Evocative Coercion
Pork barrel political verbiage
strung across television broadcasts
like cheap Tannenbaum tinsel
morph into vulgar soundbites
social networks, and wi-fi platforms
that exhaust audience patience
dramatize mundane news items
sensationalize dreary stories
from retouched photographs
and congressional indigestion
to lackluster tales of human pathos
and weepy voices quilt trip viewers
into filling executive coffers month
after month in the name of a just cause.
Privacy lost, superstardom found
celebrities outfox paparazzi stalkers
unless engaged in promoting their
own brand of musk oil, full body
deodorant, moisturizing shampoos
or high-end eau de parfum
basking in spotlights ad nauseum
while world events only receive
thirty second nods between blocks
of commercials that endeavor
to create needs for marketing,
stoke flames of incompetence
perpetuate fears of inadequacy
create endless appetites for solutions.
On Our Own
Protesters congregating
on college campuses
remind me of causes
past from civil rights marches
to People’s Park bloody Thursday,
anti-Vietnam War rallies to the
Kent State University massacre
national guard at our backs
thanks to Ronald Regan’s
ego, thirst for power, right-wing
ideals, and lack of virtue.
No cell phones broadcast
daily news of classroom
freedom fighters expressing
a social consciousness some
called unamerican—although
guaranteed by the U. S. Constitution,
oblivious to the country’s history
of Native American genocide
and Ku Klux Clansmen intimidation
accosting citizens with the same
selfish fanaticism of a future president
attempted to expel students and silence
soulful dissenting voices decrying
inhumanity and 21st century
renewal of power politics…
“tin soldiers and Nixon coming….”
Silent Thunder
(or First Impressions of a Motor Unit)
The golden beehive helmet,
round, hard semblance
of a gothic skull, framed a
somber, stern face defined
by dark reflective glasses,
my father’s hand, reacting
to the witless officer’s order,
“roll down your window buddy—
license & registration please…
you know the drill,” he bellowed
like a larger than life
cinema gestapo,
eyeing me suspiciously.
I pierced his shielded glaze till
unnerved, he looked away
irritated he had neither
intimidated nor unsettled
a child;
disappointment mushroomed after
headquarters radioed confirmation
his collar had a spotless record:
no former arrests, no outstanding warrants.
Alas! Dad’s vehicle transgression
amounted to a broken tail light,
even though the pink ticket
screamed out major, vile,
mechanical infraction.
Perhaps that’s why the two-wheeling
rogue behind coal-black shades
rubbed his leather duty belt,
squeezed his riot baton,
backed off Dad’s car, gritted his
teeth with limp camellia authority,
walked back bowlegged to his
savage Harley, jumped down
on the kickstand, hit the siren, and sped off
in pursuit of another car, seeking to
terrorize at least one driver that day.
