Kittens

There is a man at the mall
who sells puppies, kittens,
and ultraconservative
themed T-shirts.

The shirts praise God,
Glenn Beck, and small government,
sometimes all at once.  The puppies
wail like tortured captives.

I wanted to ask the man
about this, but his bandana
and tattooed arms suggested
thinly repressed violence,

while his many silver rings
promised a bloody beating.
I feared for my safety.
I worry about those kittens.

There Is No Justice Here.

One in ten homes are empty
as I drive down my frozen street,
yet the courts will fine a man
a hundred grand for swindling billions.

My car stereo crackling growls,
"All the power's in the hands
of people rich enough to buy it."

They'll have us all in the streets
fighting like dogs over their scraps
and it don't matter if the state house
is in Madison, Columbus, or Newark.

It's working men trading punches
like it once was black and white
'cause if we're fighting one another
we're paying no attention
as we all get robbed blind.

My wipers push the snow aside
and the speakers demand once for all,
"Are you taking over
Or are you taking orders?"

The Complainers

Ellen complains because she thinks no one is listening.

Patty complains to cover up the fact that he is, by far, the most ineffective employee in the billing department.

Sharon complains because those in charge seem to be, in the words of her grandmother, "just nincompoops."

Eddie complains because it passes the time until happy hour.

Keith complains because he believes it to be his patriotic duty.

Marilyn complains because the cafeteria soup is served lukewarm.  Who serves lukewarm soup?  Every goddam day?

Todd complains in order to belittle his coworkers so he can get a leg up on the available promotion to sales director.

Sandy complains because her kids are ungrateful assholes.

Brandon complains because there's nothing else to do.

Natalie complains because she's rich, doesn't need this dead-end job, and thinks it helps her to fit in.

Matt complains because it allows him to tell stories, and drop the occassional f-bomb which, in this crowd, is just fucking funny.

Josh complains because anger is better than loneliness.

Shelly complains to cover up that she is completely hung over after a shameful night soaked in coconut rum.

A Vision in Cleveland Winter

My Dad told me the trucks left for Arizona a few days ago
bearing the necessary materials to begin spring training.

I told him about an article I had read that discussed
the rehabilitation of two key players from surgery last season.

He said the Indians were in talks to acquire a starting pitcher which,
if successful, would go a long way in the manufacture of preseason hope.

I stood at the back window with the phone to my ear,
snow swirling, adding inches to those already fallen,

and as I blinked I swear I saw
green grass and warm sun out there,
my Dad and I along with my son.
I could smell the earth
and a leather mitt,
a red stitched white ball
sailing quietly between us.

Two Books I Found In Basements

Kurt Vonnegut,
Slaughterhouse Five
in a damp cellar
like that of a serial killer
bare bulb lit
Bowling Green, Ohio.
I drank canned beer,
and began an embrace
of pacifism and paranoia.
The world above
engulfed in darkness.

Matsuo Basho,
The Narrow Road
to the Deep North
in a basement converted
beautifully to a library
Boulder, Colorado.
I read some, then stared
at morning sun on the foothills
preparing to devote myself
to meditative travel,
to Rocky Mountain haiku.