Caseworker: Yams and Plantain

by Donal Mahoney

Cabrini-Green
The Housing Project
Summer in Chicago

Bienvenido’s comin’ over,
says his wife,
to ‘splain me

why the kids
have got no rice,
no beans,

how the landlord’s
shovin’ notes beneath
the door again.

In Puerto Rico Bienvenido
dug up yams,
was paid in plantain,

came over here,
brought his wife,
then his kids.

First New York,
then Chicago,
gave up yams,

gave up plantain,
just to drum
and make a living.

Mixed Messages

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The latest apartment
I've moved into
is loaded with personality.

The whore who lived here last
left three keys to nearby motels
in the linen closet
and carved the word DIE
in the front door.

It was okay as long as
she used the motels
but a neighbour ratted her out
when she worked from home.
There are some interesting stains
on the bedroom wall
under fluorescence
but the word DIE
carved in the front door
takes the cake.

I was thinking about getting
a WELCOME mat
to send
mixed messages
and
watch the mailman

flounder with
indecision.

Christ On the Lawn

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

A mob gathered outside

my front window and

beat the shit out of

a dealer they said was

getting their kids hooked

on dangerous stuff.

At first

I thought about intervening

on the dealer's behalf

but I had things to do.

The mob passed judgement with sticks

and I

decided to let them use my lawn

while I grabbed a fresh beer

from the fridge

filled the dish sink with soap and

washed my hands of

the whole affair.

Two weeks later

the lawn across the street

was littered with pink flamingos

but

the mob

left them alone.

Four is greater than pi

by Lynne Hayes

numbers always elude me
yet I think I have it now.
there are three hundred
puke green cinder blocks
in this place where death and life collide,
four windows with bars
to keep what, spirits in or out?
a radar blip
every two seconds to confirm
air is still given
and taken
one bed so shiny
it’s glare hurts my eyes
one three by six device in my palm
holding four words
that broke me in two
but pulse rates over a hundred
do not kill
so
I counted two hundred three steps
to the car that took three left turns,
passed four green lights
a lone police car watching
to arrive at one house
where the message
repeats like that awful remainder
in algebra,

Have a great life.

counting has stopped.

worse than a gun

by Rob Plath

when i was fifteen
i found rubbers
in my father's drawer
along w/knives
a pistol
cigarette lighters
gambling slips
& a bayonet

he was a collector
for a loanshark

i knew he committed
many crimes

but the condoms
reminded me of
his biggest crime

the act
of becoming
a father

something sad and slow

by J.J. Campbell

i saw one of my

phone sex buddies

online last night

we started our

usual chit chat

which would

normally lead us

to getting offline

and her making

a call

she told me she

wasn't interested

tonight, she was

busy playing her

video game

i told her i

understand

and got

offline

dragged my body

upstairs sadly

realizing at 33

years of age i'm

facing the same

rejection i did at

age 14

i closed my eyes

and turned on the

radio

something sad

and slow

reckoning that if

anyone ever took

the time to read

this mountain of

pages this suicide

would make sense

no note required


*seeking like minds to thin the herd, contact jcampb4593@aol.com

now i believe

by J.J. Campbell

a 62 foot high

statue of jesus

burned to the

ground after a

lightning strike

all the while the

hustler megastore

across the highway

was left untouched

by the storm

now i believe

in god

Reckless Endangerment

by Joseph Veronneau

Mostly used by states attorneys

for defense purposes

against a defendant.

But we are light with the BP's

of the nation

hazardous to health

we don't want to step on too

many toes

we want

an open communication

"they will pay"

we are told

but they have paid

12%

of the amount filed against them

suits and ties look so much neater

than tennis shoes

that stock the shelves at supermarkets

and you can't polish a sneaker.

Unaccountable we stand

as a tarnished nation

with a flag rescinding its stripes

day by day

with the lesson being

those who have not, will not.

Laundromat Girls

by Mike Meraz

I am sitting in a parking lot waiting
for my laundry to dry.
all around me are Latin women
walking, talking, laughing, giggling;
young girls, teenage girls, girls my own age,
older women: hair, hips, eyes, lips, bodies,
breasts. sometimes I think the whole
Mexican culture is based on sex.

one of them locks eyes with me and smiles.
how is a man to stay pure in all this?
I am too shy to approach any of them.
it is my only saving grace.

How Complex Geometry Gets

by William Doreski

The angles at which forest trees
lean into each other suggest
how complex geometry gets
before it resolves anything.
You and I meet at angles
even more oblique than birch
leaning into the boughs of oak.
On Main Street clutching book bags
we avoid a fatal meeting
of mutually brown eyes. We crouch
at an iron café table
and speak at angles so acute
they behead the strangers around us.

The afternoon sickens with cloud.
Shadows and other subtleties
fade as thunder trips on Beech Hill
and topples full-length on the town.
In Penn Station twenty years ago
I saw a child crushed when a man
rushing for a train fell over
a suitcase. As I describe this crime
your face becomes a hole through which
a downdraft funnels with a howl.
The child looked broken all over,
whimpering for several minutes
but dying before the cops came.

Despite your love of Dostoevsky
you’ve never heard so casual
a disaster recounted before.
You’d rather not hear details,
but the rain blazing in the street
prevents your escape, and the weight
of The Brothers Karamazov stashed
in your book bag anchors you
to characters much riper than me,
and the angles at which we’re sitting
add up to a perfect horizon
of a hundred and eighty degrees.

it just doesn’t seem like you

by John Grochalski

i’m at my desk

in this semi-private office they’ve given to me

i listened to brahm’s fist symphony

as i walked to work this morning

forcing myself not to think about the job.

i’m reading the new york times

on the computer

and thinking that it can’t get much

worse in the world

she walks in the office

she startles me.

she says, here this came for you in the mail

she throws a book on my desk

i look up from the new york times and i thank her

she lingers in the office.

she has on a red zip-up sweater

that has the word disney emblazoned across it

there is a picture of mickey mouse in a top hat.

he’s waving to me.

i hate disney and i hate mickey mouse.

she looks at me and i look at her.

she looks down at the book.

ezra pound, she says.

i nod.

i never would’ve took you for an ezra pound fan.

oh no, i say.

nah, you just don’t seem like that kinda person.

this book doesn’t seem like you.

then she walks out of the office before i get a chance

to ask her what seems like me

i want to know what impression i’ve made on her

in the month that i’ve been there.

i follow her out into the work room.

she’s standing with a bunch of my other co-workers

they are laughing and drinking coffee

she’s doing clerical work and telling everyone

how funny the alvin and the chipmunks movie was.

they all suddenly want to see the movie

alvin and the chipmunks has become the height

of american cinema at this place.

i go back in the office

i look down at ezra pound and he stares

maddeningly back up at me.

i think, well ez, we truly are alone in this.

i sit back down at the computer.

i open up the new york times online

and start to read it again.

the world has really gone to shit, i say quietly.

and now i know what kind of a person i am.

Bring It On

by Ivan Brkaric

He once cried
to Old Yeller.

Now
for too long
he has sobbed
with Captain Morgan.

Everyday,
an infinite circle.

Where were the days
of sandy beaches
filled with sea shells,
blue skies and castles?

Like a piece of
driftwood,
he has washed ashore.

To finally draw
a line in the sand
and take a stand.

To tap ‘life’
on its shoulder
and say

“Bring it on!”

BAREFOOT

by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Barefoot, her swollen feet
are weary of the road.
She ditches the road and walking
and sits on the bus bench.

When people see her talk
to the advertisement on
the bus bench they become weary
of her. The woman pays no

attention to the people
or to the police on the scene.
She could barely walk to the
squad car with her swollen feet.

Cloud Can

by Tasha Klein

I think in your ear, a flood that has a
no-ended expression. above. away from
feel.

doorway lips

vacant, glossy hips

a good cig kill

need. need. everything. you know
& that raging.

plastic waist. wrinkles move an emotion.

lie back. shower heat.

wet stop. until your mouth can't.

spongy elbows. foot laugh.

dark, tilting irises.

swollen knot. more blinked. your eyes
masturbate.

Time Left Over

by Holly Day

I wear my mother’s winter coat, reflect
on the life she never had—sacrifice
the father that wasn’t ghost hand in mine
sixteen years old and so much in love so
flamboyant, faded photos on the mantle
a smile I never saw, collapsing seduction
fading into the gray woman who held me
and cried. And now I’m her, wearing
her clothes and fighting against natural
reorientation. I remember growing old
growing up in her my house, lawnmower
squealing banging in my head, echoing father’s
private mantra. It’s easy to forgive
terror him of what he did to me
us both this one—thank god
there isn’t a gun in this house.

Last Night

by Chris Vaillancourt

Last night
I dreamed
of solace
and rest.

Peace and
quiet. Solitude.

All the
darkness
permeating
into
one place.

One point
of
view

that

would

become

one

state of
mind.

Last night
I pulled
for differences.

Looking out
my
eyes

into the
gloom.

The doom-scenes
filled
the
dreaming.

Last night
becomes
this night,

becomes
every
night.

I still dream


*Chris Vaillancourt has had two poetry books published, the first "Teardrop of Coloured Soul" in 2005 and his latest to be released in Jan. of 2010 entitled "I Walk Naked into a Cloud".

The Other Woman

by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

The other woman
who knew my father
saved all the letters
he'd ever written her
inside a trunk, and
now it's been fifty
years since she loved
him, even before I
was born when she
used to live beside
the Thames river.
One day she and my
mother wore sarees
for him as if it were
his birthday and he
thought she looked
like a jewel standing
by the lake water.
His passions were
opera and Brahms,
the music he shared
with her, and when
my mother died he
married her. My
stepbrother and
stepsister seldom
visit, and years ago
they used to be my
childhood friends.
Above the fireplace
is my stepmother's
picture. I couldn't
help but notice how
much my mother
looked like her. She
could've been her
sister.

The Scene of the Crime

by Aleathia Drehmer

I saw myself as I must
have been these last 10 years,
cold and alone, while lying on
the Mexican blanket listening to old tyme
fiddlers jamming in the far tent;

he rose from the makeshift bed, not knowing
that woman, never having the opportunity
to see her on his weekend jaunts to the country
when she was always on her best behavior.

And there it stood in the air between us,
a small firm command with no hint of malice
that stiffened his shoulders and furrowed my brow.
Silence followed as we abandoned the sea
stitched in green and white, opting
for places of stolid separation.

Strings from the banjo and double bass
tuned in the summer air and old folks
gathered closer to hear endearing songs
from youths long gone. I felt inexplicably
ugly in the face of tenderness; always
pushing and pushing until bridges
collapse and I’ve no way home.

IRON OVERLOAD

(For my mother, Roberta Crawford)

Most people dying from iron overload
never hear the tick of the clock,

or tiny church bells
rattling the rafters of the brain.

As iron settles into the heart, pancreas and liver,
carefully unfolding death’s warm quilt, needlessly,

hardly anyone dying from iron overload
hears each tick of the clock

or tiny church bells
rattling the dusty rafters of the brain.

As killer iron, like Genghis Khan, ravages the body,
rusting livers, brains and hearts,

an icy chill eases beneath death’s warm quilt,
needlessly, needlessly, needlessly.

by Alan Britt

If there’s a Heaven

by Charles Portolano

I watch her walk

to the bow of the boat,

she stands strong

against the harsh wind

that rushes past her,

pushing her long,

auburn hair back,

silhouetting her face,

her cheeks now raw,

burning bright red,

looking like an angel,

she turns towards me,

laughing, throwing

her arms open wide,

“My God,

how exhilarating!”

She parades past me,

leaving her scent

of lavender swirling

endlessly around me,

exhilarating me!

I could taste her

on my tongue.

Then she is gone.

I look everywhere

on that boat for her,

the last one to leave.

High and dry, I am

all alone with only

her words I heard

calming my inner

wild child,

touching me

all these years

in my dreams…

“My God,

how exhilarating!”

Her voice will be

the last thing I hear

while on this earth...


*Charles lives in Fountain Hills, AZ. He started writing poetry 14 years ago to celebrate the birth of his daring, darling, daughter Valerie. He wanted to preserve all the memories of the first time she walked, talked. Valerie was born with many obstacles to overcome giving him much to write about. Writing soon became his way of saving his sanity. Valerie is doing great now; she is quite the young writer. He has a new collection of poetry out, Storytelling.

Eleven Haiku / In a Narrative Sequence / Designed to Insult

by Scott Owens

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

I am going to
write a haiku for you now --
There! I have done it.


Self-Denial

This poem is not
a haiku despite the fact
that it seems to be.


By the Numbers

Five syllables to
start the poem, then seven next.
Five again to close.


Syllabic

It cannot be that
simple. Just five syllables,
then seven, then five.


Coursework

How many haiku
must I write to illustrate
such simple design?


Craft of Culture

This reminds me of
Gary Snyder’s Axe Handles
or Stephen Bishop

How we go on and
on, on and on, on and on.
Indeed, not far off.


Trepidation

I wonder just how
many haiku writers I
have pissed off with this.


Lottery

The banal haiku
tumble down the page -- Listen!
Are those stones I hear?


Monster

The poets are restless.
They think I’ve harmed their children.
Their torches are lit.

They’ve sharpened pitchforks
and carry plenty of rope.
It’s time to shut up.

empires come and go

*Entering the Soviet era in America history

Real Tacos

by John Rocco

In Mexico
the sky is too low beautiful
as I walk past the taqueria
Santiago the cab driver
warned me about
because they serve dog
to Americans.

Low on pesos but I
have hot horny tequila for blood
and the whole country is
an open pharmacy
and she said
she’ll give it to me
for much less tonight
because I am broke
tonight the stars
bleeding Mayan mirrors
down low on the old pyramids
and the poor new children
and the dead dog I step over
in the street.

*John Rocco at MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/292819823

To Zygote in My Coffee, 2003-2010

by John Rocco

You gave my slow old horse wings
and let him out of the stinking stable.
You let me fly on acid jet planes
covered in bloody stars and bleeding stripes
shooting across the plain of pain.
You let me sing dirty songs
to the lost and found world of her
and you never let me down.

Thank you Zygote
for all you did for us
and more and I’ll watch
football someday
heavy metal drinking
remembering the helmets
crashing bloody skulls on the Zygote page.

FUCK YOU, BANK!

by John Rocco

by John Rocco

I don’t know who you are but
you murdered Shea Stadium
and then asked me to close my account
because you couldn’t stand all the
“irregular” activity, overdrafts to heaven
overreaching the overdrawn accounts of the dead gods.
I’m sorry, Bank, but that’s how I bank
biting into the seeds of time
to see when this check will bounce
and this one will sail away home.

So hear this, Bank
FUCK YOU
and your accountants and tellers
and giant safes and guns and desks.

FUCK YOU, Bank
for the entire system of banking
that drove Pound crazy wrong
the Rock-Drill Cantos broken on
your terrible underbelly.

FUCK YOU, Bank
for closing your cold steel pussy on
John Dillinger, Public Enemy #1.

FUCK YOU, Bank
because I have several pints of crazy shit in my veins
and all you have is a shit load of money.

mania

by The Poet Spiel

sometime wednesday morning
maybe around 2 a m you found yourself
scalding on the x spot
you’d swear all the klieg lights
were suddenly blasted directly into your pupils
blinding you witless a warm trickle down your leg
yet you knew you sensed you could hear
the riot of flesh against silk against polyester against
wool against denim chiffon ostrichfeathers against
those nylon white sometimes aqua uniforms which swish
and hiss around the armpits against rubber soles screeching
against slick painted concrete against brittle leather fracturing
against slamming wooden seats brass hinges screaming
against the rush and shove
into this massive hall echoing echoing bouncing about
the overflow of your caretakers plus all those gawkers
come for staring wanting their money’s worth

the noisome sting of hot oil dripping onto squeaky gurney axles
the indelicate crushing of candy wrappers beneath
the behemoth you believe you sense beyond your wits
you freeze you see nothing you see white like no white

you see that first time you took the chance to look
directly into the sun and never saw again you see
you cannot see a way out of here sometime
last wednesday yesterday morning yesterday night today
right now that they expect the max out of you the big one
from the x on which you stand center stage alone
as they continue to appear relentless in their stirring
their skunk perfumes the stink
of gunpowder nearing you the crack of cocked rifles the snap
of a regiment of hard boots their ultimatum these lights imposing
a vast cavern
where your head should be
you
spinning the x like a hamster wheel firing spit
into the lights popping spitting back at you as you babble
in useless fragments of your tongue your tears splattering
all of those in noisy garments banging their seats like tommy-gun fire
yet failing miserably at shattering the merciless bright
the light the light you know
you know your tears must be reaching them as they begin to close in
around you now ceaseless breathing downward
into your earholes expecting of you you you you must
and you will be here tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow
and you cannot will not no never fulfill them

*just released from March Street Press "barely breathing" a 200 page perfect bound book by The Poet Spiel celebrating this lifelong artist's past ten years as a writer. spielspeak@earthlink.net

Dancer

by Holly Day

The girl on the stage winks at you
opens her blouse
and rips out her heart.
It beats frantically at your feet.
You ignore it.
The girl on the stage
begins her song.
It’s an old love song,
your song,
when the two of you were together.
Unfair of her
to dredge up your past
in front of so many people.
But the song drives you crazy.
You promise her anything
and throw her a tissue
which she stuffs in the hole
in her chest
where it blooms
blood coursing through its paper veins
like a carnation
in a buttonhole

doorbells, mornings and death or (If you are Cunt)

by Michele McDannold

listen
when you start writing from the brain
chuck it out the door
feed the cats with it
call it meow meow chow
w/ever
you’ve got to be heart, shit or balls
if you’re cunt
you better know how to translate
and yes, they’ll tell you to stop
and yes, they’ll have all kinds of reasons and critiques and
blowhard bullshit
you might even believe for awhile
it will throw you off
maybe you’ll take on an old fat fuckin mentor
start writing poems about doorbells, mornings
and death that does not
matter
and maybe everyone pulls a few chains now and then
and maybe everyone has a critic in their heart
and maybe not.
you could or could not say
‘and’ so much
it wouldn’t matter
style has nothing to do with depth
and
if you shovel the shit long enough
you might forget what was under there
you might forget where you were going
you might forget how you were getting there
one day you’ll remember
you wanted to go
you’ll remember
earth doesn’t taste like
dust
heat doesn’t feel like
pain
and passion--
doesn’t need to be developed.
it either sets your ass on fire
or doesn’t

Navy Days

by Michele McDannold

Ya know,
if you want a sad story,
I’ve got `em.
buckets full of guts-
yeah, tarred with cancer.
Not your trick,
fine. pass `round the corner
to the seven guys I fucked for fun
it’s not much when you think of seven
certainly not much to my man’s 100s
but I’m a gurl.

and boy, he loves to tell them stories
`bout those fuckin’ whores he did
back in the Navy days
shootin’ bananas out their twats
for fuck’s sake!

Yet I was tender once.
youth had it’s way with my head
and a girlfriend too.
well, truth be told
it was mostly just
strawberry fields and electric blankets
but my truth is like mold
in our living room.

so it’s all like
yes, cap’n
I’ll play the shame
for that one-
in trades for this.

Custer’s Last Stand

by Russell Streur

It rains in Vietnam

It rains in Iraq

It rains in Afghanistan

And election year 1876

George Armstrong Custer calculated

A couple hundred dead Sioux on the Plains

Would be about enough

For a four year lease

On the White House

And so with

Red white and blue

Guidon

With crossed swords flying

And American bugle

Blowing

Splashed a fine June morning

With his 7th cavalry and his wolverines

Across the Little Big Horn

Where a couple thousand Sioux on the other side

Voted with their arrows through his balls

Whereupon George

Earned his name of Yellow Hair

By putting a bullet through his brain

Leaving his troops and dogs to die

One by one

Eyes torn out

Noses cut off

Gutted

Fingers torn off

Penises sliced off

Feet severed

And other hanging chads

Of a body count

Tough to sum

Including the heart

Of his brother Tom

Which

Rain in the Face

Cut out

Had a taste

Spit out

And threw away.

“Sheep,” said Rain,

“The soldiers went down

Like sheep.”

the last five days

by Justin Hyde

i've been suspended from work
without pay
for abusing sick leave.

got it in my head
to go the whole stint
without speaking
to another human.

almost made it
but sitting at the laundry-mat
struggling through
descartes' ineptitude
a little hispanic girl
appeared over top.

she winked
and said: mister
hold onto this
no matter what
don't say anything
pinky swear?

i pinky swore
and closed a
red matchbox car
in my fist.

pretty soon
an older hispanic kid
was rooting around
under all the tables.

my benefactor
followed him.
coy smile
plastered on her face.

he started crying
making a scene.

his mother said
if he didn't calm down
she was going
to spank him.

i want my car!
he stomped
his foot.

mama took him out
and we saw him
get a thrashing
through the window.

she winked at me.

i winked back.

not sure why she did it

but i've been a big brother

i'm sure

the little bastard

had it coming.

a theme

by Justin Hyde

when they
turn off my electricity
for nonpayment

or tow my car
out of my
work parking lot
for the same reason

or i
wake up
on a foreign couch
having drained my bank account
for a party i
can't remember.

it's only
at the bottom
of the chipped cup
i consider reconciling
with my ex wife.

we meet
for dinner

quit drinking

see a shrink

she goes on
and on
with her manifesto
of pragmatic
castration:

a cold
metal rod
upside my head

recalling
vividly

those years of
napalm
sunrise.

"how grimly we hold onto our misery"

by Alan Catlin

Whored out and drug sick,
bumming cigarettes from half-
dead sailors in cheap side
taverns, one foot in the grave
and the other about to slide,
sharing tokes with lung sick
losers, needles with a dying
breed, eyes and mouths like
a mad dog's in the morning,
a dead one at night, still standing
but about to fall, prayer flags
from lost tribes affixed to wrists,
body prepped for plain air burial
on baked tar barroom roof, junkyard
rate in shadows, waiting.

"So when death comes it can only take part of you"

by Alan Catlin

If business improves
maybe he can afford
better perks, something
cooler than a ten dollar
customized t-shirt that
says, SHORT BLADE
on the front side and
STREET TESTED
NEIGHBORHOOD APPROVED
on the back, a sort of team
jersey for the lowest level
drug dealers, advertisements
for the self, no beat cop could
miss when it came time for
rounding up all the usual suspects
bust, a perk not nearly as flash
as the orange pimpmobile
emblazoned with Playboy decals
the just-out-of-his-teens
rival boss was using as his ride,
weapons of mass percussion
speakers pounding out a bass beat,
rattling windows for miles around
wherever he went, daring the punks
to empty their nines in his direction
if they could work up the nerve.

Introducing...

Spiel’s big fat new book of poetry at a pauper’s price:

“barely breathing”

A 200-page journey with The Poet Spiel celebrating this lifelong visual artist’s recent ten years as a poet/writer.

And it’s ONLY 9 bucks!

Each perfect bound book personally inscribed by Spiel and with chapter art by Spiel.

Price per book: $9

Add postage per book: $2.50

For postage on international orders, please inquire @ spielspeak@earthlink.net

Send cash, personal check or money order to:

The Poet Spiel

89 W. Linden Ave

Pueblo West, CO 81007

Need more info about the book?

spielspeak@earthlink.net

Much more info about The Poet Spiel @

www.thepoetspiel.name

“barely breathing” by The Poet Spiel with a foreward by David Chorlton

Published 2010 by March Street Press, Greensboro, N.C.

THE PRESIDENT

by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

The President
killed my family
a few years back:
He killed billions
of people, but he
did not kill me.

I was kept alive
to be President.
I’m waiting for a
new heart and new
brain before I can
lead this nation.

I will be the first
Latin President.
The first thing I’ll
do is raise the wages
of the farm workers
and tax the rich.

Black Gold; or the Sea of Tears

by Raphaelle O’Neil

My heart, an open wound once flooded, and since recovered,
Bleeds again, and now is covered in Black Gold.
Not the black and gold that brought us the victory
That signaled our new place in this city’s history,
But the Black Gold whose poison bleeds as the world watches
A new nightmare, slowly, but surely, unfold.

Something wicked this way comes,
Leaving a trail of tar baby birds in its wake,
As it gushes, seeping endlessly into the sea.
Not even our sea of tears can jerk us awake,
Nor help us unmake this mistake.

As the tides bring us closer to this unfurling disaster,
The winds carry with them a toxic scent that whispers,
And begs us to remember,
The shrill promise of “Drill, baby, drill!”

But, no, all is not well.
For even while I can still make believe that it is,
This endless well from hell, spills, and spills.
Black Gold has only begun washing up on our shores,
On our beds, on our schools,
Washing away with it the dreams that used to fill
Our bellies and our hearts,
While what was once our dearly beloved way of life,
Turns, yet again, into strife.

Yes, some of us can still pretend, but till when?
As horror draws near, how are we to defend
That which is most dear? As lies try to reduce our fears,
It becomes clear (unlike our waters),
Things won’t be the same again, at least not for years.

Meanwhile, the men who tried cutting corners,
All in the name of saving time and some dollars,
Are now trying to save their own collars.
The Black Gold is theirs, as well as the shame,
Yet still they try to keep their good name,
By dispersing and hiding the evidence,
And pointing fingers, displacing the blame.

How exactly are we supposed to take comfort
When asked to trust those who unleashed this mess,
To tell the truth, for once, and do what’s best
Letting them lead in the effort to recover?
Time and time again has shown, when left to their own,
They only protect their self interest!

So, waiting for this sad story and toll to be fully told,
We hold our breath,
As worthless Black Gold approaches,
And encroaches its tenacious fingers into our harbors,
And engulfs our Gulf, and that of our neighbors.

O, would that our sea of tears be enough to replace this sea of death!