Kübler-Ross

Broken. But it’s alright. It’s OK.
Denial. This can’t be happening to me.
Bargaining. If I could just have more time.
Anger. I refuse to give …
If I could just have more time.

The New Wimpkiller

New Wimpkiller cries crocodile tears.
Much to mock surprise, confirmed your worst fears.
He is not safe. He is not clean.
Says he’s found god. Smoke fills smokescreen.
New Bankteller smiles, retells ancient lies.
“Back to the witch trials,” New Wimpkiller cries.
They are not safe. They are not clean.
Says you’ve found trust. Smoke fills smokescreen.
They say they need more money, simple fact of survival.
They say they need more armies. They have to smash their rivals.
They say I’ve got no value, simple act of denial.
They’ve never seen me gyrate—let’s give them an eyeful.

Bel Biv Devoid

The things you buy will never last.
Use them just once, and then it’s trash.
Throw your telephone away!
Two years is ancient for today.
Watching all those old movies
From like Nineteen-Forty-Five:
Smoking all those cigarettes—
How are they still alive?
Watch today’s flicks in like
Twenty-One-Twenty-Six:
Staring at their cell phones—
No wonder they’re all sick.

Dry Nurse

Come ride around,
My little one.
The night is young,
My little son.
No need to sleep,
No need to weep.
I know you thirst.
My body hurts
With dry milk cursed.
I’ll find you food,
An interlude.
We’ll find a ghost
Along the road,
A sacred host.
By gravel streams,
To bring you dreams,
He says these things:
“I’ll wave my hand,
Come what can
From stardust and sand.”

All Locomotive, No Tracks

All locomotive, no tracks.
Grass has grown amongst my struts.
A bird has made its nest in my stack,
Gathered twigs and a piece of ribbon.
I hear her sing, but I will not give in.
All locomotive, no tracks.
My brothers have traveled to the West,
And some have even come back,
Telling tales of well-oiled living.
I hear them sing, but I will not give in.
The land is wild, no borders welcomed.
The man is vile, his murders wanton.
The bastards will move faster there,
At massive acres, with tracks preferred.
The massacres, the massacres.
All locomotive, no tracks.
All steamed up and nowhere to go—
A third act with no climax.
Head full of steam and nowhere to blow.
Beware illusions of accomplishment.
Daily conclusions of rust and regret.

Every Billionaire Is a Crime

I just got another sixty-five cents,
So I take the bus, route number ten,
Then walk out beyond the chain-link fence,
To a place where no road has ever been.
That’s where I have my little home:
A tent, a bag, a stove, a coat, a gun.
I found the stove; I stole the chrome.
I lie down and watch the setting sun.
Every billionaire is a crime,
Sucking all the blood out of stones.
Every billionaire is a crime,
Building castles out of worker bones.
As the stars come out, I look up.
Satellite cameras staring down at me.
The blinking of the lights make my heart jump.
Nowhere that the panopticon can’t see.
I’m often hungry and always cold.
I’m afraid. I don’t know when I will die,
But I know I’ll never get old,
While rich men fly rockets in the skies.