Biker in the Park

 BIKER IN THE PARK

Not the kind of guy

            You'd like to meet in the park

                        On a Sunday afternoon.

Burly biker,

            Big arms covered in tattoos,

                        Backward red baseball cap,

            Scraggly blond goatee,

                        Levi vest over

                                    Rough clothes.

Drinking a canned Margarita.

But the Asian toddler

            Kept running back to him

                        No matter how many times

            His head scarfed mother caught him

Reaching for the shiny Margarita can.

"Must be 'cause I'm a new father," he said.

            "Congratulations," I said.

"Yeah, two days ago. Baby girl.

            She and her mama

                        Are here in the hospital."

            The hospital was adjacent.

"Wanna see her picture?"

            "Sure."

Pulled out his phone, scrolled down,

            Found the pix he took of

His new baby girl

            In her mama's arms.

                        Mama was black,

                                    Baby was brown.

"Beautiful baby," I said.

"I think so, but I'm biased."

            "All fathers are," I said.

                        "What kind of work you do?"

"Construction, roofing, this and that,

            Jack of all trades.

                        I do what I can."

His life story poured out.

            It wasn't the great story

                        His mama wanted for him.

Or his dad, who said he should stay in school.

            To hell with that.

                        He wanted fast money, now.

Started dealing coke at 18,

            Spent time in prison.

                        Hard to find a job after that.

His dad was right.

            About everything.

Fought in Vietnam.

            Came home.

                        Started reading Howard Zinn,

            Chomsky, Smedley Butler.

                        Heard of them?

            I nodded.

Dad wondered what he fought for.

So the biker in the park read his dad's books.

            Learned about

                        Trickle-down economics.

"It's piss on you economics," the biker said.

            "You got that right," I agreed.

"Yeah, we need more socialism, man."

            "You a socialist?" I asked.

The biker looked at me.

            "I want the roads fixed,

                        I want the trash picked up,

            I want a fire department,

                        I want better health care

                                    For my wife and baby.

            Is that socialism?"

"Some would say so," I said.

            "Then, what the hell?

                        Then maybe I am.

            All I know is,

                        The further right you go,

            The more wrong you are,

                        Unnerstand?"

I nodded. "I understand."

"Well, I gotta go."

            The biker finished his Margarita

                        And tossed the shiny can

            The Asian toddler wanted

                        In the trash.

"I got two little ladies waiting for me.

            Nice talkin' to ya."

The biker held out his hand and we shook.

            I noted the big tattoo

                        On his right forearm.

            "Dear Mama," it said.

He turned around his red baseball cap

            And adjusted it as he left.

                        "Free Palestine," it said.

American Reich

 AMERICAN REICH

The flags of the American Reich

            Fly all across America.

One side is the Stars & Stripes,

            The other,

                        The Confederate crossbones.

Armored personnel carriers

            Patrol the streets of blue cities

And masked men,

            With tattoos on their arms

                        And guns in their hands,

            Stop citizens and ask

                        To see their papers

            Before disappearing them

                        Into American gulags.

Here they came first

            For the brown-skinned ones.

                        Then the scientists,

            Doctors,

                        Teachers,

            Any who knew too much,

                        Any who thought too much,

            Any who wrote too much.

Few listened

            As the spurned prophets,

                        Crying in the wilderness,

            Howled out their horror

                        Of those with

                                    Dust in their souls.

            Now we drown in our own tears.

Thoughts & Prayers

 THOUGHTS & PRAYERS

A new mass shooting,

            At a church, school, game, concert.

We send thoughts and prayers.

Counter Insurgency

COUNTER INSURGENCY

"America is a hellscape,"

            The Emperor ranted.

"Only I can save it."

            And the troops mobilized.

                        **********

"Violent crime is sweeping America,"

            The Emperor raved.

"Only I can end it."

            And the troops moved out.

                        **********

"Domestic extremists want to destroy us,"

            The Emperor railed.

"Only I can find them."

            And the troops seized the cities.

                        **********

Opposition politicians were arrested.

            Judges were jailed.

                        Congress was closed.

            Independent media were shuttered.

                        Elections were canceled.

            Those who protested

                        Were rounded up

                                    And disappeared.

It was a textbook

            Counter insurgency operation.

                        The Emperor was pleased.

Wake Up, America

 WAKE UP, AMERICA

Wake up, America,

            You are losing your democracy.

Wake up, America,

            You are losing your freedom.

Wake up, America,

            You are losing the American Dream.

Wake up, America,

            You are losing the land of the free.

Wake up, America,

            It's not too late

                        To be the home of the brave.

Wake up, America,

            It's not too late

                        To be the Mother of Exiles.

Wake up, America,

            It's not too late

                        To reclaim America.

Wake up, America,

            It's not too late

                        To be America again.

Wake up, America,

            It's time you woke.

At The Zoo

AT THE ZOO

The Emperor spoke from his throne.

His cabinet listened closely to his drone.

He spoke of whales, snails, and wooly sheep.

His cabinet nodded, fighting sleep.

                        **********

The Emperor spoke of shower heads,

He spoke of windmills, and then he said,

While brandishing his whip,

"I want you all to stand and strip."

                        **********

All stood as one and quickly stripped,

Fearing that they'd be whipped

If any one did dare protest,

If any one did fail the test.

                        **********

"Now," the Emperor said, "bark like dogs,

And others squeal like hogs."

The throne room filled with barking dogs,

The throne room filled with squealing hogs.

                        **********

And the press corps grew quite queasy

As it saw how easy

It was to turn what had once been men

Into barking squealing animals in a pen.

Ozzy

            OZZY

Her first rock concert.

            She saw Ozzy at sixteen.

Gray hair, with a cane.

Personal Paparazzo

 PERSONAL PAPARAZZO

We are the paparazzi of our lives.

            No one chases us.

                        We chase ourselves.

We sit down to a meal.

            We whip out our cellphone.

                        We snap a foto.

                                    We send it out.

            Isn't it a beautiful meal?

                        **********

We dress for an evening out.

            At arm's length

                        Our personal paparazzo

            Holds out the camera,

                        Smiles and hits send.

                                    How cool we look!

                        **********

Our fans want to know

            Where we are,

                        What we're eating,

                                    What we're wearing

                                                What we're doing.

            Perhaps our fans will wonder

                        Are we prettier than them?

            Are we having more fun than them?

                        **********

Or perhaps they don't want to know.

            But we want them to know.

We want to believe

            We have a personal fan base.

                        We want to believe they care.

Farmers' Market

FARMERS' MARKET

Customers swarming like bees

            At the farmers' market.

Long line to have a farmer

            Bag my peaches.

So busy taking SNAP coupons

            So many paid him.

                        Government money.

            Soon to disappear, says Congress.

"Where's your help?" I asked.

            Mexicans used to bag my peaches.

"ICE," he said.

            "They all disappeared

                        When ICE appeared.

            Now I have no help."

"Thanks to Trump, eh?"

            "Hey, don't knock Trump.

                        He's owning the libs."

"I guess that's true," I said,

            As he took the SNAP coupons

                        From another customer.

"He's owning the libs."

New Regrets

 NEW REGRETS

Edith Piaf had no regrets.

            She wasn't like me.

                        I have a few.

Like Cyrano

            I can list all the things

                        That could have been said,

                                    But weren't,

                        That should have been done,

                                    But wasn't.

The list would be a long scroll,

            Falling to the floor

                        And unrolling across it

            Until it banged against the far wall.

But all the regrets on that list are in the past,

            And we don't live in the past.

We live in the present,

            Which has already disappeared

                        As we plunge into the future.

We look at the past and we say

            Woulda, coulda, shoulda,

But we can't change the past.

            Not even God can change the past.

But we can learn from the past

            So, perhaps,

                        In that undiscovered country

            To which we are headed,

We will have completely new regrets.

Prague Spring

PRAGUE SPRING

That year

            The seasons were confused in Prague.

 The calendar said

         It was August 20th, 1968,

                Summer,

                        And it was hot.

But the earlier season lingered.

It was still spring in Prague,

                And Dubcek was still

                            First Secretary

                Of the Czech Communist Party.

He assured Brezhnev,

                In Moscow,

                            That he was still loyal,

                                        Still a Communist.

But to the Czech people he promised

                There would be reforms,

                            Economic reforms,

                                        Political reforms.

                There would be freedom of speech

                            And freedom of thought.

He promised

                "Communism with a human face."

The next day turned suddenly cold.

                Moscow's tanks

                            Rolled across the border

                And into Prague.

It was August 21st, 1968,

                And that year

                            Winter came early to Prague.