Hey Poets— I know some of you have time to burn. Why not listen to these echoes from the Roman ruins for a while until, set free from earthly moorings, ready or not, you are launched into eternity to meet your righteous maker.
Dual Airbags
Give him a skinhead, insignia, boots
Less scruples, a swagger-stick, crowds, money.
No black shirts visible. Just business suits,
and pride is restored: tragic but funny.
Proud like a skyscraper, godless as sin
Babylonian promises, towering lies
Reality shows when plutocrats win,
Their rhetoric raining from empty skies.
She-wolves, elected by uninformed sheep
behave predictably, eyeing the flock
Their wool (and the lamb-chops) are hers to keep
Grazing voter—this should come as no shock.
It’s a bitter pill (more like pilloried)
So shall we now be Trumped or Hillary-ed?
Casually Sensibly Clad
Dumpy semi-feminine somethings,
ambling rotund wrecks of time—
wraiths of increased girth and grayness;
womanhood unsublime . . .
Where the dignity in aging ?
Where a minimal decorum?
Could you not yet bear some vestige
presentable in public forum?
All I see are jowly short-hairs:
Dressed to dullness, clipped-face mean.
Form subsumed by frumpy function;
drab routine.
Surely God has taken vengeance
stealing thus your womanhood.
Is this sloth? Or liberation
. . . misunderstood.
Other cultures guard some glory,
seem to age with more élan:
picture nomads, desert queens
of Mythistan.
Chiseled faces, sculpted hard
by time and faith and fate and God
lines unsoftened by abundance
I applaud.
The Godless West lays waste to glory.
Is our ease of life to blame?
Casual geriatric matrons
bring us shame.
Is it North American only?
Is this just genetic traits?
All such mortal non-description
insults the fates.
La Fabulosa
My idol walks. Behold her beauty
born of Nicaraguan night
summoning poetic duty:
tremors of volcanic light!
Clouds of ash and lava dropping:
I come back… I going shopping.
Sounding her primeval waters
crater lakes, her green lagoons,
fabulous—this diverse daughter’s
humid palms and storm-tossed moons;
ascending up her jungle mount:
Transfer dinero to my account !
Stone-faced idol, pre-conquista;
rice with beans or sacred maize
labyrinthine Latin vista,
cumbias and sacred lays.
Hurricanes and quaking earth:
Gringo, what your dollar worth?
She who left her quaint dysfunction
reeking of colonial woes
for the multi-culti junction,
holy in her porno-pose;
scowling like exploited nations:
How you say… congratulations!
Gushing like a flow of lava
running down her placid gaze,
ripened flesh; the scent of guava,
passion-fruit in paraphrase…
Monkeys howling, torrents pouring:
Poetry to me is boring…
Rubén Darío’s wonderland:
Flor de Caña the anesthetic.
Marx’s tropic reprimand:
Sandinismo as emetic.
Verses don’t impress this lass:
Please—the car need fill with gas.
Lost in hurricanes of thought,
pounding the roof, God pours, it rains.
What was it, really, that I sought
In her land where the poetry reigns ?
It’s love. At times I long to shoot her:
(Why you waste time on that computer?)
