A Prayer for the Faithful of any Faith

In honor of Thanksgiving, a prayer of gratitude, created for the faithful of any faith.

Thank you, (insert your God’s honorific here) . . .
For the tortured beef we are about to receive.
For the milk creatures were raped to conceive.
For the pork who gave its all that we may feast.
For sparing us equal treatment of the beast.
For the mercy we so readily deny.
For all the poultry we kill and fry.
For Your compassion that forgives our sin.
For all the fish we consume and de-fin.
For the creatures You gave for our abuse.
For closing Your eyes to our crimes conduce.
For Your blessings we wholeheartedly abuse.
For the creature’s friendship we stoically refuse.
(Insert your obligatory closing here)

8,250 RPM

Poetry In Motion

I wonder what 8,250 RPM looks like in the hand-built 5.2L V8 — nicknamed Voodoo for its dark magic, menacing and intoxicating allure.

I know what it feels like, sounds like. The heart-pounding, adrenaline-rush of a roaring beast unleashed.

Wicked as a banshee in heat.

That quivering, giddy feeling rushes through your veins as she hustles you into the forbidden, uninhabited regions of triple-digit MPH.

But if we could see inside, at the vitals of this ferocious, naturally aspirated, savage hoodoo heathen, what would her 8,250 RPM look like?

Injectors spitting volcanic toxin, like the angry lashing tongue of a venomous serpent.

The explosive energy and hellish brilliance of internal combustion up close and demonically frightful.

Its crazy flat-plane crankshaft revving at bedazzling revolutions, its pistons pounding with punishing force, its dual cams rocking their resiling valves.

Is there a sharp definition to this dinosaur feasting mechanical monster churning eighty-two-fifty to the naked eye? Or would it appear as a spellbinding blur on the precipitous verge of disintegration, bracing to fly apart?

How these mechanical marvels hold together is an engineered feat.

Feature image from Ford Authority

The Movement is Freedom


Like a coin, a vintage LP, or an old 45, freedom has a flip side. Two opposing dynamics. You’re an advocate, or you’re not. There’s no balancing act. No middle ground. You’re all in, or you’re out.

On one side, freedom-challenged acolytes, trembling in their anti-freedom movement, kowtow before the shrine of despots. Offerings of hard-fought rights and freedoms, butchered and bloody lay burnt upon the sacrificial altar of tyranny. The solemn remains, a determined smoky tendril of liberty glides disregarded through the air.

On the flip side of nowhere, a stony, slumbering giant who dreamt of freedom, courage, and self-determination rises at dawn, sniffs the air. They yawn. Rubbing the sleep from their eyes, they roar. Girding their loins for battle they stomp, a whirling cloud of dust swirls at their feet.

The earth rumbles.

The Movement is Freedom.

Today, September 17, is Constitution Day

Life, Liberty, Freedom, Prosperity

Image courtesy of Kellepics via Pixabay.com

When Democracy Dies

A short story from The Collection of Gruesome Inevitabilities, a work in progress.

When Democracy dies—

When we all live in the stink of government highrise tenements — hallways and doorways tagged with smut and gangster graffiti. Meagerly rooms overlooking a squalid city stained in the stench of slaughterhouses and dark-alley bagnios; the view through a grimy kitchen window over a leaky faucet on a rust-stained sink. A squalling baby on a ragged mattress. A hungry, snot-nosed toddler pulling at your pants. The TV blaring some indoctrinating cartoon.

When you’re mired in selfish grief, harboring a strange, slippery sense of longing.

When no one has any more than anyone else and everyone receives the same government stipend called equality. When every cupboard begs for the same meager rations of questionable ingredients. And every evening sees the same laughable economic progress report.

When all you have to look forward to is a repeat of yesterday. Of yesteryear.

When wilderness shrinks to a crowded park in the city center with its symbolic weeping willows. Its koi bloated and floating belly up in a filthy fountain of the reigning leader. Its feculent grounds litter filled with hypodermics, condoms, feces, and doped-up panhandlers rambling incoherently.

When you commute on crammed mass transits, vulgar and laden with the funk of greasy perfumes, warm piss, and the sour sweat of cheap bootleg whiskey.

When “Healthcare,” medications, and vaccinations are mandatory and you’re not allowed to breathe without a mask.

When they analyze your every word, thought, and expression, scouring for any trace of dissent or discontent. And every broadcast, commercial, and billboard airs a subliminal warning: be happy, fulfilled, and loyal to the state.

When your idle time turns to thrumming through mind-numbing games on your spyphone, but you never take time for painful self-reflection or the troubling contemplation of something more than an overshadowed existence.

When finally you’re empty of ambition and devoid of curiosity. When your imagination draws a blank in every corner. When fear and cowardice fuse a bitter taste in your mouth.

When the world turns gray and death resembles a reprieve, you’ll know they’ve won:

Liberty is dead,
and so it is read,
on the Gates of Nevermore.


From Where We See

They see and I see,
but from where we see, things appear differently.

Where they see their colorful illusions, the joys of life,
I see the dreadful pallors of an unjust fright.

They see clouds speckling a vibrant blue sky,
I see the contrails of fighter jets fly by.

They see the ocean waves crest high and true,
I see the mighty warships cut them through.

They see the gaiety of flowery blossoms covering  the earth,
I see the blood-steeped battlefields nourishing their mirth.

They see victory parades, loyalist colors flying a patriotic hue,
I see military conflict, war, and a bloody coup.

They see the exciting hustle and bustle of a vibrant downtown,
I see the rapes and pillages of villages burned down.

They see a God of love and forgiveness given their kin,
I see a myth fashioned to forgive them their sin.

They see energetic kids playing happily-go-luckily,
I see inanition from empty bellies swollen hungrily.

They see birds and bees pollinating the greens,
I see the herbicides and pesticides that silenced their wings.

They see the pitter-patter tracks of animal trails,
I see the spent and littered shotgun shells.

They see the comforts and pleasures of companion pets—
puppies, kittens, dogs, and cats.

I see the hell of slaughterhouses, factory farms, test labs—
their tortured animals, primates, and rats.

They see and I see yet for all the world from where we see,
things appear so damnably differently.

This is the re-envisioned version of a poem I wrote in 2017, and here it is four years later… How time flies, like bullets whizzing by. Screaming missiles through the sky.

Once Upon a Time

Once Upon a Time…

… there was Magic
Real magic, like your fantasies love to imagine
Then they stole our magic, little by little
Taming the mystical with rational reasonability

… there was Spirituality
Real spirituality, that orthodoxy can’t emulate
Because they stole spirituality, little by little
Slaying our spirit with rigid rituals of religion

… there was Dreaming
Real dreams, those you yearn to recall
Then they stole dreams, little by little
Defeating our dreams with unyielding notions of reality

… there was Freedom
Real freedom, freedom our forebears died to defend
But they stole our rights, little by little
Freeing our freedoms with conquering Marxist creed

… there was I
Real I, that you’re ashamed to embolden
Because they stole I, little by little
Defining our I to the onus weight of we

… there was Life
Real life, like you no longer realize
Because they stole our fire, little by little
Smothering our flame with their cold straight and narrow

Once upon a time… little by little

Featured image courtesy of smimbipi via Pixabay.com

Light of the Moon

Light of the Moon

I wish we were happy
I wish I were content
If I had a ton of money
and our possessions were scant
We’d roam the country
and live in a tent
We’d wander and wonder
and call noplace our home
Free little birds
with time of our own
We’d head north in the summer
and south come the snows
Chased by the weather
laughing at our toes
We’d sing and we’d dance
and compose our own tune
just you and me, babe—
that dark silhouette
in the light of the moon

Image courtesy of susan-lu4esm via Pixabay.com