After a career in the entertainment lighting business encompassing, sales, technical support, marketing, photography, and writing, I now manage and market veterinary hospitals.
And I woke up to the end of the world Apocalypse of movies and fantasy Ash falling from the sky like leaves The sun a blood orange Smoke filling the air Noxious and acrid Blown in on Californian tides As the west burns
Polluting the artificial as nature intended Mountains vanished overnight The horizon transported to the Midwest plains Tall buildings, neon and video glamour, flattened to earth tones Like a sepia photograph Lost at the bottom of a drawer
But this is just an inconvenience The fall out of forestry mismanagement and climate change Not real the fallout of Threads or of The Day After Horrors delivered by television When the populace could be scared
Because it is the acceptance that is heartbreaking That the earth hemorrhages smoke that blankets two states And the interruption of daily runs and pool time are what seem to matter Where is the outrage, the tears for trees A public resource managed for private profit
Perhaps I will go back to bed. It is the end of the world after all.
I am the ultimate predator Unchanged since the time of the dinosaurs We and my kin have been here beyond memory We have seen glaciers advance and recede Continents split and form Fire of the gods fall from the sky And rise from the ground
Yet it is man who plagues our world The death and destruction he leaves in his wake He hunts us Like we hunt him But while we hunt to eat He hunts for our skins and for trophies With his numbers and machines His encroachment and his poisons We can but nibble at the edges of his world
So we make our home where we can
I and my family live in place that the men call Ramree Island In the mangrove swamps Living as we have always lived While men unleash their powers against each other Fire and metal Machine against machine And we die because we are inconvenient In the way of their senseless slaughter Their cannibalistic over consumption of themselves
Of late, the noise and destruction has been close to my home All we can do is shelter where we are And listen to their machines And to their self-destruction To men dying by man
However one night A thousand men ran into our home To make it their own They were tired, hungry, and scared They sought refuge, safety and sleep
But this is our home And while their weapons are fearsome So are we
We feasted like never before With the tables turned in our favor A hunting ground of our choosing We grabbed and rolled Pulling them under the water And ate all that moved
The night was filled with the sound of the screams of man And the sound of centuries of revenge A feast to tell of to our young The night we fought back
Enough for everyone A re-ascendancy to the throne of apex predator For one long night The men outside our swamp called us their allies They should not We would just have easily eaten you And you would have deserved it just as much
In the years since The “worst animal attack ever recorded” as man called it Has been called into question by men who were not there Who would tremble in our presence
But I and my kin remember Just as we remember the birds the next day Cleaning the meat from our teeth
This may be the world of man But I do not cry for you A reminder that while your technology insulates you We will still be here when you are gone
Who does not cry at the end of movies? When the dog dies Or when their father is on stage giving the speech of his life? Comfortable enough in my own masculinity I can admit some things
I cry at things that matter Like poetry, music, and at the end of movies When the dog dies
Real men are not afraid to have emotions To share them Just like any he/him she/her they/them
If this triggers you then perhaps alpha male is not what you think it is
I make things, I write things, I work with my hands, I work with my mind I speak to those who need to hear I speak to those who want to listen I employ people and try to be fair, equitable, and a promoter of integrity
And I would never be so crass as to define myself as an “alpha male” I don’t really care what people think I just care that they think
The software industry labels something as “alpha” when it needs testing and will have major errors “Beta” testing being where the errors are less pronounced The stage before software, the instructions for making things work, is ready for the grown-up world
Empathy is not the antithesis of masculinity It should define it A solution to masculinity that is toxic
The intellectual The gentleman The well read
These are terms that the world needs to be more proud of instead of
The influencer The billionaire The alpha male The dictator
Those who define themselves by the level of oppression they can inflict And the shallowness of their ideas The hate that runs in their veins
Vegas is a movie With George Clooney and Brad Pit standing sharp suited at the bar While Bradley Cooper and the gang of not quite so famous nurse a hangover And Hunter S. Thompson fears and loathes all that can be indulged and exploited A Rat Pack of dreams “Vegas is not ready for us” says the tourist upon whom this edifice of ziggurats was built
Vegas is a mirror A gaudy assault on the senses The sins and miracles of Midwesterners and coastal elites Laid bare, a reflection of America underneath the mask of church and flag The mocking of stone throwers returning to their glass houses, riverboat casinos, and online sportsbooks “Viva Las Vegas” the man said, holding chips and a free cocktail that cost him his mortgage payment
Vegas is a ladder Those reaching for the stars Or those pretending to be a few rungs higher than they are Or pretending to slum it with indulgencies and fantasies of self-destruction Others sliding to the bottom for real, their return ticket sold for an extra spin “You are not ready for Vegas” say the locals
Vegas is a culture The poets and musicians gathering in bars and bookshops While the artists paint the walls of buildings within the city limits Their truth more alive through juxtaposition An awareness of how the world sees and how the world is With theatre and song as a gateway drug “You don’t know us” says the writer, poolside on a summer’s day
Vegas is an underground A network of tunnels and homelessness The victims of gentrification, hostile architecture, and the illegality of being unsightly on the streets A refuge from the sun Fatally ripped away with every monsoon season “You don’t belong here” say the Mole People with good reason
There is a mist over Vegas A Las Vegas fog of perception and myth Who needs the mob when you have shareholders and venture capitalists When what is needed is public transportation if we can’t have free parking A destination and a home “You live in Vegas?” Asks the ones who have never been and sit in judgement.
So here we are We two You picking up a poetry book And me writing about you pooping We both have some shit to get rid of
Feel superior while you work out your posterior Your friends and family are all on their smart phones Watching TikTok’s and pretending to not scroll through Facebook Hopefully nobody is gathering content for Instagram
Revel in this alone time We get so little in our self-imposed media saturation That is of course if the dog leaves you alone And the cat stops watching
This is the room without a television Except the one masquerading as a telephone Exceptions of course for the Uber rich Maybe that will be the line in the sand The first against the wall when the revolution comes “TV in your bathroom?” Against the wall you go
Although the inverse, a book of poetry, might be an equidistant line Sorry dear reader If that’s the case take heart for I’ll have already been against that wall
How are things moving along? Has all this talk of revolution and media helped or hindered? It is of course the reality of our world for terms to be appropriated and neutered Revolution should mean blood in the streets Not the new iPhone
So if all this sphincter puckering has not ruined your alone time Let me leave you with one final thought before the toilet paper and flush
To question the status quo, the comforts and convenience, that imprison us Has gotten a bad wrap The Luddite’s, forever misunderstood, 19th century grassroots movements suck at marketing, had a point
If you are reading these scatalogical prose on the porcelain throne You are already fighting against that steady and constant pull The suck of dopamine addiction And the quest for internet fame
So I salute you pooper for fighting back against the tide One poem, one dump, at a time.
I miss that that never was Our interactions so fluid and effortless Compatibility meets timing For once on the right side of circumstance
And yet not For there are always obstacles Hazards in the roadway And so not to be
There is a possible yet in that last sentence But possibilities are not promises And promises are not facts Tethered yet adrift
Time is but the passing of possibilities A shortening of opportunity and hope Lead down alleys of scam and fish A reckoning of middle age and isolation
For the words that are never heard A poem to overvalued interactions There is but memories of never being The never was that never could
As sand drops through an hourglass Life bleeds away And the punishments of yesteryear become aspirational Like the memes of dying social platforms
For whom bells toll Are but the observers and commentators The myth makers and authors of revelation To be ignored and dismissed
Goldilocks was walking through the forest one day, When she came across a dilapidated house. She had been persecuted all her life because of her golden hair, and a proper home of her own sounded great. “This used to be the home of my ancestors” she thought to herself. And so, she went right in.
The house was obviously a home. With three beds upstairs and food in the pantry. There were even three bowls of porridge cooling on the kitchen table. “This has always been my house really,” Goldilocks continued to think to herself. “Sure, it’s changed hands quite a bit, But it’s still my home.”
Soon three bears came to the house. “This is our home,” said the Bears. Goldilocks readily agreed, but asked if she could stay. The bears agreed that she could sleep on the floor. And they remained silent on the subject of Goldilocks having eaten Mama Bear’s porridge.
But soon Goldilocks was not happy with just sleeping on the floor. She slipped into Baby Bear’s bed, even though it was too small for her, and pushed him out. “Who’s sleeping in my bed?” wailed Baby Bear Daddy Bear became angry and shouted at Goldilocks. But Goldilocks refused to be cowed and shouted back claiming the bed as her own.
A passing woodsman heard the ruckus. “That house would make a perfect strategic outpost in this conflict region,” thought the Woodsman. He entered the house and told the Bears and Goldilocks to be quiet. That they would have to share the house.
The Woodsman did not have much time for Bears, “troublemakers” he thought. At the same time, he recognized Goldilocks as the daughter of the widow he wanted to play hide the salami with. And so, he wanted Goldilocks out of the way. This house, and this set of circumstances, seemed perfect.
The Woodsman wrote an agreement for sharing the house. The agreement said that it was the Bears home. But it also said that Goldilocks had the right to the house as her home. Both the Bears and Goldilocks signed the agreement feeling they had each got what they wanted.
But they continued to argue, as the agreement was fundamentally flawed. Because Baby Bear’s bed was too small for Goldilocks, She wanted to rest her feet on Mama Bear’s bed. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed” cried Mama Bear.
This kind of thing continued for weeks. Finally, the Woodsman, having had enough, just left. Leaving Goldilocks and the Bears alone to sort it out.
Goldilocks sent messages to all her relations. Saying that they were welcome to join her in “her” home. “Wait a minute” said Daddy Bear as Goldilocks’ brothers and sisters arrived and started to climb into bed with the Bears.
But soon Daddy bear was pushed into the Attic and Mama Bear and Baby Bear were pushed into the Cellar. The bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, living room and front door all fell under the control of Goldilocks and her family.
But Goldilocks was scared. The Bears were big and powerful, and the forest was full of other bears who might want to intervene for six days. So, Goldilocks sent word to her mother, who now was getting regularly boned by the Woodsman, asking for weapons and material support.
And the Woodsman delivered. Not only because he was making good money selling arms, And because of this new strategic ally in the region, But because he was also in bed with Goldilocks’ mother. A lot.
Every time Mama Bear wanted to go out into the forest for food, She had to pass through checkpoints set up by Goldilocks and be searched. Baby Bear was allowed to work in the house for Goldilocks, making the beds that had once belonged to his family. Daddy Bear was often refused permission to leave the attic, as he was a security threat.
After months of isolation, one day Daddy Bear snapped. He tore off Goldilocks’ brother’s head and threw it across the room after being turned back at a checkpoint. He had just wanted to see Mama Bear and Baby Bear.
Daddy Bear’s paws were zipped tied behind his back and he was executed by Goldilocks’ Defense Force. His body was dumped into an unmarked mass grave. The Cellar was attacked continually by Goldilocks. She demanded that the remaining Bears surrender the terrorists they were hiding. Mama Bear and Baby Bear swore that it was just them in the Cellar, But the attacks continued.
Soon Goldilocks and her family entered the Cellar and dragged-out Mama Bear by her hair. People from the village had heard what was happening in the house and cried out “please stop this – free the bears!” The other bears in the forest added their voices – “Free the Bears.” But the Woodsman and Goldilocks’ Mother were also there. “Goldilocks has a right to defend herself” they said. So, Goldilocks put a 9mm semi- automatic pistol to Mama Bear’s head and blew her brains out in front of her mother, the woodsman, the people of the village, bears of the forest, and Baby Bear who cried and cried for his land, Daddy Bear, and Mama Bear.
Everyone went home. Goldilocks and her brothers and sisters returned to their fortress. Warily eying the bears from the forest. The people of the village returned to their homes. They were too scared of Goldilocks. Of what she might do, and of being accused of not liking people with gold hair. However, behind their backs, the people of the village whispered that Goldilocks had lost her soul and any sense of morality. But did not feel strongly enough to intervene.
The Woodsman and Goldilocks’ mother went home to wash their hands, get laid, and forget their worries now that the problem of the bears in the house had been solved by someone other than themselves.
And Baby bear was left out in the cold to die. Because he no longer had a state, or any land, or a home, or a family.
A better, brighter, future The next big thing A solution to all the worlds problems In plastic, software, and analytic manipulation
We are machine food An oligarchy of bright and shiny things Grist for the mill A wave of the future From the hollowed-out dreams of the past
Feeding lies of freedom and enrichment While stealing food from the mouths of babes Chewing on the bodies of the dispossessed And swallowing the corpses of the undeserving
A fortune cookie at the end of the world “An unexpected path to wealth is just ahead” reads the message And a fucking QR code to an online poker site is on the other side Selling souls to cover the price of a fortune cookie
Whispers from another strangers road Scratchings in the margins of a Gideon bible Passages imprinted on the last pages of a hotel note pad A scribbled addition to the room service menu
A simple obsession Communicating with unseen past travelers In the secret places we share The people who we would never meet Meeting through the detritus of leavings
Someone else’s boarding pass Used as a bookmark in a book exchanged The fantasies in origami gifts Hidden at the back of a drawer A scrap of paper in the battery compartment of a TV Remote
The places that belong to a traveler And survive the decontamination of people making minimum wage Gifts for the very skilled Or extremely lucky
Human connection from those that abhor it at every other turn The places that don’t belong to locals The stranger reading a book at the bar There for food, alcohol, and little else
Connection without connecting In a world that prefers home to anywhere else What to do when home is not an option? Not the horror of homelessness But the despair of less than a home
So allow me this obsession The intersection of past and present A tap into an unseen world The breadcrumbs of lifted vails The secrets we hold and only tell to strangers
And maybe to ourselves Alone in the dark Of somewhere that’s not home.
Word Outlet 