Enough Soup


Enough Soup

I could have written about
anything but this
ongoing vagary
that hogs my head space
just long enough for me
to take my pen to history
and forget what I was going to say
about oligarchy
and the fact that
money always wins
when our reticence
solicits commerce
and drooling parliaments
dictate by the dollar.

I could have written
about anything
but I too got distracted
by the charlatan’s ruse,
and the joke of saluting a flag.

The lies of America
benefit few more than most
but so what? We all seem comfortable
knowing we all don’t want to be
the first one out the door yelling
“Fire! The country’s on fire!”
and have the cops show up
to take our drugs.

No. No. We’re all too aloof.
Cocksure we’ve got enough soup
to outlast the siege.
Enough bread to promote loyalty
when the meat truck comes to town.


Two new poems: The Last Penny & Jude the obscure

The Last Penny

Your desire to live

on your wits alone

is admirable, but a loneliness

few could fathom.

You have built consensus

but why? What’s the point

of cordial rapport

within a hunting species?

Why presume

all men are equal

when they’re not?

Who holds

the last penny

gets to to sport

seductress and the king.

We’re born to this,

so our muteness runs deep.

Tagged to the blood

like the need to eat

overrides elocution,

supersedes blossom,

stands plural, w/o air.


Jude the obscure

I’ve lost the will to shave

and that ain’t all. I can’t relate

w/o suspicion.

I stop in to see a film.

It begins. Grainy, off-white.

Elvis appears in intimate flannel.

Says the answer is in sporting goods

then asks me where’s the mens room.

I point north

but don’t really know.

Don’t really care

as you might suspect.

I’m prone to chaos

when I listen to clocks.

Fire and water defy man.

The ATM is a rite of passage.

Tone deaf to my appeals,

children of the pestilence

say the darndest things.

Small minded men tend to govern.

Freedom is more

than changing the channel.

Never committed to the genus,

I cavort w/rage

As God’s casino

welcomes the herd.

Churning the dust

of the black market,

I find it all offensive

and full of dark intent.

Like the light has gone out

in the theater

and the exit doors are locked.




The man who photographed trains

lived across the street

when he wasn’t runnin’ down

them big dream cars

w/the big steam horses,

ranging the rails

he couldn’t move,

in the sun

he couldn’t move either.


The man who photographed trains

has a museum in Virginia,

but he was a Brooklyn boy

who got his start taking pictures

of pigs in bulletproof vests.


The man who photographed trains

used a 4×5 Graphic view and kept

detailed notes about the angle of incidence

versus that of reflection. He had a wife

w/a hot Latin name – Conchita –

whom he divorced after she and her lover,

some guy named Ed, got grand theft

for stealing his work.


The man who photographed trains

died in South Salem, twelve years back.

But that didn’t stop Conchita and Ed –

both out of the can, still madly in love –

from selling those pictures on the internet.

Those bold black ‘n whites

of big, bold ideas – of a country born

before the global order.