the summit of Alpe d'Huez

Chemical Ali was not there
in the rarified air
at the summit of Alpe d'Huez
where a sign in French says
"Allez Armstrong"
go hard and long
he was often hung in the press
accused of doping i should guess
but never strung on the gallows as Ali
is soon to be
yet he seriously kicked ass
and would certainly out-class
most sports writers
playing pencil lovers dull as fighters
Chemical Ali will soon be dead
for what he did, not what he said
the ghastly gassing of the Kurds
an act of evil beyond mere words
innocent children and mothers
fathers sisters brothers
uncles aunts old middle young
poisonous clouds all far flung
by Iraqi Migs and French Mirages
no racing bicycle in those garages
thousands dead and homes razed
survivors stumbling in a toxic daze
while Saddam smoked his Cuban cigar
sipped bourbon inside his palace bar
holding perfect Kosta Boda crystal
and his famous Glock 18C pistol
Chemical Ali was not there

eaten by pigs

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs

squealing naked and not yet infirm

watch them lie and squirm

down the dance hall and out the door

rolling in heaping piles of their own manure

wearing their disguise outside the public sewer

ICE

not tea but walking body lice

masked with military grade armor

a special operations charmer 

zip-tying children in the street

binding tiny shaking hands and tiny feet

screams for help answered with a sneer

ICE is there and now here

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs

snort

contemptuous of American justice and Federal court

orders, they say, from a soul less pimp

squatting behind the Resolute desk like a deep fried orange shrimp 

bone spurs and fat reducing pills

challenges and chills

the brain worm eating its' way deep into the soul

finding a black heart and a blacker hole

what, one asks, is the end game?

SHAME

on all the cult followers and their tragic game

extinguishing the long-burning liberty flame 

while applauding hate

is their ultimate fate (to be)

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs? 

on the dunce seat

when i attended school

i had to obey the golden rule:

no messes and everybody confesses

on the playground and in class

no holding hands or grabbing ass.

Mrs. Coleman was her name

and teaching was her game.

we had a small group of rowdy boys

who thought our penises were little toys

that needed attention

not to mention

flirting with the innocent girls

wearing bobby socks and shampooed curls.

the teacher was often stern

her temper simmered into a slow burn

and 

i ended up on the dunce seat

when i failed to meet

her expectation to be quiet and stay seated

she treated

me with her adult stare

i tried to care

but my friends would poke and joke around

no one could make a sound

when she looked our way

but we always had a lot to say

at recess:

hey, look up Nancy's small skirt

Francis is always wearing the same striped shirt

Joey farted, lit a match & shot the flame

i somehow got the blame

and 

ended up on the dunce seat.