Ex-Wives

With hair pinned up in back
like a ballerina,
she searches her purse for keys.


SK/75

KETZER MAKES AN ARGUMENT FOR MULTIPLE BIG BANGS, OR, "UBANGI?" "YOU BETCHA!"

Outside this black infinity

where we cannot begin to see…no,

wait.

Inside that black infinity,

no larger than a glowing…pea

(the Big Bang, for those of you in Rio Linda),

this all and everything we know

to some may come as quite a blow, but

our one and only cosmic show

floats tiny, tiny, tiny.

While outside that infinity,

oh, beyond where our old Hubble sees,

big bangs abound countless, countless, countless,

a wink within their own black pearls,

further, farther, farther worlds.

SKJ 10/29/15

Stray Dogs

Stray dogs get kicked.

Stray dogs get sticks thrown at them.

Tail between their legs, they run.

The ribs are showing.

There is no knowing where their next meal’s coming from.

They join a pack of other scruffy mutts and then attack

a sweet old lady of eighty-five,

and eat her arms while she is yet alive,

screaming in her garden there,

a bonnet fallen from gray hair,

until a car pulls up and blows its horn.

Those dogs then laughing, laughing, laughing run,

having, having stray dog fun.

SKJ, 5/9/15

Paint

Lead paint,  latex paint, synthetic paint, enamel paint, oil base paint, urethane paint, polyurethane paint… flat paint, gloss paint, semi-gloss paint, satin paint, metallic paint, metal-flake paint, pearlescent paint, crinkle paint… baked paint, dipped paint, powder-coat paint, spray paint, rolled paint, brush paint… new paint, old paint, fresh paint, wet paint, tacky paint, green paint, dry paint… fish-eyed paint, orange-peeled paint, sagging paint, running paint, blushing paint… scratched paint, faded paint, chalky paint, blistered paint, peeling paint… damn paint.

On Seeing Barack Obama Chewing Gum in Saudi Arabia (with apologies to John Prine)

Me and Obama both chew Nicorettes,

got that much in common; well, that and Tourette’s.

A big dog like him, and a small one like me;

imagine that, pissing on the same tree.

I get mine at Walmart, Equate, the off-brand,

while his are the finest, peeled and placed in his hand.

He takes his gum out, and then he pokes it back in.

I do it myself, and, brother, it ain’t no sin.

It’s better than smoking or doing that Skoal,

but nicotine gum will take a hold.

I chew it all day, and I chew it all night.

I’ll bet Barry does, too, and, hey, that’s alright.

I go off to dream land with a wad in my mouth,

and wake up to find my gum has gone south.

I look on the pillow and check the bed sheets:

If my wife finds it first, you know I’m dead meat.

I once found a piece on my underwear;

more often than not, it’s stuck in my hair.

Now, I wonder if that’s why Barack he went grey?

That ain’t his hair, buddy, just gum gone astray.

So chew away, Barry, chew on with pride,

some things that you do just can’t be denied.

SKJ, 02/08/14

Sandhill Crane on Christmas

“So, on Christmas morning, we went out to walk the dogs, and there was this lone, sandhill crane?  It was trumpeting, skronking, or that noise they make?”

“So, alone?  I thought they were always in pairs?”

“So, that was my point; I was getting to that?  So, yeah, it’s odd to see one alone, but let me back up.  So it was Christmas morning, around eight, really quiet out on the streets, and the fog was heavy, but the sun was trying to break through?”

“So, yeah, it burned off by the time I went out, around nine-thirty?”

“So, okay, there’s this sandhill, all alone, on a vacant lot in the shade, if there had been shade, of this huge live oak with Spanish moss?  And there’s the fog, and it’s Christmas morning, and he’s calling, trumpeting…”

“So, they always do that when you get close?”

“So…no.  I know that. That’s not what I was talking about?  So, there’s the crane, the fog, the tree, the Spanish moss, the sun is trying to break through, and it’s Christmas morning, and he’s all alone, oh, and there was absolutely no wind, no breeze at all, so the moss was perfectly still, everything was still and quiet…”

“So, do you think he lost his mate, or maybe his parents gave him the boot and he was calling for a mate?  Was he jumping like they do?”

“Jumping…so…damn!”

“So, I’m sorry?  Start again.”

“So, okay…”  

Seasons Greetings from Ferguson

The star spangled banner hung upside-down;

now, without an indictment, right-side up, oddly,

tear gas rockets trailing sparks above the red glare of

SEASONS GREETINGS

strung across the street, people below running, yelling,

testing the cops, tipping cars, setting buildings ablaze,

all so sweet in their Guy Fawkes masks,

little hoodies, Timberland boots, Earth muffins all,

Anarchists, Socialists…God love ‘em.

Ah, America!  I hear you singing!

But what is this?  It’s nothing, a lullaby.

Is that all you’ve got?

Listen to another fine fascist:

“Damn you, sing: Goddamn!”

Hear 1919 for a voice from the belly.

Cable news, not beer halls?

I-Phones instead of brick bats?

YouTube clips in lieu of bombs?

Come on, it’s candy-ass, nothing.

What must our undocumented immigrants think,

Or those sleepers with expired visas?

Give them hope: charge the barricades!

Grab some money; it’s the final solution:

become anathema to yourself, but first,

turn the streets into sheets of fire.

Oh, you’ll need flames far hotter than these to melt hearts.

SK 11/24/2014