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Copyright
Copyright © Pandelabra Publishing 2020.
Published in 2020 by Pandelabra Publishing.
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher and wholesale enquiries: [email protected].
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Elegant Scenery
A car ride on an autumn day,
Driving past the fields and the trees,
And the run-down homes,
In the poor part of town.
Three family members play basketball
During Quarantine, but standing six feet apart,
Shooting layups, but missing most of the shots,
And laughing it off.
What will they do when the famine hits?
What will they do when the layoffs come?
Two mechanics stand in front of the shop,
Talking but breaking the six-foot barrier,
They are at risk.
A large employer still with their parking lots full,
A company man wondering who drove up to
Check-in but turned around.
A mansion that overlooks the bay,
Carved into apartments,
But on one of the nicest boulevards in the States,
With a park for a front yard,
Who lives there?
A thousand Government programs
Were gonna' save the day.
It is all so hollow as we stand before an abyss
The promises are even emptier than before.
One can count on both hands,
How often a politician has knocked on their doors,
With a smile, a promise, and their usual bullshit.
Its more elegant than I ever expected,
A morning drive through the poor part of the City.
The cape codes have their charm,
Their decorations and warmth.
Walkers wore sweats,
And had bedhead, eyes still waking up.
Maybe the politicians didn't drive by in the morning.
Maybe they waited for a more appropriate hour,
To maximize their impressions.
They should have driven by in the morning
When it’s all so elegant.
We think of elegance as a ball gown
Or a pretty photograph,
Long fingernails and pearls,
Batting eyes and champagne or Scotch,
There is elegance in sweatpants.
Let's not forget that.
Most of the world, as they wake today,
Will awake in sweatpants, not ball gowns.
They'll make breakfast together as a family,
They'll go to work at a shop or a factory,
And they'll have to stand six feet apart from each other.
The two companions, talking in front of their auto body shop,
Broke the six feet of separation.
Maybe they couldn't bear to be so distant.
Maybe they just wanted companionship and a human touch.
Sweatpants and jeans, elegant and longing,
Engrossed in conversation, a key chain lanyard around his neck like a rapper’s golden chain.
This City is elegant and depressing as hell.
These times are losing their elegance,
As opportunity closes down for the worker.
These politicians are peddling bad solutions,
It’s all so elegant, and it’s all such bullshit.
The Hipster Politician
The hipster politician
Makes long, eloquent statements
About nothing and nobody.
Their words as polished as chrome,
But what do they say?
And who do they speak for?
They don't speak for me.
The hipster politician
Says the words that I want to hear,
But don't get your grammar wrong,
Because he'll fire someone over the mistake.
His eyes are that trained to the details and
Nuances of his own appearance.
His eyes don't miss a beat,
When it could cost him a vote or handshake.
The hipster politician is the grammar police
Of a society that doesn't really give a shit
About grammar correctedness, style, or form.
But the hipster politician wears his wordplays
Like a badge of legitimacy and his long, winding
Statements like a symbol of strength and valor
In a time without war.
The Grammar Police are coming for your Twitter timeline.
They are grading you; you are all in grammar school now,
For your signal strength.
As if strength was a rarely used adjective,
Subjective verb disagreement, an active or
Passive statement.
The Grammar Police doesn't judge what matters,
The resonance of your device,
The quality of your character,
Or the rhythms and your rhyme.
Throw the hipster politicians to the curb,
Let them drink together in pubs,
Let the revolutionaries have the salon,
And while everyone is drinking coffee, tea, or beer,
Let the real people of this world
Storm the Bastille