I keep a revolution in my satchel

I keep a revolution in my satchel
It’s small and bearded
Very Che Guvaray
I found it online
But they sell them at Urban Outfitters
It’s black and bespectacled
Very Malcom Xy
Yippied and Big-Nosed
Very Abbie Hoffmany
My revolution is gorgeous
Bite-sized and balding
Very Mao Tse Tsungy
It’s great for parties.
Blood red and Mustachioed
Very Joseph Staliny
Mysterious and Militant
Very Vladamir Leniny
All dreadlocked and doobied
Very Marcus Garveyy
While not televised
It has a killer iPhone app
Out of all the places to keep a revolution
I keep the power of the people in my purse

Happy 50th Birthday Mom



Fruits of the Spirit

She is unconditional.
Agape with thick black hair;
Extending gracious embraces.

A laugh so infectious the night smiles.
Humoring through hardships with serious content,
Her strength so obvious.

Like a river, tumbling perfectly still.
Making treaties with her eyes,
Cultivating harmony with her soft hands.

An artist of longsuffering,
She knows time will come.
Waiting; her dreams dance with a divine tomorrow.

Even to strangers her warmth is magnetic.
Tenderly striving to remain without enemy,
Her words serve souls.

Her reputation precedes her.
Virtuous in every way; Proverbially.
Like all of creation, she is good.

Always is her way of life.
Steadfast like a pillar, never letting down.
Loyalty as staunch as armies.

Holding hands at her hero’s bedside
Hymns on her lips and in her face
Gently her spirit caresses the pain.

Denying self she follows Him.
Bearing cross daily; arduously effortless.
Composed, she forms fruitful family.

Picture yourself on a raft in the ocean
Expansive emptiness; overcast skies
Somewhere beneath you, a rumble quite slowly
A beast with ambiguous eyes
Torrents exploding so grayish and black
Towering over your head
Look for Leviathans dark empty eyes
And it’s gone.

Princess in a tempest with dragons.

Follow it down to the floor of the ocean
Where underfed mermen eat navy supplies
Everyone weeps as you sink past the old ships
Full of bones that will never be dry
Newspaper rainstorms fill the horizon
Waiting to take you away
Escape from both faces; fierce as forever
And you’re gone.

Princess in a tempest with dragons.

Picture yourself after sea storms have settled
A sun in greyscale telling weatherman lies
Suddenly deep from the ocean around you
The beast with ambiguous eyes

Princess in a tempest with dragons.

This is a painting that my buddy Teddy did (click on the picture to see a clearer view) and I couldn't get the image out of my head after I saw it. I can't get the Beatles song, that this poem alludes to, from my brain either. (hint Princess = Lucy)

Check out more of Teddy's Art here

Hospital Thanksgiving

Something sad should be happening
With all the wires
But he won't let the sad come visit.

The night nurse, an east coast hispanic
Told him he wouldn't have to wear those Julumbo pants.
It's just as well with him.
The jokes are funnier pants-less.

That sad something should be happening
The way it smells
But farts can make a sad smell silly

The day nurse, a tall man-faced woman
Told him at 6 am to wake up and wash his groin
Apparently the way to man's heart
Is through his crotch

That sad something should be serious
Statistically speaking
But sometimes stories lighten up the numbers

He can say anything, to anyone, anytime
As long as he's in the bed
There's nothing sad about urine, stool, and sperm
Especially when he tells the part about the underwear

Shouldn't it be sad now. Seriously shouldn't it.
With all that happens next.
But only nothing happens now.

Crammed onto unfamiliar furniture with family
Gracefully God hangs from the walls' crucifix
Death has no sting, Nothing is serious
The Joy of the Lord is my strength. (Fart noise)

Ever since September 11th
Terry has tried to shy away
From his nickname
THE TERRORIST
It’s just not funny anymore.

Being known for terror
Wasn’t always so unpatriotic
The nineties were a different time
Not that there wasn’t terrorism
There just wasn’t a war on it.

Back in college
Terry liked his moniker
He had it embroidered
On the back of his Intramural
Disc golf T-shirt

He grew out his JewFro
And always sported a beard
On a dare from his roommate
He wore a real turban
For his driver’s license picture.

It is amazing how many girls
Thought Terry’s terror was sexy
His cynical detachment
And pseudo-bad boy persona
Landed him lady after lady

Being a lifelong tech guru
It only made since that in 1999
When Terrytheterrorist.com
Was available at a reasonable price
He started an Ironic political blog.

It was soon after this
He later found out during “questioning”
That the CIA opened a file
On Terry the Hebrew Terrorist
Who wore a turban while driving

In late September 2001
The terrorist bought a plane ticket
Back home to New York
He didn’t know how long he would stay
So he bought it one-way

He never made it to the funeral
The CIA met him at LAX
And put him on a private plane
Complete with complimentary
Hand cuffs and orange jump suit.

Central Intelligence in not known
For their sense of humor
In the mind of fascists
An ironic nickname becomes
A secret criminal alias

After 19 months of “questioning”
At undisclosed locations
Terry had a secret military trial
He was the only American Jew
Convicted under Patriot act.

At his 10 year college reunion
His disc golf buddies laughed
At the tale of alliteration gone wrong
But to Terry the Terrorist
It’s just not funny anymore.

Wilbur the Combat Wombat

Punch, kick, shoulder to the face
Wilbur takes no prisoners.
Tactically trained
By Homeland Security
Wilbur fights terrorism
And he fights dirty.

Punch, kick, forearm to the groin
Wilbur hates terrorists
A congressional commission
After 9-11 authorized
Wilbur to eliminate enemies
Wombat style

Punch, kick, finger in the eye
Wilbur fights to kill
From Afghan hills to
Baghdad streets
Wilbur the Combat Wombat
Means business

Punch, kick, elbow to the spleen
Wilbur is unstoppable.
Stealth like a virus
Belly crawling into caves
Wilbur hunts Osama
Bowie Knife in his mouth

Punch, kick, boot to the throat
Wilbur is an American hero
A cross between Superman
And a Wombat
Wilbur wants justice
Wombat justice

America: A Jerry Bruckheimer-ish Film
Rated R

All Politics Aside
It's time for an Assassination
No one in particular
The president comes to mind
But I would settle for a Vice
Or a Governator

If America is a Movie
And it is
We are in the long
Boring
Plot Thickening Middle
And I think it is time
For someone to get shot

Shot by some crazed
Out of work actor
Or something less cliché
Like a transvestite
Pro Wrestler
With Alzheimer's

There is too much talk
In Washington
And not enough
Getting Shot

As a citizen of this great country
I paid full price for my ticket
And I don't care who's in power
Nothing takes my mind off
The problems of the world
Like a good old
Assassination

So come on all you right wing kooks
You environmentalist whackos
You bi-polar anarchists
Bring your missile launchers
And your prison shanks
Make my popcorn
Taste of freedom.

I put a possum in my pocket
Everywhere I go
To protect against probability
My sister says I’m superstitious
But Probability is Math
And Math is a Science
And Scientists are not superstitious

So to sway my sister
This is my hypothesis

The probability of a piano
Plummeting from the sky and
Pancakeing a passerby
Is for the sake of argument
A one in a million
That’s not bad
But not bad is not good enough
For Science
So I put a possum in my pocket

Let me show you the Math
No one has a possum in their pocket
Because they eat pockets
And smell like pee.
The probability therefore
of a person who has a pocket possum
getting pummeled with a piano is
One in the entire population of the planet

Now potentially
Upon publication of this premise
People will Put Possums
in their pants pockets
Pushing the probability
Past the perfection point
And soon there will be news stories
Involving people possums and pianos
Popping up all over the place.

That is not the fault of Science
That is the fault of my sister

Let me show the Math
Sassy sister says scientist
Sibling is superstitious.
So said sibling summarizes
A Scientific supposition
Which suddenly circulates
His safety secrets
Somehow the son of science
Synchronizes his standard
Into a simple syllogism

If you subtly store something simple
In a sack a sock or a side pocket
Said simple something will
Substantially supplement survival
Or
Probability protects
Providing persons
Are good at Math
And sister-less

So select something
Not a possum to potentially pocket
And live forever.
It’s Science.

Political Animal

On Thanksgiving I took my brother’s cat out for breakfast sausage
But IHOP was closed.
Probably because of the stupid parade
So we decided to go home and drink Bloody Marys.

I’d been wanting to get drunk and talk politics with an animal
Ever since the election,
And because my brother’s cat is a communist
I thought I would pick his brain about the current political climate.

Communists are fun to talk to while inebriated in the morning
Or anytime really
Just because of their mixture of Marxist ideals and mustaches
And my fraternal feline is heavy on the facial fur.

So he starts talking about the war and segues into the future utopia
Cats tend to over segue
Then because I agree to his basic premise of putting capitalists into gulags
We end up toasting Stalin and shouting about Land Reform

Out of nowhere my brothers cat starts making Jew Jokes
And it’s uncomfortable
Either because it was Thanksgiving or because I was drunk, I laugh.
And to this day I feel guilty when I eat at Jerusalem Café.

Paycheck to Paycheck
Till the Apocalypse
When my Savior Raptures me
From my Work ethic

Paycheck to Paycheck
Till Kingdom Comes
And Jubilee will take care of
Visa, MasterCard, and Discover

Paycheck to Paycheck
Till Judgment Day
Because my pastor said I have a purpose
And I’ve found that it’s expensive

Paycheck to Paycheck
Till Armageddon
When the enemies blood
Will sure up the war bonds

Paycheck to Paycheck
Till the Trumpet Sounds
And my house in the suburbs
Will still retain its value.

A Mudbox Mostly

It’s mostly a mudbox
Cracked and gritty earth
Packed tight like a parking lot
Light slips off scattered
Sand spots
A beautiful wasteland

It’s mostly a mudbox
Dark overdug corners
Plundered like a Pirate Island
Sun scorched
Pigment-less pail
Turned rain catcher

It’s mostly a mudbox
Half of a Hot-Wheel
Ass end up like an ostrich
Abandoned Army men
Green gun appendages
Stoically skyward

It’s mostly a mudbox
Innocent hands
Once shaped structures like a potter
Filled fingernails
With the future of flesh
Dust unto Dust

This is poem a wrote for my wife. We have been married 2 years now and I love her so much it isn't even funny. Happy Anniversary Beautiful


Sonnet number 18

Sixteen and I sit with my future

Next to history I don't know

And art she is more beautiful than.

The search for secret brought us here.

Some hidden place to call ours

And let our hearts beat fast in.

Through perfectly placed trees

The stars know we are destined for more

As our hands take their maiden voyage

I whisper famous words across the blanket

Without understanding their meaning

So she will know I Shakespeare her

We seal our possibility with ceremony

Crystal glasses full of sparkling un-wine

Foreshadowing a June night to come when we

Will be made one flesh forever.

The punishment of one insensitive rich man

At 0 one hundred hours central standard time
In a house too big for its own good
And too big for a man and his butler,
A man finds himself lost,
Somewhere between the toilet and the refrigerator.

To find one’s self lost
Is neither to find nor to lose,
But simply to realize one’s position.
That position the man deduced was
Somewhere between the toilet and the refrigerator.

He had set out upon his mission at 11 hundred hours
On the night prior to the day current
To make himself a cheese sandwich.
American cheese, because he is a patriot,
As his father was a patriot and his father before him.

He digressed however to the toilet, for obvious reasons,
And after a leisurely stint
On the American Standard porcelain maiden
He flushed, washed, and saluted, because he is a patriot,
As his father was a patriot and his father before him.

Upon exiting his lavatory it was so dark that he lost his way,
And happened upon a new hallway
That led him to where he now stands a place he had never seen.
He assumed quite egotistically that he owned it
For he was a rich man and owned many things he knew not of.

The place seemed to be reminiscent of someplace else
Someplace both familiar and foreign to him
Familiar and foreign, Like his Bulgarian Butler.
The Butler is actually Russian but the man knew not the difference.
For He was a rich man and owned many things he knew not of.

“Curses to the darkness for turning me around” said the rich man
“Sending me through hallways
Disregarding my need for a sandwich.
Stopping me here in this familiar no place.
Curses”.

“Curses to God who made the darkness” said the rich man
“Who made toilet and the refrigerator,
The hallways and American Cheese,
The God who made My Bulgarian Butler.
Curses.

A sound
A step
A bop on the head

“AGGGH!” said the rich man

“I’ll show you who’s ‘Bulgarian’,
You rich American Trash!”

George Bush, Wal-Mart and the Vatican: A Political Poem

People should stand for things
I mean really care about things
Important things
Like AIDS
I stand for that
Other People standing for things
Things like
Saving the lives of innocent children
And their things
I want all our leaders
Political, Cooperate and Spiritual
To be willing to do what it takes
To make things happen
And help things out.
And change things.

Bush could help things
He’s the president
If he stood for things
Things would work out.
So let’s all write him a letter
And tell him things like
Stand up for things.

Wal-Mart has everything
Think of all the things
They could change
If they stood for things
And gave some things
To people who don’t have anything
So let’s boycott them
And not buy our things there
Until they start
Standing for things

And the Vatican
They’ve got God
They could pray about things
And ask God to heal things
And spread the gospel
Of changing things
All over the world
So let’s tell our priest
When we’re in that confessional thing
To tell people to repent for their things
Because if we all fix our own things
We could change things
All over the world

So in conclusion
Stand up for things.

My Community Church

Community
Christian
New Life
Of Love
Faith
Family
And Hope
Worship
Community
Center
Untied
By the River
Of The Heart
Of Grace
And
A Community
Of Peace
Faithfulness
Hopefulness
Joyfulness
And Love-fullness
After the way of
St. Mary
And St. John
And St. Mark
And St. Paul
And a different St. John
And St. Mary the mother of
And the blessed virgin of
Peace
And Family
And community
Looking toward
The Cross
And Calvary
And Immanuel
And Emmanuel
And Mt. Zion
Missionary
Assembly of
Holiness
Baptist
Spirit Filled
Presbyterian
Lutheran
Methodist
Catholic
Episcopal-esqe
But Still
Non-Denominational
And Community
Oriented
Church
Of the
Resurrection
And the
Word
And the
Bible
And the
Redeemed
And the
Covenant . . .
And Community
Walking with
The Holy Spirit
Community
of Christ
Community
In Jesus
Community
Did I say Community?
And Family
We have Family's

My Guidance Counselor is a Pirate
He has Scurvy.
I'm not sure what Scurvy is
But he is always telling us that he has it.
I think it makes you smell like fish
His office is on a boat
Next to the cafeteria
This is a pretty progressive school.

He carries two swords and a gun.
Not like a little cop gun
But a big flintlock pistol
That he tucks in his pirate pants
Next to his short sword.
I’m pretty sure the weapons are illegal
But we don’t have metal detectors here.
We’re too progressive.

If you want to switch classes
He makes you walk the plank
I usually just stick to my schedule.
He is always trying to convince me
To go to this college in the Netherlands
That let’s you major in being a Pirate
I don’t understand how that’s a major.
But it’s probably some progressive thing.

He sponsor’s a fencing team
Except he calls it Swashbuckling
They all wear bandanas and sashes
And get to use real swords
I was going to try out
But my mom was afraid
I might lose a hand
She’s not very progressive.

He’s really good with kids
And he can write a very convincing
Letter of recommendation
He may fly the Jolly Roger
And carry infectious diseases
But I’d take him over
Some guy in a suit any day
After all what’s more progressive than a pirate.

I tripped over a penguin at Walgreen’s.
I was getting my passport photo.
So was he.
He came out of no where
Like a fart at a dinner party.

I almost smashed the little guy
But I did a faceplant into the candy instead
It was sweet.
He looked at me on the floor
Like he wanted to kill me with his stubby penguin arms

I asked him where he was headed
As he dusted off his built in tuxedo.
He acted strange.
Like no one had ever tripped over him
And then questioned his destination before.

I guessed aloud that he was going to Antarctica.
All the penguins I’ve ever met were from there.
He spat at me.
Like I had inadvertently used
Some kind of penguin racial slur.

I wiped the spittle from my face
And wondered how many people have ever tasted penguin saliva
It’s quite thick
He then started cursing the Antarctic penguin
Like a crazy with a score to settle

I heard him say he was from Tierra del Fuego
It seemed like someplace a smart ass penguin would make up
Land of Fire
Like a penguin could actually be from someplace
That was either made of or somehow on fire

I told the Walgreen’s Photo Technician
That this penguin was out of his mind
He laughed at me
And said that Tierra del Fuego is an archipelago in Argentina
Like a penguin gets a passport just to go to Argentina

I knew right then that the penguin was a liar
He was probably some kind of terrorist dirty bomber spy
It was perfect
Like a flight attendant could stop a penguin
From high jacking an airplane

I stared deep into his beady bird eyes
Wondering how I could hand cuff him due to his lack of wrists
It was useless
He was going to escape no matter what
Like a rich man on the Titanic

I stood in front of the generic photo background
And asked the WPT if I could hold the penguin in my passport photo
He said no
Like my wife is going to believe me now that
I tripped over a penguin at Walgreen’s

I Pushed a giraffe down the stiars.
He had it coming.
The wily way he walked.
So smug it made me sick.
Taking three steps at a time.
Who does that?
He rolled over the railing
And into the parking lot.
Like a sack of potatoes
Except with legs and a neck.
The libraian called 911.
So I karate chopped her cell phone
And told her I had a harpoon.
(I pretty much always carry a harpoon.)
When the police man showed up
He kept asking me why I pushed him
Like it wasn't obvious.
He tried to handcuff me
But I have such small hands
It was useless.
I took his billy club
And threw it in the fountain.
I wished that all giraffes
Would get put in their place.
At the trial the judge was a jerk.
And a giraffe lover.
He gave me life in prison
So I gave him the finger.
If I would have had my harpoon
That judge would have been a goner.
In jail the inmates beat me up
Like I was a punching bag
Except I would bleed alot.

It seems like for some reason
Everyone likes giraffes.
I don't see what the big deal is.

Diary of a Dromedary

Dromedaries don't like camels.
They like Zydeco
And newsboy hats
They wear them on their one hump
As a sign of peace

Camels hate Dromedaries
They like yogurt
And mustached men
Like Bert Reynolds
And Steve Harvey

There is an unspoken agreement between Camels and Dromedaries
They can have yogurt and mustaches on men
And we can have newsboy hats and Zydeco
As long as they keep their extra hump to themselves
And don't flaunt it around like a loose woman

If you put a dromedary in a camels college writing class
He would shit a brick
And throw it at the teacher
Who is probably a two humped tramp
With a mustache

If you took a camel to a dromedary demolition derby
He would die of dehumping
As the demolition derby dromedaries
Rip off his pretentious protrusion
While wearing their symbolically peaceful newsboy hats

My heart breaks for my fellow beasts of burden
War is the scourge of a segregated society
Terrorism is the natural outcome of our circumstances
Violence is born out of class distinction
Racism will be the death of the desert.

My Sister is a Rhombus

My sister is a rhombus
She was adopted from Finland
They have lots of rhombuses
She eats beats
They don’t have beats in Finland
I get in trouble if I call her a rhombus
But I do it anyway
Because she is one

At dinner I don’t look at her
She might steal my soul
Finns are soul stealers
They use their eyes
My sister is 6
That is 78 in rhombus years
So hopefully she will die soon
But Finns can live a long time

In the park she plays in the sand
Digging for beats
Beats grow in sand
I take her shovel hostage
She cries to mom
I give it back
Finnish Rhombuses are cry babies
My mom likes cry babies

I tried to sell her on EBay
But no one bid
They were afraid she would steal their soul
I also tried to mail her to Finland
But their weren’t enough stamps
Mom says I should love her
And I do
It’s just that she’s a rhombus.