What is This Life? What's He Mean?

What is this life, I ask you, if not constant crowd control?
You start off in a hospital, and end up in a hole.
You’re marched from school to school, sent forth, and then from job to job,
And drive a bloody caravan like every other slob.

That tea with Alfred Prufrock sadly failed to change your mind,
Only reinforcing views that you’re the Walter Mitty kind.
Though Big Brother is impassive, as you try to slip away,
The White Bubble may well catch you, as you swim across the bay.

“I’m a man, and not a number!” is a noble sentiment,
But if nobody is listening, then it’s breath that’s poorly spent.
So you stand in line and worry that your passport may be lost;
No escape and no identity – existence has a cost.

“Would you like a new PIN number, and a unique username?
Very sorry, but your documents were all put to the flame!
But we dearly crave your custom, and will gladly come to call,
To confirm you’re not a brick in our almighty business wall.”

Yes, we’re all part of the tribe, and must do what we can to cope,
Or else seek a bleak oblivion, with a necklace made of rope.
There’s more meaning if we seek it, Reader, don’t mistake my theme,
I am actually an optimist; salvation is my dream!

A Thousand Journeys of a Single Step

When you need more time to think, or
You think, and then you drink;
When you hit the ‘berg and sink –
Walk on … walk on.

Walk on water, soothing soles;
Walk on waves that break on shoals.
Walk up Golgotha, with blisters and all;
As you carry your Cross, and you suffer a Fall.

Roads to Emmaus, Damascus and Home;
You can fake the centurion, march into Rome.
From a meaningless shuffle, break into a sprint –
Though the sun’s in your eyes, you’ll run fast if you squint.

When depression hurts belief,
When your choices end in grief,
When the rainbow time’s too brief:
Walk on… Walk on.

Belonging

I am a Merican,
And – here’s the rub - Ritish,
Plus a touch of Ilipino.
Don’t laugh ! Rench,
With the odd Utch.
From a younger age, Erman,
And a little bit Alian.

Much blood has been spilt in these names.
Seemingly endless, fatal games.
Nationalism killing almost as many as ‘Belief’.
Good intentions ending inevitably in grief.

National Socialism.
National Front.
Chiang’s Nationalists.
Hunter, hunted… hunt.

These days I wave my flag of convenience
As I sail through the airport.
It’s shaped like Mao’s Little Red Book,
But it’s a deep-blue, American passport.

Haven’t lived there in years.
Customs man sneers before he clears.
Love it or leave it, his eyes seem to say.
It’s him and his kind, why I'm off and away.

But then when I pause, reconsider, take stock,
I have my P near Plymouth Rock.
(That’s P for Place, and not what you think
(of the bodily effluent that leaves a bad stink))

I’ll grow where I’m planted,
Even when trans-Atlantic-ed.

Gloria

Drain my ego,
Fill me up ;
Blood wine from
Your loving cup.

Starve my soul,
Then feed me full ;
Bread of life –
Incomparable !

Still my voice,
Then teach me song ;
Hymns of praise
A lifetime long.

Bless with money
(Just enough) ;
Keep me from
The silly stuff.

Teach me love,
In all I do ;
Love that carries
Back to You.

Take my life,
Then make it Yours ;
‘Loss’ could open
Many doors.

Sacred and Profane

He thought no good could come of this ;
But thought not twice that he’d persist.
The kiss of life,
The kiss of strife ;
Malingered… Dallied … Partner ? Wife ?

She was, no doubt, a tad unstable
And hurt him (though she thought not able);
To some avail,
Beyond the pale :
Their lovers’ life was worse than jail.

Divided by a common tongue ;
He made her feel old, she made him feel young.
The dream unfulfilled,
The passion now chilled:
The dull monotone of a voice that once thrilled.

A curious thing, this thing called love;
Pounce like an eagle, drift like a dove.
A blink of the eye,
A baby’s first cry;
Or a dead star’s white light, as it stares from the sky.

The Game of Kings

Lay down the board, and set up the pieces.
Anticipate scenarios; obfuscate openings.
Be obdurate; obstructionist… obstaclize. Is it chance?
There are no dice to roll, no spinners to whirl, no cards to flip.
It’s all in your head… or is it?

Genteel aggression, with each piece
Having its role, inherent.
Sacrifice. Is there a choice?
Carried off the board for the
Greater good. Victim of a feint, a defensive
Ploy, or an outright attack.

What matters to you is results.
Annihilation, or a surgical strike, and a quick
Concession, or a reluctant draw. On the other side,
Your opponent questions, “What if …?”
As you shake. Pieces are returned, if
Not peace. Decide; your hand is already moving.
Make the unknown happen.

Thought….
Move….
Thoughghght….
Moooove…
Thght….
Mve…

Enough, poker face. I’ll show my hand;
I’m a king and a pawn, on this board we call land.

One Grandmaster controls my fate. The paradox of
Giving up ‘freedom’, but gaining much more.
Live by the rules. No choices but one; life or death.
Pieces taken. Pawns like Tommies in Flanders fields.
Expendable. A war of attrition. And the King?
Limited mobility, must be protected.
His Queen roams the battlefield like a Sherman.
I am all of them and more, but need to know where I’m placed.

Then there are those who reject the Grandmaster; feeling their
Role is sufficient. Living from square to square – no strategy.
Or thinking the players have abandoned the board, left
The room, gone to have lunch, forgetting to return.
There are other things to do.
Maybe it’s better to compete on level playing fields: chance,
Luck, randomness, and surprise; they rule play.
Backgammon, Monopoly, Blackjack, Scrabble.
Some skill, to be sure, but not quite enough.

I’ll rest here awhile on this square,
Seeking a common purpose between
My role and His thought.
Sharing a strategy, and ready for
Action. Aware of those around me: castles, rooks, bishops.
Each able to move in preordained fashion for
The common good, but also, like me,
Waiting.

Witless to History : A Pastiche of My Past

When Sputnik flew, and Kennedy fell,
I was rolling my wheels over the Common
Like that kid in ‘Make Way for Ducklings’, with
No.. knowing.. nothing of a Space Race or Conspiracy Case;
Just wondering if that waddling mallard would fly, or die.

Boston was blue, and we moved near DC one night
When Dad joined State while
Johnson and the hawks dreamt the
Crap that did Vietnam. I still had my bike.

But the boat to Europe left possessions in its wake.
The bike stayed. In the Kiddy Kabin, I used
A periscope to spy a
Wheel-like Coke sign in Arabic, through a
Porthole, steaming into Casablanca, before Paris.

There were spies in embassies then;
Cold War complications, contrasting the
Calm of Pont Neuf, and the Rue de la Ferme.
There really wasn’t much to report, and
I wasn’t aware ; a new bike got me
Round the Bois de Boulogne.

The Hague was... well, we heard that
Martin and Bobby fell.
A cyclone of cyclists; and across the North Sea,
Beatlemania shifted gears.
Our short hops were to London,
Riding down those wood-slat
Escalators to the Tube (way
Before the Kings Cross conflagration); Chelsea
Girls grooving to ‘Hello Goodbye’ on transistors,
Riding up while we descended…

…to The Philippines, and blessed Cebu –
Pearl of my dreams, and
A new Stingray with banana saddle
For my birthday; our gang ferried by
The still-operational landing craft to
Mactan. Then back to the harbor,
With Dad to check papers on a USN Destroyer,
Steaming its way west to lob
A few shells into Haiphong.
The New Frontier becoming The Great Society.

Once more to DC, and Watergate went down.
Shuffling through my paper round in Olde Towne.
John Dean on my list; an awestruck mention, met
By my handler’s : ‘Just chuck the paper over
The fuckin’ gate. We don’t want no complaints.
Cooperate.’

He’d have made a good Confederate, Johnny Reb,
Klansman-in-Training, cruising through The Bird in
His Camaro, traced by sullen black
Faces, and me getting cold-cocked in a school
Corridor by one of them. Didn’t even know the kid.

I had a 10-speed, and needed all of them.
That first year I biked out of Towne to school in
A ‘white suburb’, but the next year, eighth grade,
Found myself on an ‘Integration Bus’, riding
To a ‘black school’ closer to home.
A Civil Rights Initiative. Instead, I got
A Faceful of Fist.

Some shithead
Polyester-suited Nazi handed out leaflets at
Our bus stop: “Send the niggers back to Africa. They’ll
Be happier there, and so will we.”
J.G. and Johnny T. made them into paper
Airplanes and sailed them out the window as we
Rolled through The Bird. Two black kids picked
Up pieces of brick to return the favor.
No Freedom Riders here.

Sick from school, one day I
Watched the news and saw George Wallace gunned down by
Arthur Bremer, “The Smiling Assassin.” Still
Smiling as he was wrestled to the ground.
An American Dreamer.

Went north to high school,
Leaving my loving family, and a lot of baggage, too.
Took the Overground Railway, left my bike, and
The years rolled by.

These days, don’t cycle much; prefer
My feet on the ground, moving at my own pace,
Running past house-hidden wars, and character assassinations.
I know now that battles are won by Love, Humility, and
Compassion, even as campaigns continue on various
Fronts, in multiple theatres. Looking up, I remember that
Sputnik long ago beeped its last in space, and the
Eternal Kennedy flame
Still burns in Arlington, not far from Olde Towne and The Bird;
Just down the road from the headquarters of
The American Nazi Party.

We are where we are in time and space; in sight
When the clocks chime – an appointed place.
Made reverent or numb by what happens.
Cycling or jogging along; sometimes stopped in our tracks
By a targeted shot, or a redemptive thought.
Watching a flock of ducks in flight.