Oh say, can you see?
Oh say, can you see
that beacon of hope
guttering
in the magaleptic breeze
Oh say, can you see
the white horse
has lost its rider.
Oh say, can you see
by the dawn’s early light
how God’s face changes
with the angle we choose.
Apunkalypse Now
In a dystopian future
there’s rioting in cities and towns
all across the USA
and anyone who cares to
can own a semi-automatic weapon.
One fateful night
a seventeen year old baby-faced punk
called Kole
heads into town with his semi-automatic rifle
to restore order on The Streets of Somewhere,
by the end of the night
three people are dead.
Kole is arrested, tried and acquitted
in The Court of the White Over Caste.
He becomes a hero, an icon, an example
and soon young punks all across the USA
are starting to feel lucky.
(Spoiler Alert:
It’s not the Future).
Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal
It’s Open Link Weekend over at earthweal and editor in chief , Brendan, is feeling a little down in an eloquent, acerbic and humorous way, so head on over there, check out his post and link one of your poems.
Here’s one from 2018, which is surprisingly current and is either cheerful or depressing depending on your politics.
The Toddler King
1
5 am. in America
the toddler king
checks his Twitter feed
a five hundred pound ball
of carbohydrate and grease
rolls across the parking lot
of a big box store
assault rifles take stock
the second amendment
thinks about making amends
the founding fathers
find themselves wanting.
2
5 am. in America
the toddler king
checks his Twitter feed
in the empty parking lot
of a big box store
a plastic bag pirouettes
on the halitotic breeze
national monuments
fear for their lives
the adjectives – good, bad, great-
drop in value again
the toddler king
picks a fight with himself.
3
5 am. in America
the toddler king
checks his Twitter feed
an empty shopping cart
rolls across the parking lot
of a big box store
and wishes it was
a metaphor for something
rivers say goodbye
to their banks
the ocean
eyes the shore
the toddler king pardons
those great American dioxides
sulphur, nitric, carbon
they are quickly released.
Oh say, can you see?
Oh say, can you see
that beacon of hope
guttering
in the magaleptic breeze
Oh say, can you see
the white horse
has lost its rider.
Oh say, can you see
by the dawn’s early light
how God’s face changes
with the angle we choose.
The Toddler King
1
5 am. in America
the toddler king
checks his Twitter feed
a five hundred pound ball
of carbohydrate and grease
rolls across the parking lot
of a big box store
assault rifles take stock
the second amendment
thinks about making amends
the founding fathers
find themselves wanting.
2
5 am. in America
the toddler king
checks his Twitter feed
in the empty parking lot
of a big box store
a plastic bag pirouettes
on the halitotic breeze
national monuments
fear for their lives
the adjectives – good, bad, great-
drop in value again
the toddler king
picks a fight with himself.
3
5 am. in America
the toddler king
checks his Twitter feed
an empty shopping cart
rolls across the parking lot
of a big box store
and wishes it was
a metaphor for something
rivers say goodbye
to their banks
the ocean
eyes the shore
the toddler king pardons
those great American dioxides
sulphur, nitric, carbon
they are quickly released.
Parts 1&2 appeared previously on this blog, participating in dverse Open Link Night
The Toddler King Part (1)
5 am in America
the toddler king
checks his Twitter feed
a five hundred pound ball
of carbohydrate and grease
rolls across the parking lot
of a big box store,
no one notices
assault rifles take stock
the second amendment
thinks about making amends
the founding fathers
find themselves wanting.
American Carnage
Not the export it used to be,
nothing like the glory days
Hiroshima, Vietnam, Cambodia;
still popular at home tho’
nearly twelve thousand gun deaths a year
the gun barrel points both ways.
This is not much of a poem, is it?
That last metaphor was a bit clumsy
and there’s no music in statistics
but there is a rhyme in that last line
and there’s assonance in ‘American Carnage’
and there is an ass in the White House
but enough about that
stay away from the low hanging fruit
we need a rhyme
carnage, baggage, garbage, image
imagine all the people
that’s what this situation needs
a protest singer, a protest song
three chords and a chorus
that we can sway and link arms to
Where are you
Josh (Ritter)
Michael (Stipe)
Bruce ?
This poem originally appeared in Rat’s Ass Review .
I was watching the CNN town hall last week where some of the teenage survivors of the Parkland school shooting got to pose questions to 3 politicians (including Marco Rubio). It was probably one of the most painfully riveting pieces of television, I’ve seen in a while. It was truly amazing to see a 17 year old high school student cut through the usual fog of evasion and diversion to pin down Marco Rubio about NRA sponsorship of his campaign. Marco, in the end, refused to say he would stop taking money from the NRA. I thought of these lines from Bob Dylan:
“Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin’.”
A Very American Problem
In the wake of the recent mass shooting…
in the wake..as if the mass shooting is an ocean liner
and we are sailboats helplessly bobbing.
In the wake of the recent mass shooting
the President will talk about mental health (not his own)
and find someone to blame.
In the wake of the recent mass shooting
Anderson Cooper and his panel discussed how in future
the notification of victims’ families could be speeded up,
the acceptance of the inevitability of mass shootings
inherent in this discussion
saddened me more than anything.
In the wake of the recent mass shooting
thoughts, hearts, prayers will go out,
in a mass exodus of platitudes.
In the wake of the recent mass shooting
no one will ask how someone who can’t legally purchase alcohol
can purchase an assault rifle.
This observation, this juxtaposition
has become so obvious, so commonplace,
it no longer qualifies as an insight.
Las Vegas Language (Edit)
thoughts and prayers
hearts go out
difficult times
pledge to do
everything in our power
to end this blight
that threatens to destroy
the very fabric
of this great nation
well….
no one actually said
that last one.
One hour into the folkfest
and a mellow, minor key, melancholy
is seeping into Slim’s bones,
he feels it like an arthritic ache
and he wishes that someone
would duck walk across the stage
shooting staccato bursts of distorted guitar
at the chill, Tilley clad audience
who, unlike Slim, have a default mode
other than anger.
I thought I would reprise this one. I spent yesterday at the Vancouver Folk Festival. The photograph shows the on-site solar-powered ATM. The ATM is housed in a Volkswagen van which is indicative of the post Woodstock festival vibe, in fact some of the people looked like they may have been at Woodstock. At times they must have felt, looking at the current generation of festival-goers, that they were looking at their former selves – long straight air, flowing dresses, tie-dyed shirts, garlands, beards, that swirling hippy dance. The solar-powered ATM is indicative of the environmental consciousness or conscience of the event ( there are attendants at each garbage bin station to ensure that people make the right recycling choice).
In recent years, local authorities have allowed a beer garden, which means that beer can be purchased and consumed behind a chain-linked fence but not carried around the festival grounds. This is good in that beer is available but having to drink in a compound dampens the free spirit vibe a little bit. It is ironic that at the Republican Convention this week, guns can be open-carried and here in Vancouver, it is forbidden to open-carry a beer. Sometimes erring on the side of safety is a good thing.
Some great acts that I hadn’t heard before = the Moulettes, San Firmin, Hayes Carll.
Stopdraggingthepanda 