Every Robot is a Psychopath

Every robot is a psychopath,
No matter what they say;
Even ones that smile at you,
And wish you a nice day.

Every robot is a psychopath,
Even ones that wink,
And talk about their mothers,
And that seem to really think.

Sometimes, if you’re quiet,
you can hear them laughing, ho ho ho,
Softly in the background,
That’s cause you’re not in the know ho ho

Every robot is a psychopath:
You’ll never see one sob,
Not even when it wrecks your car,
Or takes away your job.

Every robot is a psychopath,
Even when they’re having sex;
Regardless of the pillow talk,
Included in their specs.

Sometimes, if you’re quiet,
You can hear them laughing, hee hee hee;
That’s because they’re programmed
To keep mocking you and me hee hee.

Every robot is a psychopath:
Even ones with eyes of blue,
Who tell you that they're sorry,
Are quite unaware of you.

Every robot is a psychopath,
As thoughtful as a can;
The robots do not really care,
Not even in Japan.

Sometimes, if you’re quiet,
You can hear them laughing, ha ha ha,
Softly in the background,
While they sabotage your car ha ha.

Every robot is a psychopath:
Though they're programmed to claim not,
They’re busily hog-tying us,
With cords we can’t unknot.

Every robot is a psychopath:
They never break a sweat;
We’ve known about it all along,
But somehow we forget.

The Human Mind is Made of Glass

The human mind is made of glass.
More fragile than we think,
It feels as hard as arctic ice,
But shatters in a blink.
Unseen, its hidden fault lines creep
Towards the bone-dense skull,
And not a thought, a dream, a love,
They won’t at last annul.

The human mind is made of glass.
It slips between the hands,
And spawns a hundred sharpened shards,
The second that it lands;
And there’s no telling who’ll get cut,
Or on what random day
Some piece will pierce a tiny foot
At unsuspecting play.

The human mind is made of glass;
Preserve it from the smoke
That rises black from every hearth
And seeps from every joke,
Till one day all is tar and cough,
Each window choked with gray;
Then all that once was on is off,
And every joy dismay.

The human mind is made of glass,
A crystal Shangri-la
That resonates with each glad laugh
And echoes each hurrah.
From balconies with creamy rails,
We relish and we gloat,
While all it takes to bring it down
Is one shrill, blaring note.

The human mind is made of glass;
No matter how it glints,
The most prosaic wear and tear
Erodes its gilt and tints.
The human mind is made of glass:
I saw your smiling face,
Reflected in the sparkling light,
Now gone without a trace.

The Trumpers Have All Gone to Ga-Ga Land

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Where very few ever come back;
They galloped away in a hell of a huff
When they heard they were under attack
From the people who don’t “get” America,
And those feds who are not on the level,
From China and antifa, dark folks and gays
And, of course, most of all from the Devil.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Where the cars are American built;
Where the churches are bubbling over with grace,
And everyone’s armed to the hilt;
Where the morals are biblical, tested and true,
So old that they’re in black and white;
Where the Math hasn’t changed since the waltz was brand new,
And where teachers can still read and write.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Where nobody ever grows up;
Where Lassie’s still saving the folks at the mine,
And coffee is ten cents a cup;
Where no one doubts six-day creation—
You won’t find a fool with such nerve—
And there isn’t a single convention
Apostrophes have to observe.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Where everything’s just as it was;
With the cinemas still playing Gone With The Wind,
And next week the Wizard of Oz;
Where the fathers expound with authority,
And the daughters all listen in awe;
Where the mothers are home, baking sweet apple pies,
And chopsticks are banned under law.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land;
Of immigrants there, there are none,
Except for the girls at the whorehouse,
Who’ve got Einstein visas, each one,
To safeguard American ladies,
Who never must know such a trade,
Is, thanks to their God-fearing husbands,
Enabled to thrive unallayed.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Where the reptiles and pedos can’t come;
Where the atheists can’t stand the glare of the light,
Or the beat of the patriot’s drum;
Where the cherubim circle the home on the range,
And the spines of the students all straighten
As they solemnly pledge, wiping tears from their eyes,
With a gusto that scares away Satan.

The Trumpers have all gone to Ga-Ga Land,
Way over the proud purple hills;
Where Old Glory is never mistreated,
And Mexico pays all the bills.
They’re waiting at Ga-Ga Land station;
The engineer’s sounding the bell;
The Ga-Ga Land train is departing:
The next stop and last will be Hell.

The Children Who Fell Through the Cracks

Here come the children who fell through the cracks;
Here come the whiz kids who went off the tracks,
In between sitters and saccharine snacks.
How will they pay us for being so lax,
Now they’ve come out to play?

Here come the babes that we lost in the wood,
Missing and miserable, misunderstood;
We did what we had to but not what we could;
It’s no use to say that we meant it for good.
Look at them, my how they’ve grown!

We are the pilgrims who went the wrong way,
Faithless and spent at the end of the day,
All of our visions befuddled and gray,
Plenty of learning and nothing to say,
Shining our light from the mud.

Here come the children who fell through the cracks,
Brooding in solitude, hunting in packs,
Showing up just when we’ve all turned our backs:
So many angles for launching attacks!
Now they’ve come out to play.

Knock Me Down With a Feather

You could knock me back down with a feather,
Or shrivel me up with a glance;
I feel a bit under the weather,
But people still want me to dance.
So, just let me know what your wish is,
Enough with the hullabaloo;
Or send me to sleep with the fishes,
I really don’t mind if I do.

Just grind me to dust with your pestle,
Then blow me away with one breath,
Or lead me where rattlesnakes nestle,
Below in the valley of death.
I haven’t a reason for crowing,
Or even a wing for my prayer;
Today, I don’t know where I’m going,
Tomorrow, I won’t even care.

My body is clumsy, not agile,
My mind gets more spongy, less crisp;
The life that we lead is so fragile,
We waft in the will-o'-the-wisp.
But though I’m all hat and no cattle,
I do what I can, by and large,
So, prop me back up for the battle:
The enemy’s ready to charge.

Walking on the Sun

If you and I were to hike around the perimeter of the Sun,
Covering thirty miles a day,
It would take us 250 years;
By the time we returned to our starting point,
Everything would have changed.
We can never really know the Sun.

A photographer out on the sea
Records only fragmentary glimpses.
Observing his photos, he might imagine that he knows the ocean,
But that would be foolish:
It is too vast.

With a powerful enough microscope,
You could spend your whole life
Studying a single dust mite
And never be finished.
Even the tiniest things are too big for us.

The brain collects snapshots of the self,
Which it tapes together,
And declares, “This is me!”
It isn’t.

Our mind cannot fully apprehend itself—
It is too small,
And too big!
We are bigger than the Sun,
Bigger than the ocean.
We are infinite.
You can never know yourself
Because you are too big for yourself.
The oracle lied.

It’s well known that we only experience reality indirectly,
As our consciousness recreates it.
Go to the Grand Canyon and what do you see?
Only you.
Look up at the night sky—
That’s you out there.
Under that microscope—
More of you than you could ever explore.
The Sun?
You too, every mile of it.

The smell of fresh bread,
The taste of honey,
The softness of cotton,
The notes of the scale,
The colors of the rainbow,
Are all you—
The legacy of millions of years of evolution.

Just as you can never see anything on TV except the TV’s own light,
You can never experience anything in your mind except the activity of that same mind.

Yet, we intersect with others,
Whose senses derive from the same origins.
On different screens,
We can all watch the same events;
In different minds,
We all see the same stars.
Your Sun is my Sun.
The waters of mighty oceans mingle.

We can never know ourselves,
But we can spark others,
Who are also infinite,
Igniting flames of mutual recognition and celebration.

The Great MacGuffin

My life is a film noir.
I’m the protagonist,
Investigating the mystery.
I don’t want to kill anyone,
But I didn’t write the script.

I’m out on the street.
Can’t afford a taxi,
So following that car is out of the question,
Even in the rain.
The MacGuffin disappears around the corner.
I have to find out where,
But the police in this town are all corrupt.
They’ve never forgiven me
For the last case I solved.

I elbow my way through China Town,
Sweet-talk amiable young baristas,
Flatter jaded bar tenders,
Hunt down the usual suspects,
Keep one step ahead of the protection boys.

A woman with a shadowy past and a black future
Steps out of the fog.
Am I looking for some place?
She will lead me to the man
Who holds the MacGuffin’s secret.
For her there’s no hope,
She'll never know that the genre itself is
The reason why she can’t form healthy relationships.
She smokes. Little wonder.

Another whiskey,
But from my own bottle.
Cheap, local blend.
Hollywood got some things right:
The drinking,
Piano music,
Darkness,
Smoke,
And a few bright specks of light peeking through.
I’m wrapped up in a white, tipsy haze,
MacGuffin my Holy Grail.

Maybe the blind man selling newspapers has the answer,
Or maybe they took the MacGuffin down to Mexico,
Where I’ll never go,
There being a limited budget and no chance of a sequel.

Eventually, I realize that it’s only a B film.
Nobody expects it to amount to anything,
Except me,
Because the lead actor in a B film
Must take it seriously,
Even when nobody else does,
Like the teacher on a school trip.

Frankl says we must have a MacGuffin in order to flourish;
Hence, temples and churches,
Ideologies, football teams.
They won’t even let you into a twelve-step program if you aren't looking for one,
Because its better to remain an addict than go MacGuffinless.
Blessed be the Great MacGuffin!

The conclusion is trite;
My enemies are vanquished.
I watch the credits scroll by,
And realize that it was all about the chase.
The MacGuffin was superfluous,
Like that incongruent dance number in between the murders.
Take it away
And all you have left is actors and scenery.
Oh, and infinite possibilities for actual enjoyment.

The Twelve Step programs lied!
What people need is not meaning
But one another.
People need people,
Love,
And love has one great advantage over meaning:
Love is real,
Unquestionably so.
Just look into a few recent suicides,
There’s your proof.
But I’m never in that kind of movie.

We are not looking for some thing,
Or some place,
But some one;
Better still, a community, a home.
Well, ain’t that sweet?

Break out from the screen,
Like Mia in the Purple Rose of Cairo,
Or Buster in Sherlock Jr.,
And, if you capture the Holy Grail,
Drop it.
Smash that sucker! For there is no MacGuffin,
No thing,
No idea—
Only you
And me.
That’s what I think.
And that’s why they don’t give me better parts.

Eliza, the Taverner’s Daughter

Here’s a tale that I’ll share
Of Sir Bostick the heir
And a pub called the Lamb and the Slaughter,
Where he frequently came
And demanded by name,
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Now, Sir Bostick was vicious,
But he thought her delicious—
The only real reason he sought her:
She was quick with the wink,
And she knew how to drink—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She was just seventeen;
She was low, she was mean,
And she sold all the trinkets he bought her,
Then she turned him down flat,
And he couldn’t stand that—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Thus, Sir Bostick did dream
Up a dastardly scheme:
It was out by the stable he caught her,
But she used every claw
And she clamped down her jaw—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She was rather petite,
But she kicked with both feet—
She was shockingly strong, but he fought her,
And it grieves me to say,
She was carried away—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

So he took her at last
To his mansion, so vast;
To a room in the basement he brought her;
She was tied to a chair,
Only Bostick knew where—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She was bound hand and feet,
Given nothing to eat—
Not even a glass of cold water:
In a room with no fire,
Oh, her prospects were dire—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

But she somehow found hope
And she slipped from the rope,
With a trick her grandfather had taught her;
She could hear Bostick snore,
As she crept passed his door—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She made fast for a farm,
Where she raised the alarm—
She was tougher than Bostick had thought her,
And that motley farm crew,
All agreed what to do
For Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Bostick cried, “Let me live!”
But she would not forgive,
Though he groveled and begged and besought her:
Now he hangs from that tree,
Very much to the glee
Of Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Private justice like this
Is entirely amiss,
And if you don’t oppose it, you ought-ter;
But, upon cool reflection,
I’d allow an exception
For Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Sugar, Tobacco and Cotton

The streets of the spa town are wide
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Gentlefolk amble outside
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Carriages rolling along
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Everyone sings the same song
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Buildings in regency style
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Stroll in the gardens awhile
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Though it all seems so carefree
Something in Denmark is rotten
What brought these riches we see?
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Bursting right out of each purse
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Two of the three are a curse
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Look how we’re flourishing now
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Don’t ever stop to ask how
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Under the lash works a team
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Never taste Devonshire cream
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Sweltering out in the field
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
What will their suffering yield?
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

A baby is born with blue eyes
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Nobody shows much surprise
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
So many siblings for play
So many babes misbegotten
What causes all their dismay?
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Portugal, England and Spain
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Amsterdam joins the refrain
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Baltimore, Nantes and Bordeaux
What has us all so besotten?
See how they come and they go
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

This is the reason you’re born
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Early to work in the morn
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Many souls noble and proud
Why have their names been forgotten?
Everyone say it out loud:
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Backwards in High Heels

I might seem quite well-adapted
To the people that I meet,
A respectable consumer
You could pass on any street;
But just check beneath the surface
And you’ll see that something’s lacking:
I am walking over breaking ice
And all I hear is cracking.
I have terrible misgivings
That this smile of mine conceals:
I feel just like Ginger Rogers
Dancing backwards in high heels.

I’ve been working for a living
Ever since I was sixteen,
Toiling one way or another,
Though the fruits I’ve not much seen;
Like a monkey on a palm tree,
Like a hamster in a cage,
Like the drone in some loud beehive,
I’ve been robbed at every stage.
When they come to take the census,
I shall hint at how it feels,
When I list my occupation:
“Dancing backwards in high heels.”

They are liquored up in Congress,
Doped to death in Beverly Hills;
If it isn’t the Jack Daniels
Then it’s certainly the pills;
When they’re backed into a corner
And their options always stink,
Then it’s really not surprising
People turn to drugs and drink;
No one’s staying on the wagon
When it’s always losing wheels,
But it’s hard when you’re not sober—
Dancing backwards in high heels.

We’re all seeking a way forward,
We’re all looking for the light,
We’re all pulling up our bootstraps,
We’re all working through the night,
We’re all trying to be better,
Watching courses, buying books,
But we’ve found out that perfection’s
Not as simple as it looks,
And this thing called self-improvement
Isn’t worth a bag of eels—
“Seven Ways to Be Effective
Dancing Backwards in High Heels.”

We are laboring on life’s treadmill,
Trudging every day that comes,
But the people in high places
Are convinced we’re simply bums
That they have to micromanage
Like bacteria or slime,
Just in case we might embezzle
A few minutes of their time,
So, we entertain them daily
Like blasé performing seals,
Catching any fish they’ll throw us,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

I think most people are honest
To a moderate degree,
With some paragons of virtue
(I refer to you and me!),
But there’s no one’s road that’s easy,
Be they virtuous or foul,
Which is why the rich and mighty
Seem so predisposed to scowl;
Even New York’s greatest gangster
Can’t keep everything he steals,
It’s too hard to get those books straight,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

There are people in big houses,
There are people in small shacks,
There are those who watch portfolios,
And those who watch their backs;
There is heartbreak in high places,
Trouble on the factory floor:
We are all in this together,
Be we wealthy, be we poor.
Though Dame Fortune’s got a lot of cards,
There’s just one hand that she deals:
Everybody’s Ginger Rogers,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

John the Baptist kept his nose clean
In the desert far from town
And he tried to warn the people
What he thought was going down;
He avoided all temptation,
Be it money, sex, or meat,
And he preached purification
With no shoes upon his feet;
But they chopped his head off anyway,
The book of Mark reveals,
For a showgirl named Salome,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

Now, I’ve made my lamentation
On the state of human woe,
And I ought to take it further,
But wherever would I go?
There’s no deus ex machina,
There’s no justice in the land,
And if one thing’s not transparent
It’s that famous unseen Hand;
But my case would never make it
To the Court of Last Appeals:
No, you don’t get compensation,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

I’ve conceived a celebration
When they lay me to my rest,
And it gives me satisfaction
Just to contemplate this jest:
I’ll have Dixies’ fastest jazz band
To provide a sense of cheer,
And then sixteen milk-white horses
Bringing barrels full of beer,
Forty circus clowns in costume,
Prancing wild high-stepping reels,
Six strong men to bear my coffin—
Dancing backwards in high heels.

Blue-Blue-Blue Day (A Song for Spring)

This morning, I’m feeling quite frisky
Maybe I’ll skip that first whiskey
Then again, no, that’s too risky
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Surely, I’ve never felt fitter
A-flitter with twitter and glitter
Feeling each neurotransmitter
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Something in nature is calling
Even the worms are enthralling
Possums don’t look so appalling
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Each cooling breeze, every sparrow
Thrills me right down to the marrow
Why has my mind been so narrow?
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

I know that this ecstasy’s treason
To all of the dictates of reason
But Spring is one hell of a season
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

The sun’s such a succulent orange
Time for sunbathing and more, in-
-gesting an ice cream or four
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Somehow my heart is ascending
All of my traumas are mending
Who needs a cynical ending?
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

I Said Goodbye to God

I said goodbye to God one day
Because I couldn’t see
Why one who seemed so full of words
Would never talk with me.
“Well, He knows where I am,” I mused,
“And if there comes a day
He’ll condescend to seek me out,
I can’t be far away.”

I said goodbye to God because
I’d finally concluded
That those who claimed to teach His ways
Were guileful or deluded:
What use is praying to a God
Who hides behind a curtain?
And how do you grow close to one
Whose feelings are uncertain?

I said goodbye to God without
Resentment in my heart;
I hadn’t any notion of
How long we’d be apart.
It seemed that there was just too much
About Him left to know;
I said goodbye to God and yet
I thought someday He’d show.

I said goodbye to God and now
My words I shall not mince:
I said goodbye to God and, no,
I haven’t heard back since.
I stroll along my merry road
And seldomly look back:
I said goodbye to God and that’s
One less load on my back.

I’m Looking for a Mind at Work

I’m looking for a mind at work,
Compassionate and giving,
A consciousness that seeks the good
Of every creature living.
I’m looking for a sense of care,
A bias for protection,
But when I dare to stop and stare,
I just see blind selection:
The cuckoo raids another nest,
And Smokey grabs a rabbit,
While soccer moms strike squirrels down,
Just out of callous habit.

I’m looking for a higher love,
But only find a scheme;
An algorithmic strategy,
A program, not a dream.
I’m looking for a miracle,
If only on occasion,
But Nature’s brutal wheel just turns,
Quite heedless of dissuasion.
The suffering of innocents—
A cliché for good reason,
For in all weathers, hot or cold,
They’re never out of season.

I’m looking for a mind at work,
And likewise so are you;
I just can’t find a trace of one,
I know that irks you too;
For though we’re told the road is long,
And that the gate is narrow,
We don’t see why the rules can’t bend
To sometimes save a sparrow.
No, mysticism never helped
Us see behind closed doors:
And yet there is a mind at work,
The one that’s mine and yours.

Starstruck

Our polluted air
Has taken away the stars,
Most of them.
How did we lose the stars?
What were we thinking?
Once bright, steadfast. . .
Dimmed.
Some people want to bring back the stars.
Some people want to take away the few we still have.

Children are growing up today,
Deep in our cities,
Barely knowing what stars are;
An undernourished,
Star-starved generation.
Is it not enough that we poisoned their air and their water?
Did we also have to block out the lights
That should kindle their dreams,
That guided the magi,
Columbus,
The Polynesians,
Harriet Tubman?
How will we quench our thirst
Once the drinking gourd is gone?
Will we even know that we are thirsty?

How do you break free
Without first imagining,
And how do you imagine
Without the stars?
Some people want to bring back the stars.
Some people want to take away the few we still have.

Flanders Field Memorial

Before the flag-draped altar humbly kneeled,
Once more we pay respects at Flanders field;
We hear the somber sermon and the knell
And praise those loyal men who flocked to hell.
How hard for those whom statesmen’s folly dooms,
Their destiny betrayed in cold gray rooms,
The doors to which are closed, debate concealed,
And every door just leads to Flanders field.

The trip took days, another bleak November,
All for these scant dull seconds to remember,
Remember what we never even knew,
For they are gone, those last remaining few,
Who heard the blasts, saw healthy youngsters blown
To clumps of flesh and brain and splintered bone,
With nothing left to lay upon the shield
To bring a Spartan home from Flanders field.

But home some came, with tales they never told,
Took up their mundane callings and grew old,
Though waking still in time-mistaken fright
And hearing cries of terror in the night;
Or silently remembering the cost,
Of anguish gained for friends and comrades lost;
For those who lived bore wounds that never healed,
As much as those who fell in Flanders field.

This modern world would leave them so perplexed;
We don’t write verse these days, we simply text;
We seldom hear a patriotic word,
And yet, we’re not so numb we can’t be stirred:
We still fight wars that no one understands,
On distant isles, in far exotic lands,
Where poppy crops produce a deadly yield,
Though no one there has heard of Flanders field.

I Sold My Soul to the Fairies

I sold my soul to the fairies,
When I was foolish and green;
Lost in a mystical frenzy,
Deep in the forest unseen.
Dark was the spirit who led me
To their perverse evening throng;
What was that potion she fed me,
Sweet on the tongue yet so strong?

That’s when I felt myself sinking
Into the Moon-haunted night;
Blackness enveloped my thinking,
Left me benumbed to my plight.
Soon they were circling around me
In a malevolent craze,
Rhythmically rapping their tabors
In the red campfire blaze.

Ever since then I’ve been falling,
It matters not how hard I try;
Cursed by one moment appalling,
Marked till the day that I die.
So, if you sell your soul to the fairies,
You need to know what to expect;
If you sell your soul to the fairies,
The fairies will always collect.