Fuckin' Bullies

Just Say No

Blue Declaration 

Come look at these bodies once filled 
with dreams, young bodies sprawled 
broken, blood pooling in oil, flames 
& black smoke everywhere. See the frantic
actions of the hysterical mass—an ant-pile 
kicked by an amused child. Listen to the noise: 
bursts of automatic weapons, roaring fires 
whipped by wind, explosions, shouts, 
panicked screams, lamenting wails & moans. 

Look again, my friends, & try to imagine
the smells (fighting the urge to vomit) or 
not being able to imagine—your brains 
blown out of your skull—jaw & chin 
forming a fractured chalice. No, we don't 
want to think about that, but we see what war  
has orchestrated & accomplished.

It’s not about freedom, so don’t say it is.
Be honest. You know what it’s about. 
	It’s about money. It’s about power. 
	It’s about control through fear. Yes,
	it's about death. Clearly it’s about  
creating chaos & confusion. 
	It's about keeping people afraid, 
unsure, on edge & insecure, so they’ll listen, 
do what they’re told. It’s about not thinking
& following orders from deceivers-passed-off-
as-leaders. It’s about being a team player 
on a sinking ship, the Empire Builder, 
that’s taking on water in the servants' quarters 
while first class is partying on deck. 
	It’s about doing a job, being a good cog 
cranking the bullshit machine while above  
officers stand guard over Big Wheels 
napping in the sun, the ones the cogs believe 
someday they'll be if they keep toeing the line 
& saving their dimes, keep oiling, keep grinding 
away, hands on their hearts, pledging breath 
to the rockets' red scare as ceremonial troops 
march along singing this song: Oh, say can you see 
in the setting sun the naked children running down 
the street, little flames, tiny torches—the price
of freedom—in the twilight's last gleaming.

A poem from Sister Buffalo, 2024.

The following is an excerpt from a work in the works: Podunk No Horse, a poetry laced ramble on the Gibbo train, a rediscovery of undiscovered memory circles.

My old man hated that phony fucking bandwagon hypocrisy. That nationalist fervor he recognized from all nations trying to justify killing the same kind of working class people who'd been conned into dying for some kind of business venture, some rhetorical mumbo-jumbo trod out to make them feel like they were doing the right thing. The Nazis had perfected it. Murder becomes easier the second time and easier the third and so on . . . until the day when you can't quit because you love it and you realize the lives you've ruined, the blood on your hands, and you decide you can't go on. My Old Man knew it was wrong to put people in that situation, that the decision to go to war was giving in to insanity and condemning you citizens to mass murder and conspiracy to commit mass murder. If Hitler would have just stayed at home or stopped with Poland, not invited the wrath of all the countries he tried to dominate, he may have settled into a quiet, German genocide, more like Cambodia, Rhuwada, China, Russia, or America did. Yes, we shan't forget about our own bloody mission to annihilate the Native Americans and those slaves who caused any problems (or not). That's the Amerikan reality for “certain” citizens. I guess I'm getting in it a little deep. We'll blame that on my Old Man, too, before we return to the old stomping grounds.

But there is nowhere to go to get away from yourself where you are always confronted by what's in your face, and politics, justice has always been in my face, a gift from my dad that will not be ignored. So what have I done besides write a few poems? Not much. My father wanted me to become a lawyer and do something significant to help the helpless, be another Clarence Darrow. I had the passion but not the fortitude. It seemed like poetry stand-up was more my game, entertainment, make em laugh and cry at their pain.

*

SOUVENIR

Dad's .22 rifle leaned in the corner 
of the pantry behind the hot water heater, 
an oiled cotton wad plugged the end of the barrel. 
The big crock usually held elderberry, 
chokecherry, or dandelion wine, sometimes sauerkraut 
or homemade root beer. There was a cubbyhole 
door that opened onto the kitchen counter.
It worked perfect for ordering groceries
when we played store. The pantry shelves 
were stocked like a mercantile: canned goods, cracker
boxes, pots & pans, a shoe shine kit, 
bottle capper and pressure cooker. 

When I stood on the Gold Medal flour can,  
I could reach the top shelf where the Nazi dagger lay
beside a cigar box filled with foreign coins --
mementos my dad had brought back from the war. 
We used those relics as our cash register
to play store: one can of Van Camps pork & beans 
might go for two Caesar coins, three Augustus, 
or one Queen Wilhelmina. Discus shaped, 
the size of quarters & dimes, they were 
cracked and split on the edges.

I was a grocer before I mowed lawns or shoveled 
snow; sold my dad his cribbage board, the fifth
of Old Crow; sold my mother her iron 
and laundry baskets; sold my brother the hone 
to sharpen his bone-handled hunting knife. 
I memorized the items I could sell: turpentine,
iodine, boot grease, glue, rat poison,
matches, and string. Candles & light bulbs.
3-in-1 Oil. Jars of washers & buttons & screws. 

When no one was home, I'd sneak down the dagger 
my dad lifted from a German corpse,
wrap my hand around the hilt and squeeze. 
That grip fit perfect. Etched Ulles fur Deutschland, 
the stainless blade flashed my reflection 
when I stabbed the air. The cruel beauty
smelled tinny like those Roman coins,
the way blood tastes in your mouth. 
Rubbing my thumb over the emblem on the handle, 
an eagle perched on a swastika, it made me sad
to think about war, the soldier who carried this knife, 
my dad drowning . . . unable to let go.

*

So the politics of power

forced its way into my world

in high school. Everywhere

I turned there was some institution

grappling to maintain control

over tried and true policies

that kept the status quo

in charge of protecting power.

They didn't want to let go.

From sports to school

dress codes, they insisted

everyone dance to their tune,

the battle hymn of their republic.

But their war which wasn't

a “declared war” was going south

on them, and the kids got bolder

in their obstruction, their protests.

The next in their slowly sinking

leaky boat was a cannon ball hole

in the bow, Kent State. No amount

of rhetoric, nothing would ever be

the same. They could kill Black

Panthers, they could club hippies

in the streets, but shooting white

college kids walking across campus

with arm-loads of books sparked

a new brand kind of patriotism.

*

And we found a few lessons for ourselves, too, discovered we weren't exempt from passing judgment. Most of us suffer from sins of omission, the easy way out, and those decisions that haunt us sometimes the rest of our days. If you try to keep an eye on yourself, hold yourself accountable for your sins and your blindnesses, you have more than enough to handle without policing everybody else. And it's a lot easier living in seclusion, out in the sticks, to keep focused on your own behavior. But when you get out of Podunk-Dodge-Mayberry and go to the city, any Naked City, you'll find more than you can imagine. I spent a week or so in Chicago riding public transit to check out the town. Dream on, Horatio. King Hamlet's ghost walks inside you and me.

The Red Line

He begged, pleaded to the packed 
“L” train for anything anyone 
could give to help him buy 
the antibiotics he needed 
for an infected leg he pulled 
up his pants to reveal, but no one 
looked at him or the wound
save me. All seemed steeled, 
numbed by his humble confession
and grotesquely swollen limb, 
like it was just another ruse or
plea they couldn't afford or decode. 
Twenty-two bucks was all he needed. 
His posture, the exhausted expression 
in his voice and eyes apologized 
for having to ask this way, 
play the beggar to others barely
paying their fares, but he didn't know
where else to turn or what to do.

He dropped his head and said 
he understood why they couldn't, 
wouldn't help or acknowledge him. 
He knew they were conned for cash 
every day, but still he had to ask
because he had nothing to lose 
but his leg—his pride gone
miles ago. The commuters
were used to this scene
I hadn't witnessed before,
a street theater performance surely
worthy of a fifty dollar seat
in some balcony of fine art uptown.
A country bumpkin, I was sold—
but warned off by my sons 
and the silence of those around me. 

The beggar finally moved on 
to the next car, left us suffering 
another crisis of conscience, 
a daily practice navigating this sea 
of humanity, adrift in one's own 
devices, bodies floating by 
face down. We keep on moving,
working, scrolling along @ 
#livingtheAmericanDream.

*

My old man and most of the men I knew growing up, those young

Americans hardened by the Depression and World War II,

would be coming unglued at the state of the union

(they'd already seen the decline of the unions

by the time they'd retired). This fucking rich boy parading

around like he knows more than anyone about everything and not

getting the shit kicked out of him because of that

insulated privilege only the rich and their hired goons have.

But that alone, the mere presence of an untouchable

blowhard asshole like Donnyboy, would not surprise them.

He's a character as old as story and humanity.

What would send them into a deep and very great

depression, would be the ignorance and dis-compassion

of their neighbors, their fellow citizens putting on

the shoes of the good Germans who let this happen

less than one hundred years ago. Actually,

My Old Man wouldn't be surprised.

Humanity depressed the Hell out of him.

He was Irish, for Christ's sake. He had little faith

in human institutions like governments or the church.

He knew they were only as good as the people involved,

and he had been involved with too many of those people involved.

Power corrupts, and absolute power (pray for us

now in the hour of our death) corrupts absoludicrously.

Color a cowboy hat on Nero! Add a Hitler mustache to Trump’s smug mug! Giddy-up!

Buffalo Trump 									
	—an eecummings ripoff in three acts

I.

the 21st century
icon for greedhead CHUMP
                                            propaganda

posterboypinup      the clownfounding bereavement 
of twitterpated memes

goosestepping bluemold snakeskin cream
crawls claws       fingerflicking-squints       (PAUSE

                                                             )okay

seems so 	soveryvery sad 
                                         	reallyreally SAD    no    very     very

                                                                                         HUGE(bigger(est)ly)	sad-das

II.

OrwellianRockwell roosterlikes     	newslikes
bitterpills like 	opiatedreams
								okay(       
NO	so	go)	 yes      						
(k)no(w)nothing whitesheets              
                                             	       (un)k(kk)now(i)n

bloodyrags 	inthestreets  
another funeral notch
				in the belt of the bloated 
                       					                   	DEBAUCHED                        

			apprentice of	
		the sayitagain(amen)amerikan                      		SCHEME              
									(apocalypse)	mean(ing)

III.

abort(ion) gimmethat-oldtimey		HYPOCRACY				
(notagainSam!)	pay no 	attention
			                        to the greatandpowerful 	APPLAUSE-SIGN	        	

WATCH the dreambe prince                  COUNT
the digital             
							STORM 

the dark shadows
lonelytower shelters(not)       pickpocket-
						(k)ing              thenaked(dis)rob(b)ed

		thing		&/in	peacetrains-bringingblack  	

			back&forth(e)
						termin(h)ate		END(skin)s				

A poem from Sister Buffalo, 2024.

*

So why go on? Some kind of acknowledgment

of the fact that we are here and have no idea

about anything. What we have discovered

only confirms how little we really know, so

the act of suicide seems a bit presumptuous,

doesn't it? I mean the act of choosing to end this life

because of meaninglessness. Our emotions work

to keep us here, the feelings of connection,

what we call love. Once we lose that part

of our experience, we are halfway out the door.

We become untethered, feel isolated, apart.

The simple recognition that we are a part of the whole,

whatever-the-fuck that is, goes a long way

to creating appreciation and peace, allowing us

to keep searching and accepting our ignorance.

I'll be your huckleberry, that Tombstone line

Val Kilmer delivers as Doc Holiday,

standing up to the bully, the gunslinger

who goes up against rubes and weaklings.

Like Holiday and most of those tough-guy

American heroes of cinema, I detested bullies

growing up, and that shit doesn't leave you.

Bullies of all kinds warrant our objections,

and luckily I still have my front teeth.

Bullies

I can’t abide a bully,
it’s the one thing I refuse

To ignore. No one
has the right

To push someone else
around. No one should 

Be allowed to do that 
to anyone anymore,

Especially the defenseless:
animals, children,

The disabled, the old.
What kind of miserable asshole

Does that? Most likely the poor
bastards have been bullied.

Abuse is passed along.
The truth is: bullies

Are cowards, sad
sons of bitches,

Which is all the more reason
to call them out.

If not for their own sake,
to stop the madness.

What we have to do 
is tell them NO,

Tell them to STOP,
and if they don’t,

Which they probably won’t,
they must be confronted,

Faced down, forced to
taste their own fear.

And if necessary
rub their noses in it.

*

Peace