In olden times
You stabbed a man
Or hit him with a rock.
We’re much advanced.
Thanks to technology,
You kill a million,
Remotely,
With subtle drones.
(4/15/12)
That grade school bully
Stole my lunch.
Contemptuous, they spit
As they pass the church,
Or paint swastikas
On temple walls.
Bit players
In The History of the World.
(4/15/12)
The other day, at lunch with two old friends,
I whined about the traffic—jamming life:
“At noon, twelve minutes just to drive the bend
Connecting freeway Ten with Four O Five.”
“I need two lights to cross the boulevard—
The left turn lane’s, too short to house the flow—“
Churned by stress, uncommon rage at retard
Development (a thousand new condos
With two cars each!) that further overwhelms
Our sorry streets, snuffs the animation
Cities feed upon. “Profit holds the helm—
Not sense, not style—steering to stagnation.”
“Choose alternative routes,” said Sam. I stare,
“Of course—alternative routes—but to where?”
Marvin Klotz (3/21/12)
Apologies to John Milton
When I consider how my nights are spent,
That time when ev’ry itch and pinch and ache
Emerge from day’s locked caves—freed to torment
This agéd remnant—force dry bones awake,
I wonder at that human mystery,
The special perils sleeplessness impose,
Fragmented flotsam borne on history,
The painful memories that wreck repose.
The broken screen door latch, the house needs paint,
The toilet that won’t flush, the stopped up sink,
My lapsed morality (those wretched taints),
The fractious hostile world’s consuming stink—
The gods will understand, nor be appalled
By my fond respite: pharmaceuticals.
Marvin Klotz (3/17/12)
Some call them theft
Others disagree—
They keep the country warm,
Provide security,
Arrange the nation’s
Gaudy panoply.
And yet, those rules the I.R.S. lays down each turmoiled year—absurd, grotesque—
Define insanity.
Marvin Klotz (3/10/12)
Poetry attempts portrayal; it paints—
In ordered forms—our terror, loves, our dreams.
Its synaesthetic mode swirls sense, acquaints
Our sight, sound, touch, smell, taste with textured whims.
“I did but prompt the age.” “Death be not proud.”
”How do I love thee?” “I sing the body electric.”
“The sound of blue.” Thus writers shout aloud
Kaleidoscopic images—slick tricks!
Real life’s a fuddled crawl, much more mundane
Than scenes that raptured poetry project—
It’s what to cook for dinner, dodging pain,
Drying dishes, doing laundry, inspect
The roof for leaks, take pills to fend off pox,
Enjoy a bagel spread with cream cheese, lox.
Set out the next morn’s clothes—two unholed sox.
At each day’s end, clean out the litter box,
Marvin Klotz (3/7/12)
