’s too close and too vast
for us to escape from

how this will end. Gently,
gently, we implore it.
It’s not listening. Shouting
gently, gently? Nothing. 

If history holds true,
we should be running 
now. Far away, as fast as
we can. But here we stay

praying for fadeaway, a getaway,
good closure or improbable escape
after all: but here it is, stopped,
right where we are.

When those bodies
hit the floor, falling
insensitively into
our lives via our
screens, poking 
once again at
our entitled sense
of safety (how dare
these children die
before we have a chance
to sit down from 
last week’s funerals)
we take barely
the customary moment
to stop and smell
the rancid smoke
of pyre thoughts
and cremation prayers
pouring from the ears
of those who might in fact
have the power
to stop this shit
before we let them 
kick the bullet-full can
down the blood-full road
while saying to ourselves
this time will be surely be
different as we keep one eye
of our fatted calf’s view
on the horizon
and wait.

It’s not like we’re unaware.
We all sense where it’s going
but the safest way for some to thrive
is to pretend that there’s no knowing.

It’s been this way for quite some time.
Obvious where we’re at.
No more hiding the longed-for crown
under a tri-corner hat.

No more fife, no more drum,
no more ragged flag.
Only the industrial song
of ghouls in fashionable drag.

No more dancing, no more gray,
no more letting be.
Only the chains of a fascist’s god
pretending it’s liberty. 

It’s not like we’re unaware.
We all know what is coming
but the safest way, some of us claim,
is simply to stop running.

They’ll surrender to the horde behind,
roll over on their backs,
and die by reason and in trust
that they’ll succeed with facts.

It’s been this way for quite some time.
Doesn’t matter what we desire.
We only get ahead of it
by turning toward their fire

and offering our best offense
in the war we’re already in;
we fight because the fight is here,
no matter if we win.