The country is upside down.
The three stooges, somehow,
got control of the buttons:
Mickey Mouse is in charge
of the House, Goofy the Senate,
Snidely Whiplash Wall Street,
and Timothy Leary the electorate.
Cartoon characters acid trip across
my cable news like narco-induced
comic strip looney tunes. The
Pentagon is under the joint control
of Daffy Duck and Attila the Hun.
Soupy Sales clones are in charge of
the cities, while the Nutty Professor
oversees the universities and the
Keystone Cops patrol the crumbling
neighborhoods. Call the cavalry!
Call the infantry! Call Mighty Mouse!
Dick Tracey! The lame, sick, halt,
blind, yearning to be free of misery
are about to be thrown out into the
streets when they lose their Medicare
and Social Security! Call Batman!
Superman! The Green Lantern!
Spiderman! There must be a better
way to handle this situation, before
we all succumb to the disintegration
of life as we’ve known it and know
it should be! Where are all our
BORN TO LOSE
Like a death rattle of wind chimes
playing the desperate cry’s of hard
times, through dark, despairing notes
across the shivering rhythms of their
hearts and souls, the lost generation
wanders the recession, searching for
salvation from life’s regression, hoping
too little, too late won’t come from
whatever can change their fate.
It’s the music sensation that’s sweeping
the nation – the beat of a dream’s retreat.
You can hear it in Chicago, in the Motor
City, in Philadelphia, PA, Kansas City,
down in New Orleans, all across the
The streets, here, remember nothing
that matters. Night and day, the
pounding of machinery from the
smoke-stacked factories, punctuated
by the rumble of freight trains, is the
dream-stream that babbles through
your brain from waking to sleeping,
and in a muffled way, dreaming to
waking. Funerals, weddings, the
patriotic holiday festivities, vary them,
now and then, with small gatherings
of working class men, women and their
children. But they quickly return to their
ghost-walked dead ends, amidst clouds
of smoke and bunkered down residents.
These are mean streets, at best, lost in an
existential forgetfulness, much diminished
from the times that created them, when
hard labor brought enough pay to enrich
them – days when the incessant pounding
didn’t take its toll on your soul because at
the end of each your life had something to
show. These are streets which no longer
care to remember, but occasionally
reminisce about the good old days and
tales of lost bliss. Memories, here, are
like pennies now, all from heaven, of
course, because life is precious, yet at
the same time worthless. One each day,
perhaps for your thoughts, which you
lose as you collect them to the wishing
wells of Time’s misfortune, dreaming of
other streets you might have walked, long
ago, when legend proposed they were
paved with gold.