Capitalist Waves (November 8, 2011)

It’s business
We’re here to make a profit
We have our globalization
You can’t stop it
Small town America
Another factory closes
Big city America
A sea divided like Moses
Optimization of the workforce
Other countries are more attractive
Bunch of fucking gluttonous pigs
Immoral money-worshiping bastards
Where will you cash your checks?
When the people stop buying
Riot mobs forming on your lawns
With armaments quite petrifying
LOOK at their tattered faces
These hard working souls
They come to teach you humility
By throwing YOU out in the cold
You claim it’s not your job
To help keep jobs in our country
That this is Uncle Sam’s doing
Sure. Like you were following blindly
Follow and worship the dollar
Invest in the yen
A rupee for the working man
Starved like Gandhi; emaciated until the end

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Sober Night (November 28, 2010)

It’s the Saturday night place
Where masses put on a drinking face
Not me this time

Pungent brew
Permeating air like winter stew
Water is fine

Old and new friends cheer
Several shots, chased with beer
Not a soul indulging wine

A woman thinks I’m funny
I don’t smile. I’m like this sober, hunny
Something’s amiss in my mind

Feeling sober with lack of drink
She’s stares and doesn’t blink
I decline her in my prime

Is it wrong I feel vexed?
At the thought of sober sex?
My thought process is unkind

Getting used to the thought
Of a sober scene’s walk and talk
I’m searching for my spine

Matty Matt (November 12, 2010)

A son
A brother
A friend to me

Five years
Still tears
Vivid memories

Processed the news
Stupor induced
Blackened rage overcame

The pain
The suffering
I can’t forget your name

A shame
This game
We are living

It can change
It is plain
To see who is missing

Our song
Now it’s gone
May spirit live on

We miss the laugh
Of Matty Matt
Help me be strong

That Good Feeling (November 10, 2010)

Let’s congregate en mass
And raise our half-empty glass
To the wicked of the night

Play a harmonic tune
Soothe this rancid saloon
Else the drunkards may fight

The ale is full of spice
She is pretty, but is she nice?
She asks me for a light

Work beckons in the morning
A hangover will render scorning
Over-consumption is killing my sight

We may be too much
A longing for two souls to touch
I knew she was full of spite

Slow Down and Be Sad (November 8, 2010)

Shit and people.
Things don’t change.
Both are one and the same.
Which one to purchase?
Which one to break?
Imitate. Fake.
He was visited.
Asked yet AGAIN to slow down.
He wears a crown of frowns.
Drown your sorrows and despair.
Let’s toast the moonlit sky!
Take him there to die?
Who provides the smile?
Faith. Purpose. Hugs.
It’s an empty mug.
Fill it with what you wish.
Eventually it will be empty.
Show it for all to see.
He hates living with the living.
The record repeats in his head.
Why can’t we put it to bed?
An asshole returns.
To eradicate all sanity. He’s truly mad.
Reminding everyone to be sad.
He drinks it up.
And finds a use for it.
Organizing his world of shit
Into one box. It all fits.
He thinks it should burn.
The ashes wait their turn.

Sunrise and Purple Skies (October 22, 2010)

We back the boat down the ramp.
It’s a brisk 40-degree October morning.
The moon illuminates the morning sky.
Weather conditions are calm. It isn’t storming.
We sputter through the foggy river.
I’m reminded of the little things.
Mother Nature and her wonderful splendors.
Absent fancy cars and decadent rings.
It’s true. I’m awake for money.
Yet I relish in what I see.
The sun and the moon intertwined in purple skies.
As if this painting was created for me.

If we die today.
Remember these words I say.
Enjoy life’s brief stay.
Know that you may stray.
Pray to find peace where bones lay.

Fish Hands (September 22, 2010)

A layer of skin.
Peeled away through fishin’.
A stern Northeast wind.
A ball of fire greeting us.
Be quiet. Not a stir or fuss.
For a beautiful bounty is a must.
Our bills stack high.
The bait is sampled by flies.
I shift glance to morning skies.
I forget my troubles.
Observing wake and bubbles.
I think I like my fisherman’s stubble.
A contradiction of tranquility and grit.
A job made for swearing and spit.
An offering of my spirit.