The Loneliest Person on Earth

Read me like
I’m the smile behind the robber’s mask,
who steals sorrow, the Prince
at the masquerade ball who
yearns for the honest girl, Cinderella, and
who is the beast that is redeemed
to save the Beauty that

is an honest child of truth who can sing
as if the rose were the only flower of nature, and

the Great Horned Owl did not break
the spine of a fox with its talons and eat it.

I would stop cruel Nature and
find you who reaches out
to be a Princess from a Kingdom where

I will have sanctuary if
you can find me where I
live in space alone with deep cravings.

How’s Everyone Doing?

To do or to dew?
That is the questionable.

I’m not doing anyone at this moment in thyme.
There is thyme for oregano and time for love,
only heaven knows when
the day is like a cheery cherry, covered in
elegant chocolate that feeds
the taste buds of do’s and don’t’s
that toot a horn that calls out “do” for
fools and others who wait for
anything that is not done for.

Forlorn to do, forlorn to not, for
she is gone like a cherry pie
stolen in the night with
only the pie pan playing like a tambourine.

Wow Babe

Turning around
you’re looking at me yeah

Turning around
I love you

Smiling yeah,
I see you

Oh you’re looking

Ha, I know it
turning around you love me

Shout shout
I’ve got no doubt

Dance babe
hey yeah oh

Hay yeah baby cute love
turning around I love you

Hey yeah I see you
Hey yeah you forgive me

Got you to laugh again —
Dance!
I love you.

hey hey hey hey
kiss

Bark

Unknowns smashed into
the little old lady’s
Goode Notion Shoppe

Her old dog deftly
bit vandals well, teeth
into the foe fight, so
they left

she stayed overnight
pleased to rest a while,
thought they’d be back

She had a glass of wine
tapped her cane 13 times
and counted life in dog years.

In the morning
the dog howled, though
later the coroner came to see.

They were curled up
passing away in dog years
and the little Shoppe closed.

Mother Charlotte’s Poison Pen to her Daughter

Dear Daughter,
You got shoes and jewels
for what?

I told your idiot Father
not to let you
go to radical college
to major in
socialism and boyfriends

You’re not liberating:
you’re looting.

Your brother is
dead in Afghanistan. Suppose
he’d want you to have
well heeled shoes to walk in.

Why don’t you
steal something for me —

Yes, please,
go anarchy shopping
at the liquor store

Darling daughter,
why don’t you
rip out my liver, and
fry it in onions with
liberation olive oil

Your idiot Father
let me open my Boutique
and now your comrades
have burnt it to the ground

I’m glad for you
that your professor
gave you an A+ grade

Onward to paradise,
and take my heart.

Wuhan Girl

Wuhan girl, won’t you come out to light
come out for sighting
come out for citing?
Lab girl won’t you show a tiny crown
yes, dance with a crown, but
dance with a bat to dumbfound

We heard she went to market
early as a target
with a hole in her mask

not such an easy task to escape
if the secret police can make you, Shi
Shì de, qīn’ài de,
well duh
just simple to confess and die
with your lab confessor at your side

Wuhan girl, won’t you come out to light
come out for citing
come out delighting, shi! my love
or is it that in “gain of function”
you have died kissing crowns of bats
———-
*Shì de, qīn’ài de
Yes, my love
[she duh she nigh duh]
是的,亲爱的

I Am a Drip

Worthless I, I cry because
no one at all even
worthless you, Mom
loves

me at all
and I would have loved Dad
had you not stabbed him
in the heart, and he
is gone I think, but
I don’t know —
I think we are dead.

Anyone, give me
a magic pebble
I can throw in the pond
where I used to go to pray
to play with a splash on me
who is a fountain who
is an endless cry, and I
can not stop myself from
wanting to drown

She’s an Anecdote for Easter (Cytokine Storm edit)

We watched the screen plays
in the Ides of March’s sins
hydroxychloroquine
and azithromycin

Studying the oracles of science
she embraced a protocol agreed to:
randomized controlled studies

It’s quintessential to have a placebo
hydroxychloroquine not sufficient

Though playful in loving banter
the study’s the thing she said, and
anecdotes make for clingy fools
who fall for miracle stories’ pull

hydroxychloroquine
azithromycin
anecdote doting
a sin

I begged her to take it,
and the plays were the thing, but

the clouds were gathering
the cytokine storm approaching,
a rapprochement for
Didier* and Tony**
not yet

Even though
she was old
and expendable,
I loved her

She’d loved to study
when she was a student
then found her doctorate Zen
randomized controlled studies

She did studies back when
and she was a professor then

But she embraced
the tragedies of protocol,
and Didier was not a saint;
this one neither known for
truffles nor foie gras.

We had gone from
station to station
into a favorite valley of us
where we’d first kissed the day;
Charlie the dog herded sheep for us
and he barked at seeing us play, and
we’d sought redemption thus, but

Macron journeyed to Marseille
to say je ne sais quoi to Raoult, but

She, my love, embraced the protocols
in a randomized controlled study
’cause she’s a professor at heart

we knew cytokine thoughts
were forming beclouded, oui
beyond reproach, yet taught
to put toes in the water

She got a placebo;
she died.

*Didier
Didier Raoult
Saint Didier

**Tony
Dr. Anthony Fauci
American physician and immunologist
director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases

Cytokine Storm

The clouds were gathering
the cytokine storm was approaching
a rapprochement for
Didier and Tony
not yet

Even though
she was old
and expendable,
I loved her

She loved to study
when she was a student

She did studies when
she was a professor

But she embraced
the tragedies of protocol,
and Didier was not a saint;
this one neither known for
truffles nor foie gras.

We had gone from
station to station
into a favorite valley of us
where we first kissed the day,
Charlie the dog herded sheep for us
and he barked at seeing us play, and
we’d sought redemption thus, but

Macron journeyed to Marseille
to say je ne sais quoi to Raoult, but

She, my love, embraced the protocols
in a randomized controlled study
’cause she’s a professor at heart

we knew cytokine thoughts
were forming beclouded, oui
beyond reproach, yet taught
to put toes in the water

She got a placebo;
she died.

Killing Grandpa (2)

Corvidae as the crow flies
it’s a good year to die, ’cause
COVID caw-caw hurrah boo

yea true, my father died at 72 —
a cancer the grim blamed on him
and I at 71 demeaned by life
in Corona, a neighborhood
in Queens, New York

Might say in spirit furor
I’m a beer near Flushing Meadows
of the World’s Fair fame, 1964, though Dad
on Malta had his black market museum:
illegal guns in the ancient Hypogeum,
hiding missiles for dismissal of war

It’s a good year to die an honorable death.
the Grandchildren are nervous, but
I’ve put together some cleanly new
legitimate business for them to inherit.

Yeah, I know they want me dead.
Don’t blame them much…
but for fun I remember how I
let them play in the secret tunnels
yeah

it was exciting for them
to play in my tunnels,
and I let them hide in the
safe room so they could
listen to the oosh bang-bang
and smell the gunpowder,
hear the machine guns, the oofh-ow
swoosh, bat-a-tat-tat, ow-arg-uh, thud
zing, zing, chuh-chuh-chud, and muffled
screams, and it was so good to
smell the barbecue of the foiled.

Yeah, a little lie:
I told them their Grandpa
sold toys, and did laundry.

Yeah, kids, I told them
our crew liked
splashing red paint
on manikins:
it’s a war game, and
we always clean up.

Told them well:
Grandpa hated dirt, but
he made billions of dollars
washing things, and doing demolition.

They loved me, Grandpa, and
since childhood they’d
never officially known I
laundered money and
sold weapons to clandestine
really funny-owned groups

Early they heard fairy tales galore
they were to believe as required
and as they were told about me:
he didn’t like public dirt’s roar
so he washed donor money; yet
he gave their poor children toy guns
to play with, unrestricted for causes

Although they stopped believing in Santa Claus
and the tooth fairy as young adults
they inferred that by consulting
the guns and the washing machines
Grandpa controlled with computers.

I heard that Cousin Joe
called the kids
with great news:

he had shortness of breath and a high fever.
heard the kids all gathered
for his very own sneeze party.

It’s a good year to die, and
I know the kids have
a conspiracy to kill me, but

it’s OK.
I welcome them home
to party close-up with me
because they will give me
an honorable death
with shortness of breath, but
they were the only ones
I truly loved to play with.