Trick or treat, smell my feet

Halloween

Sacks of candy from big box stores,

Grab bags jammed

With Jetblue

Drams of sweetness,

heavenly hosts of sameness

bestowed

on the stoops of each

and every house

on my block,

Plenty Good

for the endless line of petitioning

Marvel and Disney

intangible assets

interspersed

with vampires and the odd

Freddie. 

I’ll admit to sleepwalking my way

through this pagan ritual

until a pint size Winston Churchill

presented himself and sent me

scurrying to the scullery

for Bombay gin

in a highball glass, the MP

no sooner having weaved  

off into the night

than appeared

a ragtag gaggle

of beggars.

Reagan and Leary

Armstrong, Hitchens and Grant

crying out for jellybeans

acid and EPO,

single malt and Cuban cigars,

threatening all manner of mayhem

and dirty tricks when low

and behold 

as if on cue

a late arriving Cheney

deftly shoving

Molly Ivins

into the shrubbery

while asking sweetly

for nitroglycerine

and a Dum-Dum for his little brother George. 

mechanics of speech

Lisp

Onomatopoetic name graces

a childhood affliction, if affliction

it is.  Betrayed at the hands of the tongue,

longing to lash out, roll ball lightning vowels

around in my mouth and feel the stitching

abrade my lips, bite off die cast ingot

consonants, debride them, gnash their cunning

angles and curves into hot lead and spray

belts of bullets in staccato patterns,

laying down a field of fire where I’ll

stand and let the wind blow through rib and strut,

whistling through old gaps in the armature. 

If Turnips Were Swords

Progress

If wishes were horses

beggars would ride,

those not lost that is

in a good book,

the lowly spirited away

to another place,

another time  

only to find

upon their return

books had gone the way

of horses, wishes

only words

on bound

printed pages

in the hands

of beggars. 

 

I Concede

Concession Speech

This has been a long, tough race.  We gave it everything we had, but sadly, it just wasn’t enough.  With heart heavy and broken I concede defeat.  Before I leave the stage, however, I have some people to thank.  Without them, the outcome of this contest would have never been in doubt

The Independent Voter.  An otherwise sentient, intelligent fellow, the GOP managed to convince just enough of you that throwing in with wealthy, white, corporate America was in your best interest.  Tomorrow you’ll awaken to Christmas morning, anticipating presents.  A secure job with good pay and benefits could be wrapped with a bow, waiting just for you beneath the tree.  There may be a bit of a wait, however.  You’ll be in line behind lots of people with better connections than you who spent a great deal of money to buy a government custom tailored just for them.  Their desires and yours do not necessarily converge.  In the end you’ll take what they give you and be grateful for it. 

The Incumbent.  The publishing industry is poised to ride a prosperous wave of books well into the future, about your historic Presidency and the 2012 campaign.  Scholarly and not so scholarly books that will examine your motivations, psyche, decisions, personal demons, advisors, childhood, family, health, astrological chart, anything and everything that could help to explain the loss of such promise.  I think I’ll just wait for the movie, Mr. President. 

Grover Norquist.  Nork-man!  You just may pull it off after all, you sly, old fox.  Starving the beast, I mean.  Everyone will be walking around flush with all the cash they didn’t pay in taxes.  Good thing.  They’ll need every penny to pay market price to private companies for things like medical care, emergency and protective services, rainy day stuff like job loss, catastrophic injury due to accidents or medical malpractice, education, infrastructure, safe food, water and medicine and care in their old age.  Any remaining tax revenue, of course, will continue to funnel to military contractors, the fossil fuel industry and bankers in need of bailouts.  You, of all people, know the true meaning of an ownership society. 

God.  You may not be aware, but your name gets invoked regularly by your more rabid followers.  What they couldn’t achieve honestly in the open market of public opinion will be legislated and adjudicated by elected officials and their appointees in gratitude for their long-time support.   Already absolutely certain, a win will render them insufferable.  Didn’t this come up when you and the Founding Fathers met in Philly? 

Progressives and Women.  It was cold on election day.  It rained.  You were disillusioned. ‘08 was different, hopeful and pregnant with change.  He wasn’t a Bush or a Clinton.  The challenger moderated his stance on contraception.  Hey, look at it this way.  A generation or two from now, decades of right-wing rule may foster a nascent opposition with real conviction and a sense of moral authority. 

Ayn Rand.  The pin-up gal for the I-Got-Mine set, that speed-popping, atheistic, lunatic.   All those long, lonely  Wisconsin nights a young, impressionable future Vice President-elect spent reading your stirring tales beneath the blanket with a flashlight were not for naught.  We salute those at the top, each and every man a John Galt!  We’re sorry if we’ve offended you in any way, O' masters of the universe, O' lords of job creation, O' risk-taking rock stars. 

Post-Racial America.   You elected the first black president because, hey, black culture is pretty hip up to a point and the white guy before him was such a train wreck.  We can all sleep easier knowing race had absolutely nothing to do with the level of animosity fueling the revitalization of the GOP and the Tea Party in particular. 

Well, I think I’ve remembered to thank everyone except my wife, parents and the unsung guys protecting this great country from the scourge of voter fraud.

Puppy Orientation

There Will Be Stairs

A leash, a bowl, at least one walk a day

two squares and all the flotsam and jetsam

you can cadge short of larceny from the

plate.  The park is close, an open maw that

must be appeased, sere indifferent god with

this strange affinity for tennis balls  

offered up in prayerful overhand arcs.  

Let’s hope you’re no fetching unbeliever,  

the rational type thwarting every gift  

sent aloft, dropping Nietzsche and endless 

filthy Spauldings at my feet.  You can count

on rides in the car and walks in the woods

year round, red bandana in winter, a

dash of color on the canvas of a

painting we’ll never finish, returning

again and again to a stark landscape

vibrating with ranks of vertical tines

issuing from ribbons of blue shadow

unfurled toward dusk, a field of white festooned

with your bold smudges of heedless yellow.

There will be stairs to lever and convey

us up and down, in and out, a benign

case that will metastasize as we age

along parallel tracks, dwarfing us one

unexpected evening in spring, coffee

programmed, door closed on one final circuit

of the backyard, a series of slow drips

and drabs to remind you why you went out

in the first place, a familiar artless

dance among dogs and men of a certain

mien.  We’ll stand wordless, moon waning through

an upper pane, day spent, our long shared trail

behind us, a moment’s hesitation

at the bottom of the looming well then

up to bed where I’ll lay awake until

the sound of your breathing falls in step with

the warm night breeze that rustles the curtains

and seeds our dreams, here to beckon us out

for a walk off the leash through woods stirring  

green, last cones of snow bidding us farewell.