When It’s All Over

After Neptune and Amphitrite, his wife,
The harpies, gorgons, and nymphs, Proteus
And Scylla, and hosts of lesser deities,
Who are these nobodies fomenting strife,
As though revenge wars were the only use
Of an immortal life beneath the seas?
“Not even a rape, just sly flirtation,”
But theft of an old conch, cracked and silent,
Can lead to the thrusting of a trident
Toward flesh transformed, sickened by mutation.
Lost to memory, they may soon be gone,
Even the famous of the pantheon.
No catastrophe did they perpetrate,
No mass drowning, no tsunami of hate.

The Jack-In-The-Box Dictator

The jack-in-the-box dictator dominates,
Green scowl squeezing envy into hate.
Sinners pray to his nibs in the store window.
Draped in gold chains, clutching His scepter,
He laughs in a ruthless show of temper.
Henchmen wait for new orders from below.
Beautiful cities outlive their architecture,
Columns collapse, statuary crumbles,
"Return my faith," a lame crone mumbles.
Speeches, even sermons, become lectures,
Endless repetitions, what everybody knows.
When the militia deploys, the catacombs
Fill with refugees and silenced deserters.
No murderers here, only torturers.

Ships of Fools

The ships of fools — each one a pram —
A million in a small puddle
Full of people squealing, “I am!” —
A multitudinous muddle —
Even the largest has no rudder.
Beneath the overcrowded weight
The untarred bow plankings shudder —
When they burst there be men for bait.
Till then the riotous party,
Victorious, brave and hearty,
Gorges and drinks to their winning
Saint they love most when he’s sinning.
A busted lute leads them in song:
“Dam’ned they be, both right and wrong!”

American Vultures

The circus train cars abandoned decades ago,
The circuit of America now belongs to vultures,
Who once followed the elephants and clowns
Like starved, yearning runaways, an exiled sideshow.
Now, as then, they only eat the unclean, if pure,
Scraps of disease or murder on the edge of town.
It exasperates them, winging round and round,
With only frowning little girls and unplanted
Trees, shrubs, and ancient sawdust on the ground.
We know that of all fowl we're the most unwanted,
But those tiny birdbaths are simply insulting.
Tattered flesh, the stench of decay, our putrid breath -- 
From a vulture's field of view nothing can be revolting.
We soar, bubbles of gold, spiraling death.

The Mask of Fear

The mask doesn’t reach ear to ear.

It has one eye through which to peer.

(Not all you see is pure and clear.)

It does not change how you appear,

Or turn you into a seer,

Nor prevent you being a hearer.

It will hide an impolite leer

And a few, not many a tear.

You must lift it to sip your beer,

But not to look in the mirror.

Someone will say to you, My Dear,

There’s nothing in your life to fear.

As if you are blind, they will steer

You off the end of a pier.

The Sleep of Reason Breeds Monsters

A compelling thought -- though owls, cats, and bats?
Hardly horrific. So, why should we be afraid?
We dream nonsensical sequences and shifty
Machinations of strangers with their brutal acts,
While mirrors try to remember all that was said,
Before we wake to dull, half-lit reality.
The real monsters are familiars, the mundane beasts
That could turn on us in uncountable numbers,
Always there and ready to amass and devour,
But forbear vengeance as long as we do not cease
To recognize, analyze, judge, and remember.
"Return our stares -- we will always flee and cower,
But abandon yourselves, fail to think and do well,
Our minions will claw out your heart, swallow your will."

The Eighth Circle of Hell

This, the eighth circle of Hell, where liars and frauds
Turn thwarted ambition to violent attacks,
Is the last reward for all political hacks
(Who “righteously” lied in the name of their gods).
Men of faith bite the throats of men of reason.
They tear at children with blood-stained fingers
And vow to prove vast conspiracies of treason,
Calling to chambers testimonial singers.
Lawyers and judges cringe, impotent witnesses,
Appalled by acts born of conviction, yet witless.
The less guilty, forgers and fibbers, writhe like snakes
To flee the melee, though they voted for these fakes.
Above, a bald Lucifer’s grimace hardens
As he grants all his dear minions pardons.