The end zones are a brilliant blue,
not a sky blue or a sea blue —
a synthetic blue,
the blue of paint and plastic.
The lines are perfect, ruler straight,
ramrod straight, each number,
every hashmark exactly perfect.
They call it synthetic now instead of artificial.
The logic behind it is flawless:
no watering needed, long lifespan,
no fertilizer, completely recyclable,
the infill an ideal use for old tires.
The crowd of parents and family enthusiastic as ever, the athletes
as competitive, the victor as proud,
the defeated as disappointed.
There is no smell, no desire to breathe
in nature. The fibers of grass have the feel
of a six-pack holder, ground-up rubber
does not crumble when rubbed in your hands.
It is a perfect day: sunny,
a cool breeze, scattered wisps
of clouds overhead,
an imitation of earth underfoot.
Life is overrated, life is complicated.
I listened to an interview with the man
known as Iggy Pop — the current, older,
haggard looking man, the survivor
of many hard lived years — and he spoke
with a modicum of embarrassment
of joy at this point in his life being
found in simply sharing time
with those who loved him.
He gazed out the window as he talked
about a perfect day being hot,
a humid, heavy, hot you carry like
the memory of a lover,
and of walking onto the beach,
staring at the sand merging with the water,
and finding in the waves and the cries
of sea birds an end of complication.
Somewhere in his musing there
is a song he forgot to write,
a lesson about life youth refuse
to believe and only the old fully
on the back side of youth, we all realize
we are in a race, a quest,
to find joy in simplicity
before the final
end of complication.
I remember the salsa being spicy,
the guacamole fair, but bland.
The beer was cold,
the tequila smooth.
I can remember the blue
neon reflected on
the suface of the liquid,
the ripples reminding me
me of calm waves on the clearest ocean.
I remember the glow of the cigarette,
illuminating my reflection
in the mirror behind the bar,
the smoke obscuring the features
of those around me.
I do not know what time we left the bar,
but I do remember color of her shirt
and the color of her eyes,
and the look on her face
when I called out your name.
Yes, mourn the senseless death, but do not pretend he was no criminal.
They release Christian blood into the sea, and we refuse to name them.
Is there no alternative to the hypocrisy of politics?
A wife burns in a Pakistani honor killing; the world ignores.
Political correctness will be the weapon of the final blow.
The soldier mourns his fallen comrades, the veteran mourns his country.
At first glance, senseless seemed
an appropriate word — something
stupid or foolish — for the actions
splashed on front pages
radiation levels rise in the sands
of the middle-east, premonition
Nordic fighter jets rise to meet
the tests of Bolshevik bombers,
memories of colder times
U.S. Special Forces train amongst
their own, invading towns where
civilians may become known as enemy
Allies are treated as enemies,
old secrets revealed,
history forgotten, or ignored
In Ferguson, it is no longer a matter
of black against white — as if it ever was —
as black protestors attack black cops
then I read the other definition — done
or happening for no reason — and realized
the problem; there has to be a reason,
we just haven’t figured it out…yet.
The cries of children echo amidst
the cold mountain winds, while reporters
try to dig a ‘why’ from a crash site
Life’s longest moments,
are filled with a lack of news.
Waiting room boredom.
Filed under Haiku, Poetry
Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses…
and we will feed them
we will clothe them
pay them not to work
provide for their healthcare
care for their children
and tell them what to eat
and indoctrinate them in free schools
give them phones
and pay their utilities
subsidize their debt
pretend to provide for them in retirement
and promise them more
all the while denying them the chance
to ever be more than
tired, poor, huddled masses
with no dreams
who have forgotten
what it is to breath free