Marks and Angles

An old word on a path of a thousand miles
begins with a single faux pas
said Laozi of the Dao De Jing

More than a two-step to completion
of propaganda and subversion —
it takes a bat and a virus to conquer.
Tick-tock.

Peace on the road
was to be woven
in friendships for
fair weather, a shrewd
bounty before fool’s storms,

in malice from unforeseen red feuds,
Jane’s tale was to fail in bans soon.

The Wuhan plague
brought chaos, and

when all the local stores failed
the aristocrats pro temp bought them
and Jane’s requiem began to play

Jane had gone batty
over the Summer:

older daughter home,
younger daughter beaten
dead by the gangs, and

she had been annoyed by
the constant chants on the speakers
of the Chinese language lessons
needed to earn guanxi like “1984”.

She had thought
fall would be better:
the eldest jumped for joy
when she was accepted
to a tuition-free school
as good as Harvard, a
part of the Red Ivy League, funded by
the Confucius Friendship Society

Pandora’s box
had bats in it for Jane.

Her decline was sealed
the day the grocery store
checked her credit score:
The princeling who owned it
refused to serve her because
she didn’t have enough caution
in social credits for conformity:
a black mark for twice not
wearing a red mask and
not passing her basic
Chinese language test.

All the stores had been
taken over by the princelings
after the coup d’etat, so
Jane had to walk far away
for an Amerigo Supermarket.

Walking was a complicated fate:
she had to hang with
the ‘hood committee
to negotiate with the gangs
just for a safe passage.
(The citizen’s police
had no guns anymore)

Sitting at the window
she had a heart attack
when protestors
burned the Constitution
in a surise red fire
by the dawn’s early light

Proudly, great progress
was hailed without bullets
on the conveyance belt
and roadway to hell.

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.

Pens Lost In Digital Snow

Seals and polar bears swimming.
Pens of explorers lost.

Many digital articles on Eskimos
laughing together
transcribed from pen works, but
not much left from
writings in the snow.

Ambiguity must be earned, for
never would one know
there’s no flower in the snow.

Returning to the laughing igloo
he brings home the food and fur
of a work without a pen

Spear and club are shrug-ugly
piercing the seal in blood
opening the seals of soul, a muddy
ambiguity of his spirit to live
to eat, and return to the igloo,
though now his child has a computer.

The blessed child is the after-laugh.
Oh such a giggle rainbow, colors that grow
in many modal drawings of love,
in crayons, in finger paints, in ink, in
the paint of explosive jello
and the wiggle of love with cosmic pen
writing in the streak of laughing stars.
Many articles about stars, ice,
the noble hunt, and he, the warrior
may someday look for
his pen in the snow, when
he began to take notes for a researcher.

His child doesn’t need
a pen or spear anymore
nor a need to ever return to the igloo.

It Only Takes a Word To Conquer

I will conquer them
with diplomacy, mere
words and contagion will
sneeze our conspiracy into
the air of their glamorous
glistening ball room.

My team offers
smooth and soothing persiflage
oozing our pus into their lungs; they

breath our loquacious anesthesia,
lilac scents of sensible chatter
(but their pusillanimous odor
repels us like a corpse flower).

We know the rituals we must
perform to hide the dagger
and dance for the pompous
who court us like
children at proms.

Weakening the enemy, we
send in our smarmy army, knowing
a cocktail or two will do
to suck out a bit of brain
through a tin ear that
hears only flattery.

They do not know
there will be blood
even for the elite.

My unctuous Ambassador
is slick, not anxious, and
he easily wheedles out
a disarmament treaty
holding his nose
against the stench
of decadence.

We wait for the fools to
celebrate their papers, and now
when their guard is down

our daggers slaughter,
as in ancient times, and

I demand
those not dead must be
obsequious, and
happy to be
our new slaves.

Cake

Because I woke too late in morning bed, I
only glimpsed a yellow dress
swirling out the door, and

limey me wondered: what
does love feel like, Sugar girl
if making love is not like
having love, or cake
for breakfast thoughts
although

I felt so warm in bed
even after you left, and

it feels as if I’ve taken a hot-soak
bubble bath of laughs with you
to giggle bubble the day

Oh say
can I have your cake
and bake it too, or

maybe pie
with cream and Key lime

maybe
if there’d be

a drink for us to
gin up the love
I’d define it by

lemon and lime,
with Sugar