Remotely Controlled
Push play, they say.
Not your way!
Not today!
Go, see, do,
We will tell you!
It’s true.
White sheep,
Wandering
For food.
Fenced in,
Trapped,
Amongst friends.
The sheepherder,
A romaticised dictator,
Feeding us to the wolves.
Salt-Weathered Cabana Chair
I kick back reclining
under a red umbrella,
in a salt-weathered cabana chair,
on a remote island,
margarita in hand,
lime, on the rocks,
salted rim,
and put words together
under the blazing sun.
A thunderous orchestra
calls the seagulls out, high-rising.
The warm breeze blows
through palm tree fronds,
and the waves crash
around me
A cool whisper against the skin,
her lips touch mine
and we smile,
lost in a dreamworld
that takes me away
from the blank page
sitting in front of me.
Maury Povich
Any time of any day,
Maury Povich reminds us
that most of our lives
are pretty o.k.
We are not going to be
the father of three
different children,
to three different ladies,
all pregnant,
within the same month.
Who has the time,
or the child support money
for that?
We will sit and watch,
trying to figure this nonsense out,
giving it an hour of our time,
because nothing else
makes sense in this world
to us, so why not?
We are all just killing time,
one remote click,
then the next,
trying to fix our world
through Maury Povich,
who has really never
fixed anything
for anybody,
other than a child,
who now knows
who his father is.
Maybe that’s the lesson.
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