Blind Owl
Poor Alan owl
“somewhere” on the autism scale
messy, smelly, antisocial
Poor myopic Al
pickin’ that guitar with ancient fingers
blowin’ that harp down an eon of blues
Poor talented Al
Skip James restyled vocals
teaching the Son his own songs again
hangin’ right with the John Lee man
Poor hopeful Al
the girls, never faithful or true,
yet you sang their glory, their story anyway
Poor gone Al
nearly blind, unhappy
laid out on that last hill behind the Bear’s,
swallowing those final sounds
Poor Blind Owl
no more trips to Haleakala
no more angst in London
no more Goin’ or Bein’ On the Road again
no more Blind Alan.
Bar Room Fight
Barney’s was elbow to elbow
when he squeezed through to the bar.
He held the glass high but a
flat-eyed frat boy took exception
anyway and flattened him
with a cheap shot right hand.
Staggering up, he found himself
back to the bar, drunk, confused,
catching wild punches from
frat boy and his pals.
He fought back only with his right
hand, feeling fist after fist
slam into his face.
He was losing but fighting,
until the bartender joined in,
hammering him once, twice from
behind with a lead-filled billy club.
Down he went in a pile of
beer, piss and faeces.
Dragged up and slammed against the
juke box he surrendered, looked for a
way out, fended off a stray punch.
“Out here,” a cook called from the shadows,
holding open a back screen door, “these
people are trying to kill you.”
Stumbling out, a muttered thank you,
he ran, ran from the bar, losing a heel
from his boots, hustling back home.
Later in the infirmary, the doctor sewed
his head up and didn’t judge him.
When the police came round next day,
his entire face a swollen mess,
he declined to press charges,
accepted his karma, took it for the
life lesson that it was, didn’t hang out
in the bars quite so much for a while.
Jesus Bombs
Some news hot off the presses
send the paperboys to
hawk it on the streets:
the Romans killed Jesus and
we dropped the bombs.
Toss the former out of
your anti-Semitic bag of tricks and,
the latter? Oh, yeah, it wasn’t
those rogue states, those random strong men,
it was us, we, that dropped the bomb –
not once, but twice.
Disappointing isn’t it, having to
let all those lost scapegoats go,
the countless evil empires –
with no one else to blame and
nothing to gain, when you finally
know it wasn’t them all, it
was just us, plain old us.
Seems like time to line those
bird cages with yesterday’s news, then,
friends, time to put on some
grown up pants and learn to
face the truth and stop dropping
your incendiary and radioactive
Jesus bombs.
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