I opened the small folded sheet, and found
It came from those Jehovah’s Witnesses
Who task their holy selves to make the rounds,
To spread their dim “truth,” however witless.

Myths abound! Monkeys leap from India
To Ceylon. Icarus soared too damn high.
But those are only fairy tales. Red Sea
Divided by Yahweh? The truth! No lie!

Why? Because it’s written there, in our book.
John seventeen inscribes what must be sooth!
Believe our miracles! Don’t be a schnook!
“Sanctify them in truth. Thy word is truth.”

Walk on water, or change it to red wine?
No problem. Raise Lazarus from the grave,
Stretch fish and loaves so multitudes might dine,
Engage with long dead prophets in conclave.

Our god performed a panoply of tricks,
But couldn’t skip its death on two crossed sticks.
(6/23/13)

But what, I wonder, does DISORDER mean?
You’d think those rapt, wise men should first agree
(With some precision), on a crisp and clean
Depiction of what ORDER just must be.

When ancients heard the voice of god, they looked,
Listened, and acted—with no “ifs” or “buts.”
They, thus, became enshrined in holy books.
Today they’d grace the DSM—plain nuts.

Some seven billion folks inhabit Earth
Who cower, bow before invented hordes—
Those gods and goddesses of doubtful birth—
And pray for peace while launching holy wars.

Eight Shinto gods and Buddha disagree—
Each Hindu god grows countless avatars—
Yahweh, Allah, or one true god who’s three—
How can we dress our minds in such strange garb?

We’ve walked the moon, examined planet Mars
And new technologies have honed us keen—
Yet holy men don costumes so bizarre
They make each day a cosmic Halloween!

A fifth edition’s in the works I hear,
Embellishing our brain-defective list.
Add in RELIGION—held by most so dear—
Eternal work for our psychiatrists!
(6/19/12)

Fear, after all, is multi-faceted—
Prismed glass pretending to be diamond—
Generating lies primed to cleanse the past,
Protect the present, serve as future’s pawn.

Those frantic childhood squeals—“it wasn’t me!”
Responses to hormonal dreams—“I have
To wash my hair.” “I didn’t ax that tree.”
Such lies a pharmaceutical, a salve.

The politicians’ scaffolding—those lies—
Because malignant truth would bring them down.
Those lies, a lover’s poetry—his sighs
A stratagem—“Strip off your clinging gown.”

Imagine, if you can, a world all true—
Would it be happier, or scarred by rue?
(2/14/12)

Fears—our blood sense we neither act, nor look
Like those ideals burned in by our TV—
Fail to emulate heroes of our books—
Yearning for a svelte, a slick, cooler me.

It’s all a con, commercial enterprise!
This car, those chic clothes, that gymnasium
Tight skin, church mass, firm breasts, blue-shadowed eyes
Bushwah! Nonsensical foul, false nostrums

Forget that outside stuff, seek for what’s in—
Resolve to be serene, not slick and thin.
(1/15/12)

Can’t be helped—nature’s often cruelly rude.
But another kind of madness afflicts
The mind, the heart, fingers, even toes—crude
Ineptitude and ignorance constrict

All humanity. Tempers explode, irked
Past all reason, while rule-bound blank-eyed clerks
Fumble to find the Form that can correct
A problem, so minor, so perfectly

Simplistic that any child could dictate
A solution, while bureaucrats gyrate.
                   (1/20/11)

Though I am eighty now, I’ve never seen
Such foul nonsense, inane stupidity
Projected everywhere demeaning
Each foe’s heart in this cursed democracy.

“You’re a witch!” “Am not!” “Are too!” “You raised tax!”
“Did not!” “Did too!” “Your maid’s illegal!” Rot!
Undisguised nonsense, spewed by hired flacks;
All thought drowned in the piss of cracked teapots!

Diseased democracy, staggered, besot—
Perhaps an enlightened and kind despot
Would save us from the reign of weird crackpots!
                         (10/31/10)

The homely car
The gets from A to B
Won’t do!
It must heat from zero to sixty
In five seconds,
Charm lascivious women,
And generate
Delicious envy.

Efficiently,
That drugstore watch
Tells time—
But it’s not a Hermes,
Hence contemptible.

And earlobes
Absent dangling diamonds
Provoke humiliation.

Those breast implants,
Bespoke Saville Row suits,
And crystal wine decanters—
What essential functions
Do they serve?

Lust, Pride, Envy, Greed—
The methamphetamines dispensed
By mad admen—
Speed economies, create unholy wealth.
Cool, no?
Not!
                (9/9/10)

The Book of Gilgamesh, four thousand years
Ago, launched written poetry. Since then
Myriad forms—dramatic, lyric—seared
Raw hearts and ripened souls with passion penned,

With music, taut wit, and acrobatic
Ambiguity that caressed the mind,
Brought to our nostrils the aromatic
Scents that season and sustain all mankind.

But modern verse adopts nouvelle cuisine
Rejects millennia of recipes—
Serves up unsavory stews, flavorless,
Unrhymed melange, undecipherable

By anyone who’s not its chef. Okay!
Experiment! But (jeezus!) don’t annul
Four thousand years of tasty, rich entrees
With one debasing word: Conventional.
                           (8/28/10)

This guy down at the paddle tennis courts
Is both smart and likable—not always
An easy mix. An ad-man, he contorts
Truth for a living, spews those noxious brays

That sting innocents on ev’ry part.
Neither nets, repellent, nor solitude
Shelter us from his strident, piercing art.
Nonetheless, he’s a witty, welcome dude.

Here’s why: though rich from making victims feel
They gotta have the nonsense he promotes,
Those self same “gottas” never make him reel,
Never sail across his synaptic moat.

The secret of his own serenity?
“‘Gotta’ is life’s profoundest enemy.”
                      (7/29/10)