The Successful Proliferation of the North American Reverse-Bill Ballcap

Members and Supporters
I write to you today
To bring you joyous news
All our efforts have held sway
Despite the encroaching
Endemic problems and dismay
The current of favor has been dammed
And redirected our way
And the American Reverse-Bill Ballcap
Is a dominant breed species

All of the hurdles these Poor
Creatures had to overcome
A baseline standard reading
Acumen and the general assumption
Of humanistic clemency
By the others for everyone
Has made proliferation
In the past not easy

Some notes on the species
For those who aren’t aware
How to spot one in the wild
–If you do please do not stare!
For their egos are fragile and
Secured by the impression
That aggression is impressive
And to impress is to be respected
Hence the angry hunched gorilla
Stance that’s so often affected
Bolstered by the belief
That compassion is disease
And the spatial occupation they consume
Stretches to all they hear and see
And will arbitrate within such
What is judiciously accepted
Which sparks the constant social
Confrontations they've perfected

Listen for the hollow uninspired
Sound of boastful music played loud
That radiates a warning of the posture
Of the creature coming ‘round
A musical tensed muscle
Brined with swagger and assurance
That your feelings and existence
Take a backseat to their purpose
A soundtrack to the character
They’ve cobbled in their heads
Cut and pasted from dumb archetypes
With their face in place instead
Fueled by whiskey to keep them mean
Because to not would make them pussies
And pussies aren’t tough
(Which one needs to be)
To bear the slaps in the face
The world reciprocates
From constantly lashing out at it so much

Ladies and Gentlemen
Take a good look around
I’m sure you can find examples
Of the expanding varieties in your own town
Prosperous and plentiful
Their numbers now compound
I present to you this bird of prey
Known also as The Angry Clown.

The Crow Song

A lanky crow
saws his way across
a grey wool sky
with serrated wings
and bellyaches
as he cuts by
he is so hungry
but first something
must die
so he finds a branch
and sings the Got No Roadkill Blues

Brunch In Hayward

I'd added too much milk to the coffee, and let it sit too long; ruminating on the sights from the smudge-filtered window that walled in the booth I was sitting in, thinking I might, somehow, spot some I-spy hidden truth carefully lodged amongst the snow-caked boredom of Hayward, Wisconsin, some cipher used by the cosmos the way Guy Williams used to leave the sign of Zorro in the flesh of his enemies with a few elegantly adroit whips of his rapier, had drawn me away from my lunch. And the coffee. Now it was tepid and shared a cloudy hue with the puddles of congealing earth outside, as Old Man Winter had decided his stay in Wisconsin had run quite long enough, thank you, and packed his snow and his arctic airstreams and waddled his gruff ass out to wreak misery on some other suchplace where people needed to be reminded how it was to lose the ability to blink while walking into the wind.

It was the first week of May for Chrissakes.

But for the moment the sky was as blue and the sea in a Hiroshige print, the sun was pleasantly baking the left side of my face, and the lunch was gratis, so I did what anyone oughtta do: kept my mouth shut and enjoyed it.

Waiting Room For The Beyond

(for Jo Ann)

The leaves flared high in shades of brown
to match the January ground
you sank into but we couldn't stand to see;
instead we crowded in a chapel
speaking lowly
while icy winds rattled the eaves.

And strangers squeezed
at shoulders forging comfort,
diversionary memories on their tongues
to distract us from the future
that the present had just undone.

In a corner Father's trying
to keep himself from crying
and his sister's keeping pace
with the itinerary:
visitation, mass, then sandwiches
in the church basement
post-cemetery.

Through clouded conversations of the past,
drinking etiquette and plans
to stay in touch
I was asked how I was doing
by a stranger.
And though I didn't say it,
afraid it wouldn't make much sense.
how I felt was like a shadow in a Register.

They Have Been, They Are, They Will Be...

Guarded eyes behind bus shelter glass
freckled with bird shit watching
the afternoon traffic pass,
silently conjuring curses towards
the vehicles weather hasn't
yet tattooed orange
like the stains on their knuckles
and gums and their clothes,
just as smudged as the ads
for fast food and car loans
that carpet the concrete
with the sand and the slush
and the yesterday hopes
that today didn't touch.

One more deep breath;
exhale and exhaust
swirling together
to freeze into frost.

As pocketed fingers curl
to keep warm you think
"Today could have been anything."

When the driver's bad day
and bus radio songs
make seven short miles
seem thirty miles long,
it's home to unplug the
present with drinks
or pictures of when you were young.
Swear that maybe a new town
or a job that you love
would dust off this mess to
which you loathe to belong.
Or someone to be with at home,
something on TV you'd actually watch
and not just use for noise
so you don't feel alone
to the tune of the ticking wall clock.

The penumbrae of objects you
dare to call home stretch
out through your darkened room
as you're guided by flickers
of reruns to toothbrush
then sleep before life can resume.
But as head hits the pillow
remember each blind
can be raised to let in
light and the sound of robin who'll sing
"As cold as it is,
though the days seem so short here
tomorrow can be anything."

Parking Lot Liturgy (Thoughts on Thanksgiving Day, 2014)

It's too cold for snow
But the sky doesn't seem to know
Mother Nature's flaked on us again
As I sit in my car
And watch my cellphone's dancing bars
Certain it's withholding messages

As the heater slowly starts to heat
Everything except my feet
I watch light play off the snowflakes
On the windshield glass
And as I start to warm
Ideas start to swarm
And crash like tangled birds
Upon the dusty dash

Like:

Will this Christmas be a black suit affair?
Will the winter cease by April Fools' ?

I'd make something of these
Thoughts if I could
But long ago I gave up on the tools
That I (truthfully) never really
Learned to use
A rusty hammer
Pliers I can't ply
But if you were to ask me
If I had
I'd probably swear
It's not 'cause I didn't try

Hey, It's Me!

It is no secret that I do not suffer fools well
So it should be obvious
That I don't much like myself
Every breath wasted in argument
Just multiplies its wealth
When I later on argue
The point with myself
And find myself all the poorer for it

10th to the T

Afternoons in April
look much like September
without the benefit
of all the local color

Potato salad sunshine burning
up the sudsy snow
still clinging to the ditches
and the fields like piles of mold

A sturdy wind chafes the chaff
that will soon be mowed
down and cleared
to make way for empty condos

They'll drain the ponds
and cut it up for buyers
who will evict the ducks
to install deep fat fryers
and serve up hamburgers
to put more pressure on tires
on the vehicles more
war machine than wagon.