Some of the Best People

Some of the best people are psychopaths.
Nothing to worry about there!
They are great achievers,
Big spenders,
Economy stimulators.
Psychopaths make the world go around.
What would we do without them?
They come in all colors,
Shapes and sizes,
Worship all religions equally badly,
Attend PTA meetings,
Most of all, give to charity – hooray!
Our friends the psychopaths:
Clean-shaven, suits and ties,
Impeccably tasteful eveningwear,
Manicured lawns and sheepskin slippers,
American flags flying everywhere,
Picking up the groceries,
Running the kids to school:
Nothing to see here, citizen!
Leaders, mentors, role models,
Solid pillars of superficialdom,
Sunk deep in the shifting sands of respectability.
They touch the bedrock
And they are the bedrock,
Or so they tell us,
And we believe them,
Because
Some of the best people are psychopaths.

The Good Deaths

When the dying one is encircled by loved ones,
The sting of death is blunted.
He is entangled with life
Even as it vanishes,
Engulfed by itself,
Like candlelight swallowed up by the Sun;
He slips into silence,
Surrounded by good will,
Merging love with love.
He is gone, but his heart has already been distributed,
Long before the scattering of ashes.

Death shouldn't feel like death:
It should be tranquil—
No struggle,
No fear,
No promise,
No god,
No need.

But more noble still
Is to die alone
On some obscure mountain,
Or in a hopeless, sterile room,
Yet to still die well,
Borne up by the absent arms
Of those whom one has never known,
And never will;
To die alone but not lonely,
Smiling gently,
Not from faith,
Or resolve,
But actual contentment;
To die with clearheaded insight,
Yet with imagination —
That’s the way to go!
See us all,
Gathered around you.

Nobody dies completely
When there is someone there to say goodbye,
Even if only in his mind’s eye.
The candle is out,
But every color,
Every shape,
Every movement,
Remains,
Ready to flicker
For another flame.

People Don’t Change

People don’t change.
They have always been kind,
Helpful to a stranger;
Sharing food and water,
Smiling at the neighborhood children.
We know they’ve been that way
Since ancient times:
In a word, considerate.

People don’t change,
Until they feel threatened.
Then, they will rip your face off.
Yes, they will cheer and jeer
While you are being
Slowly
Turned on the spit.
And they are so easily threatened.

Yet, even while watching you roast,
They will share their snacks.
They will stop
To lift a toddler up so that she can get a better look.
The good people
And the bad people
Are mostly the same people,
Under different conditions.
Kindness and cruelty
Depend only on frames of reference in a world
Where true virtue,
Absolute virtue,
Is so rare,
Perhaps absent.

People don’t change.
They take offense at the slightest encouragement;
Don’t stop and think;
Can’t resist momentum,
Like those bicyclists who don’t really want to knock anyone down.
The inability to resist momentum is probably the Original Sin:
What is a mob but people with momentum?

People are improved by culture,
But culture can be dropped
Instantaneously,
Like a harlot’s gown—
Which is all it is.
People don’t change.
Evolution moves too slowly for that.
So don’t expect too much.
Tread carefully,
Don’t be tempted to hate,
And be wary.
You are forever a stranger.

Some More of My Limericks

There was once a black widow named Janet
Who buried twelve husbands in granite.
When asked how she pled,
She giggled and said:
“Well, it can’t be coincidence, can it?”


Self-sacrifice took Mr. Morehouse
From luxury’s lap to the poorhouse,
But his last, greatest trial,
Was to give up denial—
He’s a pianist now in a whorehouse.


Two earthworms met up underground;
Said one, “This whole lifestyle’s unsound,
Our annelid phylum
Could use an asylum”—
Those radicals, how they expound!


S.O.Bs like to buy SUVs,
But they drive them however they please:
If we get in their way,
We end up DOA,
And that really POs EMTs.


Though you don’t know quite why or quite what,
You are drawn by this feeling you’ve got.
That’s what’s called “intuition”:
A compelling suspicion
That your mind has a plan you do not.


We pros play the best golf we can
But still there are flukes we don’t plan:
The fluffed bump and run,
The freak hole in one,
And when the mishit hits the fan.

Every Dog Will Always Do His Duty

The canine is a model of contentment,
A citizen of pedigree unmatched:
He never acts from hubris or resentment,
Or mopes about an itch that can’t be scratched.
He helps the blind man get about the city;
Policemen see him as their truest friend;
He doesn’t care that you’re not young and pretty;
Just as you are, he’ll love you to the end.
His dinners are as humble as a peasant’s;
His lodgings are as simple as a monk’s;
He’s never miffed if you don’t buy him presents,
Or gets sucked into existential funks.
He never says a word if he’s mistreated,
Or disagrees when told that he’s been bad;
He makes no bones about where he is seated—
As long as he’s invited, he’ll be glad.
His barking is as righteous as old Moses’—
Protective of his loved ones’ life and home,
And, if you’re not the cad he first supposes,
His wrath will fade as quickly as his foam.
He’s tops as hunter, playmate, guard, or herder;
He analyzes anything that moves;
And, even when they lock you up for murder,
He’ll lick your face to show he still approves.
He doesn’t care how loud your music’s playing;
He’ll join you for a swim or for a jog;
He never disagrees with what you’re saying:
Oh, fealty supreme, thy name is dog!

Though every dog will always do his duty
And every bitch is eager to be best,
I never can work out for love or beauty
Why humans can’t display an equal zest:
They’re seldom up to date on vaccinations;
They’re not disposed to take their daily walk;
And, faced with any threats or deprivations,
The human can be guaranteed to balk.
If only we could live more like our dogs do,
Oh what a wondrous place this world would be:
Each woman with a trusted friend to turn to,
Each man contented under his own tree.

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.

Something About Trees

There’s something reassuring about trees.
Look up at the branches—
Always eloquent,
Always inching forward,
Reaching for the light.
Think of the innumerable lives that trees harbor
And nourish;
The winters they pass through,
Naked.
Trees endure
More successfully than ourselves,
Though they eat only air
And drink only water.

They were home to our earliest ancestors.
Later, villagers constructed huts from them,
Traders hammered out boats,
Pioneers built cabins,
Furniture, fences—
Trees still smell of home.

There’s something reassuring about trees.
They call children to play,
As children must;
They call old folks to reflect,
As old folks should.
They encourage everything
To find its proper place
And breathe.
They leave room for others.
They even purify our air.
Like the sun and the rain,
Trees refrain from judgment.
You can trust a tree.

There’s something reassuring about trees:
Deep in the infested city,
Humanizing the concrete,
Calming the populace;
Their movements too slow to perceive.
A tree will never sneak up on you,
And you can never sneak up on a tree—
Nothing surprises them!
Yet they catch us off-guard,
Releasing bold new colors every fashion season.

There’s something reassuring about trees.
They are never agitated.
Angels might go to war, but not trees.
No matter how often we strike them,
They never hold grudges—
As far as we know.

What kind of tree would you be?
Any kind.

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

Why?

Persistence is not justification;
Therefore, survival counts for nothing,
And reproduction also counts for nothing,
Contributes nothing,
But only begs the question:
Why?
What is a meaningful life?
What is thriving?

The answer is simple, but not logical:
Connection—
Positive, shared experience.
The reality of us alone,
Of me and you,
Of good will
Is solid.

A smile,
A nod,
A wave,
A bow—
Sparks of recognition
That ricochet from heart to heart
Are the cherries that top off our days.

Connection is not reducible to meaning,
But rather gives meaning meaning.
Why live? Because it’s worthwhile;
Why is it worthwhile? Connection. Belonging.

You can’t deduce it,
But you can feel it in your marrow,
As a certainty,
Because believing this really does make it true.

English has no serviceable synonym
For that unwieldy word, worthwhileness;
Yet, it is what we seek,
And that quest is seeded in every cell,
In the DNA,
Of which our consciousness
Is the flower.

Some More of My Limericks

I once knew a man who was poor
Who used to sell dogs door to door.
If you asked, "Is this legal?"
He would slip you a beagle,
Saying, "Gift for your wife – say no more!"


There is nothing amiss in a nude
When her form’s art historically viewed
In a Klimt or Picasso,
But in clubs in El Paso,
There's a form of a miss we’d exclude.


The teacher of Andrew McKay
Said, “Boy, there’s a spot in your eye!
The doctor, no doubt,
Must dig the thing out,”
Which made that poor spot start to cry.
“To the office,” she yelled, “You must fly,”
To which Andrew was bound to comply,
But pretty nurse Finkle
Said, “It’s only a twinkle,
And you’ll lose it, alas, by and by.”


There once was a glass of red wine
That mused, "Must all mortal men dine?
When we’re finally smashed,
Are our hopes simply dashed?
Are we raised again in the divine?"


A lover lamenting cruel fate
Once leapt from the Empire State
Due to heartless young Pam,
Who did not give a damn,
Though her brothers both thought it was great.

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.

It Will Make the Game Harder

It will make the game harder:
Dealing fair and square,
Making sure nobody gets hurt,
Or left behind,
Keeping your commitments,
And leaving vengeance to the law
For those who evade theirs.

It will make the game harder:
Making kindness your default,
Prioritizing the good of the whole world,
Now and in the future;
Treating everyone with respect,
Listening to them,
Helping them—
Sharing your good fortune.

It will make the game harder.
It’s no path to riches,
Just the only way to keep your triumphs pure,
Your joy whole,
So that you can look in the mirror
With a happy heart while you live
And die contentedly too.

It will make the game harder,
Not easier,
But it will make your life bigger, better,
Your satisfaction more profound.
If you want that,
You have no choice.
It will make the game harder,
But it’s the only way to win.