OH MY ACCELERATING

oh my accelerating
weakness of flesh
and mind -- the undeniable
decaying of everything i think of
as mine, save for spirit,
which soldiers on some days
better than others. gone

is the short-term memory;
in its place the long-term
grows ever more fine: yes!
(i remember that one time.)

woe is my mantra, the sound
of the space between
my ragged breaths. i ache
and remember everything
trivial, each moment stripped
of context, and i no longer
consider what might come next.

OUR WAY OUT

there is little true poverty
left in america. right?

the 99% have electricity,
clean water, indoor plumbing
and a fridge full

of processed "food."
(it's all good.) except for
the hole in our collective
american soul, of course,
which explains our corn-fed,
over-stuffed corpus maximus.

(what is wrong with us?)
for better or for worse

we are an unwed mess
of oversexed dilettantes (at best),
or churched-up philistines
wielding Ayn Rand philosophies (no less).

it doesn't take religion
to enter the kingdom.
and actions libel the bible
more effectively than blasphemy.

why not spend our free
speech compassionately? maybe
we could love our way
out of poverty.

GET ME OUT OF HERE

conference call people
carry on as if
heaven were assured –
when who knows

if it's even there –
but they’re all, “who cares

what happens here
in this unprecious now,
impress us, like wow,"

and they're like
"blah blah budgets,
blah blah weekend,
blah blah beer
blah blah the Dow.”

as if silence were
a slippery slope
downward, a tilting
toward (rather than at) fear,

filling space with chatter
and feigned good
cheer, as if banter
were a beacon rather than
the headlight to their deer.

WHAT IS TO BE DONE

once we found shallow consolation in knowing

though all will surely die one day
we might leave traces – DNA,

a poem, a hospital wing or vacation
home, graffiti – temporarily, behind.

further studies have revealed the eventual dimming

of the sun and the resulting withdrawal
of life from everything and everyone

begging the question:
what is
to be
done.

TIME TO GO (for Christopher Hitchens)

people suspect funny stuff
from dead folks:

all the supposed spinning
and rolling over in the grave,

the notion of ghosts hovering
over shoulders, and brave souls

trolling the realms of the real
in search of closure. perhaps

what we need is a cosmic bouncer
to make it supernaturally clear:

"you don't have to go home
but you can't stay here."