"Reality Show," "Magic Time," and "Panoptic"

Reality Show

We are skintags, broken fleas jumping
clumps of beefy breasted, over-processed meat
smoked salmon balls stuffed
with rancid praise for all that will not sting us
or sing us or land on us, bird us, or wing us
far from the TESLA rear-end crash of life
we're trading loose truth through the white tooth
the madder root, red dogs linger, wander, but never
grow older, a cat's-eye of wonder drops courage
down under wrecked rainbows that jokers
have severed asunder. Linoleum cracks, canker
weeds arch their backs over springfall,
cold fingers snap bones against shingles.
We live cartoon lives, gorging mouthfuls of Pringles,
Our white bellies bulge, knuckles scrape
fat arms dangle, people worship a man
who spews abstruse word tangles,
their venom vents airward, beyond stapled seams
no bin to dispose of today's nightmare dreams
truth scrabbles, no purchase, reality strains
for a foothold in phrases, flaccid facts contain
an illness so fatal, no songbird remains
to trill over cradles, sing us out of pain.

Magic Time

This revolution's being televised.
A country raped as tyranny unfolds
--these current circumstances? No surprise.
The 80s embraced fascism's slow rise
--a country slept while specters grafted lies
to patriotic sensibilities. It's hard to gain acceptance
to the fold, so bend to your knees and worship
solid gold. Dissent should line the streets,
but it's been sold--protesters steeped
in January's cold have bent dissent in shapes
unrecognized. The Post shoves viewers
into pools of lies. Anger should choke the streets,
rage, gag the old. New twisted laws now own
each fetal crown. Fox News digs rabbit holes
viewers run down. Women, once free,
move protests underground. The senate, house,
and courts sold out their say. The female voice
becomes secondary. We paint our signs of protest,
dial the phones. The brave souls who dissent
are shouted down--this circumstance should not
be a surprise. It took decades to sever truth's
backbone. This revolution has been televised.

Panoptic

Before the feral heat unfurled its fangs,
we twirled silk scarves beneath
a pock-faced moon and stretched our palms,
to staunch earth's bleeding wounds.
Before ice melt washed the east coast away,
we took Manhattan in, Times Square, Broadway,
shook zeppoles from greasy paper bags,
and tongued thick powdered sugar from our lips.
Mulberry Street, we stuck damp fingertips
in bullet holes punched through Umberto's door,
and swallowed angel hair then ordered more
while others stuffed X hashtags in their ears,
embraced each lie to ward off primal fear,
and bit their hands to hold back shouts of doubt.
Four million souls swirl from the newly dead
the final book's in flames, still we press on
spend our last days before a shadowed screen.
The heartland withers, oil wells go bust
lights dim, ground cracks, fallow pastures blow dust
that shimmers in heat lightning beyond rain.
Earth's fever grew into a dying fall. The sun's bright ball
baked leaves to crusty loaves. We swallowed waning fossil fuels
in droves. No hero saved the earth, no wind delayed.
as we gave way to cockroach and to rat
but even the survivors won't avoid
this fundamental ruin, human-wrought.