Just a damn minute! A solar panel firm
Borrows half a billion from taxpayers
Then goes belly up! Sheesh! That makes us squirm;
But the other tale’s sadder—a slayer.
A billion-two offered for our Dodgers—
Our storied ancient team (dem Bums! bleed Blue!)—
From Chinese sovereign funds. Asian codgers
Want to buy our team—how can this be true?
Dodger dogs replaced by dim sum, soybeans—
Rice wine instead of beer—tailgate parties
Featuring kung pau? Come on! How extreme
Can world trade be? Will moneymaking art
Trump tradition? Free trade? Dear to most hearts!
But Chinese ownership? That really smarts!
(9/10/11)
Go! Go! You cocksucking son of a bitch!
My bloody scream, involuntary, serves,
I’m sure, an evolutionary niche,
Releasing pent up stress, relaxing nerves.
Much evidence reveals that not all cures
Depend on pills or surgery. Sometimes
You think yourself to peace—soft breath
Provokes a meditative trance, sublime.
Sometimes that stupid driving lunk disjoints—
Can make your head explode—quick therapy:
That raucous shout drops BP thirty points—
Supports your breath, admits serenity.
Not all cathartics need be laxatives—
But be sure your window’s closed—that lunkhead
Might see red and, brained like a rusty sieve,
Jam on the brakes, end your cure, shoot you dead.
(8/29/11)
Police seek witnesses to Candlestick violence (San Francisco Chronicle, Aug. 21, 2011)
Two fans shot outside 49er’s game (St. Petersburg Times, Aug. 22, 2011)
Juke left, then right, and tear off twenty yards;
Hit the curve ball, jump, standing, three feet up,
And straight you’re praised by all our pious bards,
Enriched by nature’s choice—selected crop.
Your genes and harsh devotion earn your place—
A pantheon of gods we all adore.
We pay whatever’s asked to share your space,
Devoted to the team, we scream, we roar.
But here’s the part I’ve never understood
Why do we hate the fans of other teams?
What rift in nature’s scheme skews our manhood
And turns us into vandals, thugs—extreme
At loss, who, sometimes, grow so mindless ill,
That even when you win, we rage and kill.
(8/21/11)
The media, of course, lead with fire, blood—
We’re shown a dizzy world, spiraling, doomed
By hate, by gods, by greed—torrents that flood,
Submerge philosophy—we drown, consumed.
But macromilitaries aren’t all—
Consider what the micro does for us—
The stuff we take for granted: local malls
And rich amenities that free from fuss.
Though headlines howl, a switch turns on the light;
The water flows from just a twist, and heat,
At will, contains those winter climate blights.
Indoor toilets! Fresh produce, canned goods, meat,
Not far by car. Thwart mindsets that destroy!
Honor precious comforts—rich source of joy.
(8/19/11)
(Iraq, Afghanistan, and Africa?
“Not our problem—hey! Don’t hog the liquor!”)
I am, famously, a melancholic,
But this past week has been so brutal, seared
With tragedies that leap, hop, and frolic,
I found myself, three times, beset with tears.
Don’t get me wrong, I hardly ever weep
Despite the ugly world engrossed by dross,
Despite the wars, despite the mindless sheep
Skittering, scattering, despite the loss.
Forty battle-killed; seven murdered, shot
By the eighth, a suicide. Markets crashed.
Our plumbing failed, our washer went to pot;
Our country maimed by politicians’ trash!
Why tears now? Why now so hard to swallow?
Me? Strengthless, derelict—purged and hollow.
Body and mind (submerged by black offense)
Weep, drowning in a sea of impotence.
(8/11/11)
Some old friends, and a couple of new ones
Have been tormenting me for weeks and weeks.
My fault really—I mentioned, just for fun,
That we might purchase a wide-screen TV.
Thereafter, each time we met, snarkily
They teased. “So, did you get that TV yet?
C’mon Marv, do it!” Increasingly shrill—
Then the old TV gasped itself to death.
We did it—47 inches wide!
It took three days and two apt technicians
To get it home and up—perhaps the snide
Remarks would now pause, morph to contrition
For a moment, until they came to know
It’s not a Sony, just a Vizio.
(7/30/11)
