Numbed Consent

Mold growing on mold

What a souvenir

I light a Marlboro Red and pretend to disappear into the seams of late show talk

On the screen, puppets for complacency dance…ever so near

I could fluff the pillow to a higher state

However comfortable, I could also, puncture what it is…

I stand for

in and out

out and about of this,

numbed consent

A catatonic, petrified

Gentrifying,

be safe…leave no trace

Bare ass, I lay down to stay up late

Searching the cushions for loose change to purchase an empty plate

One Thing Leads to Another

Hate has no home here!

Can We live without the Death Penalty?

Are none of us as…we appear?

From country meadow to north country butchers…who dare not sleep…to urban sheep.

I could place argyle socks over history…

I cannot disguise my cruel feet.

When I pigtail my banner…’does all good intention freckle my deceit?’

Do not answer me, the signature will hurt.

For me to petition diversity…rancor must have no common ground.

Do not advise me to…not Act Up.

To do so would hurt.

Every good intention…a twilight to conventional curse.

Boulevards of Attrition

Blame for the blameless, one could suppose

cats in trees

fish in a barrel

akin to ‘train-wreck’ dogs.

Descendants of, ‘I am sorry.’

Boulevards of attrition.

Dare I cross the alley?

Tripping over fault lines, should I make a fair-haired decision

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What of these…

fruitless linear revisions…

two squirrels for one dove

a common bird for a cardinal’s love

Comeliness beholds beauty in a rainbow’s spectrum

Essence travels on in its constitution.

 

to What Women Say

I believed in what was said

Thou I wished I accepted less of everything

This book of gospel seeping into rabbit holes

Trifle left accept gritty, grains of falsehood

Reeling from inclement pavement

Reeling from obedient hearsayfeet on the beach

My becoming, a clay footprint, fragile, breakable when placed upon such an erroneous display

My first impression out…

A caged animal sedated nonetheless alert

Second step…

casting the shackles away

to which I held the original key…to what women say

 

 

Lenny Bruce and Vet Tv

 

Can humor go too far?  Is a ‘good’ joke wasted on a particular few?  Those few who seem to have missed ‘punchlines’…when god was handing them out.  

Personally, I love a good slapstick.  And, my wife?  A good (I use the term loosely) rom-com, is her shtick. 

I discovered …Vet Tv

…as soon as the project got off the ground, critics honed in on what some called tasteless or downright toxic humor, raising questions about how best to reintegrate America’s ever-growing population of military veterans back into society. Are rape jokes and other gross gags crossing the boundaries of respectability really doing any good if they’re increasingly out of touch with the mainstream comedy? What kind of obligation does a network targeted at a narrow chunk of the population really have? And how much of content on the network is actually resonating with the country’s relatively diverse veteran population?

vice.com

However, a long ago era,  just before my time: offering not only ‘Cinnamon Girl’ by Neil Young but…the one and only Lenny Bruce!  There had been the same heated debate about comedy going to far!

I believe, as many do, in this #45 era, all that can be done is laugh.  Laughter combats the anger, the confusion.  It makes us all feel human again.  Does it really where the humor comes from?  As long as it helps us take life less seriously.