THE GREAT DIVIDE
"Fascism should more properly be called corporatism because it is the merger of state and
corporate power.”
Benito Mussolini.
In Trump’s America
You’re left to die
At your own expense.
The Donald doesn’t pay
Shipping fees.
He governs through arrogance
And ignorance.
His true believers,
Duped,
Reality TV aficionados,
Disciples, devotees of The Art of the Deal
Discover they’ve been funding his weekly golf trips,
Paid for his children’s business excursions.
Ignored his incoherent tweets.
When overwhelming evidence
Points to collusion with the Russians,
They remain mute,
Expressionless, pallid, anemic
Like lifeless faces on precoated milk cartons
Continuing to piss against the wind.
HOMELESS
“Greatest meeting of land and water in the world”
Francis McComas
He’s been swept out of Santa Cruz County,
Run out of town by the city council, the blue,
Told to move, ASAP,
South or north, his choice.
He opts for Steinbeck country,
Mack and the boys at the Palace,
Doc Ricketts Lab,
Kalisa, the Queen of Cannery Row.
An imaginary chance to board the Western Flyer,
A dream he’s had ever since
Reading Steinbeck’s
The Log from the Sea of Cortez,
A chance to ride the county’s first
Steam-powered railroad service,
The Monterey and Salinas Valley Railroad.
Sit next to David Jacks,
Talk in a Scottish brogue,
Borrow money from him,
Live on his land,
Dine on crispy crackers, Monterey Jack Cheese,
Hoist a pint of Old Monterey Dry Ale,
Assume the role of Alcalde,
Mayor and judge.
Even though he’s homeless,
He’s educated, Harvard 1984, living off the grid.
History follows him on a separate timeline.
He’s a modern-day Walter Mitty,
A dreamer, A vagabond, A toilet scrubber,
A rehab hillbilly with a down payment on death.
TONIGHT’S A GOOD NIGHT FOR THE BLUES
Tonight you’re angry again,
Feel the gravitational pull of the moon,
Drink some gourmet tequila, smoke some weed.
Tonight, by god, you’re going to break
The sound barrier of your mind.
Eclipse your old record.
Take in the accolades.
Toast to your health.
Wish you all the best.
As you map out the blueprint
Of your next life.
Victor Henry's poetry and prose poems have appeared in small press magazines, anthologies, and e-zines, such as Slipstream, The Paterson Literary Review, Nobody Gets Off The Bus: The Viet Nam Generation Big Book, Vietnam War Poetry, The Homestead Review, Red River Review, Dead Snakes, Misfitmagazine, I am not a Silent Poet, Your one Phone Call, and In Between Hangovers, among others. His book What They Wanted was published by Future Cycle Press in 2015.
"Fascism should more properly be called corporatism because it is the merger of state and
corporate power.”
Benito Mussolini.
In Trump’s America
You’re left to die
At your own expense.
The Donald doesn’t pay
Shipping fees.
He governs through arrogance
And ignorance.
His true believers,
Duped,
Reality TV aficionados,
Disciples, devotees of The Art of the Deal
Discover they’ve been funding his weekly golf trips,
Paid for his children’s business excursions.
Ignored his incoherent tweets.
When overwhelming evidence
Points to collusion with the Russians,
They remain mute,
Expressionless, pallid, anemic
Like lifeless faces on precoated milk cartons
Continuing to piss against the wind.
HOMELESS
“Greatest meeting of land and water in the world”
Francis McComas
He’s been swept out of Santa Cruz County,
Run out of town by the city council, the blue,
Told to move, ASAP,
South or north, his choice.
He opts for Steinbeck country,
Mack and the boys at the Palace,
Doc Ricketts Lab,
Kalisa, the Queen of Cannery Row.
An imaginary chance to board the Western Flyer,
A dream he’s had ever since
Reading Steinbeck’s
The Log from the Sea of Cortez,
A chance to ride the county’s first
Steam-powered railroad service,
The Monterey and Salinas Valley Railroad.
Sit next to David Jacks,
Talk in a Scottish brogue,
Borrow money from him,
Live on his land,
Dine on crispy crackers, Monterey Jack Cheese,
Hoist a pint of Old Monterey Dry Ale,
Assume the role of Alcalde,
Mayor and judge.
Even though he’s homeless,
He’s educated, Harvard 1984, living off the grid.
History follows him on a separate timeline.
He’s a modern-day Walter Mitty,
A dreamer, A vagabond, A toilet scrubber,
A rehab hillbilly with a down payment on death.
TONIGHT’S A GOOD NIGHT FOR THE BLUES
Tonight you’re angry again,
Feel the gravitational pull of the moon,
Drink some gourmet tequila, smoke some weed.
Tonight, by god, you’re going to break
The sound barrier of your mind.
Eclipse your old record.
Take in the accolades.
Toast to your health.
Wish you all the best.
As you map out the blueprint
Of your next life.
Victor Henry's poetry and prose poems have appeared in small press magazines, anthologies, and e-zines, such as Slipstream, The Paterson Literary Review, Nobody Gets Off The Bus: The Viet Nam Generation Big Book, Vietnam War Poetry, The Homestead Review, Red River Review, Dead Snakes, Misfitmagazine, I am not a Silent Poet, Your one Phone Call, and In Between Hangovers, among others. His book What They Wanted was published by Future Cycle Press in 2015.
