Masks

The villains of Hollywood 

and spaghetti westerns

wore masks

as they rode into town. 

With their faces hidden

behind their bandanas

they kicked down the bank doors,

shot the unlucky bystanders

and fled with bloody money.

Unless they were apprehended

by a sheriff and his deputies

proudly displaying their badges.

But now where the lonesome doggies call

the badges hide their faces in shame,

the badges hide their faces in shame.

Those villains in their masks

made classic cinema -

suspenseful chases,

saloon belles and brawls,

midnight showdowns,

lowdown kidnappings,

epic gun battles 

at high noon or sundown -

until the proud badges

won the day.

But now where the lonesome doggies call

the badges hide their faces in shame,

the badges hide their faces in shame.

Now celluloid legend

gives way to reality,

as the cavalry,

with trumpets blaring

in internet CAPS,

ride in just in time

(and fully masked)

to brutalize the indigenous

and the immigrant

for the dastardly crimes 

of cleaning rooms

and picking fruit.

And now where the lonesome doggies call,

the badges hide their faces in shame,

the badges hide their faces in shame.

Power Is a Needle

Power Is a Needle 

(2025)

Power is a needle in the vein.

Hear the junkies sigh

in their exultant high

as the hot flames rush

through blood, lung, and tongue.

Power needs growing greed 

for new injections

growing ever more infectious

as the needle frees

the hidden hates. 

And how the disciples

spasm and dance

spasm and dance

in their adulation trance.

Power is distemper

foaming at the mouth

on podcast and network,

in tweets and x’s

for empty genuflections.

Power is drug hallucination

coughing like covid

or dropping from the sky

like bird flu or wildfire,

spreading wide the infection.

Oh how the disciples

spasm and dance

spasm and dance

in their adulation trance. 

Power is a needle blurring perception,

blind to hurricane and epidemic,

to poverty and difference,

to damage that cannot

reach to homes of richest.

Power is a drunken tantrum

with glazed over eyes

that makes up lies upon lies,

and laughs at the damage

that feeds it’s addiction.

Oh how the disciples

spasm and dance

spasm and dance

in their adulation trance.

Power picks out enemies

to keep the addiction fed,

to feed the deep pleasure,

the orgazmic tremor of

destruction and deception.

Power is a needle

spinning derisions

and spitting out visions

of criminals hiding

in farmer’s field,

in packing factory,

in distribution center,

in rooftop hammering,

in college classroom,

in delivery truck,

in restaurant kitchen,

at dementia bedside,

in inoculation centers,

in soup kitchen lines,

or hotel housekeeping,

or golf course manicuring,

or affluent nannying.

Oh how the disciples

spasm and dance

spasm and dance

in their adulation trance.

Power is a needle 

in the junkie’s brain.

Watch them push it in 

and feel its pleasure

as their tongues flap,

mouths blare, 

and hands grasp treasure,

stealing anything to feed it,

mocking anyone that sees it. 

Power is a needle in the vein.

Hear the junkies sigh

in their exultant high

as the hot flames rush

through blood, lung, and tongue.

And how the disciples

spasm and dance

spasm and dance

in their adulation trance.

They Lie In Wait

They lie in wait

along the river,

they sleep

without shelter,

they clamber

across bridges,

they thirst

through the desert.

They’re children

wrapped in 

swaddling clothes 

who find no manger,

they’re pilgrims

seeking hope

till they land 

in cages.

Back home

are cluster bombs,

rival factions

on every corner,

sniper streets

and poison gas

financed by politics

and banks.

Back home 

are drug trade,

gang recruitment

and gang rape,

disappeared

and bloody corpses

courtesy of riches

and affluent addictions.

So they clamber

into boats

forgetting comfort 

and warmth,

brave their way

through dark forest,

begging morsel 

and border.

So they caravan

unwelcome

across river, 

desert and state,

bake on railroad,

paddle shoal and bay,

driven by 

coyote’s take.

Do they batter 

like the uniformed 

in the night?

Do they swagger in 

like thieves 

in long limos?

Do they scoff 

from high rise 

office and window?

Do their exploits 

impoverish 

tens of millions?

Or a hundred? 

Or even one?

They lie in wait

along the river,

they sleep

without shelter,

they clamber

across bridges,

they thirst

through the desert.

They’re children

wrapped in 

swaddling clothes 

who find no manger,

they’re pilgrims

seeking hope

till they land 

in cages.