Cento 24
Thirty years ago, my mind wore bellbottoms
and paisley shirts. Today, exhausted
from making someone else’s American dream
come true,
I’m back again, watching steam escape from
a stainless-steel teapot
atop the kerosene heater in Mr. Lee’s
office. But why cut off future rebirth
when Occam’s Razor has already sliced the
trash heap
of America’s unemployed from our world
view?
On my commute home, the city conspires to
get me lost,
by conscripting unsuspecting cars, and
putting them on patrol,
until they find their way out.
At night, I dream of a room
full of corpses under white sheets.
I wander the tables
placing radium on bodies
fearing
one will grab me,
drag me
down
The train of Dharma rides
on shining, silver rails. Each passenger
holds a ticket. The destination
where the parallel lines meet
Electric Car Crash Kills Three!
Carnage splashes across the front page.
Crimson Asphalt! Amperes of Apocalypse!
Diodes of Death! Transistors of Tragedy!
Reporters overlook SUV rollovers
and sleep-deprived truckers
to stoke the fear of Edison hatchbacks.
Ad revenues take off like Falcon 9s.
Talk shows fill radio waves with outrage.
“Today’s guest is Greta Thunberg,” the host
says.
“But first let’s discuss last month’s
grisly pileup.”
“Limit recharging stations to one every
1000 miles,”
a caller shouts, “and put them inside
police stations!”
“Disconnect their motors and make them use
horses like the founding fathers intended!”
“I don’t know anything about electricity
but I do know electric chairs kill
people!”
Deaths pile up. Black ice, drunk driving,
not to mention heart attack, cancer,
lightning strikes, and even bathtub
drownings
but only electric car crashes make
headlines.
Protesters picket Edison dealers shouting,
“You care more about batteries than
children!”
O, when will our leaders bow to the
majority’s will
and take those bastards’ cars away?
Another
Mass Imputing
Reporters splash blood on the front page,
scatter shell casings in editorials,
feeding the uninformed ammunition
to fire fusillades of outrage.
Even though lightning kills as many as mass
shootings*,
these deaths don’t make headlines
because, “The problem is guns.”
Even though the flu kills ten times as
many,
these deaths don’t make headlines
because, “The problem is guns.”
Even though heart disease kills a thousand
times more,
these deaths don’t make headlines
because, “The problem is guns.”
Even though Americans defend themselves
with firearms, **
their stories don’t make headlines
because, “The problem is guns.”
Even though Elisjsha Dicken saved dozens
with his pistol,
he didn’t make headlines
because, “The problem is guns.”
Even though a hundred million Americans own
firearms,
arbitrary laws turn millions into felons
because, “The problem is guns.”
Even though COVID kills as many in a day
as mass shootings do in a year,
these deaths don’t matter.
“The problem is guns”
* In their
discussion of 2021 firearm deaths, Pew said there were between 40 and 500
mass-shooting deaths in the US per year. CDC says there are 444 deaths by
lightning strikes per year. Other death rates are also from the CDC.
** “What Do CDC
Surveys Say About the Prevalence of Defensive Gun Use?” Gary Keck, American
Journal of Criminal Justice, 46(1), 1-21, June 1, 2020.
Rest Period at the Zen Retreat - Memorial Day, 2008
Silence
monkey-puzzle tree swaying in the wind
Crow lands on the pinnacle
“Caw! Caw! I’m king of the world!”
“No you’re not. Squawk!” Magpie swoops
like a dive bomber at the Battle of Midway.
Crow retreats. Other avengers join the
pursuit.
The disturbance brings Lizard out of the
ice plant.
He does pushups on the concrete
like Jack LaLanne. But if you ask his name
he won’t know how to answer.
Kali does yoga on the porch
warrior posture arms to sky
strong woman
eats no meat, no sugar
tomatoes or gluten
And
I realize
peace
is
more than the lack of violence
me
Don
Knotts with a .44 magnum
and
a grudge
Thoughts
ephemeral,
a
war of birds
wheeling
in the sky,
alcohol
on a hot sidewalk
This Movie is Terminal
Respite from the world’s malice
lasts only until the villain
arrives like a bloody stool.
My suspicion performs a biopsy,
resecting lymph nodes of character and
plot.
The news isn’t good. A phony, Hollywood
conflict has metastasized into all three
acts.
Diagnosis: 110 minutes of tedious rancour
Nevertheless, the infrastructure of lost
causes
must collect its paycheck.
Script doctors amputate originality
and irradiate emotional honesty to slag.
I sit with the story through stale dialog,
nausea, and hair loss while hypodermics
of poison bite collapsed veins.
By the second act, plot points wear
colostomy bags,
the best boy and key grip raid retirement
funds
to pay medical bills, and the theatre smells of vomit
and rubbing alcohol. Script doctors
double down on a bone-marrow transplant
but everyone knows how this will end.
The lobby is a hospice,
not for the movie but for me.
The beep of arcade games, rustle of
popcorn,
and electric hand drier in the bathroom –
more entertaining than the show.
Someone, please
overdose this movie on morphine!
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