Body Politic 2017- A Rap by DJTazzieDog

The mopping of life
To a pristine glint of shine
Holds no godliness, nothing divine
The odd finesse of once deemed “woman’s work”
The cooking, the cleaning, the preening,
The meaning of it all
The demeaning, the gall
To gauge progress by the pace of the crawl
To an equal place, for an equal wage, an equal chance
On an open stage
Mucking through the blamegaming, shame blaming
Feigned respect from the mansplaining intellect
Is fucking slow at best.
I know, I get it,
The reins held tight, hard to change to what’s right
And engage the click clacking bright light
Of feminine insight.
Nothing more, nothing less required for redress

The amygdala when undressed
Shows no sexy sashay
No tight tops, no vee drops
No licking of the predatorial chops
By an ass grabbing fop
No sidelong glances with a wink and a nod
To the left prefrontal cortex
Where intelligence lurks
No matter the length of her skirt.
This Pandora world, swirls, whirls with evil intent
Mankind bent on a relentless pursuit of power
The time grows short,
The breathing grows shallow
With women grows hope,
This is the hour

Not All Smiles Are The Same

If ordering "1984", George Orwell's dystopic masterpiece of newspeak, sold out in the few bookstores left in town, consider a non-order from Amazon, even if you've paid $99 to be prime and gain free shipping, not to mention a two-day delivery. Still, consider the real costs to our marketplace's buy-o-diversity. This single micro-organizationism, an e-commerce suck-up and transactor of transactions, making an art out of the financial loss in order to gain the world, has gamed us. We went for the bargain, the convenience, following that smile that now lurks behind canned goods, pasta and potatoes and, well, just about everything. Are we not the drones?

Reflecting

Excuses
The ruse is deflect, project, the better
The best, the hyperbolic test
Lest the curtain rise
And pantomime disguise belies
A fear, a deer in the headlights
Kind of blind fright
"What am I doing here?
Fuck the size of the crowd,
The chanting, the feckless ranting of
'Lock her up'
Jesus God, these are Christians?
I don't wish them on anyone."

In quieter moments
When alone with his ego, call him Frank
"Heck of a guy",
He asks,
"Am I the bastard they say I am?"
The nod in the mirror, solemn, devout
Without a smile or pernicious grin
Ginned up for his so-called "base",
Frank, who never lies, for obvious reasons,
Turns away from him,
From himself.

Vocalise - A rap by DJ TazzieDog

When you pull away their bully veil
Of moral superiority, blazing gun authority
Derail their goose-stepping blood and soil follies
Peel away the skin-drenched, whitened, frightened
Stench of failure, icon loaded malware
Little remains but their sorry state of
Scapegoating, hate-toting, race baiting, face saving
Jingoist chasing fantasies
Of a super race,
Their taste for the glory days, never theirs, remains
In their hooded dunce cap raps
"Jews will not replace us"
Propeller heads roiling through seesaw seas
Need a reason, an illusion
For their calamitous confusion of cowardice

Run rabbits run
Take your vile filled shout outs, bile spewing crowd pouts
Leave our first amendment right to those
Deserving souls, not your self-serving pabulum
Drumming the dumb-down babblin' of days gone by
Crawl back into your dead end-of-the-night holes
Your underbelly stench perfumes the fright trolls
No light at the end of this tunnel
Caught in a swirling funnel, a vortex of your vexatious
Tasteless

hate fest.

Run rabbits run
The end is coming
Your vampire antics with blood sucking tactics
Will find the stake,
Your own petard
Awaits.

Cawcawphony: A rap by DJ TazzieDog

The constant caw of collaborative crows
Does a gross violation to the sonorous throes
Of dawn's early slumber
Dreams plundered, run asunder
From such a cawcawphony, no wonder
The Cooper's Hawk, patrolling air stream tundra
Its heat seeking pierce, rolling surely and fierce
Sweeps and dips and drops to stop
The tick tock of squawk
Runs the lot of them from their lofty perches
Through intimidation, causing hesitation
Of the reverberations of such sound vibrations
Clearly a violation of canyon solitude
The rude amplitude is felled
The quiver is quelled, the critters that dwell
In their Eden-like shell can rest for a spell
Knowing full well this murder of crows
This marauding band of benign bullies
Fully intend to return, the canyon resigned to endure
The lure of their beautiful annoyance
Dutiful dance of nature's rejoyance
Another dawn, another day
Another Revelle'

For Jim

Speak to me truth
In that subjective way
Some say you have
The fact is, you aren't one
A fact, that is
Your high and mighty bearing
Your axiomatic strut
Just a starting point
A premise, no promise
To further reasoning
Yet, so dear
So near to heart and soul
A paradox, you know
And I, the "liar"

Caught in your tease
I could say, "This statement is false"
If true, it would be
False, that is
Or conversely, if false
It would be true
The delicious rub of
Truth or untruth
As if you and yours
Exist at all.

Generation Gap

The roll of the eye, the sigh
Whether overt or veiled
Is regularly dispatched
For no good reason save that
Which is understandable

Her glance, a cringed meander
Through missed steps, slow comebacks
Stumbling antics of one seemingly frantic
To be seen as relevant,
May reflect disappointment.

Imperfections, newly discovered,
Erode her grip on girlhood innocence
Witnessing the stain of middle age
Detachment pervades from the one
Who answers every call.

In Humanity : A Rap By DJ TazzieDog

The case of homelessness
Continues to hound, confound
Resounds across towns
Found criss-crossing this dear nation
Vacant thresholds hold
Untold stories of hard luck
Fucked up tattered souls
Bi-polarized, forgotten lives
Out on the lam
Slammed by sad confusion
Delusion, whirling dervish world
Swirls in careless glances
Chances are you've paused and wondered
What to do with the cardboard sign
The god bless design
Everytime you're stopped at a light
Averting your eyes
To the blight blinding all empathy
Blinker turns you away from the sight
Of such ravaged souls
This savage state cold, inside and out
A toxic spout of deceitful invective
Selective in kindness and jurisprudence
I sense more nonsense, mere pretense
A vicious core that scores
Winners, losers, you choose your
Poison, mate, your fate's in your hands
Bootstrap crap sapping our humanity
Capitalized vanity an insanity of
Clap trap backed by fat cats
Content to caste aspersions, convenient diversions
Downstreaming reality to a dead pool of banality.
New Colosus, now a collasal farce,
A sonnet of grace with lines to chafe Lady Liberty's lamp
Dimmed, tarnished, barely a glow:
"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled
Masses yearning to breathe", a throwback to

ignore
Abhor, deplore the reminder
Of our own inhumanity.

"This Is Just To Say" Redux

William Carlos Williams' famous poem, "This Is Just To Say" came out in 1934.  It is short and sweet, oh so sweet. Or, perhaps, not so sweet. Here it is in its entirety:

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Florence "Flossie" Williams' reply to her husband's famous poem, disguised as a refrigerator note, was sweet, considerate and very wifely. No doubt, appropriate for the time. Still, it bothered me. So, I  rewrote it and feel better having done so.

Dear Bill,
Yes, I was looking forward
To the plums for breakfast.
Instead of eating them,
Per your icebox note,
I made do with a
Handful of blueberries.
Also, made you a couple of sandwiches
Which you will find in the icebox.
I don't plan on eating them,
Although I'm sure they are delicious.
I forgive you
As always, Flossie
P.S.  Don't be such a bastard
Next time

Word Smithing - A Rap by DJ Tazziedog

I'm rearranging words to unlock the verbs
To disentangle nouns that give a profound
Sense of stability
Adjective reliability
Adverbial enhancement
Yet a disenchantment ensues
Imbues my fret with introspect
All that feckless, reckless, circumspectless invective
The utter abandonment of my objective
Oh the rules, the fools who make them
The fools who take them
To pedantic heights of
"I've got the right, the intellectual might
To make what I say, the word and the way."
Objectively speaking
Subjectively reeking of loud mouth espousing
Jousting through tongue twisters
Making might of word blisters
Sister, give up the show, turn in the ego
The faux of such imbroglio, takes a toll
Oh, the sigh of the soul
Tap dancing through metaphoric chancing
Enhancing the see-saw of your verbal claw
Take pause, a Stylistics clause of
"Stop, look, listen to your heart"
Before you start where the word is the art
Before you pick up pen and start over again
Before you, who is me, can free the myth from the smith
And just be

The Shy Protester

The shy protester wants to take part but doesn't know how to belong or how to even start. So, she seethes privately building a rancor with no release but to turn to a community that can't be hers. The action group she founded, part of the social media overload, was unable to threshold her to "viral" heights, which wasn't surprising given her unimpressive collection of "friends". Her disappointment that her grandiose fantasies would not be achieved was mild. Still, curious how it's done, this business of activism, she faces down the phone. Not her friend, never her friend. She lends her voice to the collective outrage of the moment. A simple task really, calling the congressional folks. The phone numbers provided by an action group that was successful, unlike hers. The shy protester prepares a script to make the odious task bearable. The area code (202) Washington D.C., connecting, no doubt, to some cubicle inside the Capitol Building. A stranger with no eye contact, no gesture, no smile that could be beguiling, nor furrowed brow, no speck of lint on the no collar, nor fingernails bitten to the quik. No real human connection save for a voice that could even be a recording.

"Hello, Congressman Issa's office, how may I help you?" The shy protester blanked. The script, where was the fucking script?

Apocollapse - A Rap by DJ TazzieDog

Do fish in the deep, sleep?
Pectorals are stilled, no vibrational trill
Gills slowed to just a flutter
Hiding under shadows, undulating time
But this divine essence must return
To the human presence
Can't escape it, the egocentric
Let's face it, we live for the mirror,
Our preening interior struts
Rebuffs what we deem inferior
Our self-congratulation, adulation
Center of the universe excitation
Sadly dismisses those we share space with
Their place is based on our needs
What feeds our unrelenting appetite
Despite the signs that our mighty might
Antics, our pedantic insistence
That our resistance to "less is more"
Our unrelenting hoarding
Primordial rewarding for a species
Overstaying its welcome
Now playing the survival game
Has no one to blame but ourselves, a stain of shame
Contains our realization
That our end game is the end of
Civilization, as we know it
And the fish in the deep, asleep, not a peep
They're divine, they're sublime
Given time, they'll be just fine.

Black History Month

Dear Mr. Trump,

February marks Black History Month and even though you spent much of your presidential campaign fanning the flames of white supremacy and have a rather checkered past regarding race relations, having been sued by the Feds in 1976 for racial discrimination and bias regarding Trump Management's rental practices, still, you photo op'd your way through a kumbaya roundtable breakfast with a dozen or so African-Americans and your trusty Ben Carson by your side talking about the depth and breadth of contribution to America by noteworthy African-Americans.  Your disingenuous suck-up was a hot mess from the get go.

"Well, the election, it came out really well. Next time we'll triple the number or quadruple it. We want to get it over 51, right? At least 51", were your opening remarks. I'm assuming you came up with this opener yourself because if you didn't you should immediately fire your speechwriter. It's unclear what the 51 was referring to but I'm sure you had something in mind. On you blundered:

"Well this is Black History Month, so this is our little breakfast, our little get-together...During this month, we honor the tremendous history of African-Americans throughout our country. Throughout the world, if you really think about it, right: And their story is one of unimaginable sacrifice, hard work, and faith in America. I've gotten a real glimpse--during the campaign, I'd go around with Ben to a lot of different places I wasn't so familiar with. They're incredible people."  Just stop right here Mr Trump.  "They" are the people you are now addressing during breakfast. At this point you also spoke about Ben Carson, your unqualified HUD cabinet guy and the big job he shoulders dealing with not just housing but with the mind and spirit. Hmmm, sounds like yoga is now part of HUD.

"I am very proud now that we have a museum on the National Mall where people can learn about Reverend King, so many other things...Frederick Douglass is an example of somebody who has done an amazing job and is being recognized more and more, I noticed. Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks and millions more black Americans who made America what it is today. Big impact."

In case you forgot the museum's name, which I'm fairly certain you did, it's the National Museum of African American History and Culture, the one you were supposed to attend on Martin Luther King Day but backed out due to a petty twitter feud you started with black icon, activist, hero, still-alive Congressman John Lewis.  As for your mention of Frederick Douglass, it was apparent that you knew nothing about him and probably didn't realize that he did his "amazing job" back in the 1800's. But, I am grateful that you brought his name up because it gave me cause to read more about the great abolitionist and suffragist. I suggest you join me in familiarizing yourself with this great orator and thinker.

"The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress."
                                        Frederick Douglass

The Salute

Dear Mr. Trump,

I recently saw a picture of you and your beautiful Melania hand-in-hand wearing matching, handsome long, black wool coats, posing in front of the statue of Abraham Lincoln just prior to the start of your Inaugural Concert, featuring Toby Keith and 3 Doors Down. I had never heard of 3 Doors Down but they must have been very special to rate headliner status at your special concert. But, back to Mr. Lincoln...You, the soon-to-be sworn in 45th president, even saluted the 19-foot tall sculpture icon carved out of 28 blocks of white Georgia marble. As you faced Lincoln I'm sure you noticed the inscription behind him etched into the marble wall:

In this temple
As in the hearts of the people
For whom he served the Union
The memory of Abraham Lincoln
Is enshrined forever.

I don't know if you were moved by the quiet presence of Mr. Lincoln, his steely gaze looking out across the mall toward the Washington Monument, but I certainly was when I visited him the day after attending the Women's March, which was the day after your inauguration, it being the reason for my participation in the march. His presence was oddly comforting and reminded me that some things are bigger than any administration, bigger than any two-bit despot posing as the "leader of the free world". As you paused on the steps of the memorial for photos were you thinking that some day your greatness might too be memorialized in cold, white marble? The 45th. president on his throne with the inscription etched in pure gold:

In this temple
As in the heart of darkness
In which he divided the nation
The memory of Donald J. Trump
Is stained forever.

A Murmuration of Starlings

In 1890 a quirky fellow named Eugene Schieffelin, the President of the American Acclimazation Society, a madcap organization bent on introducing new species of critters into areas where they shouldn't be, released 60 common starlings (Sturnus vulgaris) into New York City's Central Park. Although there is no substantiated verification of his motives for this release, the charming legend passed along is that Schieffelin was intent on introducing to the U.S. every bird species that was mentioned in the works of William Shakespeare.

The Starling entered the Bard's world in his play, Henry IV, Part 1 where Hotspur, intent on driving King Henry nuts, thinks employing a starling to speak nothing but "Mortimer", a fellow who Henry refused to spring from prison, might do the trick. "Nay, I'll have a Starling shall be taught to speak nothing but 'Mortimer,'" Hotspur conjures. And that's it, the short entrance and exit of the starling in the works of Shakespeare. But, that whisper of a mention was enough for Schieffelin. Off the pesky little buggers went from England into America's wild blue yonder and they've never turned back. In fact, I'm certain that Shieffelin would be surprised at how these native European birds thrived in England's former colony, having grown to a population today of nearly 150 million in North America.

Now, Starlings aren't all that remarkable in size, demeanor or sound:  eight inches long, glossy metallic black with occasional white speckles, a gift for mimicry and collective noise but not much of a crooner. They are rather gregarious birds and love to roost collectively in large groups, which is cause for concern if you happen to be near a roosting zone. But, there is something rather remarkable and magical about these non-native interlopers; when danger calls they fly in a formation of sorts known as a murmuration, which defies imagination. To watch them in flight as a collective pulse, upwards of thousands of members in balletic and undulating clouds is breathtaking.While their murmurations seem to defy ornithologists full understanding, the best guess is that each individual bird responds to the seven closest neighbors in formation and adjusts flight accordingly. There is no leader of the pack or "head starling". This unique way of communication, referred to as "scale-free correlation" allows each individual starling to communicate to those around it, adjusting to changes in their behavioral state, such as a predatory threat. One bird affects and is affected by that of all the other members of the group, no matter the size. The result is a shape shifting cloud of exquisite dimensions. Truly a wonder of the natural world.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iRNqhi2ka9k

Stopping On The Way To The Slaughterhouse

Hershey Kiss was on his way,
Devout in stance
Trusting eyes comforted by the others
Sure that he was headed somewhere
But not there, surely not there.
After all, he had a flair,
Although the others weren't aware
They were mighty,
Powerful yet powerless
To where they were heading,
Loin to loin, barely able to move
Aching legs spent, ready for a rest,
Now pleasing no one.
Hershey Kiss never knew that life of the others
He was of them but different.
They left him alone.
The truck stopped, a ruckus on the road
An arm waving furiously from a car window.
They were all slightly interested.
A woman, a voice he liked. Soothing.
He was nervous, after all.
All of them were. Muscles taut
Shining to a glisten under a cicada sun.
He was too short to see them talking. But, he heard them.
The tailgate opened, a great creaking that frightened him.
The others didn't seem to mind. They were eating.
The man pulled the rope around his neck
Hershey Kiss flinched, a searing twist toward the tailgate
His steps down the ramp tentative,
Frightened to leave, unkindness kept him moving,
Away from the others, toward her.
For she was there, the gentle voice.
She took off the rope and he followed her.