Democracy is a Verb

 I remember hearing "God is a verb" and 

it paused me--doing, being. 

Righteousness is acts,

and faith without works is dead. 

"You will know them

by their fruits"--

some exceptional, without blemish,

beautiful to the eye

and honey on the tongue. 

We can see a whited sepulcher

and know what lies therein,

because you know a grave from a buffet. 

Anyway--

the heart of democracy is a verb--

to be aware and free.

We vote with our hearts

our hands, and our feet. 

It is a doing. And the work

must always be done,

or what gets done is

WE. 

The Bad Neighbor

 Sirens in the distance cut through the peace;

there's an arsonist in the neighborhood

and he's known to the police.

They have been trying to pretend

it isn't him, though, but 

it's not really a secret.

Of course, they know.

He even has a fan club (can you believe!?);

they send him matches and gasoline.

It's because he "hits the right houses"

they say--if you know what that means.

People have lost their lives 

and families have been divided.

It's very hard to swallow 

the alibis provided

when the arsonist has mentioned names

shortly before the flames.

It isn't very pleasant

and I don't think it's good

for us to have an arsonist

living in the neighborhood.

Not Here for Seconds

 The rough beast slouches

then the rough beast sways.

(He is looking very rough these days.)

Tottering on his padded heels,

would you imagine that he feels

at this moment loved and trusted

while his face seems

thoroughly rusted?

Do they say when he is now talking

about a golfer's pink putter:

"At least he doesn't stutter?"

Or when he obscenely molests

a poorly-adjusted mic,

will they call him a playful, little tyke?

I will remember when music had charms

to sway a wounded beast--at least

those around him thought so

and so played titanically on.

One day the music will play him off,

and we will be relieved 

that he is gone.

So I hear--

 The aliens don't want to visit us,

but Tucker has been visited by an incubus.

Or so I infer.

It scratched him in his bed on his back

in a most horri.ble attack

but mostly wanted to talk

all things being what they were.

(Alex Jones will vouch for this--

we are living in spooky times.

Well, He would say that--so back to the rime--)

The two conversed without a filter

until the demon, feeling off-kilter

excused herself in a manner abrupt--

the man had nothing left to corrupt.

We have to ask if we've lost all sense

to buy such a tale with no evidence.

But to give it up for the unlikely host

whether ghosted by a demon

or bedeviled by a ghost--

he really knows his audience.

The Blocks

 They tell you things

to ramp you up

until you have found yourself

on blocks,

Your wheels are left spinning

but you

have lost all contact with 

the road.

And what you have left

is stripped for parts.

There is nothing to do

but be very, very

aware.

Shed

I have been clawing myself 

open

hoping something will change

underneath this 

pale human skin

to find the natural animal within.

And it is not a rabbit or a doe. 

Great Disney set-up, though. 

When I found her,

barking, chicken stealing and

skylarking,

I found my name.

I understood what strangely happened here

a wild adaptable canid

loyal as a tick, 

owning your trash, 

looking for a life

amid constant change. 

And I know many things

that steal away from the one big thing you

think you know.

I shed the self that was 

only human

to learn to grow. 

And my bark

is like the cackle of a witch. 

You can never see through me

because every day there is a new me,

because I remember your past

so hard I never remember mine.

And I feel fine. 

I shed my human skin,

and the wisdom

within falls out. 

I am here for your doubt

and your remembrance. 

Let's dance

in the light of a harvest moon,

and gather our thoughts together

and tell them

so cleverly

that we think they came from ancient history and not

just you and me. 

 

Father Moloch

 They in their purple and their crimson

faces painted like a mural in a brothel,

their tired hair piled high and

hands in an attitude of most 

Holy Sacred Prayer did

take their children

to the temple of their fathers

and their fathers' fathers, 

there to be fed to the brazen beast

as was the custom

and their great privilege.

And you could not say them wrong

for they would have no ears to hear it

nor did they have eyes to see

their babies' faces

as the priests took their spotless virgin

offerings--and no god intervened.