A Jesuit pope titled Francis
Suspected of horrible stances—
Did he, as some feared,
Abide “disappeared”?
And yet Argentina prances?
A celibate priest with an ache
(Unholy, but shrewdly a fake)
That molests a child,
His vows all defiled,
Should promptly be burned at the stake!
All men can be roused to the bone,
Including those priests who intone.
So let them bed wives
To tend to their drives.
Perhaps they’ll leave children alone.
These churches dependent on tithes
Should trim out their priesthood with scythes.
Those funds we donate
To charity’s plate
Are paid out to victims that writhe.
This wafer is Jesus’s flesh;
This wine is his blood, though quite fresh.
Deny it, then dwell
In fiery hell.
In old times you’d be put to death.
Religion’s a strange human trait;
They promise to mend human’s fate.
But thought must confess
This costumed business
Is merely a mass opiate.
(3/17/13)
For N.R.
Last Saturday, requested by Nicol—
A girl (woman really) who shares my gym—
I went to see her photographic soul
Displayed. A seated group, expressions grim,
Spoke in that modest gallery, took turns
Expressing doubt about the role of art
In history. My tight viscera churned
At the denigration—art? Aesthetes’ farts
Designed to pretty up our morbid world—
Color, sound, a pleasant phrase? Mere perfume
To scent and decorate the dizzy whirl—
Impotent to thwart our impending doom.
I thought about Francisco Goya’s grim
“The Third of May”—Picasso’s “Guernica”—
Edvard Munch’s “Scream,” the patriotic hymns
That lead to battle—clever artists’ tricks.
Art, in all its forms, does count—it touches
Our naive nature—creates the visions
That reveal, that free us from the clutches
Of our skinbound flesh, promotes decisions.
I looked at Nicol’s work—lady in white
Holding a fearful black raptor raven—
That bleak man, holding his dying dog, tight—
Serenity and threat—no safe haven.
Screw the senseless cant, glib urbanity—
Art, simply put, provokes humanity.
(3/14/13)
Eric, down at the courts, was married once
And had some kids. His wife then threw him out.
Still, they get along, exhibit patience,
Became good friends, since Eric’s not a lout.
And then the kids had kids. Grandchild magic
Overwhelmed, and trips up north plain multiplied
Today, extolling culinary tricks
His ex-wife performed, rapt, he confided
Details of a pot of soup she made, soup!
Leftovers of a well roasted chicken
Were simmered, seethed overnight, and then groups
Of raw veggies, chopped, added to quicken
The mellow broth—his eyes teared as he spoke;
I’d never seen his spirit so invoked!
(2/28/12)
We hold these Truths to be self evident,
that all Men are created equal,
that they are endowed by their Creator
with certain unalienable Rights,
that among these are Life, Liberty,
and the Pursuit of Happiness—
These United States, (constantly we’re told)
Love elections, freedom, above all peace.
Those claims our founders made that we still hold:
“All men are created equal” (cute tease,
Not so?). It’s what they firmly taught in school
But what they didn’t tell: those principles,
Clear and unambiguous did not rule;
That this exceptional, invincible,
Rich, raggedy Republic must come first.
Don’t take my word—Google our frequent wars,
Include incursions—Panama, accurst
Grenada, the Philippines, those soul sores.
Don’t wince, or grieve, wail, or be astonished—
Fuck peace, these wars breed wealth they admonish.
(2/26/13)
Those YouTube loops that fly around the Web1
(Stupid, crummy, but sometimes magical).
They clutter your machines, make brain-waves ebb,
But, sometimes, comicalize the tragic.
One came the other day, a dour newscast—
Unemployment, chains of blame, all chagrinned—
The anchors, listeners, totally aghast—
Cold, wet, unrelenting easterly wind.
A man came in, picked a ukulele
Slowly sang, “Bring me sunshine in your smile,”
A sax, piano, bass appeared—gaily,
The tempo lurched—dancers sprang—joy, tactile,
Filled the room. The anchors danced, swayed, and yet
There looms relentless eastern wind—cold, wet.
(2/21/13)
1 Go to http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=oXvJ8UquYoo&vq=large
Little Elmo, Bumstead’s grade school neighbor,
Displays a wisdom way beyond his years.
While Dagwood, wide-eyed, listens to his lore,
Elmo reveals our major source of tears.
“Boy, school is really tough this year,” he chats,
“Especially biology.” A pause.
“The boys are studying girls, the girls [of course]
“Are studying boys, what makes us tick, all that . . .”
The child stops walking; Dagwood peers, nodding,
Patient, waiting for the culmination.
Quickly it comes—“So far everybody’s
Flunking.” A child’s insight to creation—
In one three panel comic strip, enthralled,
We find the hist’ry of the world writ small!
(1/31/13)
