Interstate Packing & Rendering Co.
Mark is dead
he died in a
highspeed
head-on
CRASH
driving a piece
of high-powered
GM
tin
And when
they separated
flesh & blood
from metal & crud
there was nothing
left
of him
***
Two Olives
When I am left alone to ponder
to dream & waft
& my muse to wander
I can come up
with such rational reasons
& excuses for me
being
here
but rush me
with idle & mindless
cocktail chatter
& I might agree
quite pragmatically
that it was a careless error
on the part of a passionate Creator,
so why discuss the matter?
***
Selective Sacrifice
Sorry son
You’ve got to go
Times have changed
Didn’t you know
The beast is hungry
And he must be fed
And boys like you
Must spill the red
It’s your price to pay
To live in this land
Nothing personal, you understand
Here’s your papers, sign them all
You must respond
When Detroit calls
Take up the flag
Take up the gun
Sandstones waiting if you run
I’m sorry son
But you’ve got to go
Times have changed
Didn’t you know?
E.J. Hudak ca. 1969
Someday,
I'm going out west,
Dad would often say,
Where the eagles build their nests.
Daddy was born in the south.
I never heard how far he went north,
Nor if he ever ventured to the east.
But I know that he never moved west.
Perhaps it was just a dream,
Like coffee mixed with cream;
Like a high-powered muse,
Never intended to be used.
If I could speak to daddy now,
I would be very specific.
I would share with him how,
I moved all the way to the pacific.
Living under a dictator won’t be all that bad.
Most won’t even miss any of the rights that they had.
But oops! Here they come for your high-powered gun.
They’ve just about convinced you, it will be safer for everyone,
especially now that all those murderous immigrants are gone.
She needs that drink to start the day
When the children play
To get away
Meetings, lunch, that damn report
The never-ending stress
A drink to rest
She makes love like the dead
Her mind ahead
Major decisions, racing instead
A drink to unwind
To go to bed
Tomorrow a drink to get ahead
Engagements, talks, drinks to go
The high-powered girl has hit the low
Make up getting thicker now
Drink the crutch
Husband having an affair
It’s all too much
Drinks to get up
Starts to fall
Crashing down against the wall
Pulls herself up
In a daze
Looks in the mirror
In a haze
Sees a face
A slight trace
Pitiful tragic being
For the first time seeing
The ghost finally screaming
She stands up
The words would set her free
I am an alcoholic
The hunter is inside
between the lens and its mirror
where Zen masters prowl
with high powered lights.
The prey is sensed
before it takes shape,
otherwise you catch nothing.
You are in the zone,
mind locked on a digital trigger.
Sometimes
the whole world stampedes
across your path,
more often,
a small curlicue of significance
will trip a sensory wire,
crosshairs will meet,
then for an instant you disappear,
as you take the shot.
When his stiff larynx shifts,
a caviling bone that darts for cover
as if caught in its bell tower
with a high-powered rifle.
I see his desperate need to talk.
"Those dumb forks,
ingrates, free-loaders, punks."
Salty epithets
march up and down his throat,
as if menacing the very fabric
of his Adam's apple.
Behind his eyes
the damned are piling up.
We are out here alone,
just him and me, and this anger
strangling his windpipe.
He once carried a buddy
out of a kill zone,
but not a lot of himself,
just this bitter slanguage.
I want to grab hold of him,
hug him,
let him talk it out,
allow his wounded words,
to spill out of their foxholes,
then share a dirty joke or two.
A stare across the grassy fields revealed.
Covered with frost, they lay quiet and still.
Their position clearly had a restful feel,
One which will leave them in decline until
Next Spring when they break from their clods.
Few but farmers will notice their weeping sods.
Another look across the horizon did not conceal,
But rather had an arrested scene with the power to heal.
Upon further gaze, there was a tree-lined face,
Laced in a pattern of awesomeness, beauty, and grace.
Nature's way is imposing as she unfolds her art to us,
But she's always advancing in motion, never posing for us.
So, with these words, I capture her mesmerizing display.
If I do nothing else, I will treasure this heavenly scene today.
The moment is ever swift of feet and shall never return.
Embraced by her loveliness, I boarded her fleeting scene.
The skies are blue with high-flying clouds, peaceful and far.
And the sunrise blasts from afar like a high-powered star.
Like cloud patterns, such views never come to stay.
But today, it's Christmas, and they're shouting, "HEY"!
647AM122522PS
A sexy high-powered firearm
Assault rifle—an owners charm
By banning this thrill
It'd stop a fun kill
But other guns still can do harm
Author's note: I've met several people who own these weapons and love shooting them. Would they be willing to give up this privilege (and restrict their shooting to standard street guns) in order to make the rest of us and our schools a bit safer? I get that it would constitute a huge sacrifice on their part. OMG—the horror!
Charlie Norton has expanded
Ever since his work was seen
And favourably commended
By an Equerry to the Queen
He’s added Panto Dames instruction
With an optional modular course
For white faced clown technique
And lead end Panto Horse
This coupled with existing stuff
Has pushed his venture to the fore
And Charlie’s mind is working
On this and so much more
He’s been invited to the Palace
Where he had a spot of lunch
With Charlie Windsor and Camilla
And others of the royal bunch
The Prince’s trust approves
Of Charlie and his scheme
And opened him an off shoot
In deepest trendy Cheam
And it is rumoured seriously
That the Queen’s old man
Wants to learn to tap dance
In pumps and Coat of Astrakhan
Life is so exciting at Charlie’s
School of Armoured Acting Parts
And Charlie is considered
To be a man of many arts
It says By Appointment
Over the front door
Can any theatre school
Realty want for more
But not resting on his laurels
Charlie has a further plan
In providing correct training for
Portrayal of The Invisible Man
The Charlie Norton School;
Of Modern Theatrical Art
Can give your career
A high powered start
The night-shift on Lumparok nine
Woke up to an ear piercing whine
“Some Dumb earthling loon
Has just bombed our moon
And knocked the damned thing out of line.
“Prepare the atomic collection
And launch a high powered selection
How dare Humans sin
To save their own skin
We’ll show them a lunar deflection.”
*
At NASA there’s resounding cheers
With clapping and hugging and beers
“Hooray, it’s a hit
It moved just a bit
We’re safe for a million years.”
A random thought
Runs through my mind
The way things are going
People just must be blind
The shootings and killings
Just where do I begin
No one listens to them
So where do they fit in
You say it's all over
But here we go again
Pointing that gun to kill
That is a Cardinal sin
No remorse no cares
They must be crazy in the brain
They must need help
They feel there is nothing to gain
So please let's change
The way this world runs
Please change the laws
No more high powered guns
Saturday
7-16-22
9:17 am
The hunter is inside
between the lens and its mirror
where Zen masters prowl
with high powered flashlights.
The prey is sensed
before it takes shape,
otherwise you catch nothing.
You are in the zone,
mind locked on a digital trigger.
Sometimes
the whole world stampedes
across your path,
more often,
a small curlicue of significance
will trip a sensory wire,
cross-hairs will meet,
then for an instant you disappear
as you take the shot.
Between the lens and its mirror,
A Zen master prowls
through a high powered pinhole.
The prey is sensed
before it takes shape,
otherwise you catch nothing.
Cross hairs meet,
for an instant you disappear
as you take the shot.
angry sea pounds cliffs
pines bend to Pacific winds
beautiful woman
high powered romance
salty air, dangerous curves
When the larynx shifts
(a caviling bone) darts for cover,
as if caught in its bell tower
with a high-powered rifle.
I see his desperate need to talk.
those damn people,
ingrates, free-loaders, punks.
Salty epithets march up and down his throat,
as if menacing the very fabric
of his Adam's apple.
Behind his eyes
the damned are piling up.
We are out here alone,
just him and me, and this anger
strangling his windpipe.
He once carried a buddy
out of a kill zone,
but not much of himself,
just this bitter slanguage.
I want to grab hold of him,
hug him close,
let him talk it all out,
allow his words
to spill out of their foxholes.
Then break some ciabatta with him,
some Ligurian olives and chianti,
share a dirty joke
between wine sweetened gums.
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