Today, May 5th, is the eight anniversary of Mom's death and I am still reeling from my dog Leda's passing two days ago. Here they are together on April 7th 2008 in my music room in Elyria when Leda was just a puppy. I can't help but recall what Patricia Kennealy said to Jim Morrison in Oliver Stone's film The Doors: "Death does not part, only lack of love." And there is no lack whatsoever.
Indian summer sun squints, bloodshot like the wide wounded eyes of my cynical Seneca ancestors. On and on and anon, an endless queue of unrelenting conquistadors, lusting for booty or bust, defile our trust and defame the name of God in the name of God. Opportunity does not knock for trusting tribesmen, be they from Arizona, Africa, the Amazon or Akron. Riding roughshod over every allegedly endless empire including America the beautifully dutiful, The cursed hearse of history leads a parade of pathetic and unsympathetic plotters, plodders, priests and presidents, electable eels who feel their forked tongues and dung make them agents of distinction, instead of extinction. Sweetly sighing lullabies of liberty and expediency, these leaders open their bomb bays as they pray, first for the unconditional surrender of their enemies and last, if at all, for the bloodshot souls of the soon to be charred children of Hiroshima, Hanoi Belfast, Belgrade, Baghdad, Bethlehem New York City and coming soon to a theatre of war near you.
While quarantined at home, I started a new video series, "Rattle &
Numb Live." Here's episode #2, featuring the 2nd poem in my latest book.
It's my most known poem, from 2008, but still fits me like a pair of
chaps.
