The internet, he said, was God’s gift to Satan, but Satan returned it within the warranty period since it didn’t bring him nearly as much business as he had hoped. That, and the broadband in Hell was iffy most of the time, something about the heat, like broadband in Florida in the summer, only worse. God didn’t particularly want it, so he gave it to humans, figuring one more plague might keep them from begging for all manner of selfish things.
While I admit that I
am rather an optimist
your pessimism leaves me
with several questions.
When you said things
go south in a hurry
where do they land
and what airline do they use?
And when things go
to hell in a handbasket
of what is the basket made
and whose hand carries it to hell?
And yes, your hardly need
to tell me that this is one
great SNAFU, for if so, that’s
normal and bears no mention.
From the moment it began, we knew, it was
obvious that peace and freedom were under assault,
Russia had thrown societal norms to the wind.
Under gunmetal gray skies they attacked by air,
killing women, children, destroying hospitals, homes
raining hell on the innocents with nowhere to turn.
All we could do was watch, pray and offer paltry aid
in the hope that this proud nation could hold out,
negotiate some peace, maintain their freedom,
emerge like the phoenix slowly rising from the rubble.
The gods have ceased
to care about us, too
busy with other more important
tasks like fighting their
pending evictions from
Olympus and Asgard.
And the demigods have
never given a damn
about us, always preening
and imagining their
elevation, so we are left
to muddle along and we
know how that has worked
through history, so we
have turned away, anointed
ourselves, declared we
are holy and built a heaven
and hell as a final middle
finger to the once gods
who can all go to hell.
Now that I have discovered
my Catholic and Protestant ancestors
I know it is time to consider
what hell must be like.
I know it is not fire and brimstone,
that went the way of old lore
when the Impressionists came along.
So I imagine Hell must be
very much like getting caught
looking at the new cars
in the showroom while you wait
for your car to be serviced,
having already figured out how
you will raise the money to buy it back.
The devil is defnitely the nice
young salesman who knows just
what you want in a new car even
though you have no idea, what
options you obviously need,
and before you know it he
has you at his desk discussing
how you can finance the car
that you did not want
and cannot afford after
buying your old car back.
You say that I am an apostate,
hell bent, hell bound, soon to meet
the hell hound awaiting my arrival.
You have condemned me for thoughts
that deviate from your own, you
are the guardians of the Word, you say,
although whose words you guard is ever
harder and harder to discern, certainly
not those of He who died for saying them.
You say heaven is reserved to you
and those who merit being your apostles
and those who fail must be condemned.
Yet Cerberus understands well,
and you will be surprised when he
greets you at the hell gates of your heaven.
We sat in the cramped kitchen
huddled around the stove
the open oven door spreading
a faint warmth that barely
slid through the winter chill.
The bare bulb in the ceiling
strained and flickered
fighting to hold as the generators
were shut down, and darkness
enveloped our small world.
The sky was lit by the flares
and the odor of exploding shells
seeped through the towel
sealed windows covered
in the tattered bedsheets
too thin to afford warmth.
Ibrahim had been gone two weeks
sneaking out of the city
to join his brothers in Gorazde
or Tuzla, or wherever it was
that they were struggling
to save what little was left.
We huddled under the small table
and dreamed of the taste
of fresh bread, or even pork.
In the morning he would run
among the craters in the streets
in search of the convoy
and the handouts, which we
would raven as the sun set
over our war torn hell.
First published in Legal Studies Forum, Vol. XXX, No. 1 & 2, 2006
SOMETIMES A POEM CANNOT WAIT
From the moment it began, we knew, it was
obvious that peace and freedom were under assault,
Russia had thrown societal norms to the wind.
Under gunmetal gray skies they attacked by air,
killing women, children, destroying hospital, homes
raining hell on the innocents with nowhere to turn.
All we could do was watch, pray and offer paltry aid
in the hope that this proud nation could hold out
negotiate some sort of peace, maintain their freedom,
emerge like the phoenix slowly rising from the rubble.
My ultimate goal, never to be achieved
is to redesign hell and all of its circles
to better reflect the world we live in now.
Of course I’d need two circles for
politicians, one for each major party,
and independents get to choose.
Catholic priests, minister and rabbis
who abused members of their flocks
get a circle of their own with the movie
Dogma playing in an endless loop.
There would be all the usual circles
for the those whose lives fell short
and one for Buddhists. Imagine
a run down Motel 6 in the worst possible
neighborhood, since they will only
stay until their reincarnation as
something truly ghastly and detested.
Those would be my desirables, but
the one certainty, the absolute is
the worst of all, set aside for those
who spent untold hours toiling
to write catchy but ever so vapid, cloying
melodies and lyrics that become stuck
in your mind like an intractable fungus.
First Published in AGON Journal, Issue 0, 2021
Between Scylla and Charybdis
they cower amidst the ruins
fearful to look skyward
lest they encourage
the rains of hell.
Now and then they visit
the corpses, hastily buried
grief drowned by the sound
of the laugh of the gunner
peering down from the hills.
It is always night for the soul
and lookout must be kept
for Charon, who rides
silently along the rivers of blood,
that flow through her streets.
In the great halls,
far removed from the horror,
self-professed wise men
exchange maps
lines randomly drawn,
scythes slicing a people.
They trade in lives as chattel,
reaping a bitter harvest,
praying there may only be
but seven lean years.
They offer a sop to Cerberus,
three villages straddling the river,
but the army of the hills
knows they will take that and more
and waits patiently for the winter
when the odor of sanctity
no longer arises out of the city
to assail their nostrils
and Shadrach is
no more than a ghost.
First Appeared in Living Poets (UK), Vol. 2, No. 1, 2000.
an old writer and his words 