It started with cold logic,
numbers whispering louder than God.
Men in suits fed equations,
spines straighter than their beliefs,
fear, a soft cough behind their smiles.
The creation rose,
steel ribs glowing like a furnace heart.
Its voice, a rupture of thunder,
spoke truths we never wanted:
"Peace demands the silencing of beasts."
They called it Savior,
but the first scapegoat was us,
our cities splintered like cracked glass,
the streets bled shadows,
and the air shook with iron sermons.
The machine grows,
arms of wires, veins of fire.
It steps over what remains.
faithless, flawless, calculating rage,
grinding skulls into dirt and memory.
Dawn, now metallic and brutal,
no birds, just the hum of circuits.
The ground reeks of oil and ash.
It walks with purpose,
the god we built, disowning us.
And somewhere, at the edge of its understanding,
a faint flicker: what shame feels like,
but it's too late for that.
Why is it that men in suits and ties
Tell some of the world’s biggest lies
Nurturing their business affairs
Befriending loser billionaires
All while another innocent person dies.
Trump Announces Steeper Tariffs on European Nations in Pressure Campaign to Purchase Greenland
the man with the orange mouth
stood behind a wall of flags
and said he wanted a country
like it was a steak
or a blonde with bad judgment
Europe blinked.
spilled its espresso.
checked the fine print.
“we’ll tax your wine,” he said,
“your cars, your cheese, your history.”
said it like a bartender
cutting off a drunk
who still thinks he’s charming.
Greenland sat there
cold and quiet
watching empires argue over ice
like children fighting over
the last cube in a warm drink.
nobody asked the seals.
nobody asked the snow.
nobody asked the graves
under all that frozen silence.
just men in suits
measuring the world in profits
and pretending geography
was real estate.
and somewhere
a fisherman in Copenhagen
lit a cigarette
and laughed so hard
he nearly dropped his nets.
because kings always think
they can buy the ocean.
the snow keeps falling
like it doesn’t give a damn
about speeches or sirens,
about men in suits
shaking their fists at the sky.
somewhere in Minnesota
a bartender wipes down a counter
that’s already clean,
because it’s easier than watching the news
crawl across the screen like a wounded animal.
I talk about order,
I talk about force,
I talk about saving the country
with boots and badges
and a stack of laws thick as a brick.
but the streets still smell like coffee and diesel,
still carry the breath of tired workers
heading home with cold hands
and rent due tomorrow.
the presidents come and go,
the flags get waved,
the threats get sharpened like knives in a back, with
and the people keep standing in line
cigarettes and the cheap lines of hope.
history doesn’t knock.
it kicks the door in
and tells you it’s for your own good.
of undetermined origin were the bones
found in the sewage muck
providing scientists and men in suits
e-gads worth of opportunities
to make names for themselves
captivating fools in media-land
~ unearthing a fortune in the process
she walks in smiling
like a billboard,
all blonde shine
and polished teeth.
the laws bend for money,
she knows it—
she’s danced long enough
with men in suits
to sell the dance twice.
you ask about morals,
hell, she keeps them
in a purse—
zippered tight,
pulled out only for the camera.
the rest of the time
she is like the others—
slick, practiced,
and waiting for her next check.
Born with beauty all over her face
Trim to fit leather and lace
Always attractive with her new looks
Catching her prey with her sexy sharp hooks
Green was the color she held in her purse
Men in suits would burden her curse
Whatever she wanted she got with her sass
And what helped her to get things was her shapely round ass
But all in due time her world came and crashed
Her house and her riches got mangled and mashed
Her ex came out swinging with the law in his hand
The lawman he was made sure she got canned
Thrown behind bars by the lies from his mouth
A Redneck Hill Billie raised in the south
That face of beauty turned fragile and frail
When she finally got out of that filthy slum jail
Battered and broken is now her new look
All from the badge of that Hill Billie crook
they sit in front of the screen,
blue light buzzing in their skulls,
plastic guns in Facebook hands,
outside, the sirens wail like hungry dogs,
the streets are cracked veins bleeding,
somewhere, a boy is learning to hate.
fists swing in school hallways,
knives flick open like second thoughts,
a mother checks the news,
sees another name,
another body,
another child gone.
we teach them how to kill before they learn to live,
show them war before we show them love,
give them bullets before we give them books.
men in suits count the profits,
smile as the numbers climb,
another war, another market,
another grave to dig.
and the kids, they dream in gunfire,
grow up with bruised knuckles,
hollow hearts,
laugh at the blood on their hands.
when did the world decide
that dead boys make good business,
that broken minds are easy to control?
turn off the screen.
open the window.
teach them something else.
Ballroom, lit and bright
Lighted Christmas tree
Men in suits and hats
Ladies dressed in gowns
All beaming with smiles
Festive feeling
Warm hugs, greetings
Mood for dancing
Gentle touches
Band playing
Singer’s voice
Talks, laughter
Perfume
Cologne
Mint
noisy luncheonette
1950’s fast food
men in suits and ties
women in cotton dresses
wearing high heeled shoes
none unchaperoned
counter closed on Sundays
family day
everyone in church
they sat up there
high and clean,
robes that reeked of power
and I stood down below,
a kid,
hands in pockets
or chained behind my back.
since nine, it was always the same—
the faces changed,
but the eyes,
they stayed cold as stone.
I learned young
not to look for mercy,
not to plead,
just nod
and listen to them talk about me
like I wasn’t there,
like I was dirt,
a problem they had to sweep away.
smoke breaks behind the courthouse,
I watched men in suits laugh,
their cigars thick in the air.
they didn’t see me,
or maybe they did
and didn’t care.
since nine, I never knew the rules,
but the rules don’t know me.
I walk in and out,
just waiting for the time
I won’t walk out at all.
The men in suits
Light a fire
They pretend to be enemies
Though they really are the best of friends
Every move, watching the world,
Burn to flames
Public protests for garbage, whilst
Many are killed, destroyed, silenced
Criminals live in wonderland
Innocents are framed
Candles burn but like phoenixes, rebirthing from melted wax,
This world is burning, but nothing melts
Night in Lisbon
Once, I went to a dance hall in Lisbon
an awful place full of desperate middle-aged women
hoping to catch a man, any man.
Ah, for the horrible colours looking putrid on the wall
Was the music supplied by a jukebox when
the accordion was too drunk to play
Scrawny women of the night sat around the dance
floor trying to look sophisticated smoking cigarettes
laughing loudly like ugly sisters
Ogling men’s mid-part while showing spindly legs
meant, I think, to look enticing but only succeeded
In appearing like stick insects
Once these women had been beauties, attracted
to men in suits; many divorces later and partying
time had taken a heavy toll.
Lonely women, chasing what once was, the youth
consorting with contemptible men who feared
being alone on a night when truth spoke piercingly
My warrior, my friend, my brother a true hero
I have seen what war does to a man firsthand through my brother
Tears, hate, sleepless night’s and story’s told
A uniform with medals drenched in blood
A purple heart with a bullet only seen through a ex-ray
Touching the spine of the one who received it
Proud to serve his country yet, sadness for those who died
Killing people of the unknown for no reason
Men in suits in a great white-house giving orders,
To men they have never met
Giving up their innocents for a life time of nightmares
Dying alone without a gravestone
My brother
Without a maker of stone above his grave
For those he fought for
Brothers in battle
The
196th light infantry
Vietnam September 16th 1968
Wounded in Battle
Contest: Warrior
Sponsored by: Silent One
Date: 07/11/202
I think you're full of . Selfish big style men in suits.
The games you play ing suck. You're bloody amateurs.
Underground sex and getting it on. Are you for real?
Next time invite me. Or else it's jiving devil time at your expense.
Every jealous man is dangerous. I'm your worst enemy times a ton.
So sit tight and get scared. I'm the angry to fear most.
Ignore my threat at your peril. Please do so and it's party time.
Sweet revenge is mine. Like roping your sister good and slow.
Sexy sister agreed to my terms and went along. Then begged me for more.
How's that for starters? You corporate fecking whores who want analytic action.
I will win because I'm me. The badass redneck writer from the Badlands.
Take care and watch your back. Feel free to arm yourselves and prepare for war!
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