Are We Not Meat Puppets?
They say jump
We don’t ask why; we say, “How high?”
They say pay
We don’t question “Evil Axis”; we ante up the taxes
When did we become a numbskull nation of
Stepford meat puppets? Coughing up money to
support the Machine that pukes out bullets and drones,
that rains down death on the defenseless and our kids,
that defends “democracy” like it’s alive and well
in this incestuous hellhole of a republic that should be
called the Citizens United Shambles of Anglophiles.
Now a 200-year old experiment gone horribly wrong
reveals the abysmal truth: We were set up to fail.
Ben Franklin knew it; we blew it according to his
prediction that the predilection of the predator rich
would supplant rights of the “lesser born.”
American royalty (the Bushes, the Kochs, the WalMartons),
bred and more often inbred into simpering, faded Xeroxes
of hypocrisy, invading Congress (or buying a senator or two,
plus a Supreme, a real bargain these days)
They co-opt the middle class covertly
Privatizing public schools
(Susan B. Anthony reels in her grave)
Privatizing health care
(Big Pharma wanks the banks)
Busting unions and demonizing the rank and file
(Mother Jones rattles her bones)
Abusing immigrants
(State of Liberty or Torch Your Ass, Amigo?)
Espousing the Trickle-Down Theory
(Paul Ryan, please pass the toilet paper,
or your budget – they’re the same thing)
Citing voter fraud and discouraging minority voters
(we NEED ID because four cases were proved)
Continuing worst practices in banks
(FDR was a socialist; rich people deserve bonuses)
With help from some bastard pastors who live
in mansions, drive limos (or are driven in same),
who wouldn’t give Jesus a dime or the time of day
if they passed Him on the street (Private police
will handle homeless, and they won’t have any
Big Government oversight in how they handle it)
With help from us, the pathetic apathetic…
they strain our brains and even our mercy through
media propaganda and corporate corpulence
And we fall for it, fall into it, ground up into
walking, talking, FOX-spewing meat puppets
And as Monsanto and their ilk skip off to another
Koch Brothers cruise to the mutilated, prostituted
Caribbean, we say
Have a nice day and
Why doesn’t somebody do something about them and
Kim Kardashian is really getting fat and
Honey Boo-Boo is on, microwave some popcorn and
Wow, this (genetically engineered, dye-infused,
growth hormone-laden, e coli infected) beef is
too expensive, but fire up the grill and pass me
a cold one or two or twelve
Where is our indignation?
Is it American Idol or American Idle,
cause this sure ain’t American Idyll
NRA, FOX, ALEC: know your acronymns and
dismantle their poisonous, licentious, homophobic,
woman-hating, war-profiteering, racist, divisive
shitmongering, unconstitutional, IMMORAL machinery
By any nonviolent means necessary
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
So Kerry at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wanted a rant, in remembrance of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl.” Since this angry state of mind is so utterly foreign to me, I did my best to act like a political activist and member of the Christian Left. Hope I succeeded. (wink)
Peace, Amy
Last day of Poem a Day, or National Poetry Writing Month. It’s only fitting that I should “pass the torch,” in the form of a poem about our girl Riley, the artist. I’ve included one of her recent works, so PLEASE respect her copyright on this. For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, an “A to Z” write. Enjoy! Proud Mom Amy, who also took the picture years ago, when she was three.
Portrait of the Artist as a Little Girl
Artist, budding
Crayons, drawings,
echo from goodgone hours
I just kindled logical moppets’s
newfound outlet
(preference, quietude)
Riley, shading timber umber
Visioning whales,
xysts, yurts… zebras
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Painting by L.R. Weinberger © 2013, all rights reserved.
Used by permission of artist.
Dear Friends,
I am taking a two-day sabbatical, in order to attend the Wisconsin Conference of the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). As you all know, I’m not just a supporter, I’m a consumer!
I’ll be back in action by Sunday. Please keep me in your thoughts as I cavort, cajole, and otherwise hobnob with my brother and sister “wizards”! Peace, Amy
Slowly, Slowly (an ekphrastic poem: inspired by an image)
image: Blondine and the Tortoise, Virginia Frances Sterrett: Old French Fairy Tale
Slowly, Slowly
Dim, the forest
Hushed is the breeze
Stars sing o’er us
Quiet, the leaves
Travel slowly
on her smooth back
through the midnight
rambling, the track
Dodge all fauna,
trees of the ages
Carry me home
in dreamlike stages
© Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Kerry O’Connor granted me welcome release from events of the past week by gaving us several works by the same artist, Virginia Frances Sterrett, an American artist who died of tuberculosis at 30. The illustrations, so intricate and dreamy, were the antidote, for a while, anyway, to Boston and its nightmarish week. Who can imagine what this wildly talented woman could have produced, had she been granted a fuller lifetime?
I saw this image of the woman riding the tortoise and was thrown into a dream all my own. Who could see her work and not be entranced? To view more of her sumptuous illustrations, click here. Peace and prayers for the same, Amy
San Juan Beach, 1990 y 2011
Ai, mi nena Riley, two years old and growing like a weed. Her father on a plane back to the States, and me here in San Juan, adjusting to single motherhood. Around the corner she comes in her Little Mermaid bathing suit.
“Mami, yo quiero jugar con Daniel. ¿Esta bien?”
“Sí, beba. Con cuidado. Take it easy. I’ll take you both to the beach, a la playa, en un poquito.” I’m trying to keep it bilingual, but my Spanish is abysmal…
———————————
Ah, la playa… San Juan beaches are sunny, filled with naked babies running amok. Radios blare with competing salsa and rap stations; their owners oiled up, brown, and horny. They take no notice of most of the mothers, holding out for “Let’s Get Physical” bikini babes.
From the water’s edge, there are two worlds. Looking seaward, the Atlantic, churning at a faster pace here on the north side of the island; to the south lies the Caribbean, the true waters of Puerto Rico, lapping toes, warmer for swimming, perfect for gathering shells. Look toward the city, and brightly colored houses line the shore, while in the distance, the hotels and casinos loom over this strip of sandy paradise, reminding everyone of where they work, who really runs things.
The ocean is calmer than usual today, and in the distance, and angry iron steam engine of a storm is headed our way. We’ve had our hour, and now it’s nature’s turn. Soon, one huge clap of thunder will announce the current Apocalypso, dancing its way through town, ripping fronds from palms, chasing the parrots and finches back into El Junque, the rain forest. We gather our belongings like parachuters pulling in silk from the edges and, children in tow, laugh and chatter as we make our way back to our houses… but no farther. The bright lights and constant ding ding clatter spindlecircle of the casinos can wait.
The first drops of rain splat like water balloons, an assault on flowers but heaven for the kids, who now run “nakey,” whooping in English y espanol, each child learning from the other. A salamander takes refuge around the corner from her usual front wall and welcomes me with a blink.
—————————-
“Riley, do you remember Puerto Rico?” I ask, slopping mochaccinos onto the table at a Madison café. “Do you remember little Daniel?”
“Yeah, but that was years ago,” smirks the seasoned traveler, the product of a broken home that Mom stitched together to shelter only two. “Oh, the salamander, I called him Eddie. But mostly, I remember you losing your sunglasses all the time.”
I sip hot cocoacoffee and exhale. “That was a tough time, you know.”
“Yeah. My only regret is losing all the Spanish I learned. And I miss the helado man… that ice cream was the best ever. Tasted like heaven. Oh, and the finches we had, Migdo and Pigdo. Will we go back someday?”
“Sí. beba, otro día. Cuando hay bastante tiempo, y mas dinero.” Teasing her with forgotten language.
“Wait, I’ve got it!” she squeals. “Yes, honey, another day. When there’s enough time and… more dinner?”
Hell, that’s close enough for jazz.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Photo of Riley and Amy and an ice cream cone from the Barlow/Dunn vaults, rights reserved by poet
Heretomost at Real Toads wanted a description of a bit of scenery, sandwiched in between two pieces of dialog. This starts with Riley as a two-year-old child and ends when she was 23, looking back. She remembers little of our time in San Juan, and almost nothing of her father’s deep troubles that ended our marriage. Just as well. Remember the good times, the warmth, the mingled scents of salt air and jasmine, the… salsafied satisfaction of Puerto Rico. Peace, Amy
April Fool (The Poet)
She can do it
She’s done it before
April calls for
a poem a day
She locks out
distractions, lets
herself get lost
in memories and moments
It could be a
song – she has
staff paper on hand,
after all, plenty
It won’t be
floral themes
Funeral scented as
petals fall to the carpet
No “moon June spoon”
songs; something
bluesy with peaks
of soulful wails
She has written
about stoners and
wastrels, powders
up nostrils, bad sex
Politics and pencils
Incense and incest
LGBTQs and rednecks
Allies and enemies
Today, she will
simply vow to
make it worthy,
come what may
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For the Sunday Whirl (see Wordle HERE), and on the sidebar at Poets United, my oasis in the desert; AND for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Open Link Monday. n celebration of the first day of NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month (or Naturally Panicky Writhing Motions, depending on my level of desperation).
The game is afoot, Watson. Watson, the foot is a game. A game, Watson, the foot is. Yeah, I’m ready! Peace, Amy
(NOTE: This instrument, called the hang, is pronounced “hong.” Click on the video before you read the poem!)
ZEN MAN
Find him in nature
a shaded nook where
trees whisper stories of
the ancient ones.
Matthew finds a
perfect perch and
carefully lifts his hang,
its song to share.
Nimble, careful,
deliberate fingers seem
carved from soft wood,
burnished brown.
He conjures chords,
soothing harmonies,
unearthly sounds, yet
so natural: Soul songs.
In this moment there is only
Matt, the hang, and strains
of unrestrained bliss;
the gods conjured his gift.
And we, who were
a moment ago merely
bumps on a log are
lifted to a higher place…
Musical, ethereal, reflective, mindful.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Perfect moment for ABC Wednesday to feature the letter “Z.”
Also, Kim Nelson at Poets United (my poetic shady nook) asked for poems about reflection.
My cousin by marriage, Matt Venuti, is a soulful musician. Please visit his site, www.mattvenuti.com, for more videos and information about his art. He also plays the EVI and a variety of other instruments, but the hang has his heart at present.
He is also one of those musicians who didn’t get into it so he could drink and smoke on the job! He’s a gentle soul, utterly sincere, and wildly talented… yet humble. If you’re lucky, you’ll experience him performing live.
Peace from a lucky cousin, Amy
Well, here we sit, Lex and I, at the home of his sister Sharon and her wife, Linda, in the sweetest darned neighborhood of Sacramento… And I realized I forgot to tell you all that we are on vacation until Halloween! (Insert embarrassed face here…)
Will be back soon with glorious pix of locales all over the State of California and various friends and, of course, our gal Riley. AAAs soon as I figure out how to download the pix from my phone… and find the charger…
Love and peace to you all, and see you soon, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 