Copyright 2004

America ---
The country I love.
The dream that was my dream.

My father wounded
In the war against the
Tyranny of Hitler,
The Great Liar,
The Ultimate Cynic,
Playing on the Fears of the Masses.

Who knew?
Who knew how easily a great Nation
Could be Lost?
We cannot see the forest.
We cannot see the trees.
We can only see the bushes
And the rushes.

Lost, as a leaf that waffles in the wind,
Lost, as a steep plunge into a swimming pool
Waterless, despite the golden promises.

Plummeting from World Leader
To World Bleeder.
Leech and Destroyer of God's Green Earth.


Just maybe,
All is not quite lost.
Just maybe,
We can rekindle the real dream.
We can live up to
Jefferson and Franklin
We can live up to
Abraham Lincoln
And the patriots who died
To set us free,
To build a nation:
Of the people
(Not the special interests)
By the people
(Not by the dollar-soaked lies)
For the people
(Not the oil barons).

We might just make it,
You and I.
We might just make it
Once again.

Posterity will remember
Long after mere prosperity
Has faded into nothing.

It's worth a try,
After a long cry,
To stitch together the broken pieces
Of the lost dream.

Oh, America.
Oh, Americans.
After all, it is ours.
It is our country.
Let's reclaim it.
Let's name it
Once again:

Where Have All the Ice-Scrapers Gone, Long Time A-Passing?
truthtable @ Dec. 10, 2002

I am lost,
I admit it,
Lost in a lost world.
A stranger in a strange land.

I have lost the reasons
Misunderstood the seasons. Is it a job requirement that checkout counter personnel
Must cough and sneeze?
Or, merely a disideratum?

I have misled the seasons,
Forgotten all the glorious reasons
We went to VietNam.
Misplaced as well the reasons we forgot to honor
Those brave courageous multitudes who fought and died there.

I ---we -- -have lost the third alternative, apparently.
In the frosty morning,
While I run,
There seem to be two types only
In my neighborhood:
Those who drive unsafe with opaque windows
A teeny space cleared,
Like the man who hit my father’s chevy in Akron,
Insisting His Left Turn was OKAY –- his right --- because the light was Orange….
And those, those,
Who rev the engines of their SUV’s for …
A good long while….
They return inside to watch the mourning news, the ---
Growing consensus that yes, to protect
American interests we must kill
(and be killed)
Maim, and “invest” in the Middle East,
The Fount of Wisdom…or…possibly…
The Fount of Oil.

Has anyone in this strange land heard of an ice-scraper?

Do we once again once again once again
Shed blood and bone and body bag…
Friend and fiend and foe?
“In war, truth is the first casualty.”

Has anyone in this strange land heard of an ice-scraper?

Mothers Day, 2001 --

@August 27, 2001

I only have a few days left,
The radio screams;
The television blares;
The spam-mail claims;
I only have a few days left,
To order flowers for Mother's Day.

Only Mother,
Against all the rules of the game,
I thought I knew so well,
Is dead.

Like Father,
And Grandfather,
And Grandmother,
And it makes me wonder:
How could all these characters
That made up the landscape of my childhood,
The very fabric and the backdrop of my life
Simply walk off stage forever?
Who wrote this script, anyway?

But that is just ego talking,
Ego that sits like a huge blind egg
Atop a pedestal of its own design.
That is just ego pretending
To be the end-all and the be-all of existence.

In reality, the fabric of life continues;
Rip, repair, rip, repair, rip, repair.
The river of life keeps flowing
Finding another channel where one is blocked.
The blood that ran through my parents
Flows through me and my grandchildren
As well as Sir Tulip Tree saluting the morning sun,
And those three awesome wild turkeys strolling beneath;
That humming, zipping dragonfly;
That laughing marigold.

Flower is for you, Mother
For you and me and all the anscestors
And all the descendants
The Now
Of two yellow tulips:
Bulbs brought from Amsterdam
(Where you never journeyed,
Content with my stories and pictures)
This now, I enjoy for all the world,
For Mother,
For Mother's Day.
The chaotic spiral path of earth will journey my egobody
Away some day too.

Do we not owe it to that host,
That multitude of anscestors
Stretching out behind us into the net of proto-life,
Do we not owe it to them
To watch the golden flowers glow,
As intently as we are able?
That is the attitude of my wise cousins:
Dragonfly, turkey and tree.
Should I do any less?

The Price of a Single Teardrop

I want;
I actually want
A tear to fall
A tear, even a single


Would be:


A flood of tears.

Funny, how in English,
To cry a "tear"
To "tear" in two
Are spelled alike,
The same,

Of course,
We never think about
Those pecurliarities, being Native Speakers
Of English.

Did I almost say "Native Americans"?
(Well, hey, they had no oil rigs anywhere.
What use were they making really?)

My mother taught English.

Now, there's a strange concept.

But she was damned good at it.

What exactly does it mean to have a class
In "English" in an English speaking country?

I've been to:
Always someone speaks English.

But my mother is dead.

Where are the tears?

Or the tears?


Not one has been shed out of these dry red eyes.
But I keep thinking
Now, I have to tell Mom about that
Ask her advice
Get her opinion
Tell her of my most recent victory
Call her up
Send her a postcard

Or defeat.


I don't call.

Somewhere in the back of my mind,
I realize
No-one would answer that phone,
Don't send that postcard,
Or worse,
Someone would
Would answer
Or defeat,
"What ?"
"Sorry, you must have the wrong number."

And, I wonder at our collective culture where there could be
A Right Number.

And, everyone else is a "Wrong Number"
And my mother
My mother



(Did you know that we "non-relatives" share over 99.9 % of our genes?)
My Mother Says
(Well, she's largely your mother too)

Nothing. But still, I ask her,
What is; who is:
A "wrong number"?
Aren't we all in this together?

And, the next time,
Though my mother,
An "English Teacher"
Cannot be the party to which I am speaking
Because my mother is dead,
Sorry, I meant to say, "Passed Away" or "No longer with us"

(And, largely, she's your mother too.)

I get a wrong number,
I may just say,
I may just be one SOB and ask,:
(Spring is definitely the mischief in me as I ask.)

"Well, hey, how in God's name
Can this be a wrong number?
I dialed it.
You answered.
My mother is dead.
We share the planet.
You breathe my air
And vice versa.
You drink my water
And vice versa.
We have to get this together or
There will be no more mothers
And not more sons or daughers."

I think
My mother
Would have liked that
Moment of Drama.
She liked Drama.

I wonder,
Who exactly is dead?
We think we are Almighty
And seem


When we are voted off the "Human Rights Commission" now,
There's the sort of thing I could have discussed with my


Now deceased,
And yet,

And yet,

My eyes are sand dry, salt dry. And yet,
The world shakes it head,
Thinks we have forgotten our heritage
Our destiny
Our revolution
Our fellow planetiers.

Hey, you want a revolution?

My mom is dead.
Well, what do you care?

In the Congo
Two Million people died
Thank God it wasn't our fault
Or at least traceably so.


Do you care?

My mother would have cared.
But, hey,
She is dead.
Oh, well,
What the hell.

I must have dialed the right number.
But I love you anyway.
Siblinghood of Humanity?
This ain't no revival tent jive talk, we talkin,
This be certified scientific factuality.

And so
My mother is dead=
Your mother is dead;
Your mother is alive=
My mother is alive.
But can we please work together now,
Forget the alpha male craphead stuff
That made a lot of sense a million years ago
And get on with it?

Mom would have liked that.
Who knows?
Maybe she's smiling now.

And, who knows?
Maybe some day I may just call you up
To discuss this.

Don't tell me it's the wrong number.
Don't quote me the price of a single tear-


The Appropriate Price for One Nuclear Bomb.

@ truthtable, 2001.

"What's an appropriate price for one nuclear bomb?"
I happened to wonder and couldn't quite see. "
There's the cost of materials dug deep from the ground, "
Refined and refurbished to splendiferous radioactivity. "
There's the cost of the labor, the tedium and danger. "
Shipping and handling? Now, there's another complexity. "
But the appropriate price for one nuclear bomb, "
Should probably be reckoned in dollar-worths of dead humanity. "
If not dollars, maybe Yen would be more telling, more fit. "
When the blast wave hits, you can't hide behind bush or tree --"

No siree! "
It's melt and perish. "
No more cherish, "
Little child, "
Lame old man, "
Squirrel and flower, "
Tumble brick tower, "
Ashes to ashes, we all fall down. "
But smile, smile, let's see no frown. "
Let's ring the world with bombs, you see, "
Then we can ransom humanity, "
Why, what have we gained "
Surely you jest, "
We're not only be best, "
We're nucleo-blessed! "
We'll be the only, "
Perhaps a little lonely, "
Perhaps a little broke, "
But that's the whole point of the joke. "
What's the appropriate price "
Of one nuclear device "
It's the gift that keeps on giving! "
Replaces with rubble all that's living! "
Like bringing a bit of sun to our earth, "
Absolutely priceless is its worth. "
So get back to the office and fill out that form, "
Pay your high taxes and smile and conform; "
Be assured that your future is in the right hands. "
Listen! You can hear the distant drumming of the big brass bands! "
Look! You can see the distant glowing of dead despoiled lands! "

Blood Red Blood

Those tortured in the name of Our Dear God,
Racked, burned or sawed, bleed blood red blood.

Sailing to Freedom, they slaughter
Their trusting brothers with reddish skin
And all their blood is blood red, blood red.

The black skin of slaves under the lash
Bleeding the blood red blood.
Soldiers North in marching blue,
Soldiers South in riding gray,
Bleed their blood red blood.

The white skin of soldiers entrenched
Breathing the deadly golden mustard gas,
Coughing their lungs, their blood red blood,
Coughing on their uniforms of blue or gold.

The Cambodian Killing Fields flow bright
With blood red blood spurting from under yellow skin.

Genocide in Tamil --
Drunken driving in Toledo --
Bombs in Northern Ireland --
Whether the children wear green
Or orange, blood red is their blood.

Only that is clear. Blood is blood.
That, and the tears.
The tears are clear.
But what of hearts and thoughts?

In Flanders Field, so they say,
The poppies grow, red blood red.
We know where hatred grows --
The fields of greed and fear.
But where on this green earth
Is there a space for love to grow;
For that magic drop of clearly know
That can save so many seas of blood?

Waterloo and Gettysburg
We can quickly find on a map.
Battlefields, Killing Fields,
Killing Camps, Hiroshima --
These we can pinpoint oh so easily.

Harder to see are the loving fields.
They lay only hidden deep within
That uncharted country of our own hearts.

I have a question for you.
I have a question for me.
Haven't we shed enough of each other's blood?
Are we really still surprised to see
Our enemy bleeds blood red blood
Just like you and me?
Can we find something else to do now?
Some new game to play?
Are you not bored, like me,
With shoot and burn and slay?
How about a game that does not end in bloody red?
How about a game that ends in green, say?
How about working together to re-make Eden?
Let us make the woods and fields green again
Like a sparkling miracle of loving creation.
I think that might be more fun.
I am getting sick and tired of blood and red and dead.
How about you?
Want to play for green instead?

I have been screaming

I have been screaming all my life
For you to wake up.
I see the train coming
And you lie there on the tracks
Arguing in your drunken stupor
Over this and that
Tit and Tat
While the mammoth Midnight Express
Barrels toward you full tilt
A million pounds of steel
Headed toward your soft
Mammalian bodies
And your huge but fragile egos.

Do you think that if you win the argument
Somehow your flesh
Will withstand the razor wheels?
Somehow, the sheer logic of your position
Will harden you to titanium?
Or that the diamond sparkling clarity
Of your almighty rightness
Will armor that sweet soft skin?

What kind of drug are you on?
That you don't hear the roar
That you don't see the lights
That you don't feel the track vibrate?

And I always marvelled at the squirrels
Darting into the road, zigzag,
Throwing themselves stupidly under squealing tires
When peace and safety were so close
And so, so straight ahead.
You make them look like mammalian geniuses.

Clickety clack down the track
You'll all be sliced in two
And never even have eyes to look back
Never even

Hiding from Pollution

Let us hide then you and I!
But -- we can find no place beneath the once-blue sky
Where the deadly creature cannot hunt and feed.
It's true its tentacles are teeny each,
But there are billions and billions crawling
Sucker-cupped and slimy down allies,
Country lanes, seeping underneath the windowsills.

They slither-slide out to and through everywhere
Beneath the seas and into the trees,
Raining through the air; running through our very veins.
What once was fair and clean is fouled and mean
With unseen filth and death and plasticine.

From whence did this pitiless beast arise?
From a green lagoon, a frozen chunk of ice?
From 20,000 leagues beneath the sea?
The deranged imagination of a scientist?


Nothing half so exotic or romantic.
Just the daily greed of people like us.
Trading off our childrens' lives
For another piece of plastic crap.

But no matter.
We can hide our minds if not our bodies
Yet a little while
Here in front of TV-land;
Listen to the latest band;
Pretend that everything is AOK
And if it isn't -- HEY!
We'll blame the politicians
And put the criminals away.

Lock the doors and have a beer.
Let's watch Jeopardy and hide our fear.
Reality will never find us hiding here.

Crack is White, Crack is Black.

Wicker whack!
Crack a whip
Shore from ship
White from black
Glass crack, spreading
Pipe dream, dreading
Lifestream, deading
Past from then
Life and death
Strife and breath
Once again,

Life is torn.
Love is shorn.
Quickly high,
Slowly die.
Now at last,
No more bore
Rotten core.
Living fast.
His life strife
Ends aghast.
His wife
And son
Cracked apart.
Suck the crack,
Suck the flash,
Suck the glass,
Suck the ash --
Of Crack.

Doom and gloom,
Grey and slay.
Painted shine
And crystal wine.
Greenish slime,
Dressed as style.
An inch-long while,
Dressed as mile.
Dressed as smile.

Take your time;
Ruin mind.
Friend from friend,
Crackish rend,
Blackish wend,
Upon the face
Of ruined race.
Finished last
Crack and crash
What a bash.

Poems are made
By gods like thee
In the shade
Of an old oak tree.
But only man
Can jilt the scan,
Distill the crack,
Is as can
And fill the lack
With pure rage.

Take old age
And shove it down
Surround and drown.
Trashy can
Of glassy pipe
Of crackish snipe.

Drug "Lords"?
What pieces of crap
Or rotten gourds
Sweaty pits
And stale puke.

You're a fluke
Of dumb and dumber
Prey on numb and number,
But don't forget
You don't get
It yet
How pathetic you look
In prancing strut
When all you took
Is you, sweet slut.
Sliven knife
Disses Life.

And why do I
Zip my fly
Upon the skin
Of rancid sin
For that one God
That rules. How odd
That God of Gods should prove
To be
Not thee
Not me
Not infinity
But crackish crack
Upon the back
Of black on black.

Free at last.
Free at last.
No, wait a sec, uh,
Maybe we should, duh,
Recreate our slavery
Depravery, sweet knavery!
Crack will do
For me and you.
Crack will find
A way to make you mind.

Oh, Crack.
You are such a nil
For anyone with half a will,
A sack
Of crapcakes stewed
And steeped in crude.
So many pleasures are real:
Sun, rain, skin, swim, rod and reel.
Forget all that,
For your dough,
For your life,
For your brat,
For your show,
For your wife,
I offer ...

Darkness: The Prevailing Wind

At first, the Darkness snuck out worried into little corners of the world, sniffing, scanning, retreating. Hundreds felt its sting. A mere handful died here and there, mostly lower life forms like frogs, fish, and birds. Occasionally though, Darkness was rewarded with a human sacrifice. Then the clear, clean winds would blow. The rains would shatter down. Darkness shivered and huddled back into the warm, comforting recesses of Greed.

Days passed. Sometimes weeks. Then, tentative, Darkness emerged again. A little stronger, a little bigger, and a little bolder, Darkness would snuff out a few more lives. Human lives. But, they were not the lives of people who really count. Places like Indonesia, Mexico, and Inner Cities. Quick to retreat whenever the clean winds blew, Darkness bided its time, fed on Greed and Indifference. And waited.

At last there came a day when Darkness felt ready. Out he came. No longer with that hunted look. No. Now, Darkness felt brave, confident -- contemptuous even. When the cool, clean winds began to blow, Darkness raised up black wings grown huge by years of waiting and feeding and growing. He laughed as he enfolded the winds and choked them slowly, painfully.

Now, there were no clean, clear winds. There was no refreshing spring rain. Soon, the remaining frogs and fish and birds sickened and died. The people shouted for it to go away, pled that they were sorry, that they would change. Darkness laughed, then choked the people. Darkness prevailed, smug and fat.

Curse of the Jealous Warlock

Wanton wishful isn't ever willing to be wasted out of hand
But keeps on chugging, chugging to the slugging of the band.
In what green pasture lies the summit of my sunken sun?
Or, in what far city sinning and with what wet one?
Green and fondle candle handle beyond the working of the woe.
Who is in the green and yellow wrapper and who the foe?
Topple all the tasteful towers in a shower on their heads!
Make the massive mighty granite crush them in their beds!
Her green eyes flashing and her flowing golden hair?
What? Bring low this sunlight! Stifle the air!
Cracking clacking melodies of insect parts -- Beware!
Jade-colored and metallic, they have biting parts and sucking parts;
They can run and they can swim -- and they can get you anywhere!


Black and grey, grey and black.
Whack and wick, wick and whack.
Life in a dungeon, full of crack.
Spiders and rats and this and that.
Dandy wonders spitting back.

Over a well, despairing I sit alone,
Cold, on the cold, cold grey stone.
The cloudless night should cover all
And leave me lonely on this old grey wall.

No white is no moon; no yellow, no sun.
No words, but "empty"; no numbers, but one.
Silence of whispers, silence of wind,
When will end this endless sin?

Event Horizon.

Torn ligaments and shattered bone,
Gore dripping, ruddy blood in rivers,
Scream visageless a faceless moan,
Cold thin, gray icy windy shivers.

Falling, forever reeling in a swoon,
Down and whirling down, flailing to no avail,
Lonely, soundless like the call of no loon,
Bleached, white ravished like a shredded sail.

The maelstrom, the whirlpool -- spirals all.
Whirring noises of a billion clicking insects
Hurling exoskeletons against the wall --
Chitin, malphigian tubules -- broken wrecks.

Charybdis, Chaos, Taos, suddenly gone mad,
Faster ever farther sinking toward infinity,
Beyond the farthest star, rag-clad,
These dread cyclonic forces know no pity.

Tornado tears a trillion each alone.
When can we be? When can we be near?
Our revolving world spinning in an orbit of its own.
But all that we can see, all that we can hear:

Torn ligaments and re-shattered bone,
Gore dripping, red blood rives,
A visageless scream, a faceless moan.
Cold thin gray icy windy shivers.

The Forgotten Leaf

(Featured poem in Soul to Soul e-zine, Sept., 1997)

Blinding brave and gutful breaking rage made hate!
Gigantic boulders heaped on enemies' brainless heads!
Burly muscles slashed and brawny bones bursted;
Horses trample; raw flesh burn; crush the being's being!

Spiteful, I curse and ravishing prate --
And see the forgotten leaf I laid on my desk.
Shaking hands gingerly hold the withered brown.
I'm calm. My hate was only half-seeing's seeing.

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Last modified: Dec. 12, 2004