PsyOps Theater (Desert Storm)

Dear American Soldier, are you prepared to die for a barrel of oil?
Dear Iraqi Soldier, we are a Multinational Force with overwhelming air superiority.
Would you like to be one of the cripples who are only lamented in the charity ceremonies?
We want you to know the truth! It is the actions of Saddam Hussein which have forced the world to war with Iraq.
You know you cannot win against our fearsome troops and the invincible best friend of Allah.
We have no desire to harm innocent people, but Saddam is leading you to certain death.
Put down your bombs. Demand to go home. You are weary of sand and sun and sweat on your body from senseless aggression.
Resistance is purposeless. The outcome is inevitable. Kuwait will be free from Saddam’s aggression.
You are secretly admiring the great leader, Saddam Hussein, and asking yourself, “Why am I here?”.
Your fellow soldiers along the entire front have either surrendered or were killed by our bombs.
How do you like our Arab lands where you cannot get a Kentucky Fry Big Mac to eat and you are always missing your half-naked, immoral sweetheart back home.
Save yourselves and head toward the Saudi border where you will be welcomed as a brother.
Your American president is losing allies.  He is like the stupid fox that enters into the house of the clever fox.
To seek refuge safely, remove the magazine from your weapon, raise both arms above your head and approach our forces slowly.
Your Arab allies will turn their weapons against U.S. soldiers instead of Iraqis.
If you do this you will not die.
Why be dead for your president’s dumb mistake?

Childish Things

Church bells clank and clamor,

welcoming the shuffle of the devout
ascending stone chapel steps.

As a youth, I was among them,

dutiful and wide-eyed, 

walking in the light of the redeemed
at my father's side.  

The sanctuary greeted us

with the scent

of varnished pews,

leather-bound hymnals,

heavily perfumed matrons.

The bells sang
of a warring celestial realm, 

hidden from the sinner's eye, 

where white-winged cherubs 

collide with silver-tongued devils
in a storybook crusade 

for man's eternal soul.  

The price of entry:

        our untried imagination 

        laid bare upon an altar 

        gilded with the blood sacrifice 

        frightened ancestors 

        bargained to appease 

        a jealous Divine.  

The promise of paradise

quickened our step,

held our gaze upward 

to the heavenly chorus ringing

from the bell tower.  

We received it
with unquestioning assent,

heard it spoken

in parable and psalm,

understood it as children

counting the days

until Christmas,

certain of the treasures 

awaiting god-fearing 

boys and girls. 

Believing came easy 

as skinning a knee.

**First published in In Parenthesis literary journal

Other Women

He encounters her daily, 

on the streets, the television, 

at the pool,
in bars, airports, 

laundromats and supermarkets.

Sometimes she is brunette, 

other times blonde, 

recurrently Asian, Latina 

or African-American.  

Once, she was a blind, ginger

concert pianist.

Always lively and aloof 

with an irreverent smile

and hips that swing 

to the devil's groove.  

He imagines their life together:

    days sparked 

    with high adventure, 

    rapturous nights 

    of fellowship and fucking, 

    vacations 

    on the Coast of Mexico.  

It would not be work.

She would prepare breakfast for him 

and tend to her garden 

on weekends.

She would have her own money, 

an inheritance from a birth father 

possessed of the grace to pass away 

before their engagement.

There would be few arguments 

between them,
and she would respect the artist, 

careful not to distract him 

with trivial matters 

such as house cleaning 

or automotive repair.

He would call her, Mi Dama Amante, 

and dedicate his works to her.

But for her fixation 

with ceramic lawn gnomes, 

she would be impeccable.

The meddling midget devils.

He cannot stand them

posted like sentinels about the lawn, 

scrutinizing every movement.

Even her younger sister agrees, 

the gnomes are a peculiar fetish.

The sister lives in West Hollywood, 

teaches yoga and dances professionally.

She laughs at his jokes.  

He thinks of her often.

Convinced she is adrift

without him.


**First published in Bluing the Blade, and winner of the "Bragi Poetry Award" at Tempered Runes Press.

Iyla Grace 6.0

  Iyla Grace 6.0 was released today.  My favorite feature is her growing empathy for the world outside herself.  Iyla will chastise my jaded regard for some humans with a simple, sweet charge:  "Papa, care for the world." ... I will try, Little Buddy.  Happy Birthday!

Amsterdam (2018)

Amsterdam, more than my beloved hometown, Austin, Texas, more than Chicago, San Francisco, Miami or New York, more than any American city, Amsterdam draws me into her orbit.  Only New Orleans approaches her easy charm.  A city older than the promise of the New World, Amsterdam has exorcised the demons of austerity – suffered and bled for it – and emerged a wise and mischievous soul ... A city that embraces the full human story and celebrates life as it is.

The Ancient Greeks Knew This

Young men without women 

live in a cracked and faded rooming house

at the corner of Lehigh Street 

and University Drive.

A bare, wrought-iron porch straddles 

the face of the house, 

furnished with a lone, derelict sofa.  

The men grind their backs into the sofa springs,
purse their lips on beer bottles and cigarettes, 

the bottles sucked dry then smashed 

against the pavement below.

Packaged meats are slapped onto a flaming grill, 

split and blistered, 

then devoured with ferocious appetites 

while disinterested young women 

stop along the sidewalk 

so their dogs may shit on the unkempt lawn.

The men eyeball the women 

and joke about what they'd like to do to them,
and their dogs.  

By afternoon, blood boils 

from the heat of the day, 

evoking raucous collegiate chants 

and uproarious feats of strength.  

They spar like wrestlers in the arena,

barefoot and bellicose, 

stripped to their blue jeans. 

Sweaty bodies entwine in ritual combat 

punctuated by breathless displays 

of virile comradery:

        the chest bump, 

        the bear hug, 

        the double high five.

To escape their awkwardness, 

the men pour whiskey shots 

and embellish tales of sexual conquest 

until the long shadow of fatigue 

forces a reluctant surrender.

They retreat, each to his solitary space.  

And it's a stark, lonely place, that old house, 

beneath the cover of midnight 

when desperate hands slick with desire 

are drawn under soiled sheets 

and hot, August winds shake the rotting timber 

long stood between erotic passions 

yearning to be released 

and fraternal pleasures 

they dare not name.

The Exalted Ones

They meet in the back rooms of coffee houses,
wine bars and bookstores.  

Some send their stuff to the magazines.  

They write about rejection, isolation, 

the tragic human condition, failed love.

They drag their friends along to ensure applause
and run up the flag declaring 

'POETRY NIGHT!'.

Organizers claim poetic awareness their intent,
but no one comes to the stage holding 

a god-damn unity candle for their audience.

Even the ones preaching Love and Peace

angle for the spotlight,

for a chance to be heard and understood.

They shout over cigarette smoke 

and cappuccino machines. 

Much of it is soft, overly-garnished
treatment of standard themes, 

or unintelligible, angst-riddled banter.

Professor observes from the corner table, 

applauding, half-sincere.  

He also writes poetry, a good deal more carefully.  

His collection of haiku is for sale

beside the pastry display.

Afterwards, they congratulate and embrace
as new hopes are raised and new poems
find their way to the magazine editors.

I linger.  I clap.
I pick up the magazines.  

Nothing happens.

Has exalted poetry gone the way of the Aztecs?

Where is our Whitman?  Our Rimbaud?

Our howling Ginsberg?  

Where is the voice that rattles the room,

burning without permission?

We trade polished lines, measured outrage,

small revelations calibrated for applause.

I await my turn at the microphone,

longing to taste the exquisite madness 

of unbridled souls,
for a righteous voice to rise 

and torch this complacent landscape, 

deliver us from sedate, coffee-house prose, 

weakling academics absent grit or vision, 

and tired, angry verse 

such as this.