The Birds 

I had a picnic with Mitski

On a grassy knoll

Overlooking an outdoor concert

Not sure who was playing, but someone

Who was not Mitski, since we were picnicking 

Maybe we shared a bottle of Rose

Since it was summer, I think

And that’s a summer drink

We ate vegan, olives were involved

She spoke of Laurel Hell,

Her new album in red vinyl

I told her my name is Laurel

Maybe we laughed at that

Maybe not, but she started dancing

As Mitski tends to do

She invited me to her concert

It may be in L.A. and I may attend

But, she won’t know me

She once said the Earth would be better

Without people

I guess then just the birds would sing.

March '22

Like Thoreau

 I have

Unlike Thoreau, no whittling skills 

Unlike Thoreau, no beans to till 

Unlike Thoreau, taxes to pay 

Unlike Thoreau, no one night stay

Having no affinity for jail

Unlike Thoreau

I have

Unlike Thoreau, no ruckus raised

Unlike Thoreau, no writings praised

Unlike Thoreau, an ego quelled

Unlike Thoreau, an outrage felled

Having no listeners to my bluster

Unlike Thoreau

I have

Unlike Thoreau, no pond appear

Unlike Thoreau, no toil so dear

Unlike Thoreau, no woodsy nest

Unlike Thoreau, no worldly quest

Yet, my garden’s all abuzz

Feeders flush with finch

My daily bliss, my credo this:

“In wildness is the preservation of the world”

Like Thoreau

The State Of Me

 Desperately seeking a refuge from the mind numbing toxicity of things that are and may always be, she Craiglists her time looking for a place that might need her untrained, naive passion to protect and nurture a piece of land, and in doing so, protect and nurture her own frail psyche. She diligently scans the various sites designed to lure and intrigue dreamers. Hunkered down in her bubble of passivity, she listens to the call of nature, presuming she can Thoreau her way into a more peaceful and serene life, taking on the pretense of healing the land, when in reality, once again, nature is called upon to save another sorry soul. Nonetheless, she feels somewhat content in her endless pursuit, reminded, site after site, of Henry David’s prescient footnote in his powerful essay, “Walking”, that  "in wildness is the preservation of the world". She acknowledges daily her puny presence in the scheme of things but takes solace in the notion that she can and will some day sit under the generous spread of a pine or oak or elm, in some yet to be determined corner of our green earth, with the knowledge that its gift to her will be forever preserved.

A Rant As We Close In On The 2020 Presidential Election

I have nothing left 

The heft of my mother tongue

Once flung hither and yon

Fond of a catchy phrase

Seared and braised with sardonic wit

Fit for the round table of lingual adroitness

Now voiceless

Halted by the bloom of

Seeming apocalyptic doom

What the fucking fuck is

The goon squad up to?

Their blathering free flowing hyperbolic blow holing

A toxic spray aerosolizing our oxygen uptake

with oxymoronic remakes

Of all we hold near and dear

For fuck's sake

Their drip, drip,drip infusion

Mainlines confusion, gaslighting delusion

Their game is clear

Win at all cost

Demonize a government, now lost

Reeling from the wrecking ball

Of greed corruption and sycophantic suck option

Is their end game near? The antics of fear:

Brown shirt thuggery, knee to the throat

The Cheshire gloat of intervention deception

Peppering protest at the behest

Of a sociopath, preening before his narcissistic visage

Dreaming of riches and rubles and lineage,

Bent on autocracy, undermining democracy

And we, The People, take heed

Take note - Take out the garbage

And VOTE!

COVIDITIS- A Rap by DJ TazzieDog

Feeling stir crazy
A dizzying daze of malaise
Makes the days go all hazy
One into the next
On the pretext that all will be well
The curve’s height will quell
As the paranoia swells,
Hard to tell as the clock ticks
If this is the fix or a shot in the dark
But do less and you risk the stark finger pointing
From our Faucian guru, our soothe-sayer
Who knew way before our
Lockdown of downtown that we’d drown
In denial,
The dry cough, the fever, the breathlessness,
The vile recklessness
So, we heed his call and build a wall
Safety first, mask adverse
Yet, we do it all and watch our world
Reverse.

Immigration Recipe

The perfect box of imperfect produce lands on my doorstep every other Tuesday. It contains the familiar avocados, potatoes, swiss chard, reliable building blocks of my culinary dexterity, apples, carrots, even a turnip or two, now and then. Yet, an occasional outlier huddles amongst the familiar. The unfamiliar, scary exotica of unidentified roots, dark-skinned scruffy knobs. Looks and flavors unknown that might require recipes, new ways of preparation, palette adjustments. Yet, here I sit sipping Ginger Tea, conjured from that same gnarled thing that snuck into my kitchen retinue. Thinly sliced, let steep in a mug of hot water for 10 minutes, add lemon and honey to taste. The gentle bite, the soothing spice, an anti-oxidant accident I now welcome into my kitchen.

Darwinian Comeuppance

Just desserts when justice hurts
A certain fate of payback
Late in the game, by the game
Gaming them, maiming them
And by slaying them, delaying one more
Dastardly deed of diabolic greed
That brought their targets to the brink of extinction
Their mystical distinction of horns that cure cancer
Horns that give hard-ons
Horns that when snorted
Give distorted reasons to party on
This time the rhinos’ reprieve was a gift
From the pryde that found poachers
Adrift on their side of the rift
Strayed into the jaws of the king and his court
Escorted to their demise
Their reprise:
Three pairs of gloves
Three pairs of boots
Three bleeding hearts
A rifle or two
And the rhinos
They never knew.