We have suffered you and I

but years have smoothed us,

our inflexibilities. Doctors of time

repair two broken clocks,

what once were frozen

second hand  feelings

begin to march once again.

Our time is now to enjoy our sun,

warm summer breezes whispering

tunes of destiny

sweet lightening love.


I was born with two left eyes in a world where the norm for the majority of people is to enjoy the privilege of one left eye and one right eye.  I’m not saying there aren’t more people like me.  Several of my coworkers at the cement plant have two left eyes, but because we are cursed with this gift the cement factory is as high on the social ladder as we going to get.  The factory doesn’t pay much, four-fifty-four, but complaining is not an option.  Complaints are handled by the NRA (National Right-Eye Agency) and Form RE169 only gets you a comfortable room at the local Left-Eye Mental Health Hospital. You’re observed for twenty-four hours to ensure suicide is not the real cause for the annoyance of an RE169.


There was a time I’m told that Religionists all over the world insisted the Holy Ones were lefties, but things have changed in the past hundred years.  God is now a bi-eye king of kings.


Lefties are now considered less than human, ignorant and unworthy of eye contact with bi-eyes everywhere.  My beautiful dark eyed wife, Synora, saved enough money to buy our daughter Mary and her fiancé Karl a wedding cake.  We were refused by the bi-eyed baker.  “Ain’t bakin’ no cake for no lefties,” He spat.  “Go to your fucking lefty welfare line and get one!”  The stare he gave us cut through our skin and made us bleed lefty blood as our heads turned away.  “Get the fuck out of my store you fucking perverts!”


We knew better than taking the twenty-five mile trip to the Left Eye Welfare Corporation.  The place was lucky to give you a gallon of powdered milk or a loaf of bread and even that was gifted only after a body, cavity and all, search.  The wedding would be without cake, perhaps sugar bread could somehow be fancied up a bit to replace the dreams of Synora and Karl.  The Marx home once again would once again be stripped of the remnants of its honor, nothing new, nothing to get huffy about.


Our family has been living on the dark side of existence for nearly sixty years now.  There is nothing to be done about it.  Of the three hundred members of our combined families over half were born with two left eyes.  I am told that our Holy Ones taught kindness, acceptance, helping those less fortunate, and turning our heads to haughtiness, the food of the bi-eyes of this world.  Unfortunately, this philosophy has been trampled around the world, crushed beyond recognition.


The bi-eyes have gained control around the world.  They live in concrete castles that reach towards the clouds.  They eat the finest, dress the finest, and smell the finest.  Their lackeys are bi-eyed, but live less comfortably than their rich counterparts, but they are okay with that.  After all those bi-eyed lackeys make no less than ten bucks an hour, it’s enough to make a banker giggle. There are no dark skinned bi-eyes.  I misspeak.  Even though millions of dark skinned people are bi-eyed, they have been assimilated into the left eye community.


I could end this story right now, because as I speak nothing has changed.  But there is a bread crumb of hope for us lefties.  A socialist thinker with my surname Marx profoundly spoke once hundreds of years ago.  Karl Marx predicted that a day would come when lefties would revolt.  They would rise up from left eye humiliation and destroy the arrogant bi-eyes of this world.  Every morning I wake up with the hope that Karl was right.  Hubris is the death knell lefties continue to hope for.  Still we wait.




Thoughts fly by like startled birds in flight and I with my hands out feel only a brisk tickle of a feathered muse.  Perhaps it’s easier for some with quicker grasps than mine.  For I am sloth slow and cannot crisply snap the fly’s back in mid air.  It is left for the young to beat the firing gun.  I hang behind like a horse with a shattered shoe.


These words are mine.  I own them and carry them medal proud yet they are heavy with a yoke of responsibility.  You can own a fancy car, perhaps a new house or you could own all the gold in faraway lands, but to own your words is a price higher than all the frivolous belongings of humankind.  You see words really are the arrows and we must give forethought to where we aim.


I own myself.  You own yourself.  No one owns anyone.  We had a war for that, remember?  We did away with boys, tattooed numbers, and stupid bitches.  It all stopped after the war, didn’t it?  We don’t use the word so despicable we can only call it N and names so bad we must never say them in the open air, but we do.  We despise the closed mind but when we’re alone, where are we?  Some still think the color of their skin is all that matters.  Little do they use all the crayons in their box, little do they know about the crayon standing straight beside them, and so they know little with minds so narrow a needle cannot find its way to a haystack.


It is a world of bigotry, a world of awesomeness, yet it’s a world of dirt, green grass, and sweaty hope.  We live here.  We do not own it.  You see all that stops when each war begins.  We are but embryos waiting for Mother Earth to squat.

The Boxer


How does it feel to be broke jawed

on the canvas striped man counting

no deal here my friend

you’re down and rubber legged.

Another man punched the shit out of you

nothing left to do but crawl off the ring

into the arms of those left.

Fighting with blood in your mind

is a lost approach to the game.


Somewhere in New Delhi maybe Shanghai or Beijing there’s a girl with no dress to wear.  She prostitutes herself for pennies with only a slip to cover her prepubescent shame.  Mamma sold her for five dollars and bought herself a bag of rice and a dress for herself.  Now the pimps love her and beat her and call her whore so we worry about a fucking deficit in the Hamptons?  This is not a picture painted by Van Gough or Rembrandt.  A snapshot of aristocracy in black and white, truly the work of kind Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, and Hindus alike shot from not dissimilar cameras.

Taking the Jet

Did I mention a dark skinned man

sits alone in a house of white, he’s a target

for a world of pig nose colored bigots?

Bigots wear teabag hats and snakes

curled around their flag, they are god’s children,

scrotum mouthed children, nazi nosed bastards

bullets spinning from their lips.

They love the constitution,

hate the Bible cause they know

Jesus took the last Concord Jet to Paris

and won’t be back, he’s never coming back.

This Year’s Color

Holes in his shoes

the boy gathered his clothes.

No one saw him

no one ever did

he was invisible to a cruel city.

You see he wasn’t white

this decade’s favorite color.

They  preferred a pig pink,

 such a darling tint

for Jesus lovers and rich boys.

Recruiters smiled at him

“this is the place for you

Robert Mason the Third.

After all there’s a war to fight

God knows them pig noses don’t care.”

Robert came home in a metal case,

a hero for all the pigs to see.

“Them boys gave it their all,

ultimate sacrifice we’ll never forget.”

They forgot.